Summer and the City Read online

  “If you change your mind, you know where to find me. Just ask for an aspirin,” he says as he and Rainbow fall onto the cushions, laughing.

  Back in the main room, there’s the usual frenetic energy of people jabbering and shouting into one another’s faces to be heard above the din. Cigarette and marijuana smoke waft through the air, while Pican and some of her model friends lounge indolently on the couches with half-closed eyes. I walk past them to the open window for some fresh air.

  I remind myself that I’m having a good time.

  Bobby spots me and begins waving frantically. He’s talking to a middle-aged woman in a skin-tight white dress that looks like it’s made of bandages. I wave back and hold up my cup, indicating I’m on my way to the bar, but he won’t be deterred. “Carrie,” he shouts. “Come meet Teensie Dyer.”

  I put on my best game face and saunter over.

  Teensie looks like someone who eats small children for breakfast. “This is Carrie Bradshaw,” Bobby crows. “You should be her agent. Did you know she’s written a play?”

  “Hello,” she says, giving me a narrow smile.

  Bobby puts his arm around my shoulder, trying to press me closer as I stiffly resist. “We’re going to perform Carrie’s new play in my space. You must come.”

  Teensie flicks her cigarette ash on the floor. “What’s it about?”

  Damn Bobby, I think, as I wriggle out of his grasp. I’m not about to talk about my play to a complete stranger. Especially as I hardly know what it’s about myself.

  “Carrie won’t say.” Bobby pats my arm. And leaning into my ear, adds in a stage whisper, “Teensie’s the biggest agent in town. She represents everyone. Including Bernard Singer.”

  The smile freezes on my face. “That’s nice.”

  There must be something in my expression that sets off a warning bell because Teensie deigns to finally look me in the eye.

  I glance away, hoping to steer the conversation in another direction. Something tells me this Teensie person will be none too pleased to discover her biggest client is dating little ol’ me. Or was dating little ol’ me, anyway.

  The music stops.

  “Dinner is served!” shouts Barry Jessen from the top of a ladder.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As if the night couldn’t get any weirder, I find myself seated next to Capote.

  “You again?” I ask, squeezing past him onto my folding chair.

  “What’s your problem?” he says.

  I roll my eyes. Where to begin? With the fact that I miss Bernard and wish he were here? Or that I’d prefer to be sitting next to someone else? I settle on: “I just met Teensie Dyer.”

  He looks impressed. “She’s a big agent.”

  Figures he’d say that. “She seemed like a bitch to me.”

  “That’s stupid, Carrie.”

  “Why? It’s the truth.”

  “Or your perspective.”

  “Which is?”

  “This is a hard city, Carrie. You know that.”

  “So?” I say.

  “You want to end up hard too? Like most of these people?”

  I look at him in disbelief. Doesn’t he realize he’s one of them? “I’m not worried,” I retort.

  A bowl of pasta comes our way. Capote grabs it and politely serves me, then himself. “Tell me you’re not really going to do your play at Bobby’s.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Bobby is a joke.”

  I give him a nasty smile. “Or is it because he hasn’t asked you to perform your great work?”

  “I wouldn’t do it even if he did. It’s not the way to do things, Carrie. You’ll see.”

  I shrug. “I guess that’s the difference between you and me. I don’t mind taking chances.”

  “Do you want me to lie to you? Like everyone else in your life?”

  I shake my head, mystified. “How do you know people lie to me? More likely they lie to you. But the biggest liar in your life? Yourself.” I take a gulp of wine, hardly believing what I just said.

  “Fine,” he says, as if I’m hopeless.

  He turns to the woman on his other side. I follow his cue and smile at the man on my left.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s Cholly. “Hello,” I say brightly, determined to forget about my encounter with Teensie and my hatred of Capote.

  “Little one!” he exclaims. “My goodness. You certainly do get around. Is New York turning out to be everything you hoped?”

  I glance around the table. Rainbow is slumped in her chair, eyes half closed, while Capote is pontificating about his favorite topic again—Proust. I spot Ryan, who has had the good luck to be seated next to Teensie. He’s making eyes at her, no doubt hoping she’ll take him on as a client. Meanwhile, Bobby is standing behind Barry Jessen, desperately trying to engage him while Barry, now sweating profusely, angrily wipes his face with a napkin.

  I experience one of those bizarre moments where the universe telescopes and everything is magnified: the movement of Pican’s lipsticked mouth, the stream of red wine Bobby pours into his glass, the gold signet ring on Teensie’s right finger as she raises her hand to her temple.

  I wonder if Maggie was right. Maybe we are all crazy.

  And suddenly, everything goes back to normal. Teensie gets up. Barry makes room for Bobby next to him. Ryan leans over to Rainbow and whispers something in her ear.

  I turn back to Cholly. “I think it’s fantastic.”

  He seems interested, so I start telling him about my adventures. How I got kicked out of Peggy’s. And how I named Viktor Greene’s mustache Waldo. And how Bobby wants me to do a reading of my play when I haven’t even finished it yet. When I’m done, I have Cholly in stitches. There’s nothing better than a man who’s a good audience.

  “You should come to a soiree at my house sometime,” he says. “I have this wonderful little publication called The New Review. We like to pretend it’s literary, but every so often it requires a party.”

  I’m writing my phone number on a napkin for him when Teensie approaches. At first I think I’m her target, but it’s Cholly she’s after.

  “Darling,” she says, aggressively inserting a chair between Cholly and me, therefore effectively cutting me off. “I’ve just met the most charming young writer. Ryan somebody. You ought to meet him.”

  “Love to,” Cholly says. And with a wink, he leans around Teensie. “Have you met Carrie Bradshaw? She’s a writer too. She was just telling me—”

  Teensie abruptly changes the subject. “Have you seen Bernard, lately?”

  “Last week,” Cholly says dismissively, indicating he has no interest in talking about Bernard.

  “I’m worried about him,” Teensie says.

  “Why?” Cholly asks. Men are never concerned about each other the way women are.

  “I heard he’s dating some young girl.”

  My stomach clenches.

  “Margie says Bernard’s a mess,” Teensie continues, with a sidelong glance my way. I try to keep my face disinterested, as if I hardly know who she’s talking about. “Margie said she met her. And frankly, she’s concerned. She thinks it’s a very bad sign that Bernard is seeing someone so young.”

  I pour myself more wine while pretending to be fascinated by something at the other end of the table. But my hand is shaking.

  “Why would Margie Shephard care? She’s the one who left him,” Cholly says.

  “Is that what he told you?” Teensie asks slyly.

  Cholly shrugs. “Everyone knows she cheated on him. With an actor in his play.”

  Teensie snickers. “Sadly, the reverse is true. Bernard cheated on her.”

  A wire wraps around my heart and squeezes tight.

  “In fact, Bernard cheated on Margie several times. He’s a wonderful playwright, but a lousy husband.”

  “Really, Teensie. What does it matter?” Cholly remarks.

  Teensie puts a hand on his arm. “This party is giving me an awful headach
e. Could you ask Barry for some aspirin?”

  I glare at her. Why can’t she ask Barry herself? Damn her and what she said about Bernard and me. “Colin has aspirin,” I interject helpfully. “Pican’s son?”

  Teensie’s eyebrows rise in suspicion, but I give her an innocent smile.

  “Well, thank you.” She gives me a sharp look and goes off to find Colin.

  I hold my napkin to my face and laugh.

  Cholly laughs along with me. “Teensie’s a very silly woman, isn’t she?”

  I nod, speechless. The thought of the evil Teensie on one of Colin’s pills is just too funny.

  Of course, I don’t really expect Teensie to take the pill. Even I, who know nothing about drugs, was smart enough to realize Colin’s big white pill wasn’t an aspirin. I don’t give it much thought until an hour later, when I’m dancing with Ryan.

  Swaying precariously on bended knees, Teensie appears in the middle of the floor, clutching Bobby’s shoulder for support. She’s giggling madly while attempting to remain upright. Her legs are like rubber. “Bobby!” she screams. “Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

  “What the hell?” Ryan asks.

  I’m overcome by hysteria. Apparently, Teensie took the pill after all, because she’s lying on her back on the floor, laughing. This goes on for several seconds until Cholly swoops in, pulls Teensie to her feet, and leads her away.

  I keep on dancing.

  Indeed, everyone keeps dancing until we’re interrupted by a loud scream followed by several shouts for help.

  A crowd gathers by the elevator. The door is open, but the shaft appears to be empty.

  Cries of “What happened?” “Someone fell!” “Call 911,” echo through the loft. I rush forward, fearing it’s Rainbow and that she’s dead. But out of the corner of my eye I see Rainbow hurrying to her room, followed by Colin. I push in closer. Two men have jumped into the shaft, so the elevator must be a mere foot or two below. A limp woman’s hand reaches out and Barry Jessen grabs it, hauling a disheveled and dazed Teensie out of the hole.

  Before I can react, Capote elbows me. “Let’s go.”

  “Huh?” I’m too startled to move.

  He jerks my arm. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

  “What about Teensie?”

  “She’s fine. And Ryan can take care of himself.”

  “I don’t understand,” I protest as Capote propels me to the exit.

  “Don’t ask questions.” He flings open the door and starts down the stairs. I pause on the landing, baffled. “Carrie!” He turns around to make sure I’m following him. When he sees I’m not, he hops up the stairs and practically pushes me down in front of him. “Move!”

  I do as he says, hearing the urgent thump of his feet after me. When we get to the lobby, he bangs through the door and yanks me out after him. “Run!” he shouts.

  He races to the corner as I struggle to keep up in the Fiorucci boots Samantha gave me. Seconds later, two police cars, lights flashing and sirens wailing, pull up to the Jessens’ building. Capote slings his arm around my shoulders. “Act normal. Like we’re on a date or something.”

  We cross the street, my heart exploding in my chest. We walk like this for another block until we get to West Broadway and Prince Street. “I think there’s a cool bar around here,” Capote says.

  “A ‘cool’ bar? Teensie just fell down the elevator shaft, and all you can think about is a ‘cool’ bar?”

  He releases me from his grasp. “It’s not my fault, is it?”

  No, but it is mine. “We should go back. Aren’t you worried about Teensie?”

  “Look, Carrie,” he says, exasperated. “I just saved your life. You should be grateful.”

  “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be grateful for.”

  “You want to end up in the papers? Because that’s what would have happened. Half the people there were on drugs. You think the police aren’t going to notice? And the next day it’s all over Page Six. Maybe you don’t care about your reputation. But I happen to care about mine.”

  “Why?” I ask, unimpressed by his self-importance.

  “Because.”

  “Because why?” I taunt.

  “I have a lot of people counting on me.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like my family. They’re very upright, good people. I would never want them to be embarrassed. On account of my actions.”

  “You mean like if you married a Yankee.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What do all these Yankee girls you date think? Or do you just not tell them?”

  “I figure most women know what they’re getting into when they date me. I never lie about my intentions.”

  I look down at the sidewalk, wondering what I’m doing standing on a corner in the middle of nowhere, arguing with Capote Duncan. “I guess I should tell you the truth too. I’m the one who’s responsible for Teensie’s accident.”

  “You?”

  “I knew Colin had pills. He said they were aspirin. So I told Teensie to get an aspirin from him.”

  It takes a moment for Capote to process this information. He rubs his eyes while I worry he’s going to turn me in. But then he tips back his head and laughs, his long curls falling over his shoulders.

  “Pretty funny, huh?” I boast, preening in his approval. “I never thought she’d actually take the damn thing—”

  Without warning, he cuts me off with a kiss.

  I’m so surprised, I don’t respond at first as his mouth presses on mine, pushing eagerly at my lips. Then my brain catches up. I’m confounded by how nice and natural it feels, like we’ve been kissing forever. Then I get it: this is how he gets all those women. He’s a pouncer. He kisses a woman when she least expects it and once he’s got her off-balance, he maneuvers her into bed.

  Not going to happen this time, though. Although a terrible part of me wishes it would.

  “No.” I push him away.

  “Carrie,” he says.

  “I can’t.” Have I just cheated on Bernard?

  Am I even with Bernard?

  A lone taxi snakes down the street, light on. It’s available. I’m not. I flag it down.

  Capote opens the door for me.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “See ya,” he replies, as if nothing at all just happened.

  I sag into the backseat, shaking my head.

  What a night. Maybe it’s a good time to get out of Dodge after all.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Oh,” my youngest sister, Dorrit, says, looking up from a magazine. “You’re home.”

  “Yes, I am,” I say, stating the obvious. I drop my bag and open the refrigerator, more out of habit than hunger. There’s an almost-empty container of milk and a package of moldy cheese. I take out the bottle of milk and hold it up. “Doesn’t anyone bother to shop around here?”

  “No,” Dorrit says sullenly. Her eyes go to my father, but he seems oblivious to her displeasure.

  “I’ve got all my girls home!” he exclaims, overcome with emotion.

  That’s one thing that hasn’t changed about my father: his excessive sentimentality. I’m glad there’s still a remnant of my old father left. Because otherwise, he appears to have been taken over by an alien.

  First off, he’s wearing jeans. My father has never worn jeans in his life. My mother wouldn’t allow it. And he’s sporting Ray-Ban sunglasses. But most bewildering of all is his jacket. It’s by Members Only and it’s orange. When I stepped off the train, I barely recognized him.

  He must be going through a midlife crisis.

  “Where’s Missy?” I ask now, trying to ignore his strange getup.

  “She’s at the conservatory. She learned to play the violin,” my father says proudly. “She’s composing a symphony for an entire orchestra.”

  “She learned to play the violin in one month?” I ask, astounded.

  “She’s very talented,” my father says.

  Wh
at about me?

  “Yeah, right, Dad,” Dorrit says.

  “You’re okay too,” my father replies.

  “C’mon, Dorrit,” I say, picking up my suitcase. “You can help me unpack.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Dorrit!” I insist meaningfully, with a glance at my father.

  She sighs, closes her magazine, and follows me upstairs.

  My room is exactly how I left it. For a moment, I’m filled with memories, going to the shelves and touching the old books my mom gave me as a kid. I open my closet door and peek inside. I could be mistaken, but it looks like half my clothes are missing. I spin around and glare at Dorrit accusingly. “Where are my clothes?”

  She shrugs. “I took some. And Missy. We figured that since you were in New York, you wouldn’t be needing them.”

  “What if I do?”

  She shrugs again.

  I let it go. It’s too early in my visit to get into a fight with Dorrit—although given her sulky attitude, there’s sure to be an altercation by the time I leave on Monday. In the meantime, I need to probe her for information about my father and this supposed girlfriend of his.

  “What’s up with Dad?” I ask, sitting cross-legged on the bed. It’s only a single and suddenly feels tiny. I can’t believe I slept in it for so many years.

  “He’s gone crazy. Obviously,” Dorrit says.

  “Why is he wearing jeans? And a Members Only jacket? It’s hideous. Mom would never let him dress like that.”

  “Wendy gave it to him.”

  “Wendy?”

  “His girlfriend.”

  “So this girlfriend thing is true?”

  “I guess so.”

  I sigh. Dorrit is so blasé. There’s no getting through to her. I only hope she’s given up the shoplifting. “Have you met her?”

  “Yeah,” Dorrit says, noncommittally.

  “And?” I nearly scream.

  “Eh.”

  “Do you hate her?” This is a stupid question. Dorrit hates everyone.

  “I try to pretend she doesn’t exist.”

  “What does Dad think?”

  “He doesn’t notice,” she says. “It’s disgusting. When she’s around, he only pays attention to her.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “I don’t think so,” Dorrit replies. “Anyway, you can see for yourself. Dad’s making us go to dinner with her tonight.”