The Friends We Keep(80)

“This is one of the places I’ll miss most when we leave New York. I can’t believe we’re leaving! Oh, Dickie, I’m so excited. I can’t believe things are happening so fast. We’ve already sold the apartment and it didn’t even go on MLS! And I loved that little apartment we just saw downtown. It’s busy, buzzy, and the perfect pied-à-terre for when we visit.”

Benedict looked down and stirred his cappuccino. “What about the one on Sixty-Eighth that we saw first? I thought that was rather lovely.”

“It was beautiful, but too big, honey. We only need something tiny. We’re not going to be here much, now that we’re moving to England, and we definitely don’t need a dining room!”

Benedict said nothing, kept stirring his coffee. “The dining room would make a wonderful library, though, and I like having space. I think the other one is just too small.”

“We can keep looking,” said Topher. “Just because we got an offer on our apartment so quickly doesn’t mean we have to rush and buy another immediately. I love the one we just saw, but we both have to love it. We can wait until spring if you want—I’m sure much more will come on the market then.”

Benedict looked at his watch, an elegant Patek Philippe bought for him by his own father many years ago. “We ought not be too long,” he said. “Cookie is taking me to the theater this afternoon.”

“Cookie again?” Topher was surprised. “You’ve been seeing so much of her lately! Don’t get me wrong, I adore Cookie, but I might start to get jealous.”

Benedict smiled at Topher over the rim of his coffee cup. He and Cookie had been friends for forty years. She was married to a hedge fund manager who, one morning three years ago, didn’t wake up. She found herself with no children and more money than she knew what to do with. She bought a smaller apartment in New York, kept the apartment in Aspen, the house on Nantucket, and started producing theater. Her last show had been a huge hit, the kind of hit that comes along once or twice every decade. Now she often relied on Benedict as her walker, her chaperone to the various galas, shows, and dinners at which she found herself on a nightly basis.

She had other walkers, but she and Benedict were longtime friends, and recently Benedict seemed to be seeing her more than usual, and not just as a chaperone. They were having lunch together fairly regularly, and sometimes afternoon tea.

Topher adored Cookie. She was a character from a bygone era, tall and as thin as a rail. She only ever ate three mouthfuls before pushing the rest around her plate. Ironic, given her name. She was the most naturally elegant woman he had ever known, and that was saying something, given his own mother. Cookie had closets filled with couture clothes from the sixties and seventies, which she still wore, and that still looked fabulous. Her basic uniform had remained the same for forty years: straight pants and a thin cashmere sweater, in every muted color imaginable, with the same Manolo Blahnik d’orsay shoes (again, in a variety of colors). But her jackets, scarves, shawls, and cardigans were exquisite, and her jewelry had been written about in Vogue many, many times.

And yet, despite her wealth, her beauty, her sophistication, Cookie was the most self-deprecating woman Topher had ever known, with a dirty sense of humor that always had Benedict wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. She had a huge heart and was known for her loyalty, doing anything for her friends.

“I’m just a midwestern girl,” she always said. “And I believe in giving back.”

Benedict put his coffee cup down and took a breath. “You love Cookie, don’t you?”

“Of course,” said Topher. “I was only kidding when I said I was jealous. I’m thrilled you’re seeing so much of her.”

“I’m glad. She’s a special woman, and she . . . cares about me very much.” Benedict paused as Topher felt a sliver of anxiety.

“What are you not telling me?” Topher said quietly. “There’s something going on. What is it? Are you sick? Is Cookie sick? What is it?”

Benedict looked back at him. “No one is sick. I am fine and Cookie is fine. But there is something we need to talk about. We need to talk about England.”

“You don’t think we should go?” Topher’s heart sank.

“It’s not quite that. I think you should go. I don’t think I should go.”

Topher frowned. “But we’re a partnership. I live with you. If you don’t want to go, we won’t go.” Even as he said the words, he felt a pang of sadness. Being with those old friends after so many years, deciding to live together, had made Topher feel young again; it had given him something to look forward to. He wanted to be back in England, with the people who had known him so long, they felt like family. He wanted to be close to his mother. But he wouldn’t leave Benedict, not when he had made him a promise.

Benedict reached out and took Topher’s hand. “Darling boy. You have been so very, very good to me. Far better than I had a right to expect. I watched you very carefully with your friends on the other side of the pond, and you light up when you are with them in a way I haven’t seen you light up with anyone here. There is an ease and a naturalness about you when you are together. It felt like I was seeing the true Topher. Not to mention the not-insignificant fact that your mother is there. It is quite clear to me that you belong there. Perhaps it hasn’t always been the case, but at this stage of your life, you need them just as much as they need you.”