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‘Stole McCarthy off Martin, Kahlo’s estate found me, and the English dude – not huge yet, but he will
be. As for you, Lily—’
‘Leia, as in Star Wars. Mom always claimed it was playing in the drive-in I was conceived at, back in Colorado.’
Felix stiffened. ‘You’re from Denver?’ To his annoyance, his voice quavered a little.
‘Can’t you tell from the accent? I mean, it’s great if you can’t – I’ve been working on that. I mean, I always say Chicago, or Seattle – Denver is so unhip.’
Felix felt a slow heat rising up through his body. ‘I’m from Taos, New Mexico, myself – I don’t try and hide that,’ he replied, flattening his own accent deliberately.
‘That’s right, I read that.’
‘So you know more about me than I realised.’
‘Know? Dude, I’ve read practically everything that’s ever been published!’
‘It must be bizarre for you then, to meet the real person,’ he ventured, a little turned on by her interest.
‘Oh, I knew it would happen – I visualised it. Like I said – destiny. I love the fact that your background is so-o-o indie.’
Felix was compelled to twist his grimace into a smile; if there was one thing that irritated him, it was New Age pseudo-magic. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the place.’
He led her into the lounge; again, predominantly white, it had a sunken man-cave lined with cream leather and designed specifically for Felix by Marc Newson, apart from a floor-to-ceiling aquarium that operated as a dividing wall between the lounge area and the kitchen. Stark against the silvery blue of the water, a small colony of black leafy sea dragons and one blood-red sea urchin floated by. Beyond lay the balcony, with a view of Fifth Avenue arching downtown, street lights twinkling like an inverted subterranean city. It was a 6-million-dollar view and the girl standing next to him knew it. Felix touched a screen set in the wall and immediately the music of Moby flooded the room. The only pieces of art in this room were a Degas bronze of a ballerina and a Magritte landscape: a house set among trees, lit by a street lamp beneath a blue sky with gathering clouds at dusk. It was one of Felix’s favourite paintings and he’d managed to secure it in exchange for a late Picasso. The waitress now stood in front of the Magritte, staring reverently at it as if worshipping at an altar.
‘This is genuine, right?’
‘What do you think?’
‘You know, when I look at this, I’m really there, inside that landscape, feeling that chill coming over me as the sun sets… You know, total immersion, a kind of psychic transport,’ she enthused, then swung round. Felix was sitting at the low coffee table cutting four more lines of coke. ‘Oh, I see we’re in for a long night.’
‘Is that okay with you?’ He offered her a line, but she shook her head.
‘Not my drug.’ Instead she reached into a small gold leather pouch tied to her waist, and took out a couple of brightly coloured pills. ‘Mine’s E, you in?’
‘I’ll pass,’ he answered after snorting another line and wiping his nose.
‘You are real about mentoring me?’
‘Would I bring you back here under false pretences?’
‘Sure you would. So where’s your bathroom?’
‘Beyond the kitchen – but keep your wings on, it’s a good aesthetic,’ he instructed her. ‘In the meantime I’ll order in a pizza.’
*
Latisha had Theo park on the other side of the street, then she bribed the doorman of the building opposite to allow her access to the 23rd floor, where a doorway led out on to a fire escape. Perched on it, she spied on Felix Baum and angel girl through the binoculars Theo used to watch the baseball.
It looked very expensive, Baum’s apartment; a series of brightly lit rooms, stark and smooth. Behind the ceiling-to-floor windows they moved like languid fish in an aquarium, circling each other in a kind of slow heat. Latisha prayed she wouldn’t have to watch them have sex. She didn’t like to think of such matters – all that pink heaving flesh turned her stomach. Had Maxine walked like that across his expensive rugs, lain against all that soft, fine leather?
Whatever it was he had, Latisha couldn’t see it. Obviously plenty of other women saw it, though. He was handsome, she’d give him that much; like some well-bred horse, with his black shining hair and big eyes. But she was guessing it was what he offered these girls, girls like Maxine: a chance for others to take them seriously, as seriously as they could possibly dream of, to be in magazines, to be in the catalogues Maxine’s apartment was full of.
Latisha shivered, thankful that she had checked her blood sugar before going out that night and injected her insulin. It was windy up there, with the cars howling below. But she could wait. Time was a luxury she could afford. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out her pipe, already packed with tobacco, then, shielding her lighter from the wind, managed to get it alight. She took a deep satisfying draw and then turned to the empty space beside her.
‘Maxine?’ she asked out loud, thinking the ghost had settled there on the fire escape beside her.
This time it was the moon who answered her with his usual sceptical silence.
