Danielle Steel - The Apartment

“I’m too tired to eat,” Abby said, and the paint had made her feel sick. Ivan had changed his mind about the color of the scenery four times. And he was playwright, director, and producer, so he had a right to dictate how the scenery should look. “I think I’m going to have a bath and go to bed. How was your day?” Abby inquired, as Claire thought, as she always did, that it was nice coming home to people who asked, and cared. At home, her parents never talked to each other and hadn’t in years. It was easier that way.

“Long. A running battle,” Claire answered, with a discouraged look. “Walter hated all my new designs and wants them ‘modified’ to suit their style. And I have a new intern, the daughter of a friend of his in Paris. She looks about twelve years old, and hates everything about the States. According to her, it’s all better in Paris, and no one here knows what they’re doing. Her father is a banker, and her mother works for Chanel. I think she’s all of twenty-two and knows it all. Walter is doing her parents a favor, so I got stuck with her.”

“Maybe she’d like to paint scenery,” Abby said with a grin. “Or vacuum the theater. That would whip her into shape.”

“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.