Sex, Lies & Serious Money

5

Stone stood on the sidewalk in front of the Fairleigh and watched his Bentley glide to a halt. He opened the door and held it for Laurence. “I see you’ve shopped,” he said. “That’s a beautiful suit.”

“Thank you for the recommendation,” Laurence said.

“Right this way.” Stone led him through the newly renovated, paneled lobby.

“Very handsome,” Laurence said.

“When the hotel was built, in the 1920s, they were said to have felled a whole forest of mahogany trees in Honduras.”

“Awful.”

“Not so much in the 1920s. They’ve grown back by now.”

They entered the elevator, Stone pressed the 15 button and the car rose. “I understand the agent, whose name is Cassandra Gotham, is British. She might like to hear a familiar accent.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Another thing — the apartments in the hotel are pretty much sold out, because there are three or four per floor. The penthouse, being larger and occupying an entire floor, has been harder to sell. Before you make an offer, let’s talk.”

“Certainly.”

The car opened into a large, beautifully furnished foyer, with double doors to the right. A willowy blonde of indeterminate age, wearing a Chanel suit, strode from the apartment to greet them with a broad smile. “Mr. Barrington, Mr. Hayward, which is which?”

Stone handed her a Woodman & Weld card. “I’m Stone Barrington, this is Laurence Hayward.”

“How do you do, Ms. Gotham,” Laurence said.

“So good to meet you both. Will you come through? I’ll try not to talk too much, let the place speak for itself. Just ask, if you have questions.”

She led the way into a large living room, with unobstructed light pouring through tall windows on three sides. The room was centered on a carved limestone fireplace, and the ceilings were very high.

“Where did the furniture come from?” Laurence asked.

“All the upholstered pieces and the fabrics are from Ralph Lauren. The wood furniture is from the manufacturer, Baker. The piano, a seven-foot grand, is from Steinway. The pictures are from a number of galleries. All the things are purchasable, not included in the asking price.”

“I see. Thank you.”

Laurence sat down at the piano and played some chords and scales, then he inspected the interior of the instrument. “Good,” he said.

They moved into a dining room, where a table was set for twelve. “The chairs are from Lauren, the table and sideboard from Baker, the china is Wedgwood, from about 1935, the crystal and the chandelier are Baccarat, and the sterling pieces are from a shop down the street that deals in old silver. There is another, more intimate dining room near the kitchen.” She led the way through a service door into a large kitchen. “Most of it is original to the apartment,” she said, “except, of course, the appliances, which are from Viking. The small dining room is here, with views to the south, and seats six or eight. Again, chairs, Lauren, table, Baker.” They went down a hallway. “There is a servant’s apartment here, and a second bedroom, here, and an office nearer the living room. The furniture for those is from Bloomingdale’s, as are the rugs throughout the apartment, which are among the finest the store has to offer.”

“Thank you.”

“One other thing — there is a small, two-bedroom, two-bath apartment on the floor below, which is offered separately for three million, and furnished with refinished hotel furniture. It would be ideal for older children or staff. Would you like to see it?”

“Yes, thank you,” Laurence said.

She pressed a panel near the elevator, which opened, revealing a staircase, and led them down. Laurence and Stone had a look around.

“Thank you. May we see the bedrooms upstairs now, please?”

They went back to the living room and up a floor in an elevator tucked behind a broad stairway. “Master suite is here,” she said, opening double doors. “There are his and her bathrooms and dressing rooms. The woman’s is twice the size of the man’s.” She showed them three guest rooms down the hallway, each with a large bathroom, then led them back down the stairs. “And now, the pièce de résistance, the library.”

It was, as was the rest of the apartment, paneled in mahogany, and imposing without being too large. The fireplace was of carved mahogany. “The upholstered furniture is Lauren, the other things, Baker. The books are from the fine-books collection at the Strand, the enormous bookstore downtown. The room is wired for computer use, with a workstation in the corner, there. The entire apartment has high-speed Wi-Fi, and there is a built-in sound system by Sonos that can be operated from an iPhone, plus a four-line office-style telephone system, all of which is housed behind a panel.” She showed them the tech closet, went to the mantelpiece and pulled an embroidered cord next to it. The paneling beside the fireplace slid open, and a bar slid nearly silently into the room, with four stools, stocked with bottles and mixers. She led the way to French doors at the west end of the room, which opened onto a large terrace with a swimming pool and views west to Central Park. “The pool is a very rare thing on the East Side,” she said, “but the original owner of the hotel built this apartment for himself, and he wanted a pool. It has been inspected and is in excellent condition and well supported by steel beams.

“The monthly maintenance fee on the apartment is twenty-five thousand per month, and that includes daily maid and linen service, room service, concierge service, and parking. The apartment comes with two parking spaces in the underground garage. Have you any other questions?”

“I don’t think so,” Laurence said. “May we have a moment to talk?”

“Of course.” She handed him a leather-bound book. “This is a list of the furnishings with the prices of each piece and phone numbers of the furnishers.”

Stone and Laurence sat down in facing, cushioned armchairs. “What do you think?” Stone asked.

“It’s perfect, once I sort through the furnishings.”

“I suggest you offer eighteen million, with a closing tomorrow.”

“Do you think they’ll take that?”

“The apartments went on sale nine months ago, and as I said, are sold out. Your position is good. Will you allow me to make the offer? You can be the good cop.”

Laurence smiled. “Certainly. I think I’d like the apartment downstairs, too,” he said.

“We’ll offer two million for that?”

“Good.”

“And they’re asking twenty-two million for the penthouse. Shall we offer twenty million for the two?”

Stone rang the agent’s cell phone, and she reappeared. “Please join us,” Stone said, standing and offering her a chair.

“We will be brief, Ms. Gotham. Mr. Hayward would like to offer twenty million for the two apartments, all cash, to close tomorrow before noon. He is not inclined to offer more. He will deal directly with the furnishers.”

She appeared speechless for a moment, then recovered. “Please give me a moment.” She walked to the edge of the terrace and made a phone call. Her back was to them, but she seemed to be speaking vociferously. She turned and covered her phone. “Twenty-one million,” she said.

Stone shook his head and began to stand up. She turned back to the phone, then ended the call. “Done,” she said to the men. “They’ve already begun work on the closing documents.”

“They should be sent to Mr. Herbert Fisher at my firm for review,” Stone said. “May we meet in his office at, say, eleven AM?”

“Of course,” she said. “Mr. Hayward, I hope you will be very happy here.”

“I’m sure I shall be,” Laurence replied. “Would you mind if we stayed on for a while so that I may review the furnishings?”

“Not at all. This is your home now, pending closing, of course.”

“Oh,” Stone said, “please tell your people that the apartments will be purchased separately, and the buyer will be the LBH Corporation, of Palm Beach, Florida. A condition of the sales is that no one who does not need to know Mr. Hayward’s name will know it, and any requests from anyone for his name will be declined. We expect absolute confidentiality.”

“I understand completely.”

“Very good,” Laurence said. “Although I have not had time to assess all the furnishings, would you do me the favor of calling the owner of the wood furniture and ask them to remove it all tomorrow morning? I shall be replacing those pieces with antiques.”

“As you wish.”

“Have a wonderful day, Ms. Gotham.”

“I already have,” she said, and left.

They spent more time there, while Laurence made a list of the pieces of furniture he was replacing.

“You play piano?” Stone asked.

“Since childhood,” Laurence replied. “At Oxford I began playing with a jazz trio. We played weddings, bar mitzvahs, college parties — wherever the work took us — and I enjoyed it.”

Fred was waiting for them on the street. “Where are you headed?” Stone asked.

“To the Park Avenue Armory,” Laurence replied. “I can get a cab.”

“Nonsense. Take the car and Fred. It’s a nice day, and I could use a little exercise.”

“Thank you, Stone.” Laurence got into the car and gave Fred the address, then he made a call.

“Theresa Crane.”

“It’s Laurence. I’ve bought an apartment.”

“Congratulations!”

“Would you please have all my things delivered to apartment 15 at the Fairleigh on Park Avenue after one o’clock tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

“And may I ask a personal favor?”

“You may.”

“Would you unpack the clothes and put them away in the master dressing room upstairs? I’ll be shopping for furniture and art.”

“I’d be happy to.”

“The concierge will give you the key. One other thing — dinner tomorrow night?”

She paused for a moment. “Yes,” she said, finally.