One Fifth Avenue Read Online Free PDF Page B

teenager who seemed to be in a never-ending quest to find himself; who, when he discovered that Mindy had no knowledge of seventies rock and roll, tolerated her in meetings with only the barest acknowledgment. It was 26
    Candace Bushnell
    silently understood that in order to become corporate, in order to be one of them, one had to literally be one of them, since they hung out together, had dinner at each other’s apartments, invited each other to endless nights of black-tie charity events, and all went to the same places on vacation, like lemmings. And Mindy and James most decidedly did not fit in. Mindy wasn’t “fun.” It wasn’t in her nature to be sassy or witty or flirtatious; instead, she was smart and serious and disapproving, a bit of a downer. And while much of corporate was made up of Democrats, to James, they were the wrong kind of Democrats. Wealthy, privileged Democrats with excessive pay packages were unseemly, practically oxy-morons, and after the third dinner party during which James expressed this opinion and Derek Brumminger countered that perhaps James was actually a Communist, they were never asked again. And that was that.
    Mindy’s future was established: She was in her place and would go no further. Each subsequent yearly review was the same: She was doing a great job, and they were happy with her performance. They couldn’t give her a raise but would give her more stock options. Mindy understood her position. She was trapped in a very glamorous form of indentured servitude. She could not get the money from those stock options until she retired or was let go. In the meantime, she had a family to support.
    On the morning of Mrs. Houghton’s death—on that same morning when Philip Oakland was wondering about his career and Schiffer Diamond was wondering about sex—Mindy Gooch went to her office and, as she did most days, conducted several meetings. She sat behind her long black desk in her cushy black leather swivel chair, one ankle resting on the other knee. Her shoes were black and pointy, with a practical one-and-a-half-inch heel. Her eleven o’clock meeting consisted of four women who sat on the nubby plaid couch and the two small club chairs, done up in the same ugly nubby plaid fabric. They drank coffee or bottled water. They talked about the article in The New York Times about the graying of the Internet. They talked about advertisers. Were the suits who controlled the advertising dollars finally coming around to the fact that the most important consumers were women like themselves, over thirty-five, with their own money to spend? The conversation turned to video games. Were they good or evil? Was it worth developing a video game on their website for women? What would it be? “Shoes,” one of O N E F I F T H AV E N U E
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    the women said. “Shopping,” said another. “But it already exists. In online catalogs.” “Why not put the best all in one place?” “And have high-end jewelry.” “And baby clothes.”
    This was depressing, Mindy thought. “Is that all we’re really interested in? Shopping?”
    “We can’t help ourselves,” one woman said. “It’s in our genes. Men are the hunters and women are the gatherers. Shopping is a form of gathering.” All the women laughed.
    “I wish we could do something provocative,” Mindy said. “We should be as provocative as those gossip websites. Like Perez Hilton. Or Snarker.”
    “How could we do that?” one of the women asked politely.
    “I don’t know,” Mindy said. “We should try to get at the truth. Talk about how terrible it is to face middle age. Or how lousy married sex is.”
    “Is married sex lousy?” one woman asked. “It’s kind of a cliché, isn’t it?” said another. “It’s up to the woman to stay interested.” “Yes, but who has time?” “It’s the same thing over and over again. It’s like having the same meal every day of your life.” “Every day?” “Okay, maybe once a week. Or once a