Page 25 of The New Couple in 5B

“I don’t know. I hope so,” I say. “Excuse me.”

The room suddenly seems overwarm and I move down the long hallway past the gallery of Ella’s watercolors.They were inspired by the Rorschach tests, she told me.What do you see?A butterfly, a mountain, two women staring at each other in anger, a ghostly figure in the window of a haunted house.

I lose myself a moment in the images, Chad’s voice carrying from the kitchen. Staring at one of the black inkblots, I flash on something—a moment, a memory—a crowded nightclub, a man and woman pressed against a wall, kissing passionately, groping. It’s vivid; I can almost feel the music pulsing. But then it’s gone.

The kitchen door swings open, startling me, as Chad, Ella and Charles are all walking in my direction.

“Oh, we were just coming to find you, lovey,” says Ella. “I don’t think you’ve ever met my daughter, have you? Lilian?”

The stranger and Chad are laughing as they approach.

I know her.

The woman with them is striking with an ink-black mane, shelves for cheekbones, patrician thin—nails done blood-red, eyes smoky. Her spindly legs are pale through fishnet stockings, and she teeters on precipitously high heels. A skintight leather dress keeps no secrets. Her hip bones jut, slender arms cuffed with Tiffany bangles.

The woman from the theater, the one who was sitting in the front row across the aisle from me.

“Oh, my God,” she gushes, coming in for a quick hug like we’ve known each other for ages. “Rosie, I just loved your book. The research, the layers. I want to talk to you about it for hours.”

I’m flustered, not sure what to say. For some reason, it feels wrong, awkward, to say I saw her at the theater. “That’s so kind. Thank you. Lovely to meet you.”

Charles whispers as we all head back to the living room, “Our Lilian is an actress, like your Chad.”

“Oh? Theater?”

But Charles doesn’t answer as we join Chad and Lilian, who are chatting with another woman I haven’t yet met. Chad drops an easy arm around my shoulder. And I can’t stop looking at Lilian, her bony thinness, her eyes ringed with dark glittering shadow.

“Have the documentary rights been sold to your book?” she inquires. Her gaze is intense. “I’ve been looking for a serious project to produce.”

“We’ve had some interest, but nothing solid,” I say.

“Well, let’s not talk business tonight,” she says with a jingling wave. “Will you give me your agent’s contact information before you leave?”

“Of course,” I say.

She’s looking at me curiously, almost wolfish. Chad has drifted off, so I lean in and say, “Didn’t I see you? At Chad’s opening night?”

“Oh,” she says, a musing frown. “I don’t think so.”

I am about to protest. I know she was there. She looked right at me. Why would she lie?

But then she’s off, hanging on Oga, who laughs that booming laugh and snakes a thick arm around her tiny waist. Anna the sculptor joins them, and their voices go low. They’re not looking at us, but I feel like they must be talking about us.

Maybe I’m just paranoid. Tired. With lots of pent-up questions for my husband.

I wonder how soon we can leave without seeming rude.

I’m about to ask Chad when he leans in to whisper, “This is quite a group.”

Before I can answer, Charles clinks his glass, and all eyes turn to him and Ella in the center of the room. I’m struck again by their sophistication, how attractive they are even in their seventies, the apartment telegraphing their taste, style and wealth. I wonder what it takes to be so settled, secure in your life. To have achieved what you set out to accomplish, to have defined your taste, refined your likes and dislikes, earned the money to honor that.

“It’s been too long since we’ve had fresh faces in this old building,” says Charles, raising a champagne flute. Chad hands me one, and he’s holding one, as well.

“Ivan was a good man, a wonderful neighbor and friend. Rosie and Chad were right by his side through his illness and passing. Just look at them—so young, so talented, all the best of everything ahead of them. It’s a blessing to have that new energy in the building, even as we mourn the loss of dear Ivan.”

I feel the heat come to my cheeks. I look up at Chad and he’s wearing that movie star smile—its wattage is blinding. This is the essential difference between my husband and me. He’s an extrovert, drawing on the attention of others as a kind of rocket fuel. I am an introvert; interaction, even when it’s wonderful and positive, drains me of all my power, all my energy. I feel myself shifting closer to him, his arm wrapping around my waist. He knows. He gets it. We honor this difference in each other.

“Chad and Rosie,” says Charles. “We wish you a long and prosperous life here. We hope you’ll view us all not just as neighbors but as friends. Welcome to the Windermere!”