Danielle Steel: The Apartment

Claire had only had casual dates for the past several years. She worked so hard she rarely had time to date and didn’t care. She worked late at night and on weekends. Her career as a designer meant more to her than any man. She was burning with the ambition her mother had never had. And nothing and no one was going to take that from her. Of that she was sure. She rarely had more than a few dates with any man. She had never had a serious love affair, except with the shoes she designed. Men were always surprised to discover how passionate she was about her work, and how unavailable she became once they got interested in her. She saw any serious romance as a threat to her career and emotional well-being. She kept a design table in the corner of the living room at the apartment, and often was still sitting there after the others had gone to bed.

And while in medical school, and now as a resident in OB/GYN, Sasha had no time to date. She had brief relationships from time to time, but she lived a life and a schedule that made any kind of personal life nearly impossible. She was either on duty, exhausted, or asleep. She was spectacular-looking, but she literally had no time for a man, and spent her life in hospital scrubs, unlike her equally beautiful twin, who partied all the time. Sasha liked the idea of marriage and a family in theory, but for her it was still years away. And in reality, she often thought that staying single would be simpler. And the men she went out with occasionally got tired of the demands on her within weeks.

Of the four roommates, only Morgan had a serious relationship, and fortunately they all liked him, since he frequently spent nights at the apartment. Max Murphy had an apartment of his own on the Upper West Side, but theirs was more convenient for him for work, since his restaurant was around the corner. They had all met him at the same time, one night a year after Morgan and Sasha moved in, when the four of them went to try out the brand-new restaurant, which had been an old broken-down neighborhood bar he had bought and transformed into a popular hangout with a lively bar and great food. He and Morgan had started dating three days later. In the four years since, the restaurant was booming and a major neighborhood success. “Max’s” was keeping him busy day and night. He was there until two A.M. every night, and back at work by ten in the morning to get ready for lunch.

Max was a great guy and they all loved him. He was a sports nut, a great chef himself, and a hard worker. He was an all-around nice person from a large Irish family that was always fighting but basically loved each other. At thirty-five, he would have loved to get married and have kids, but Morgan had told him clearly right from the beginning that marriage and children were not in her plans. Max thought she might soften on the subject, but she hadn’t in four years, and he didn’t push her. She was thirty-three years old, he figured they had time, and he was busy with the restaurant, and hoping to open at least one more, which was expensive, so he was in no hurry either. But he had come to realize how adamant Morgan was about never getting married or having kids. Their relationship was warm and solid, but Morgan’s career meant everything to her, and she had no intention of putting it at risk.

—

Claire changed into shorts and a T-shirt and flat sandals when she got home from work, and Abby walked in a little while later, wearing overalls over a torn tank top, covered in paint. She had some of the paint in her hair and a blue smudge on her face, as Claire glanced up from her drawing board and smiled at her. Morgan usually came home late from work after meeting with clients, often over a drink, and Sasha came home from the hospital at all hours, depending on her shift, and stumbled straight into bed.

“Hi,” Claire said with a warm smile. “I can guess what you did today.”

“I’ve been breathing paint fumes all day,” Abby said with a tired groan as she collapsed on the couch, happy to be home. Ivan had a meeting with a potential backer that night, but had said he might call her later. He lived in a studio in the East Village barely bigger than a closet. It was rent-stabilized, a sixth-floor walkup, and he had sublet it furnished from a friend.

“There’s some stuff in the fridge,” Claire told her. “I bought groceries on the way home. There’s sushi that looks pretty good.” They took turns buying basic food for everyone, which worked better than trying to figure out who had eaten what. They were generous and good-natured, and never quibbled over money. They were respectful of one another, which was why their living arrangement worked so well.

“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.