Summer and the City Page 13

  “How do you know?”

  “The guys are always talking about it. It’s like six hours or something.”

  “I don’t think we’ll last six hours,” she says slyly, handing me a mug of coffee.

  One night I can excuse. But two? No way. “Listen, Mags. It’s not a good idea if Ryan comes here tonight. Samantha might find out—”

  “Don’t worry.” She settles next to me on the futon. “Ryan said we can go to his apartment.”

  I pick a floating grain of coffee from my brew. “What about his fiancée?”

  “He said he thinks she’s cheating.”

  “So that makes it okay?”

  “Jesus, Carrie. What’s your problem? You’re so uptight.”

  I take a sip of coffee, willing myself not to react. “Uptight” is the one thing I pride myself on not being. But perhaps I don’t know myself so well after all.

  Class is at one, but I leave the apartment early, claiming errands. Maggie and I were perfectly civil to each other on the surface, but I was walking on eggshells. It took a concerted effort not to bring up Ryan, and even more strength not to mention Bernard. I promised myself I wouldn’t talk about him, because if I did, I was afraid I’d accuse Maggie of ruining my relationship. And even to my illogical brain, this seemed a bit extreme.

  When Maggie turned on the TV and started doing leg lifts, I made my escape.

  There’s still an hour before class, so I head over to the White Horse Tavern, where I can load up on decent coffee for a mere fifty cents. To my happy surprise, L’il is there, writing in her journal.

  “I’m exhausted,” I sigh, sitting across from her.

  “You look fine,” she says.

  “I think I slept about two hours.”

  She closes her journal and looks at me knowingly. “Bernard?”

  “I wish. Bernard dumped me—”

  “I’m sorry.” She gives me a sympathetic smile.

  “Not officially,” I say quickly. “But after last night, I think he will.” I stir three packets of sugar into my coffee. “And my friend Maggie had sex with Ryan last night.”

  “That’s why you’re so pissed off.”

  “I’m not pissed off. I’m disappointed.” She looks unconvinced, so I add, “I’m not jealous, either. Why would I be attracted to Ryan when I have Bernard?”

  “Then why are you angry?”

  “I don’t know.” I pause. “Ryan’s engaged. And she has two boyfriends. It’s wrong.”

  “The heart wants what the heart wants,” she says, somewhat cryptically.

  I purse my lips in disapproval. “You’d think the heart would know better.”

  I keep to myself in class. Ryan tries to engage me with talk about Maggie and how great she is, but I only nod coldly. Rainbow actually says hi, but Capote ignores me, as usual. At least he’s still behaving normally.

  And then Viktor asks me to read the first ten pages of my play. I’m shocked. Viktor has never asked me to read anything before, and it takes me a minute to adjust. How am I going to read the play alone? There are two parts—a man and a woman. I can’t read the man’s part too. I’ll sound like an idiot.

  Viktor has managed to divine this as well. “You’ll read the part of Harriet,” he says. “And Capote can read Moorehouse.”

  Capote glances around the room, peeved at the request. “Harriet? Moorehouse? What kind of name is Moorehouse?”

  “I suppose we’ll find out,” Viktor says, twirling his mustache.

  This is the best thing that’s happened to me in at least two days. It might even make up for all the bad.

  Clutching my script, I make my way to the front of the room, followed by a red-faced Capote. “What am I playing?” he asks.

  “You’re a forty-year-old guy who’s going through a midlife crisis. And I’m your bitchy wife.”

  “Figures,” he grumbles.

  I smile. Is this the reason for his continuing animosity? He thinks I’m a bitch? If he actually thinks I’m a bitch, I’m glad.

  We begin reading. By the second page, I’m into the part, focusing on what it must be like to be Harriet, an unhappy woman who wanted to be a success but whose success has been eclipsed by her childish husband.

  By the third page, the class gets the idea it’s supposed to be funny, and begins snickering. By the fifth page, I hear spurts of actual laughter. When we finish, there’s a smattering of applause.

  Wow.

  I look at Capote, foolishly expecting his approval. But his expression is firm as he studiously avoids my glance. “Good job,” he murmurs out of obligation.

  I don’t care. I go back to my seat floating on air.

  “Comments?” Viktor asks.

  “It’s like a junior version of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?,” Ryan ventures. I look at him gratefully. Ryan has a loyalty about him that I suddenly appreciate. It’s too bad his loyalty ends when it comes to sex. If a guy is a jerk about infidelity, but decent about everything else, is it okay to like him as a person?

  “What I found intriguing is the way Carrie was able to make the most banal domestic scene interesting,” Viktor says. “I liked that it takes place while the couple is brushing their teeth. It’s an everyday activity we all do, no matter who we are.”

  “Like taking a crap,” Capote remarks.

  I smile as though I’m far too superior to take offense at his comment. But now it’s official, I decide. I hate him.

  Viktor pats his mustache with one hand and the top of his head with the other—a gesture that suggests he’s attempting to keep all of his hair from running away. “And now, perhaps L’il will grace us with her poem?”

  “Sure.” L’il stands and goes to the front of the class. “‘The Glass Slipper,’” she begins.

  “‘My love broke me. As if my body were glass, smashed against the rocks, something used and disposed of. . . .’” The poem continues in this vein for several more lines, and when L’il is finished, she smiles uneasily.

  “Thoughts?” Viktor says. There’s an unusual edge to his voice.

  “I liked it,” I volunteer. “The broken glass is a great description of a broken heart.” Which reminds me of how I’m going to feel if Bernard ends our relationship.

  “It’s pedantic and obvious,” Viktor says. “Schoolgirlish and lazy. This is what happens when you take your talent for granted.”

  “Thank you,” L’il says evenly, as if she doesn’t care. She takes her seat, and when I glance over my shoulder, her head is down, her expression stricken. I know L’il is too strong to cry in class, but if she did, everyone would understand. Viktor can be unkind in his straightforward assessments, but he’s never been deliberately mean.

  He must be feeling guilty, though, because he’s raking at poor Waldo like he’s trying to rip him off his face. “To summarize, I’m looking forward to hearing more from Carrie’s play. While L’il—” He breaks off and turns away.

  This should make me ecstatic, but it doesn’t. L’il doesn’t deserve the criticism. Which could mean, conversely, that I don’t deserve the excessive approval either. Being great isn’t so fabulous when it comes at someone else’s expense.

  I gather my papers, wondering what just happened. Perhaps, when it comes right down to it, Viktor is just another fickle guy. Only instead of being fickle about women, he’s fickle about his favorite students. He bestowed his honors on L’il at the beginning, but now he’s bored, and I’m the one who’s captured his attention.

  L’il races out of class. I catch up with her at the elevator, pressing the “close” button before anyone else can get on. “I’m sorry. I thought your poem was wonderful. I truly did,” I say profusely, trying to make up for Viktor’s critique.

  L’il clutches her book bag to her chest. “He was right. The poem sucked. And I do need to work harder.”

  “You already work harder than anyone in the class, L’il. You work a hell of a lot harder than I do. I’m the one who’s lazy.”

&nbs
p; She gives a little shake of her head. “You’re not lazy, Carrie. You’re unafraid.”

  Now I’m confused, given our discussion about my fears as a writer. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “It’s true. You’re not afraid of this city. Not afraid to try new things.”

  “You’re not either,” I say kindly.

  We get out of the elevator and step outside. The sun is blazing and the heat is like a slap in the face. L’il squints and puts on a pair of cheap sunglasses, the kind the street vendors sell at every other corner. “Enjoy it, Carrie,” she insists. “And don’t worry about me. Are you going to tell Bernard?”

  “About what?”

  “Your play. You should show it to him. I’m sure he’ll love it.”

  I peer at her closely, wondering if she’s being cynical, but I can’t see any trace of malice. Besides, L’il isn’t like that. She’s never been jealous of anyone. “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe I will.”

  Bernard. I should show him my play. But after last night, is he even speaking to me anymore?

  Nothing I can do about it, though. Because now I have to meet Samantha to help her with her crazy dinner party.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What do we do first?” Samantha asks, clapping her hands in an attempt at enthusiasm.

  I look at her like she has to be kidding. “Well, first we buy the food,” I say, as if I’m talking to a kindergartner.

  “Where do we do that?”

  My jaw drops in disbelief. “At a supermarket?” When Samantha said she knew nothing about cooking, I never assumed she meant absolutely nothing, including the fact that “food” is usually made from “ingredients” purchased at a “supermarket.”

  “And where’s the supermarket?”

  I want to scream. Instead, I stare at her blankly.

  She’s sitting behind her desk in her office, wearing a low-cut sweater with linebacker shoulders, pearls, and a short skirt. She looks sexy, cool, and collected. I, on the other hand, look ragged and out of place, especially as I’m wearing what is basically some old lady’s slip that I’ve cinched with a cowboy belt. Another great find at the vintage store. “Have you considered takeout?” I ask smartly.

  She emits her tinkling laugh. “Charlie thinks I can cook. I don’t want to disabuse him of the fact.”

  “And why, pray tell, does he think that?”

  “Because I told him, Sparrow,” she says, becoming slightly irked. She stands up and puts her hands on her hips. “Haven’t you heard the expression ‘Fake it till you make it’? I’m the original fake-it girl.”

  “Okay.” I throw up my hands in defeat. “I’ll need to see Charlie’s kitchen first. See what kind of pans he has.”

  “No problem. His apartment is spectacular. I’ll take you there now.” She picks up a giant Kelly bag, which I’ve never seen before.

  “Is that new?” I ask, half in admiration and half in envy.

  She strokes the soft leather before she slings it over her shoulder. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Charlie bought it for me.”

  “Some people have quite the life.”

  “Play your cards right, and you’ll have quite the life too, Sparrow.”

  “How’s this grand scheme of yours going to go down?” I ask. “What if Charlie finds out—”

  She waves this away. “He won’t. The only time Charlie’s been in the kitchen is when we have sex on the counter.”

  I make a face. “And you honestly expect me to prepare food on it?”

  “It’s clean, Carrie. Haven’t you ever heard of maids?”

  “Not in my universe.”

  We’re interrupted by the entry of a short man with sandy brown hair who looks exactly like a tiny Ken doll. “Are you leaving?” he says sharply to Samantha.

  A flash of annoyance crosses her face before she quickly composes herself. “Family emergency,” she says.

  “What about the Smirnoff account?” he demands.

  “Vodka has been around for over two hundred years, Harry. I daresay it will still be here tomorrow. My sister, on the other hand,” she says, indicating me, “may not.”

  As if on cue, my entire body floods in embarrassment, rendering me bright red.

  Harry, however, isn’t buying it. He scrutinizes me closely—apparently, he needs glasses but is too vain to wear them. “Your sister?” he asks. “When did you get a sister?”

  “Really, Harry.” Samantha shakes her head.

  Harry stands aside to let us pass, then follows us down the hall. “Will you be back later?”

  Samantha stops and slowly turns around. Her lips curl into a smile. “My goodness, Harry. You sound just like my father.”

  This does the trick, all right. Harry turns about fifteen shades of green. He’s not much older than Samantha, and I’m sure the last thing he expected was to be compared to someone’s old man.

  “What was that about?” I ask, when we’re out on the street.

  “Harry?” she says, unconcerned. “He’s my new boss.”

  “You talk to your new boss like that?”

  “Have to,” she says. “Considering how he talks to me.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, let’s see,” she says, pausing at the light. “On his first day of work, he comes into my office and says, ‘I’ve heard you’re highly competent at everything you put your mind to.’ Sounds like a compliment, right? But then he adds, ‘Both in and out of the office.’”

  “Can he actually get away with that?”

  “Of course.” She shrugs. “You’ve never worked in an office, so you have no idea. But eventually, sex always comes up. When it does, I give it right back to them.”

  “But shouldn’t you tell someone?”

  “Who?” she says. “His boss? Human Resources? He’ll either say he was joking or I came on to him. What if I’m fired? I don’t plan to sit at home all day, popping out babies and baking cookies.”

  “I don’t know about your mothering skills, but considering your cooking abilities, it’s probably not a good idea.”

  “Thank you,” she says, having made her point.

  Samantha may have lied to Charlie about her culinary knowledge, but she wasn’t kidding about the apartment. His building is on Park Avenue in Midtown, and it’s gold. Not real gold, of course, but some kind of shiny gold metal. And if I thought the doormen in Bernard’s building were sharp, the doormen in Charlie’s building have them beat. Not only are they wearing white gloves, they’re sporting caps with gold braid. Even their uniforms have loops of gold braid hanging from the shoulders. It’s all pretty tacky. But impressive.

  “You really live here?” I ask in a whisper as we cross the lobby. It’s marble and it echoes.

  “Of course,” she says, greeting a doorman who is politely holding the elevator. “It’s very me, don’t you think? Glamorous yet classy.”

  “I guess that’s one way to look at it,” I murmur, taking in the smoky mirrored walls that line the interior of the lift.

  Charlie’s apartment is, not surprisingly, enormous. It’s on the forty-fifth floor with floor-to-ceiling windows, a sunken living room, another wall of smoky mirrors, and a large Plexiglas case filled with baseball memorabilia. I’m sure it has several bedrooms and bathrooms, but I don’t get to see them because Samantha immediately directs me to the kitchen. It, too, is enormous, with marble countertops and gleaming appliances. It’s new all right. Too new.

  “Has anyone ever cooked in here?” I ask, opening the cabinets to look for pots and pans.

  “I don’t think so.” Samantha pats me on the shoulder. “You’ll figure it out. I have faith in you. Now wait till you see what I’m going to wear.”

  “Great,” I mutter. The kitchen is practically bare. I find a roll of aluminum foil, some muffin tins, three bowls, and a large frying pan.

  “Ta-da!” She says, reappearing in the doorway in a French maid’s outfit. “What do you think?”

  “If you’re planning to work on Fo
rty-second Street, it’s just peachy.”

  “Charlie loves it when I wear this.”

  “Look, sweetie,” I say, between gritted teeth. “This is a dinner party. You can’t wear that.”

  “I know,” she says, exasperated. “God, Carrie, can’t you take a joke?”

  “Not when I have to prepare an entire meal with three bowls and a roll of aluminum foil. Who’s coming to this shindig anyway?”

  She holds up her hand. “Me, Charlie, some really boring couple who Charlie works with, another really boring couple, and Charlie’s sister, Erica. And my friend Cholly, to liven things up.”

  “Cholly?”

  “Cholly Hammond. You met him at the same party where you met Bernard.”

  “The seersucker guy.”

  “He runs a literary magazine. You’ll like him.”

  I wave the aluminum foil in her face. “I won’t get to see him, remember? I’ll be in here, cooking.”

  “If cooking makes you this neurotic, you really shouldn’t do it,” Samantha says.

  “Thanks, sweetie. But I believe this was your idea, remember?”

  “Oh, I know,” she says airily. “C’mon. I need you to help me pick out something to wear. Charlie’s friends are very conservative.”

  I follow her down a carpeted hallway and into a large suite with a walk-in closet and his-and-her bathrooms. I gawk at the splendor of it all. Imagine having this much space in Manhattan. No wonder Samantha’s so eager to get hitched.

  When we enter the closet, I nearly fall over in a dead faint. The closet alone is the size of Samantha’s entire apartment. On one side are racks and racks of Charlie’s clothing, arranged by type and color. His jeans are ironed and folded over hangers. Stacks of cashmere sweaters in every color are piled neatly on the shelves.

  At the other end is Samantha’s section, made obvious not only by her work suits and high-heeled pumps and the slinky dresses she loves to wear, but by its relative meagerness. “Hey, sister, looks like you’ve got some catching up to do,” I point out.

  “I’m working on it,” she laughs.

  “What’s this?” I ask, indicating a bouclé suit with white piping. “Chanel?” I look at the price tag, which is still on the sleeve, and gasp. “Twelve hundred dollars?”