Summer and the City Read online

  “Maybe you can’t have it both ways. His life and your life. How do you put two lives together, anyway?”

  She gives me a look as she picks up her suitcase. “Wish me luck in Hollywood, Sparrow. Maybe I’ll be discovered.”

  “What about Charlie?” I hold open the door as she bangs the suitcase down the stairs. It’s a good thing it is a Samsonite. Most suitcases probably couldn’t take the abuse.

  “What about him?” she calls out.

  Boy. She must really be angry.

  I run to the window and lean out over the parapet to catch a glimpse of the street below. An enormous limousine is idling at the curb. A uniformed driver stands next to the passenger door. Samantha emerges from the building as the driver hurries forward to take her suitcase.

  The passenger door opens, and Harry Mills gets out. He and Samantha have a brief exchange as he lights up a cigar. Samantha slides past him and gets into the car. Harry takes a big puff on the cigar, looks up and down the street, and follows. The door closes and the limo pulls away, a puff of cigar smoke drifting from the open window.

  Behind me, the phone rings. I approach it cautiously, but curiosity gets the better of me and I pick it up. “Is Samantha there?” It’s Charlie. Again.

  “She just left,” I say politely.

  “Damn,” he shouts, and hangs up.

  Damn you, too, I think, quietly replacing the receiver.

  I retrieve my own Hartmann suitcase from under Samantha’s bed. The phone rings some more, but I know better than to answer it.

  After a while, the caller gives up. Then the buzzer goes off. “Yes?” I ask brusquely, into the intercom.

  “It’s Ryan,” comes back the garbled reply.

  I click open the door. Ryan. I’m working myself up to give him what-for about Maggie, when he appears at the top of the stairs holding a lone rose. The stem is limp and I briefly wonder if he picked it up off the street.

  “You’re too late,” I say accusingly. “Maggie left last night.”

  “Rats. I knew I fucked up.”

  I should probably tell him to go away, but I’m not finished. “Who runs out of a diner while their date is in the bathroom?”

  “I was tired,” he says helplessly, as if this is a legitimate excuse.

  “You’re kidding. Right?”

  He gives me a hangdog look. “I couldn’t figure out how to say good-bye. I was exhausted. And I’m not Superman. I try to be, but somewhere along the line I seem to have encountered kryptonite.”

  I smile in spite of myself. Ryan is one of those guys who can always joke himself out of the bad books. I know he knows it, and I know it’s disloyal, but I can’t stay mad at him. After all, he didn’t stand me up.

  “Maggie was really, really hurt,” I scold.

  “I figured she would be. That’s why I came by. To make it up to her.”

  “With that rose?”

  “It is pretty sad, isn’t it?”

  “It’s pathetic. Especially since she took her anger out on me.”

  “On you?” He’s surprised. “Why would she take it out on you? It wasn’t your fault.”

  “No. But somehow I got lumped in with your bad behavior. We got into a fight.”

  “Was there hair pulling?”

  “No, there was not,” I say, indignant. “Jesus, Ryan.”

  “I’m sorry.” He grins. “Guys love girl fights. What can I say?”

  “Why don’t you just admit you’re an asshole?”

  “Because that would be too easy. Capote’s an asshole. I’m just a jerk.”

  “Nice way to talk about your best friend.”

  “Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean I have to lie about his personality,” he says.

  “I suppose that’s true,” I unwillingly agree, wondering why women are so judgmental of each other. Why can’t we say, “Hey, she’s kind of messed up, but I love her anyway?”

  “I came by to ask Maggie to Rainbow’s father’s art opening. It’s tonight. There’s a dinner afterward. It’s going to be really cool.”

  “I’ll go,” I volunteer, wondering why no one invites me to these glamorous parties.

  “You?” Ryan asks, unsure.

  “Why not? Am I chopped liver or something?”

  “Not at all,” he says, backpedaling. “But Maggie said you were obsessed with Bernard Singer.”

  “I don’t have to see Bernard every night.” I fudge, unwilling to admit that Bernard and I are probably over.

  “Okay, then,” he gives in. “I’ll meet you at the gallery at eight.”

  Yippee, I think, when he’s gone. I’ve been hearing about this art opening for weeks, wondering if Rainbow would ask me, and if not, how I could wrangle an invitation. I kept telling myself it was only a stupid party, while secretly knowing it was an event I didn’t want to miss.

  And since Bernard hasn’t called, why not? I’m certainly not going to put my life on hold for him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The gallery is in SoHo, a deserted patch of run-down blocks with cobblestoned streets and enormous buildings that were once factories. It’s hard to imagine Manhattan as a center of industrialism, but apparently they used to make everything here, from clothing to lightbulbs to tools. A metal ramp leads to the gallery’s entrance, the railing decorated with all manner of chic, downtown types, smoking cigarettes and discussing what they did the night before.

  I push my way through the crowd. It’s packed inside, a mass of patrons forming a bottleneck by the entrance as everyone seems to have run into someone they know. The air is filled with smoke and the damp smell of sweat, but there’s the familiar buzz of excitement that indicates this is the place to be.

  I take refuge along a wall, avoiding the circle of well-wishers gathered around a portly man with a goatee and hooded eyes. He’s dressed in a black smock and embroidered slippers, so I assume this is the great Barry Jessen himself, the most important artist in New York and Rainbow’s father. Indeed, Rainbow is standing behind him, looking, for the first time, lost and rather insignificant, despite the fact that she’s wearing a bright green fringed dress. Next to Barry, and towering over him by at least a head, is the model Pican.

  She has the deliberately unself-conscious look of a woman who’s aware she’s exceptionally beautiful and knows you know it too, but is determined not to make her beauty the main attraction. She holds her head cocked slightly to the side and leaning toward her husband, as if to say, “Yes, I know I’m beautiful, but this night is all about him.” It is, I suppose, the ultimate indication of true love.

  Either that, or it’s very good acting.

  I don’t see Ryan or Capote yet, so I pretend to be extremely interested in the art. You’d think other people would be curious as well, but the spaces in front of the paintings are mostly empty, as if socializing is what an opening is really about.

  And maybe for good reason. I can’t decide what I think about the paintings. They’re black and gray, with stick figures that appear to be victims of terrible violence or purveyors of injury. Hellish drops of blood drip from every angle. The stick figures are pierced with knives and needles while claws rip their ankles. It’s all very disturbing and quite unforgettable, which may be the point.

  “What do you think?” asks Rainbow, coming up behind me. I’m surprised she’s lowered herself to solicit my opinion, but so far I’m the only person here who’s remotely close to her age.

  “Powerful,” I say.

  “I think they’re creepy.”

  “You do?” I’m surprised she’s so honest.

  “Don’t tell my father.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Ryan said he’s bringing you to the dinner,” she says, twirling a piece of fringe. “I’m glad. I would have invited you myself, but I didn’t have your number.”

  “That’s okay. I’m happy to be here.”

  She smiles and drifts away. I go back to staring at the paintings. Maybe New York isn’t so complic
ated after all. Perhaps belonging is simply a matter of showing up. If people see you enough, they assume you’re part of their group.

  Eventually, Ryan and Capote appear, already in their cups. Ryan is weaving slightly and Capote is jovial, greeting everyone he sees like they’re an old friend.

  “Carrie!” he says, kissing me on both cheeks as if he couldn’t be more pleased to see me.

  A secret signal pulses through the crowd, and several people glide to the exit. These, apparently, are the chosen ones—chosen to attend the dinner, anyway.

  “C’mon,” Ryan says, jerking his head toward the door. We follow the select group onto the street as Ryan runs his hands through his hair.

  “Man, that was terrible,” he exclaims. “You’ve got to wonder what the world is coming to when we call that ‘art.’”

  “You’re a philistine,” Capote says.

  “You can’t tell me you actually liked that shit.”

  “I did,” I say. “I thought it was disturbing.”

  “Disturbing, but not in a good way,” Ryan says.

  Capote laughs. “You can take the boy out of the suburbs but you can’t take the suburbs out of the boy.”

  “I take serious offense to that comment,” Ryan cracks.

  “I’m from the suburbs,” I say.

  “Of course you are,” Capote says, with a certain amount of disdain.

  “And you’re from someplace better?” I challenge him.

  “Capote’s from an old Southern family, darlin’,” Ryan says, imitating Capote’s accent. “His grandmother fought off the Yankees. Which would make her about a hundred and fifty years old.”

  “I never said my grandmother fought the Yankees. I said she told me never to marry one.”

  “I guess that lets me out,” I comment, while Ryan snickers in appreciation.

  The dinner is being held at the Jessens’ loft. It seems like ten years ago when L’il laughed at me for thinking the Jessens lived in a building without running water, but my early assessment isn’t far off. The building is a little scary. The freight elevator has a door that slides open manually, followed by one of those clanging wire gates. Inside is a crank to move the elevator up and down.

  The operation of said elevator is a source of consternation. When we get in, five people are discussing the alternate possibility of finding the stairs.

  “It’s terrible when people live in these places,” says a man with yellow hair.

  “It’s cheap,” Ryan points out.

  “Cheap shouldn’t mean dangerous.”

  “What’s a little danger when you’re the most important artist in New York?” Capote says, with his usual arrogance.

  “Oh my. You’re so macho,” the man replies. The lighting in the elevator is dim and when I turn around to take a closer look, I discover the speaker is none other than Bobby. The Bobby from the fashion show. Who promised me a reading in his space.

  “Bobby,” I nearly shout.

  He doesn’t recognize me at first. “Hello, yes, great to see you again,” he replies automatically.

  “It’s me,” I insist. “Carrie Bradshaw?”

  He suddenly remembers. “Of course! Carrie Bradshaw. The playwright.”

  Capote snorts and, since no one else seems either capable or interested, takes over the operation of the crank. The elevator lurches upward with a sickening jolt that throws several of the occupants against the wall.

  “I’m so happy I didn’t eat anything today,” remarks a woman in a long silver coat.

  Capote manages to get the elevator reasonably close to the third story, meaning the doors open a couple of feet above the floor. Ever the gentleman, he hops out and extends his hand to the lady in the silver coat. Ryan gets out on his own, followed by Bobby, who jumps and falls to his knees. When it’s my turn, Capote hesitates, his arm poised midair.

  “I’m fine,” I say, rejecting his offer.

  “Come on, Carrie. Don’t be a jerk.”

  “In other words, try being a lady,” I murmur, taking his hand.

  “For once in your life.”

  I’m about to continue this argument, when Bobby inserts himself and links his arm through mine. “Let’s get a drink and you can tell me all about your new play,” he gushes.

  The huge open space has been hastily remodeled into something resembling an apartment by the addition of Sheetrock walls. The area near the windows is as big as a skating rink; along one side is a table, covered with a white cloth, that probably seats sixty. In front of the ceiling-high windows is a grouping of couches and armchairs draped with sailcloth. The wooden floor is worn, scuffed by the feet of hundreds of factory workers. In a few places, it’s actually black, as if someone set a small fire, thought better of it, and extinguished the flames.

  “Here you go,” Bobby says, handing me a plastic cup filled with what turns out to be cheap champagne. He takes my hand. “Who do you want to meet? I know everyone.”

  I want to extract my hand, but it seems rude. And besides, I’m sure Bobby is only being friendly. “Barry Jessen?” I ask boldly.

  “Don’t you know him?” Bobby asks, with such genuine surprise it makes me laugh. I can’t imagine why Bobby would think I knew the great Barry Jessen, but apparently he assumes I get around quite a bit. Which only reinforces my theory: if people see you enough, they think you’re one of them.

  Bobby marches me straight up to Barry Jessen himself, who is engaged in conversation with several people at once, and pulls me into the circle. My sense of belonging dissipates like a mist but Bobby seems immune to the hostile glances. “This is Carrie Bradshaw,” he announces to Barry. “She’s dying to meet you. You’re her favorite artist.”

  Not one word of this is true, but I don’t dare contradict him. Especially as Barry Jessen’s expression changes from irritation to mild interest. He isn’t immune to flattery—just the opposite. He expects it.

  “Is that so?” His black eyes lock on mine and I suddenly have the eerie sensation of staring into the face of the devil.

  “I loved your show,” I say awkwardly.

  “Do you think others will love it as well?” he demands.

  His intensity unnerves me. “It’s so powerful, how can anyone not love it?” I blurt out, hoping he won’t question me further.

  He doesn’t. Having received his kudos, he abruptly turns away, addressing himself to the lady in the silver coat.

  Unfortunately, Bobby doesn’t get the message. “Now, Barry,” he begins insistently. “We have to talk about Basil,” at which point I seize the opportunity to escape. The thing about famous people, I realize, is that just because you can meet them doesn’t make you a famous person yourself.

  I skitter down a little hallway and past a closed door, from which I hear laughter and hushed whisperings, then past another door that’s probably the bathroom because several people are lined up beside it, and right on through to an open door at the end of the corridor.

  I pull up short, startled by the decor. The room is completely different from the rest of the loft. Oriental rugs are strewn across the floor and an ornate antique Indian bed covered with silk pillows sits in the center.

  I figure I’ve wandered in the Jessens’ bedroom by accident, but it’s Rainbow who’s resting on the bed, talking to a guy wearing a knit Jamaican cap perched over dreadlocks.

  “Sorry,” I murmur quickly, as the guy looks up in surprise. He’s shockingly handsome, with chiseled features and beautiful black eyes.

  Rainbow whips around, startled, worried she’s been caught out, but when she sees me, she relaxes. “It’s only Carrie,” she says. “She’s cool.”

  “Only Carrie” ventures a step closer. “What are you guys doing?”

  “This is my brother, Colin,” Rainbow says, indicating the guy with the dreadlocks.

  “You get high?” Colin asks, holding up a small marijuana pipe.

  “Sure.” Somehow, I don’t think being a little stoned at this party is going to be a pr
oblem. Half the people here already seem like they’re on something.

  Rainbow makes space for me on the bed. “I love your room,” I say, admiring the luxurious furnishings.

  “You do?” She takes the pipe from Colin, leaning forward as he flicks the bowl with a gold lighter.

  “It’s very anti-Barry,” Colin says, in a clipped accent. “That’s what’s so great about it.”

  I take a hit from the pipe and pass it to Colin. “Are you English?” I ask, wondering how he can be English while Rainbow seems so American.

  Rainbow giggles. “He’s Amhara. Like my mother.”

  “So Barry isn’t your father?”

  “Lord, no!” Colin exclaims. He and Rainbow exchange a secretive look.

  “Does anyone actually like their father?” Rainbow asks.

  “I do,” I murmur. Maybe it’s the dope, but I’m suddenly feeling sentimental about my old man. “He’s a really good guy.”

  “You’re lucky,” Colin says. “I haven’t seen my real father since I was ten.”

  I nod as though I understand, but honestly, I don’t. My father might not be perfect, but I know he loves me. If something bad happened, he’d be there for me—or would try to be, anyway.

  “Which reminds me,” Colin says, reaching into his pocket and extracting a small aspirin bottle that he shakes in Rainbow’s face. “I found these in Barry’s stash.”

  “Oh, Colin. You didn’t,” Rainbow squeals.

  Colin pops open the top and shakes out three large round pills. “I did.”

  “What if he notices they’re gone?”

  “He won’t. By the end of the night, he’ll be too high to notice anything.”

  Rainbow plucks one of the pills out of Colin’s hand and washes it down with a gulp of champagne.

  “You want one, Carrie?” Colin offers me a pill.

  I don’t ask what it is. I don’t want to know. I already feel like I’ve found out more than I should. I shake my head.

  “They’re really fun,” Colin urges, popping the pill into his mouth.

  “I’m good,” I say.