Why do you always have to make such a big deal out of everything?”

“Fine, schoolboy,” she said. “We’ll have dinner. I’ll even cook.”

Meanwhile, upstairs in One Fifth, James Gooch was preparing to make love to Lola Fabrikant. Not actual love — not sex, which he knew was most likely beyond the realm of possibility — but verbal love. He wanted her interest and appreciation. At ten-ten, not wanting to appear too eager, he rode the elevator to the thirteenth floor. He was thinking only of Lola, but when she opened the door, some of his attention was diverted by Philip’s apartment and the inevitable comparisons to his own. Oakland’s place was a real apartment. No string of boxlike rooms for him.

There was a foyer and a large living room, a fireplace, hallways, and when James followed Lola into the living room, he caught a glimpse of a proper-sized kitchen with granite countertops and a table large enough for four. The place smacked of old money, personal taste, travel, and a decorator, encapsulating that mix of antique and contemporary. James took in the Oriental rug, African sculpture, and leather club chairs in front of the fireplace. How often did Oakland sit there with Lola, drinking Scotch and making love to her atop the zebra rug? “I brought you my book,” he said awkwardly. “As promised.”

Lola was wearing a fancy T-shirt, even though it was winter — but didn’t all young girls bare their almighty flesh in all kinds of weather these days? — and plaid pants that hugged her bottom, and on her feet, pretty little blue velvet slippers embroidered with a skull and crossbones.

As she held out her hand for the book, she must have caught him looking at her feet, for she touched the heel of one slipper with the toe of the other and said, “They’re last year’s. I wanted to get the ones with the angels or butterflies — but I couldn’t. They’re six hundred dollars, and I couldn’t afford them.” She sighed and sat down on the couch. “I’m poor,” she explained.

James did not know how to respond to this flood of random information. Her cell phone rang, and she answered it, followed by several “ohmigods” and “fucks,” as if he weren’t in the room. James was slightly hurt. In the run-up to this encounter, he’d imagined she truly was interested and the delivery of the book partly ruse, but now he wasn’t sure.

After ten minutes, he gave up and headed toward the door. “Wait,” she said. She pointed to the phone, making a talking motion with her hand as if it were out of her control. She held the phone away from her ear.

“Are you leaving?” she asked James.

“I guess so,” he said.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to go. I’ll be off in a minute.” James doubted this but sat down anyway, as hopeful as an eighteen-year-old boy who still thinks he has a chance to get laid. He watched her pacing the room, fascinated and frightened by her energy, her youth, her anger, and mostly by what she might think about him.

She got off the phone and threw it onto the couch. “So,” she said, turning to him, “two socialite girls got into a fight at a club, and a bunch of people videotaped it and put it on Snarker.”

“Oh,” James said. “Do girls still do those things?”

She looked at him like he was crazy. “Are you kidding? Girls are vicious.”

“I see,” James said. A painful pause ensued. “I brought you my book,” he said again, to fill up the silence.

“I know,” she said. She put her hands over her eyes. “I’m just so confused.”

“You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to,” James said. The book was sitting on the coffee table between them. On the cover was a color rendering of New York harbor circa 1775. The title of the book, Diary of an American Terrorist, was written across the top in raised red type.

She took away her hands and stared at him intently, then, remembering the book, picked it up. “I want to read it. I really do. But I’m upset about Philip.”

“Oh,” James said. For a moment, he’d forgotten all about Philip.

“He’s just so mean.”

“He is?”

She nodded. “Ever since he asked me to move in with him. He keeps criticizing everything I do.” She readjusted herself on the couch. “Like the other day. I was doing a salt scrub in the bathroom, and some of the salt got on the floor. And then I had to do something right away — like go to the drugstore — and Philip came home and slipped on the salt. So when I came back, he started yelling at me about being messy.”

James moved closer to her on the couch. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said. “Men are like that. It’s an adjustment period.”

“Really?” she asked, looking at him curiously.

“Sure,” he said, bobbing his head. “It always takes men awhile to get used to things.”

“And that’s especially true of Philip,” she said. “My mother warned me.

When men get older, they get set in their ways, and you just have to work around them.”

“There you go,” James said, wondering how old she thought he was.

“But it’s hard for me,” she continued. “Because I’m the one taking all the risks. I had to give up my apartment. And if things don’t work out, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“I’m sure Philip loves you,” James said, wishing that Oakland did not and that he could take his place. But that wasn’t possible unless Mindy decided to get rid of him as well.

“Do you really think so?” she asked eagerly. “Did he tell you that?”

“No ...” James said. “But why wouldn’t he?” he added quickly. “You’re so” — he hesitated — “beautiful.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked, as if she were insecure about her looks.

She’s sweet, James thought. She really doesn’t know how gorgeous she is.

“I wish Philip would tell me that,” she said.

“He doesn’t?”

She shook her head sadly. “He never tells me I’m beautiful. And he never says ‘I love you.’ Unless I force him.”

“All men are like that,” James said wisely. “I never tell my wife I love her, either.”

“But you’re married,” Lola protested. “She knows you love her.”

“It’s complicated,” James said, sitting back on the couch and crossing one leg over the other. “It’s always complicated between men and women.”

“But the other night,” Lola began. “You and your wife — you seem so happy together.”

“We have our moments,” James said, although at that moment, he couldn’t remember any. He recrossed his legs, hoping she couldn’t see his hard-on.

“Well,” she said, jumping up, “I’ve got to meet Philip.”

James stood reluctantly. Was the visit over so soon? And just when he thought he was making progress.

“Thank you for bringing me your book,” she said. “I’ll start reading it this afternoon. And I’ll let you know what I think.”

“Great,” James said, thrilled that she wanted to see him again.

At the door, he attempted to kiss her on the cheek. It was an awkward moment, and she turned her head away, so his kiss landed somewhere in her hair. Overcome by the sensation of her hair on his face, he took a step backward, tripping on the corner of the rug.

“Are you okay?” she asked, grabbing his arm.

He adjusted his glasses. “I’m fine.” He smiled.

“See you soon.” She waved and closed the door, then turned back into the apartment. It was cute the way James Gooch was so obviously interested in her. Naturally, she didn’t return his feelings, but James was the kind of man who might do anything she wanted. And he was a best-selling author. He might come in very handy in the future.

Meanwhile, James stood waiting for the elevator, feeling his descending hard-on poke against his pants. Philip Oakland was a fool, he thought fiercely, thinking of Lola’s breasts. Poor kid, she probably had no idea what she was getting into.

On the floor above, Annalisa Rice placed a large red stamp on the corner of an envelope and passed it to her neighbor. Six women, including Connie Brewer, sat around her dining room table, stuffing envelopes for the King David charity ball. The King David Foundation was the Brewers’ personal charity, and had grown from a dinner party at a Wall Street restaurant into a multimedia extravaganza held in the Armory. All the new Wall Streeters wanted to know Sandy Brewer, wanted to rub shoulders with him and do business, and were willing to pay the price by supporting his cause. Connie had asked Annalisa to be a cochair. The requirements were simple: She had to buy two tables at fifty thousand dollars each — for which Paul had happily written a check — and be involved in the planning.

Annalisa had thrown herself into the work with the same passion she’d brought to being a lawyer. She’d studied the financials — last year, the event had raised thirty million dollars, an extraordinary amount, and this year they hoped to raise five million dollars more. She went to tastings and examined floral arrangements, went over lists of invitees, and sat through hours of committee meetings. The work wasn’t exciting, but it gave her a purpose beyond the apartment and kept her mind off Paul. Ever since the trip to China, where Paul and Sandy had done business during the day while Connie and Annalisa were driven around in a chauffeured Mercedes with a guide who took them on tours of temples and museums, Paul had become increasingly secretive and withdrawn. When he was home, he spent most of his time in his office on lengthy phone calls or making graphs on his computer. He refused to discuss his business, saying only that he and Sandy were on the verge of doing a groundbreaking deal with the Chinese that would change the international stock market and make them billions of dollars.