Free One Fifth Avenue by Candace Bushnell Page A

floor of that apartment. If she and James couldn’t have a floor, why should he?
    ı
    “Check out Sanderson vs. English ,” Annalisa Rice said into the phone. “It’s all very clear. And of course there’s the moral element, which always sways juries. It’s like an Aesop’s fable.”
    “Damn, Rice,” said the male voice at the other end. “Why’d you have to go and move to New York on me?”
    “Change, Riley,” Annalisa replied. “It’s good, remember?”

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    Candace Bushnell
    “I know you,” Riley said. “You’re probably already on to the next big thing. Are you running someone’s campaign? Or running for office yourself?”
    “Neither.” Annalisa laughed. “I’ve made a U-turn, to put it mildly. You won’t believe what I’m doing right now.”
    “Helping the homeless?”
    “Consorting with the rich. I’m going to the Hamptons for the weekend.”
    Riley laughed, too. “I always said you were too glamorous for Washington.”
    “Damn you, Riley,” Annalisa said. “I miss you guys.”
    “You can always come back,” Riley said.
    “Too late,” Annalisa said. She said goodbye and hung up the phone, twisting her auburn hair into her trademark ponytail. She went to the window and, pushing back the heavy gold drapes, looked out at the street.
    It was a long way down. She pushed at the window, longing for some fresh air in the overly air-conditioned suite, and remembered that the windows were bolted shut. She looked at her watch; it was three o’clock. She had two hours to pack and get to the heliport. It should have been plenty of time. But she didn’t know what to pack. What did one wear to a weekend in the Hamptons?
    “Paul, what should I bring?” she’d asked that morning.
    “Oh, hell. I don’t know,” Paul had said. Paul was her husband. He was engaged in getting out the door by seven A.M. on the dot, sitting on the edge of a hassock, pulling on thin silk socks and Italian loafers. Paul had never worn proper shoes before. He’d never had to, before New York.
    Back in Washington, he’d always worn leather Adidas tennis shoes.
    “Are those new?” Annalisa asked, referring to the shoes.
    “I can’t say. What does new mean, exactly?” Paul asked. “Six months old? A day? These kinds of questions are only answerable if you know the context of the person asking.”
    Annalisa laughed. “Paul, you have to help me. They’re your friends.”
    “Partners,” Paul corrected. “Anyway, what difference does it make?
    You’ll be the best-looking woman there.”
    “It’s the Hamptons. They probably have a dress code.”

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    “Why don’t you call Sandy’s wife, Connie?”
    “I don’t know her,” Annalisa said.
    “Sure you do. She’s Sandy’s wife.”
    “Oh, Paul,” she said. It just doesn’t work that way, she thought, but refrained from explaining. Paul wouldn’t understand.
    Paul leaned across the bed to kiss her goodbye. “Are you looking at apartments today?” he asked.
    “I’m always looking at apartments. You’d think that with fifteen million dollars to spend, it would be easy.”
    “If it’s not enough, spend more,” Paul said.
    “I love you,” she called after him.
    That morning, Annalisa had considered asking Emme, the real estate agent, what one wore in the Hamptons, but judging from Emme’s appearance, Annalisa didn’t think she’d like the answer. Emme was at least sixty years old but had a face that sported the latest in plastic surgery tech-niques. All morning, Emme’s overarched eyebrows, plastic lips, and large white teeth kept distracting Annalisa, as did Emme’s hair, which was coarse and dark at the roots and frayed blond on the ends. Emme was considered the best real estate agent on the Upper East Side. “I know you’ve got plenty of money,” Emme said, “but money isn’t the issue. Everyone’s got plenty of money these days. It’s who you know that counts.” Then she’d asked, “Who do you