Once, sitting in the park across the street, I scanned the front of her building. Which windows were hers? I counted the floors—and there she was! Standing at a sixth-floor window—her bedroom window—looking out. From there she would have had a good view of the park. But did she see me? From what I could tell she wasn’t looking down at the street but into the distance. I thought of waving, but it was too late: she was gone. (Even so, as often happens, imagination would become memory: I would recall the sight of my friend waving to me from that bedroom window again and again.) It was this glimpse of her, though, that made me think of another woman, someone I had known briefly many years ago.

I was in between college and grad school then, a time in my life when I made ends meet by stringing together various part-time jobs, and this woman had hired me to do some research for a book she was writing. She too lived in an apartment with a view of a park: a much grander apartment, a much larger park. Central Park. She was about twenty years older than me, and the book she was writing was a biography of a woman from an old rich American family who’d found fame as a model and actress in the 1960s but whose psychological disorders had led to self-destructive misery and untimely death.

Aside from the book, which was apparently giving her enormous trouble, the woman was pursuing other projects. She had me call several literary agents to ask for copies of manuscripts by writers whom they represented. (I don’t remember exactly what this was about, most likely she was looking for something to develop as a film.) The agents all seemed to know who she was but did not seem to take her seriously, and a few let me know that they were busy people who didn’t appreciate being bothered in this way. When I reported that one of them had said something highly insulting—something like “You girls should find yourselves another game to play”—instead of being highly insulted she was amused.

Once, she gave me a list of names and phone numbers of people she wanted me to call to invite to a party. Just about every name on the list was recognizable to me; several would have been recognizable to anyone.

I didn’t like the job, because it never felt quite real to me; it did often seem like just a game. I didn’t have much faith that this woman would ever finish the book she was writing. Also, the pay was low.