Alligators in the Trees (3 page)

Tobias did as he was told, his annoyance with this whole prospect growing rapidly. Maybe there was a way he could ditch the lot of them, like sneaking out the back door of the restaurant or something. Going to the chichi spots they were settled on meant there’d be no hope of studio time later on.

He could see it now: after a couple of bottles of Prosecco, they’d order a bottle or two of red wine, then they’d pile into the limo, only to stop somewhere after a few minutes for an iced double espresso and a tiramisu, which would end up taking another hour or so. Then they would have to make a mad dash to hit all their favorite boutiques before they closed. Then they’d be so wound up they’d need a cocktail or two in order to regain their previously mellow state.

Tobias shook his head. Well, what did he expect? It was his own fault for having an affair with a woman not in his own age bracket. This was the price he had to pay for hanging with models. It wasn’t such a bad scene when he was twenty years younger.

But it seemed time had played a cruel trick on him, allowing him to age, while every year the models got younger and younger. He supposed he should thank his lucky stars Simone was now at least old enough to drink legally. The other two were so tall and mature-looking for their age, they never got carded, even though Winston was only twenty, and Josh barely nineteen.

Simone and Winston reappeared, arm in arm, Simone wearing a skirt so low and short it could pass as an oversize cummerbund, a denim jacket and gladiator stilettos, and Winston in his drawstring khakis, Sex Pistols T-shirt and flip-flops.

Tobias removed the dark glasses from his pocket and pulled his cap down tightly on his head. He’d have to stay incognito for the rest of the day, for cameras were sure to be flashing. It was possible to avoid the paparazzi when out with just Simone, if he kept a low profile. But it was unavoidable when he had all three Stapletons in tow. Tobias let out a sigh. If that was the way his day was going to play out, he might as well enjoy it. After all, he would be paying through the nose for it, regardless.

Philip rode the elevator to the top floor of 4848 Park Avenue, to what had once been a buzzing hive of creative activity. At its peak, Glessner & Associates had a staff of twenty-nine, including seven other architects.

Now, all that remained was a loosely supervised group of part time agency staffers, who did little more than deflect inquires and complaints and redirect the mail. Fortunately for Philip, it was possible for him to enter his private office undetected, where he could work around the clock if he chose, and never even hear the comings and goings of the strangers in his employ, a fact he took great comfort in.

There wasn’t much for Philip to do in his office these days; the projects that hadn’t been in the final phases at the time of the collapse had been pulled from his firm as soon as the crisis broke. It had only compounded his agony that many of these clients were now refusing to pay for the services thus far rendered, the general attitude being Glessner & Associates would have to come after the money if they wanted it.

There had been a brief period in which the calamity had a unifying affect among his employees, as they all banded together to defend the integrity of the firm. But that esprit de corps evaporated once they figured out the bad publicity would tarnish their reputations as well. Soon Philip had a huge, rambling office and hardly anyone to fill it.

It became too painful for him to put up an optimistic front for the few diehard loyalists who had for one reason or another vowed to stay on, so Philip finally decided to cut them loose and replace them with temps who neither knew nor cared about his illustrious past. This made it easier for him to face his office, where he continued to show up daily, out of habit and a lack of having anywhere else to go. He was loath to spend any more time than absolutely necessary in the posh but sterile apartment his friends had loaned him while he sorted out the hash his life had become.

Fortunately, Frank’s Coffee Shop had become an anonymous refuge for him, a place where he could pass the better part of his mornings, a safety zone so utterly foreign to his world, it served as a secret port where he could hide out and evade his troubles for a while. At least now his entire day did not consist of melancholy musings in his grand corner office.

When he could get up the energy, Philip would while away the time by admiring his scale models or reviewing the plans he and his staff had designed back in their glory days. Or, if he had enough good spirits left in him from his brief visits with Priscilla, he would spend a few hours sketching elaborate edifices that were doomed never to be constructed. During those pleasant diversions, he could successfully lose sight of the fact his life had imploded.

Today he made an effort to hold tight to the warm, peaceful sensation that watching his favorite waitress gave him. He got so much out of being in her presence, he had assigned almost magical powers to her. To Martin, Priscilla may be simply a lowbred peon, but that was because he was still too caught up in the superficialities of life to appreciate the wisdom that comes with years of settling for less.

Philip realized that had he not been dealt the triple blow of public disgrace, dissolution of his company, and divorce, he too would’ve been fixated on his professional image and success, and all the baggage that comes with such obsessions. As it was, Philip had developed a near Zen-like attitude toward material goods, which was probably a wise thing, as he was about to lose virtually everything he had accumulated over his illustrious and productive career.

Despite the positive effects from his morning at Frank’s, a certain wistfulness settled on Philip as he entered his office. It was an uncommonly clear and beautiful day, the forest of skyscrapers that made up Manhattan glowing in the midmorning sun. It was one of those sights that made it difficult to imagine all was not right in the world. Philip gravitated slowly to the corner window, where he stood mesmerized by the view, until harsh reality once again hit him: he was no longer a driving force in the world he now surveyed.

He pulled away from the window, feeling like a fraud. He doubted there was anyone who didn’t think differently of him now. His own mother seemed resigned to the notion that his life had taken a tragic and irreversible turn. No one had faith in him anymore. Even his seven-year-old daughter seemed to think of him as a pitiful dope, incapable of handling the simplest tasks without her assistance.

Philip slid listlessly into his leather chair, running his hand down his face as his future passed before his eyes. It was a grim one, filled with an endless parade of days equal in meaninglessness to this one, though eventually he wouldn’t even have this office to hole up in. His attorney had been pressing him to sublease the floor in order to generate some much-needed cash flow. Naturally, Martin’s reasons were purely self-serving.

Philip straightened in his chair and assessed his surroundings. The walls of his vast office were covered with awards and citations, photos of him with notables—several mayors and governors, celebrities and other distinguished folks, at awards banquets, building dedications and society galas. He had been lauded at regular intervals throughout his career, practically every year since he ventured out on his own. He had enjoyed all the hype and prestige. His long string of professional achievements had opened doors, which in turn led to greater acclaim.

As Philip wandered about taking in the archived progress of his career, he began to assess the changes that had taken place in Marianne over the sixteen years of their marriage. In the earliest photo, she appeared shy and demure next to him and former Mayor Koch. It was almost touching to see Marianne and him standing side by side in those earlier, more innocent times. How sweet she had been in the beginning, how proud she was at having such a clever and inspired husband. What a stunning couple they had been; what sad, embittered rivals they had become.

If Marianne had relished the status of being married to him, the same would have to be said for Philip. He could remember watching her as the limo ferried them home after a gala at the Met, her eyes fixed on an inner replay of the success the evening had been. She had been introduced to every mover and shaker, every society matron, every Wall Street wizard. There wasn’t a soul there who didn’t come away thinking what a fetching young bride Philip Glessner had found.

He snorted a bitter laugh at the realization that he had unintentionally nurtured in Marianne a lust for heightened social standing. How naïve he’d been not to guess all the glamour and prestige would take root and become the driving force of Marianne’s existence. As if Philip needed proof of exactly where they now stood as husband and wife, his eyes guided him to one of the last pictures taken of them, ironically enough, at the dedication ceremony for the Phoenix Tower.

There had been several functions of this sort since that event, but it was the last one Marianne could bother herself to attend. Even in that last photo, one could see her detachment from the proceedings and from Philip in general. It struck him that the collapse of the Phoenix had given Marianne the convenient out she had been looking for. Her detachment from her husband was obvious in the way she gazed at the photographer’s lens with a mixture of disdain and boredom.

If the caissons for the Phoenix hadn’t given way, how then would their marriage have played out? Philip wondered if he would have his nose in a set of blueprints at that very moment, blissfully ignorant of the state of his marriage. He imagined it would’ve suited Marianne fine, just as long as she continued to have unfettered spending privileges.

But when he studied the photo again, he knew she wouldn’t have endured her apathy without exacting some sort of compensation. By the cut of her suit and the price of the designer clutch tucked casually in the crook of her arm, Philip realized that a woman who spends as much time and money on looking ‘just so’ would not waste the results on her workaholic husband, too absorbed in his work to fully appreciate the effect.

Now that he had sorted out the past enough to know it wasn’t as he once imagined, his thoughts turned cautiously to the future. He knew he still possessed a limitless talent for design, though he found it hard to believe there was anyone in the city who was willing to take him on as a draftsman, let alone executive architect.

If he wanted to continue working—and he’d have to in order to eat and make his outrageous child support and alimony payments—he’d probably have to relocate somewhere far from New York. But where would he go? Alabama? New Mexico? Wyoming?

He seriously doubted his scale of design could be supported in non-metropolitan areas. Blueprints for grocery stores and strip malls stretched out in his mind’s eye, giving him a vaguely queasy feeling. No, he could never imagine leaving the city. Besides, he needed to be there for Caitlin. So what were his alternatives?

As he pondered the dilemma, he was assailed by a fresh new horror. He had become accustomed to these ragged bolts of anxiety which struck him regularly since his downfall, but this fear was all the more frightening as it had not yet occurred to him.

He had been so preoccupied with the lawsuits and his pending divorce, he had overlooked the very real possibility that—despite Marianne’s claims to the contrary—he could lose Caitlin. If he failed to find decent employment and couldn’t supply a suitable environment for her weekly visitations, Marianne would undoubtedly haul him into court and have his rights revoked.

Or what if Marianne decided to pack up and move to Italy? Or worse yet, what if she, out of pure spitefulness, sent Caitlin off to boarding school in Switzerland or France? Philip grew pale as he imagined the worst.

Of all the misfortunes that had befallen him, the prospect of not seeing Caitlin every day was by far his most serious fear. She had been the joy of his life since the day she was born, and though he’d like to believe she depended on him for love and support, in truth he was far more dependent on her than he could bear to admit. Even more so now that he was no longer the self-assured, highly respected architect he had once been.

Yet another frightening thought now shook him to his foundation: what if Caitlin lost interest in seeing him because he was not her famous daddy anymore? What if she lost all respect for him, like the rest of the world had? How horrible it had to be for her now that his name conjured up only visions of a sinking building and dozens of displaced and irate residents.

Philip shook his head, feeling more ashamed of his fate than ever before. There was only one way to overcome his plight, and that was to ride out this nightmare and rise to even greater heights.

His rollercoaster of emotional rises and dips plunged him to subterranean depths when he was forced to admit the unlikelihood of being given another break professionally. It was a good idea in theory, for he had not lost confidence in his talent. But the fact remained his ability to rebound rested more with others than with himself. An architect could design till his heart’s content, but he would only be paid when someone would be brave enough to engage him.

His shameful lack of prospects kept Philip staring into space for a full half-hour before he snapped out of his trance. He glanced at his watch; only quarter to one and he was already bored out of his mind. Reflexively, he took a pen out of his desk drawer and began doodling on his blotter, creating wispy, fairytale-like castles on one half, then switching to bold, modern structures of epic proportions on the other.

Somewhere in his mindless doodling, thoughts of Priscilla crept into his head. A big, loopy smile spread over his features as he ripped the top sheet off his blotter and set to work covering another. Priscilla, Priscilla; even the sound of her name made him happy. His smile stretched into a grin as he thought of her sailing through her mundane job, seemingly unaffected by the tediousness of it, immune to the social pressures to aspire to some more rewarding profession.

The fact was, Philip knew little about the waitress he had become so attached to, but he believed there was a lot more to her than she was willing to reveal. She had found a way to detach herself, and it was her aloofness that most appealed to him. Priscilla didn’t need anyone; her attitude made that loud and clear. She was a survivor, someone who could take whatever life felt like dishing out. She had an air about her that made Philip believe she had already experienced far worse than he could ever imagine, yet she was still standing, still taking life’s crude insults without ever breaking her stride.

As Philip ripped the third sheet from his blotter, a wildly optimistic idea occurred to him. It was crazy, but the more he thought of it, the more he became convinced it was the right thing to do. But how should he approach it? Should he come right out and ask, “Priscilla, would you like to go out with me sometime?”

Just hearing those words in his mind made him grimace. He would have to be subtler than that, and he would have to find a way to do it that wouldn’t put her on the spot. But coming up with the right tactic would require thought. As his best inspirations often came to him while wandering around the city, Philip grabbed his jacket and locked his door, leaving his worries behind for a few tranquil hours.