“But there are advantages,” Redmon continued, his overweening confidence firmly back in place. “For instance, we know everything now. We’ve seen it all before. We know there’s nothing new. Have you noticed that?

The only thing that changes is the technology.”

“Except we can’t understand the technology,” James said.

“Bullshit,” Redmon said. “It’s still a bunch of buttons. It’s only a matter of knowing which ones to press.”

“Like the panic button that blows up the world.”

“Wasn’t that disabled?” Redmon said. “Why can’t we have another cold war? It was so much more sensible than a real war.” He pushed the button for the elevator.

“Mankind is going backward,” James said. The elevator came, and he got on.

“Say hi to your family for me,” Redmon called out with genuine urgency as the doors were closing.

Redmon’s admonishment struck James as extraordinary. Family concerns were something Redmon never would have considered ten years ago, when he was out bedding a different woman in publishing every night and drinking and doing cocaine until dawn. For years, people had postulated that something terrible would happen to Redmon — he appeared to deserve it, although what the terrible thing was, no one could say — rehab, maybe? Or some kind of death? But nothing terrible ever did happen to him. Instead, he slid into his new life as a married father and corporate man with the agility of a skier. James had never understood it, but he thought perhaps Redmon, instead of being a source of consternation, ought to be considered an inspiration. If Redmon could change, why not he?

I have money now, James thought, the reality hitting him at the same time as the crisp September air. At least New York appeared to be having a real fall this year. Ordinary occurrences were now a pleasure and a relief to him, a reminder that in some ways, life could go on as before.

But would it now that he had money? Passing the chain stores that lined lower Fifth Avenue with their wares displayed in great glass cases like a middle-class shopper’s dream, he reminded himself that it wasn’t so much money. Not enough even to buy a tiny studio apartment in this great and expensive metropolis. But he had a bit of money. He was no longer — for this moment, anyway — a loser.

At Sixteenth Street, he passed Paul Smith and, out of habit, stopped for a second and gazed into the windows. Paul Smith’s clothing was a status symbol, the choice for the sophisticated, urbane downtown male.

Mindy had bought him a Paul Smith shirt years ago, for Christmas, when she was feeling proud of him and, apparently, had decided he was worth a splurge. Staring into the window at a pair of velvet pants, it occurred to James that for the first time in his life, he could afford anything in this store. This new feeling empowered him, and he went in.

Almost immediately, his phone rang. It was Mindy.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Shopping.”

“You? Shopping?” Mindy said with faux astonishment that was edged ever so slightly with disdain. “What are you buying?”

“I’m in Paul Smith.”

“You’re not going to actually buy anything, are you?” Mindy said.

“I might,” he said.

“You’d better not. That store is too expensive,” she said. James had thought he’d call Mindy first thing about his advance, but he surprised himself by wanting to keep it to himself.

“When are you coming home?” she asked.

“Soon.”

“How did it go? With Redmon?”

“Great,” he said, and hung up. He shook his head. Both he and Mindy had a quaint, puritan approach to money. Like it was always about to run out. Like it shouldn’t be squandered. One’s feelings about money were a gene one inherited. If your parents were afraid about money, then you’d be afraid. Mindy came from New England stock, where it was considered tacky to spend a lot of money. He came from immigrant stock, where money was needed for food and education. They’d survived in New York because they saved and didn’t get their self-esteem from their outward appearances. But maybe that wasn’t the solution. Because, James thought, neither he nor Mindy seemed to have much self-esteem at all.

James looked around the store and, walking to a rack of jackets, fingered a fine cashmere overcoat. He did not know what it was like to have money. Not having money had kept him tied to Mindy’s apron strings.

He knew it, had known it for years, had denied it, had rationalized it, had been ashamed of it, but what was most shameful was that he’d never been willing to do anything about it. Because, he’d told himself, he believed in the purity of his pursuit of literature. He’d been willing to sacrifice his manhood for this higher ideal. He’d taken succor in the fact that he was an honorable struggler.

But he had money now! He looked around the store, inhaling the manly scent of leather and cologne. The shop was like a stage set, with its wood-paneled walls — a cornucopia of anything a man with taste, sophistication, and style might want. And, he thought, looking at the three-thousand-dollar price tag on a cashmere jacket, a sense of irony at how much money it cost to keep warm.

In an act of defiance, he took the jacket off the hanger and carried it into the dressing room. He took off his own jacket, which was a sensible navy wool bought during a sale at Barneys five years ago, and looked at his body. He had the advantage of height, but he was a gangle of limbs with a soft belly. His legs were still firm, but his butt was flat, and his chest was flabby (“man boobs” was the current term, he believed), but all this could be hidden with the right clothing. He slipped his arms into the sleeves and buttoned the jacket across his chest. He was transformed into a man who had something big going on in his life.

He stepped out of the dressing room and ran into Philip Oakland.

James’s confidence dispersed like a mist. He did not belong in this store, he thought in panic. Even a store was about a tribe, and he was not part of this tribe; Philip Oakland was sure to sense this. James often saw Philip in the lobby or on the streets around One Fifth. Philip never acknowledged him, but perhaps he’d have to in this store, wearing this jacket, the kind of jacket Philip himself might own. Indeed, Philip Oakland looked up from a pile of sweaters and, as if they were casual friends, said, “Hey.”

“Hey,” James said.

That might have been the end of it if it weren’t for the girl, the beautiful girl who was with Philip and whom James had seen around the building, coming in and out at odd hours during the day. He’d always wondered who she was and what she was doing in One Fifth, but now it made sense: She was Philip’s girlfriend.

She spoke, startling James. “That looks good,” she said to him.

“Really?” James said, staring at the girl. She had the unassailable confidence that comes from having been pretty her whole life.

“I know everything about clothes,” she said boldly. “My friends are always saying I should have been a stylist.”

“Lola, please,” Philip said.

“It’s true,” Lola said, turning to Philip. “You look so much better since I started helping you with your clothes.”

Philip shrugged and rolled his eyes at James, as if to say, “Women.”

James took the opportunity to introduce himself. “I’ve seen you before,” Lola said. “Yes,” James said. “I live in One Fifth, too. I’m a writer.”

“Everyone’s a writer in One Fifth,” she said with a dismissive arrogance that made James laugh.

“We should be going,” Philip said.

“But we didn’t buy anything,” she protested.

“ ‘We,’ ” Philip said to James. “Notice that? Why is shopping with women always a group sport?”

“I don’t know,” James said. He glanced over at Lola, wondering how one managed to get a girl like that. She was saucy. He liked the way she stood up to the great Philip Oakland and wondered how Philip felt about it.

“Men never know what to buy on their own,” she replied. “My mother let my father go shopping once, and he came back with an acrylic striped sweater. She said, ‘Never again.’ What do you write?” she asked James, not missing a beat.

“Novels,” James said. “I have a book coming out in February.” He was pleased to be able to deliver this information in front of Philip. Take that, he thought.

“We have the same publisher,” Philip said, perhaps, James thought, finally figuring out who he was. “What’s your print run?”

“Don’t know,” James said. “But we’ve got two hundred thousand copies going out to iStores in the first week.”

Philip looked suitably bothered. “Interesting,” he said.

“It is,” James said. “I’m told it’s the future of publishing.”

Lola was suddenly bored. “If we’re not buying anything here, can we please go to Prada?”

“Sure,” Philip said. “See you around,” he said to James.

“Right,” James said.

As they walked away, Lola turned back to James. “You should buy that jacket. It looks great.”

“I will,” James said.

James paid for the jacket. As the salesman was putting it into a garment bag, James had an inspiration. “Don’t bother,” he said. “I’m going to wear it home.”

That afternoon, Norine Norton, the stylist, came to Annalisa’s apartment for their third appointment. Norine, with her hair extensions and her subtle facial work and seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of the latest bag, shoe, designer, fortune-teller, trainer, and cosmetic procedure, made Annalisa uncomfortable. Her nickname, she informed Annalisa during their first meeting, was “the Energizer Bunny” — an energy that, Annalisa suspected, might be drug-induced. Norine never stopped talking; no matter how often Annalisa tried to remind herself that Norine was a woman, an actual human being, Norine always managed to convince her otherwise.