Read Online One Fifth Avenue by Candace Bushnell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Candace Bushnell
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he never said hello. And so, as sometimes happened in these buildings, Mindy and James had decided that Philip Oakland, who was successful, was also smug and arrogant, too arrogant to even greet them politely, making him their sworn enemy.
“You’re Philip Oakland,” Mindy said, wanting to put herself in his face but not wanting to sink to his level of disregard.
“Yes,” Philip said.
“I’m Mindy Gooch. You know who I am, Philip. I live here. With my husband, James Gooch. For God’s sake, the two of you have the same publisher. Redmon Richardly?”
“Ah, yes,” Philip said. “I didn’t know that.”
“You do now,” Mindy said. “So the next time we see you, perhaps you’ll say hello.”
“Don’t I say hello?” Philip said.
“No, you don’t,” Mindy said.
“The bones of this apartment are amazing,” Brenda Lish interjected, wanting to defuse a spat between warring residents. With an apartment like this, there would undoubtedly be many skirmishes ahead.
The group trooped up the stairs, eventually reaching the top floor, which contained the ballroom. The ceiling was a dome, sixteen feet high; at one end was an enormous marble fireplace. Mindy’s heart beat faster.
She’d always dreamed of living in an apartment like this, with a room like this, an aerie with three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of all of Manhattan. The light was astounding. Every New Yorker wanted light, and few had it. If she lived here, in this apartment, instead of in the half-basement warren of rooms her family now occupied, maybe for once in her life, she could be happy.
“I was thinking,” Enid said, “we might want to split up the apartment.
Sell off each floor.”
Yes, Mindy thought. And maybe she and James could buy the top floor. “We’d need to have a special quorum of the board,” she said.
O N E F I F T H AV E N U E
49
“How long would that take?” Brenda asked.
Mindy looked at Enid. “It depends.”
“Well, it would be a shame,” Brenda said. “Apartments like this never come up in Manhattan. And especially not in this location. It’s one of a kind. It should probably be on the National Register of Historic Places.”
“The exterior of the building is on the register. The apartments are not.
Residents are entitled to do anything they want with them,” Enid said.
“That’s too bad,” Brenda said. “If the apartment were part of the national register, you’d attract the right kind of buyer, someone you’d probably want in the building. Someone who appreciates beauty and history.
They wouldn’t be able to destroy these deco moldings, for instance.”
“We’re not going to turn it into a museum,” Mindy said.
“How much is it worth?” Enid asked.
“My guess? Intact, around twenty million. If you split it up, you’ll hurt the value. Each floor will probably be worth three point five.”
In a fluster, Mindy went down to her apartment. The still air was stifling; in the afternoon on a bright day, when the sun was angled just right, a strip of light illuminated the back of the rooms, which looked out onto a small cement patio. The patio was eight feet wide, and she and James were always thinking about fixing it up, but never got around to it. Any kind of construction had to be approved by the board, which wouldn’t have been a problem, but it also required materials and workers to do the job, and the logistics of organizing such an event were too much on top of everything else she had to do. So, for the ten years she and James had lived there, the patio had remained the same—a cracked cement patch through which stubborn tufts of grass grew. A small Weber barbecue grill and three folding chairs completed the picture.
Mindy went into her office. Finding her latest bank statement, she added up their assets. They had two hundred and fifty-seven thousand in savings, four hundred thousand in a retirement account, thirty thousand dollars in checking, and maybe ten thousand
“You’re Philip Oakland,” Mindy said, wanting to put herself in his face but not wanting to sink to his level of disregard.
“Yes,” Philip said.
“I’m Mindy Gooch. You know who I am, Philip. I live here. With my husband, James Gooch. For God’s sake, the two of you have the same publisher. Redmon Richardly?”
“Ah, yes,” Philip said. “I didn’t know that.”
“You do now,” Mindy said. “So the next time we see you, perhaps you’ll say hello.”
“Don’t I say hello?” Philip said.
“No, you don’t,” Mindy said.
“The bones of this apartment are amazing,” Brenda Lish interjected, wanting to defuse a spat between warring residents. With an apartment like this, there would undoubtedly be many skirmishes ahead.
The group trooped up the stairs, eventually reaching the top floor, which contained the ballroom. The ceiling was a dome, sixteen feet high; at one end was an enormous marble fireplace. Mindy’s heart beat faster.
She’d always dreamed of living in an apartment like this, with a room like this, an aerie with three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of all of Manhattan. The light was astounding. Every New Yorker wanted light, and few had it. If she lived here, in this apartment, instead of in the half-basement warren of rooms her family now occupied, maybe for once in her life, she could be happy.
“I was thinking,” Enid said, “we might want to split up the apartment.
Sell off each floor.”
Yes, Mindy thought. And maybe she and James could buy the top floor. “We’d need to have a special quorum of the board,” she said.
O N E F I F T H AV E N U E
49
“How long would that take?” Brenda asked.
Mindy looked at Enid. “It depends.”
“Well, it would be a shame,” Brenda said. “Apartments like this never come up in Manhattan. And especially not in this location. It’s one of a kind. It should probably be on the National Register of Historic Places.”
“The exterior of the building is on the register. The apartments are not.
Residents are entitled to do anything they want with them,” Enid said.
“That’s too bad,” Brenda said. “If the apartment were part of the national register, you’d attract the right kind of buyer, someone you’d probably want in the building. Someone who appreciates beauty and history.
They wouldn’t be able to destroy these deco moldings, for instance.”
“We’re not going to turn it into a museum,” Mindy said.
“How much is it worth?” Enid asked.
“My guess? Intact, around twenty million. If you split it up, you’ll hurt the value. Each floor will probably be worth three point five.”
In a fluster, Mindy went down to her apartment. The still air was stifling; in the afternoon on a bright day, when the sun was angled just right, a strip of light illuminated the back of the rooms, which looked out onto a small cement patio. The patio was eight feet wide, and she and James were always thinking about fixing it up, but never got around to it. Any kind of construction had to be approved by the board, which wouldn’t have been a problem, but it also required materials and workers to do the job, and the logistics of organizing such an event were too much on top of everything else she had to do. So, for the ten years she and James had lived there, the patio had remained the same—a cracked cement patch through which stubborn tufts of grass grew. A small Weber barbecue grill and three folding chairs completed the picture.
Mindy went into her office. Finding her latest bank statement, she added up their assets. They had two hundred and fifty-seven thousand in savings, four hundred thousand in a retirement account, thirty thousand dollars in checking, and maybe ten thousand