The Apartment (3 page)

“She'd rather criticize my designs,” Claire said, correcting something on her drawing board, as Morgan walked in. She was all legs and high heels in a navy linen suit with a short skirt. Her dark hair was fashionably cut to her shoulders, and she was carrying several takeout containers from Max's restaurant. She set them down on the industrial metal table Claire's mother had found for them at a terrific price online.

“Those stairs are going to kill me one of these days. Max gave us roast chicken and Caesar salad.” He was always sending food for them, or cooking for them on Sunday nights, which they all enjoyed. “Have you guys eaten?” Morgan smiled at them, as she sat down next to Abby on the couch. “Looks like you've been painting scenery again,” Morgan said matter-of-factly. They were used to seeing her covered in paint. She didn't look like a writer—she looked like a house painter most of the time. “You know, you could get a job painting for a contractor. At least you'd be union and get decent pay,” she teased her, as she kicked off her high heels and stretched her legs. “The restaurant was jammed tonight,” she commented.

“It always is,” Claire answered. “Thanks for the food.” She got up from her drawing table, lured by the delicious scent of what Max had given them. The chicken smelled delicious.

The three of them went to the kitchen, got out plates and cutlery, and Morgan opened a bottle of wine for them to share, as Abby went to get napkins and glasses, and a minute later they were seated at the table, laughing and talking, as Claire described her new intern to them. Nothing ever seemed as bad when they could laugh about it, or talk about a problem. Their exchanges were always good-humored, there was no jealousy between them, they were just good friends with no ax to grind, and they knew each other well, their weaknesses and their strengths. They were forgiving, tolerant of occasional bad moods, and were a strong support system in the challenges that they faced. All of them had demanding jobs that added stress to their lives.

They had just finished eating when Sasha walked in, her blond hair in a rubber band lumped on her head with two pens sticking through it and a stethoscope around her neck. She was wearing clogs, and the familiar scrubs that were the mainstay of her wardrobe. Claire couldn't remember the last time she'd seen her in a dress.

“I delivered triplets today,” she announced to the three women sitting at the table, as she sat down next to Morgan.

“At least you did something useful,” Claire said admiringly, and Sasha shook her head when Morgan offered her a glass of wine.

“I'm still on call. I may have to go back later. We almost lost one of the triplets, but there were three OBs in the room. They let me close the C-section, but it was pretty impressive. We had three pediatricians too. The mom was forty-six—they were IVF babies. They were two months premature, but it looks like they're going to be okay. I don't know why anyone would want triplets at her age. Her husband's in his sixties—he'll be in his eighties when they graduate from college. But they were ecstatic, first babies for both of them. They got married last year. Instant family. She's a big deal on Wall Street, and he's a CEO of something. Maybe that'll be us someday,” Sasha said with a smile as she helped herself to some of the Caesar salad. She'd had a sandwich at the hospital, but she could never resist the food Max sent home with Morgan. It was always delicious.

“Don't count on me,” Morgan said, finishing her wine, at the thought of having triplets in her forties. “I'd jump off a bridge first.”

“I'd love to have a baby,” Abby said softly, “just not yet.”

“And hopefully not with Ivan,” Morgan said honestly, “if you want him to support it. You need a guy with a job, if you want to have kids, and be involved with someone responsible,” which Ivan wasn't. They knew that Abby's parents still helped her at twenty-nine, which she was embarrassed about. She wanted to be independent, but so far no one had bought her work.

Claire made a decent salary, and Morgan worked hard to make what she did working for George Lewis. Her parents had been dead broke, and she and her brother had had jobs since they were kids. They both knew what it had been like to grow up with too little money. Abby and Sasha had been born into wealthy families, or at least families who had money and were very “comfortable.” But the different circumstances the four roommates had known as kids didn't separate them. They were open about their previous lives and histories and were well aware that no life, with or without money, was as easy as it appeared from the outside.

“I don't want kids for a long time,” Abby said thoughtfully.

“You too can have a baby at forty-six,” Sasha said with a grin, helping herself to a piece of chicken. They all looked pleased to be together, sharing a meal, and relaxing at the end of their day.

“That seems a little late,” Abby said, looking pensive. She took everything literally, just as she believed Ivan's lies.

“No shit,” Sasha said, and laughed. “Remind me not to have babies when I'm nearly fifty.” But she couldn't imagine having kids anytime soon either. She still had years of studying ahead of her, with the specialty she'd chosen. “I don't know what the answer is. Life moves so damn fast, and then you wake up one day and suddenly you're old. I can't believe I'm already thirty-two. It feels like I was eighteen about two weeks ago.” Sasha shook her head as she thought about it.

“Don't whine to me—I'm a year older than you are.” Morgan spoke to her directly, and then looked at the other two women seriously. “And you guys are just babies.” She was five years older than Claire, and four years older than Abby. “It all goes by too fast, and there's so much I still want to do, to get where I want to be.” She had come a long, long way in the years since she'd graduated from business school, and by most people's standards she was very successful, but Morgan had always set the bar high for herself.

Sasha stood up from the table then with a yawn, and walked her plate into the kitchen to put it in the dishwasher. “I'd better get to bed in case they call me later,” she said, and disappeared into her bedroom a moment later, after thanking Morgan for the dinner.

Abby went to take a shower after that, to try and get the paint off. And a little while later, Morgan went to bed with some reading to do for work, and Claire went back to the drawing board. It had been a nice evening. It was rare for all of them to be home for dinner together. It made the day seem gentler and the bumps in it less unpleasant. Claire smiled to herself, thinking of her roommates. They were all good women, and the people who meant the most to her, other than her mother. They each supported one another in their endeavors. It was exactly what a family should be, Claire thought, as she came up with a detail she really liked on one of her drawings. And the best part for all of them was that this was not the family that they had been born with, this was the family they had chosen. And it worked for all of them.

As Claire thought about it and continued drawing, she hoped they would live there together forever, or for a very, very long time. The apartment was quiet as she mused about it. The others were asleep by then. She was the night owl in the group, and she liked working late. It was after two in the morning when she turned the lights out and went to her bedroom. She brushed her teeth, put her nightgown on, and climbed into bed a few minutes later. She hadn't realized it would turn out this way, but this was the home and the family she had always wanted. No one was bitter, no one was angry, and they had never disappointed each other. No one had made sacrifices they would resent silently forever. And the apartment in Hell's Kitchen was the safe haven that each of them needed in order to pursue her dreams.

On the subway on the way to work the next day, Morgan saw a mention of Max's restaurant on Page Six of the
New York Post,
and smiled to herself as she read it. The few lines devoted to it talked about the great food and atmosphere, and listed several of the actors, writers, dancers, and sports figures who hung out there. And of course, they always mentioned Greg. She read
The Wall Street Journal
and
The New York Times
every morning, after going to the gym religiously at six
A.M.
, but she liked glancing through the
Post
and reading the gossip on Page Six for a little levity and spice, and she knew who must have given them the information about the restaurant. She called her brother as soon as she got off the train and was walking from the station to work. It was another hot day, and she was wearing a short black skirt, crisp white blouse, and high heels, and men noticed her as she walked past.

“Nice mention of the restaurant,” Morgan complimented him, when Oliver answered his cell. He had been in PR since graduating from Boston University with a degree in communications twelve years before, and was now a vice president at an important New York firm, and had several well-known clients, mostly in sports. But he liked Max and did him a favor whenever he could. One of his clients, a pitcher for the Yankees, was mentioned on Page Six that morning too. “That was nice of you to do.” She got along well with her brother. He was her only living relative, and they had been very close ever since their parents' deaths when they were both still young.

Oliver and his partner had a nice apartment on the Upper East Side, and loved to tease her for living in Hell's Kitchen, but they enjoyed visiting her at the loft, and liked her roommates a lot. Oliver had come out and told her he was gay after their parents' deaths. He said he would never have dared while their father was alive. Their father had been a contractor, when he was working, and had been openly critical of gays, maybe because he suspected his son was. But Oliver was comfortable with who he was. At thirty-five, he and Greg, his partner, had been together for seven years.

Greg had had his own family issues. He was one of five boys, from a simple Catholic family in Quebec. Four of them were professional hockey players, and his father had been heartbroken when he told him he was gay. He said openly now that he had known he was gay all his life, since he was nine or ten. He just liked boys, and his father had eventually adjusted, although he was sad about it. Greg and Oliver genuinely loved each other, and Max enjoyed spending time with them too. Morgan and Max went skiing with Oliver and Greg sometimes, when Max could get away. He teased them about their dogs, which made Oliver groan. It was one of his few disagreements with Greg. They had two Yorkies and a teacup Chihuahua Greg was crazy about and dressed in tiny Rangers uniforms someone had made for them.

“For heaven's sake, you weigh two hundred and sixty pounds and you're a goalie. Can't we get a decent-size dog, like a Lab or a golden retriever? They make us look
so
gay!” Oliver complained, and Greg laughed.

“We are!” he reminded Oliver, and grinned. Oliver groused about it good-naturedly and regularly threatened to get a Saint Bernard, but he loved the dogs too. And he and Greg never tried to hide what they were. Greg had been one of the biggest sports figures to admit openly that he was gay.

“Do you want to have dinner at the restaurant Saturday?” Morgan asked her brother as she got to her office building.

“I'll check with Greg. He said something about a birthday party in Miami. If we're in town, I'd love it. I'll let you know.”

“Sounds good.” She blew him a kiss and hung up, and her thoughts turned instantly to work. She and George, her boss, had a meeting scheduled that morning with a new client who was looking to place a lot of money. George had been courting him for months. He had made some very profitable investments for one of the potential client's friends, and Morgan had done her homework for the meeting, and had discussed George's plans for him at length. She had contributed several additional suggestions that George liked and was planning to present too. They were a good team. And he always said she was a genius with numbers and could read a spreadsheet faster than their accountants and spot an error everyone else had missed.

George was a handsome, successful bachelor, but his relationship with Morgan had always been strictly business. He never played where he worked, which she respected about him. At thirty-nine, he was hotly pursued by every gold digger in New York, and some very nice women too, some of them with a great deal of money. They felt safe with George since he had his own. He had made a fortune in recent years, and Morgan respected him for that. He was brilliant at what he did, and deserved his success. She had learned a lot from him in the past three years. They never saw each other socially, but she enjoyed traveling with him. They went to some terrific places to see clients, or check on investments—Paris, London, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Dubai. Her work life was a dream.

She checked all her facts on her computer, organized the papers on her desk for the presentation, and made some calls, and the new client came in at ten. He was a well-known man in his fifties who had made a fortune in the high-tech dot-com boom, and was said to be a billionaire, and he was interested in everything George and Morgan had to say. George had suggested several additions to his portfolio, some of them high risk, which didn't seem to faze the client, and George had incorporated Morgan's suggestions, and even attributed them to her. He was always fair. She thanked him as soon as the client left, and George looked pleased. The client had been very receptive to everything they'd said.

“We're in,” George said with a grin. He was smooth as silk, and Morgan loved watching him handle their clients. He had it down to a fine art.

She went back to her own office then, and the day flew by with meetings, and some research she had to do after their meeting that morning. She always did her homework and followed up meticulously. George knew that he could count on her, and she gave him the information at the end of the day.

She had a meeting with a stock analyst that evening for a drink. She wanted to discuss two new IPOs with him, and hear what he had to say. She had her doubts about one of them. Her dream was to have her own select group of clients one day. She wasn't as aggressive a risk taker as George, but she had solid knowledge, used sound investment practices, and had six years of great experience since business school. She was well on her way, even if she never attained the stellar heights that George had achieved in his dazzling career, but who knew what could happen? She was on a definite career path. Her life was in a good place.

It was another stressful day for Claire, with arguments with Walter about the quantity of shoes they should produce for their spring line. He always wanted to play it safe, both with production quantity and design. She wished he would give her more leeway, but he never did. He never budged on anything. And Monique, the new French intern, irritated her all day. Claire felt like she was babysitting a petulant child and didn't have time to entertain her. By the time she got back to the apartment, Claire was seriously aggravated, and wished she had the guts to quit. But she needed the money, and didn't want to take a chance on being out of work while she looked, or risking the job she had if she started looking and Walter heard about it and fired her. He had her back to the wall, and all she wanted to do was design more exciting shoes.

As she dropped her keys onto the hall table, and glanced at her mail—all bills and ads, everything else came to her by e-mail or on Facebook—she noticed that Sasha was already home. She could see her lying on the couch, barefoot and in shorts, reading a magazine. Sasha glanced up at her and smiled, sipping a glass of wine, which meant she was off call, which was a relief for her. She hardly ever got time off, and Claire couldn't remember the last time she'd seen her read a magazine.

“They finally gave you a break?” She was happy for her.

“I'm not working this week,” Sasha said vaguely, sipping her wine.

“Not since yesterday. That's hardly what I'd call a vacation.” Sasha laughed at her then and sat up on the couch. “I had a shit day,” Claire complained to her. “I may have to kill the little French girl, if I don't kill Walter first. I'm beginning to have fantasies about it. I'm sick of designing shoes for women with no imagination and no taste.”

“Then quit,” Sasha said bluntly. “Fuck them. Why be miserable in your job?”

“Hello, remember me? I need the money. I'm not an heiress, and what if I'm out of work for six months? That could happen.” Claire looked worried as she said it.

“There's always prostitution,” Sasha said, sounding flippant, and suddenly what she said didn't seem like her. Sasha was always sensitive about Claire's fears about her job and her future.

And then Claire took a closer look and narrowed her eyes as she stared hard at Sasha.

“Smile at me,” she said cryptically to the exquisite woman on the couch. Sasha had a natural beauty that nothing could dim, even uncombed hair and hospital scrubs.

“Why?” she said in response.

“Never mind why—smile at me.” Sasha did as she was told, and smiled broadly, showing off gorgeous, perfect teeth. She hadn't even had braces. She'd been naturally flawless from birth. And Claire laughed the moment she smiled. “Jesus, you two ought to be forced to wear a sign, or get a tattoo on your foreheads with your name.” Only when they smiled could she detect the faintest dissimilarity in the twins. Although they looked the same, and were truly identical, there was an almost microscopic difference in their smiles. Claire had noticed it early on, but Valentina still fooled her a lot of the time, especially when she wanted to, which she did often. She was much more mischievous than her twin, and explained it by saying that Sasha was older, by three minutes, therefore more serious. Valentina considered herself the younger sister, and was lying on the couch drinking wine. “I thought you were Sasha,” Claire explained, but Valentina already knew that and looked amused. She loved fooling them. In some ways, she behaved like a naughty child, in contrast to her more responsible sister.

“Sasha said she'd be here by now, but she just called to say she got stuck at work. Some woman is delivering. I don't know why she didn't pick a better specialty, like plastic surgery.”

“Face-lifts sound even more disgusting than childbirth,” Claire said honestly, and poured herself a glass of the wine. Valentina had blithely opened one of their best bottles of white wine, although most of the time she preferred champagne. She was spoiled by the men she went out with, all of whom had vast amounts of money, and most of whom were twice her age, and dazzled by her. It was hard not to be, and she had all the habits of a spoiled brat, which Sasha didn't. All the roommates loved Sasha, and put up with Valentina. Sometimes she was funny, but none of them would have wanted to live with her. Nor did Sasha. Valentina had driven her crazy while they were growing up, although they still had the close relationship typical of twins.

Valentina then wandered into Sasha's bedroom and came out a few minutes later, wearing a very pretty skirt Claire hadn't seen her roommate wear all year. Valentina helped herself to whatever she wanted, always, and never asked her sister's permission.

“She'll never have time to wear this,” Valentina said to Claire as she sat down and poured herself another glass of wine. “It looks better on me anyway. She's losing weight from working too hard. Everything hangs on her.” Claire could detect no difference in their weight, or anything else about them, except the smile.

They chatted for a little while, and then Valentina went back to reading
Vogue,
and half an hour later Sasha walked in, and was surprised to see her sister wearing her skirt. “What are you doing wearing that?” She didn't look happy about it, and Sasha seemed like she was in a hurry.

“You never wear it, I'll just borrow it for a few days.”
And then forget to give it back,
Sasha thought to herself. Their father had sent it to her from one of his stores in Atlanta, it was by a well-known designer, and he knew she never had time to shop for clothes. Valentina had no problem buying clothes for herself, or taking what she wanted from her sister. And she got a lot of the clothes she modeled after the shoots.

“Dad sent it to me,” Sasha told her, as though that made the skirt meaningful to her. Valentina shrugged. She didn't get along with their father and didn't like his second wife and made no secret of it. “I'm going out,” Sasha said to her sister, as Valentina settled back onto the couch, wearing the borrowed skirt.

“Back to work?”

“I have a date,” Sasha said, embarrassed. “I forgot. He just called to remind me.”

“With who?” Valentina looked surprised, and so did Claire. Sasha hadn't had a date in months.

“Some guy I met last month. I think he thought I was you. He acted like he knew me, and then I realized he had us confused.”

“And he still thinks so?” Valentina was amused, and Sasha annoyed.

“Of course not. I told him, but he asked me out anyway. He's an actor, and he models underwear for Calvin Klein.”

“He must be cute,” she said, glancing at her sister.

“Yeah, kind of. I wasn't going to go out with him, but he made a big fuss that I sounded like I'd forgotten, and I didn't want to admit I had. He's taking me to some art opening, and dinner afterward.” It didn't sound like Sasha's kind of date, which were usually with other doctors, people she met at medical conferences, or related to her work. An actor/model wasn't her style, or even Valentina's. “I said I'd meet him in half an hour.” And thinking about it, she was sorry Valentina had taken the skirt—she didn't know what to wear.