Summer and the City Page 24
“Me?” Miranda asks, taken aback.
“Why not?”
“Didn’t Bernard read it? I thought he liked it. He’s the expert.”
“But you’re the audience. And you’re smart. If you like it, it means other people will too.”
“Oh, Carrie,” she says, pulling at her lip. “I don’t know anything about plays.”
“Don’t you want to read it?”
“I’m going to hear you read it on Thursday. At Bobby’s.”
“But I want you to read it, first.”
“Why?” She looks hard at me, but then relents. Perhaps she can see how, underneath the bravado, I’m a nervous wreck. She holds out her hand for the manuscript. “If you really want me to—”
“I do,” I say firmly. “You can read it this weekend and give it back to me on Monday. And sweetie? If you don’t like it, can you please pretend you do?”
Bernard went out to the Hamptons on Friday, so I take the Jitney by myself.
I don’t mind. From the sound of it, I kept picturing the Jitney as some kind of old-fashioned cable car, but it turns out to be a regular bus.
It chugs along a crowded highway until eventually we turn off and start going through little beach towns. At first they’re tacky, with bars and clam shacks and car dealerships, but then everything becomes more green and marshy, and when we cross a bridge and drive past a log cabin with totem poles on the front and a sign reading CIGARETTES $2 CARTON, the landscape changes completely. Old oaks and manicured hedges line the street, behind which I glimpse enormous shingled mansions.
The bus snakes into a picture-perfect town. Neatly painted white shops with green awnings populate the streets. There’s a bookstore, a tobacconist, Lilly Pulitzer, a jewelry store, and an old-fashioned movie theater where the bus pulls over.
“Southampton,” the driver announces. I pick up my carpenter’s bag and get out.
Bernard is waiting for me, leaning against the hood of a small bronze Mercedes, his smooth bare feet pushed into Gucci loafers. Miranda was right: the plastic dress and Fiorucci boots that were perfect for the city feel out of place in this quaint little town. But Bernard doesn’t care. He takes my bag, pausing for a kiss. His mouth is sublimely familiar. I love the way I can feel one of his incisors under his top lip.
“How was the trip?” he asks, smoothing my hair.
“Great,” I say breathlessly, thinking about how much fun we’re going to have.
He holds open the door and I slide onto the front seat. The car is old, from the 1960s, with a polished wooden steering wheel and shiny nickel dials. “This your car?” I ask, teasingly.
“It’s Peter’s.”
“Peter?”
“Teensie’s husband.” He starts the engine, puts the car into gear, and pulls away from the curb with a jolt.
“Sorry,” he laughs. “I’m a tad distracted. Don’t take this the wrong way, but Teensie’s insisted on giving you your own room.”
“Why?” I frown in annoyance, but secretly, I’m relieved.
“She kept asking me how old you were. I told her it was none of her damn business, and that’s when she got suspicious. You are over eighteen, aren’t you?” he asks, half jokingly.
I sigh, as if the question is beyond ridiculous. “I told you. I’m a sophomore in college.”
“Just checking, kitten,” he says, giving me a wink. “And don’t be afraid to stand up to Teensie, okay? She can be a bully, but she’s got an enormous heart.”
In other words, she’s an absolute bitch.
We swing into a long gravel drive and park in front of a shingled house. It’s not quite as large as I imagined, given the enormity of the houses I saw along the way, but it’s still big. What was once a regular-sized house is attached to a soaring barnlike structure.
“Nice, huh?” Bernard says, gazing up at the house from behind the windshield. “I wrote my first play here.”
“Really?” I ask, getting out of the car.
“Rewrote it, actually. I’d written the first draft during the day when I was working the night shift at the bottling plant.”
“That’s so romantic.”
“It wasn’t at the time. But in hindsight, yeah, it does sound romantic.”
“With a touch of cliché?” I ask, razzing him.
“I went to Manhattan one night with my buddies,” he continues, opening the trunk. “Stumbled across Teensie at a club. She insisted I send her my play, said she was an agent. I didn’t even know what an agent was back then. But I sent her my play anyway, and the next thing I know, she opened her house to me for the summer. So I could write. Undisturbed.”
“And were you?” I ask, trying to keep the apprehension out of my voice. “Undisturbed?”
He laughs. “When I was disturbed, it wasn’t unpleasant.”
Crap. Does that mean he slept with Teensie? And if he did, why didn’t he tell me? He could have warned me, at least. I hope I won’t discover any other unpleasant facts this weekend.
“Don’t know where I’d be without Teensie,” he says, slinging his arm across my shoulders.
We’re almost at the house when Teensie herself appears, strolling briskly up a flagstone path. She’s wearing tennis whites, and while I can’t speak for her heart, there’s no mistaking the fact that her breasts are enormous. They strain against the cloth of her polo shirt like two boulders struggling to erupt from a volcano. “There you are!” she exclaims pleasantly, shielding her eyes from the sun.
She plants herself in front of me, and in a rush, says, “I’d shake hands but I’m sweaty. Peter’s inside somewhere, but if you want a drink, ask Alice.” She turns around and trots back to the courts, waggling her fingers in the air.
“She seems nice,” I say, in an effort to like her. “And she has really big breasts,” I add, wondering if Bernard has seen them in the flesh.
Bernard hoots. “They’re fake.”
“Fake?”
“Silicone.”
So he has seen them. How else would he know all about them? “What else is plastic?”
“Her nose, of course. She likes to think of herself as Brenda. In Goodbye, Columbus. I always tell her she’s more Mrs. Robinson than Miss Patimkin.”
“What does her husband think?”
Bernard grins. “Pretty much whatever she tells him to, I imagine.”
“I mean about the silicone.”
“Oh,” he says. “I don’t know. He spends a lot of his time hopping.”
“Like a bunny?”
“More like the White Rabbit. All he’s missing is the pocket watch.” Bernard opens the front door and calls out, “Alice,” like he owns the place.
Which, given his history with Teensie, I suppose he does.
We’ve entered the barn part of the house, which has been fashioned into a gigantic living room filled with couches and stuffed chairs. There’s a stone fireplace and several doors that lead to unseen corridors. One of the doors flies open and out pops a small man with longish hair and what was likely once a girlishly pretty face. He’s on his way to another door when he spots us and beetles over.
“Anyone seen my wife?” he inquires, in an English accent.
“She’s playing tennis,” I say.
“Ah, right.” He smacks his forehead. “Very observant of you. Yes, very observant. That infernal game.” He tumbles on without pause: “Well, make yourselves at home. You know the drill, Bernard, all very casual, mi casa es su casa and all that—we’ve got the president of Bolivia for dinner tonight, so I thought I might brush up on my Español.”
“Gracias,” I say.
“Oh, you speak Spanish,” he exclaims. “Excellent. I’ll tell Teensie to put you next to el presidente at dinner.” And before I can demur, he scurries out of the room as Teensie herself reappears.
“Bernard, darling, will you be a gentleman and carry Cathy’s suitcase to her room?”
“Cathy?” Bernard asks. He looks around. “Who’s Cathy?”
I shake my head. “It’s Carrie. Carrie Bradshaw.”
“Who can keep track?” she says helplessly, implying that Bernard has had such an endless parade of girlfriends, she can’t keep their names straight.
She leads us up the stairs and down a short hallway in the original part of the house. “Bathroom here,” she says, opening a door to reveal a powder-blue sink and narrow glassed-in shower. “And Carrie’s in here.” She opens another door to reveal a small room with a single bed, a patchwork quilt, and a shelf of trophies.
“My daughter’s room,” Teensie says smugly. “It’s above the kitchen, but Chinita loves it because it’s private.”
“Where is your daughter?” I ask, wondering if Teensie has decided to kick her own daughter out of her room for the sake of propriety.
“Tennis camp. She’s graduating from high school next year and we’re hoping she’ll get into Harvard. We’re all so terribly proud of her.”
Meaning this Chinita is practically my age.
“Where do you go to school?” Teensie asks.
“Brown.” I glance at Bernard. “I’m a sophomore.”
“How interesting,” Teensie replies, in a tone that makes me wonder if she’s seen through my lie. “I should put Chinita in touch with you. I’m sure she’d love to hear all about Brown. It’s her safety school.”
I ignore the insult and lob one of my own. “I’d love to, Mrs. Dyer.”
“Call me Teensie,” she says, with a flash of resentment. She turns to Bernard and, determined not to let me get the better of her, says, “Why don’t we let your friend unpack.”
* * *
A short while later, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, wondering where the phone is and if I should call Samantha to ask for advice on how to deal with Teensie, when I remember Teensie on the floor of the Jessens’ and smile. Who cares if she hates me? I’m in the Hamptons! I jump up, hang my clothes, and slip into a bikini. The room is a bit stuffy, so I open the window and take in the view. The bright green lawn ends at a manicured hedge, and beyond are miles of fields fuzzy with short leafy plants—potato fields, Bernard explained on the way over. I inhale the sweet, humid air, which means the ocean can’t be far away.
Above the gentle sound of the surf, I hear voices. I lean out the window and discover Teensie and another woman seated at a metal table on a small patio, sipping what appear to be Bloody Marys. I can hear their conversation as clearly as if I were sitting across from them.
“She’s barely older than Chinita,” Teensie exclaims. “It’s outrageous.”
“How young is she?”
“Who knows? She looks like she’s barely out of high school.”
“Poor Bernard,” says the second woman.
“It’s just so pathetically textbook,” Teensie adds.
“Well, after that horrible summer with Margie—didn’t they get married here?”
“Yes.” Teensie sighs. “You’d think he’d have the sense not to bring this young twit—”
I gasp, then quickly shut my mouth in the perverse desire not to miss a word.
“It’s obviously subconscious,” the second woman says. “He wants to make sure he’ll never get hurt again. So he chooses someone young and wide-eyed, who worships him and will never leave him. He controls the relationship. As opposed to Margie.”
“But how long can it possibly last?” Teensie moans. “What can they have in common? What do they talk about?”
“Maybe they don’t. Talk,” the second woman says.
“Doesn’t this girl have parents? What kind of parent lets their daughter go away with a man who’s clearly ten or fifteen years older?”
“It is the eighties,” the second woman sighs, trying to be conciliatory. “The girls are different now. They’re so bold.”
Teensie gets up to go into the kitchen. I practically crawl out the window, hoping to hear the rest of their conversation, but I can’t.
Numb with shame, I flop back on the bed. If what they said is true, it means I’m merely a pawn in Bernard’s play. The one he’s acting out in his real life to help him get over Margie.
Margie. Her name gives me the willies.
Why did I think I could compete with her for Bernard’s affections? Apparently, I can’t. Not according to Teensie.
I throw the pillow against the wall in rage. Why did I come here? Why would Bernard subject me to this? Teensie must be right. He is using me. He might not be aware of it, but it’s no secret to everyone else.
There’s only one way to save face. I have to leave. I’ll ask Bernard to drive me to the bus stop. I’ll say good-bye and never see him again. And then, after I have my reading and I’m the toast of the town, he’ll realize what a mistake he made.
I’m tossing clothes into my carpenter’s bag, when I catch the sound of his voice. “Teensie?” he calls. I peer over the windowsill.
He’s striding across the lawn, looking concerned and a bit peeved. “Teensie?” he calls again as Teensie appears on the patio.
“Yes, darling?”
“Have you seen Carrie?” he asks.
I detect a slight drop of disappointment in her shoulders. “No, I haven’t.”
“Where is she?” Bernard demands, looking around.
Teensie throws up her hands. “I’m not her keeper.”
They both disappear into the house as I bite my lip in triumph. Teensie was wrong. Bernard does care about me. She knows it too, and it’s driving her mad with jealousy.
Poor Bernard, I think. It’s my duty to save him from the Teensies of the world.
I quickly pick up a book and arrange myself on the bed. Sure enough, a minute later Bernard knocks on my door.
“Come in!”
“Carrie?” He pushes open the door. “What are you doing? I’ve been waiting for you at the pool. We’re having lunch.”
I put down my book and smile. “I’m sorry. No one told me.”
“Silly goose,” he says, coming toward me and kissing the top of my head. He lies down next to me. “Love the bikini,” he murmurs.
We fool around frantically until we hear Teensie calling our names. This cracks me up and causes Bernard to guffaw as well. And that’s when I decide to break my own rule. I will have Bernard. Tonight. I’ll sneak into his room and we’ll finally do it. Right under Teensie’s little bobbed nose.
Chapter Thirty-Two
At dinner, Teensie’s husband, Peter, makes good on his threat and I’m seated next to the Bolivian president. He’s a pockmarked thug of a man, with a heavy, self-important demeanor that frightens me. Knowing nothing about Bolivia or its politics, I’m determined not to say the wrong thing. I have a feeling if I do, I may possibly be eliminated.
Luckily, el presidente, as Peter keeps calling him, has absolutely no interest in me. We’ve barely unfolded our napkins and placed them on our laps when he takes one look at me, sums me up as being of no importance, and immediately turns to the woman on his left. At the other end of the table, Teensie has placed Bernard to her right. I’m too far away to hear their conversation, but Teensie, who is laughing and gesturing, appears to be keeping her little group engaged. Ever since the first guests began to arrive, Teensie’s become a different person. There’s no trace of the subtle, calculated nastiness she displayed this afternoon.
I take a bite of my fish, determined not to betray the fact that I’m becoming mortifyingly bored. The only thing that’s keeping me going is the thought of Bernard, and how we can be together, later.
I idly wonder if Teensie’s husband, Peter, knows about Teensie and Bernard. I take a sip of my wine and sigh quietly. I cut another piece of fish and stare at my fork, wondering if it’s worth hazarding another mouthful. The fish is dry and plain, as if someone decided food should be a punishment instead of a pleasure.
“Don’t like the fish?” Peter’s voice comes from my left.
“A
ctually, I don’t.” I smile, relieved someone is talking to me.
“That bad, eh?” He pushes the fish to the side of his plate. “It’s this newfangled diet my wife has going. No butter, no salt, no skin, no fat, and no spices. All part of a misguided attempt to live forever.”
I giggle. “I’m not sure living forever is a good idea.”
“Not sure?” Peter declares. “It’s a bloody awful idea. How’d you get thrown in with this lot anyway?”
“I met Bernard, and—”
“I mean, what do you do in New York?”
“Oh. I’m a writer,” I say simply. I sit up a little straighter, and add, “I’m studying at The New School, but I’m having my first play reading next week.”
“Well done,” he says, sounding impressed. “Have you talked to my wife?”
I look down at my plate. “I don’t think your wife is interested in me or my writing.” I glance across the table at Teensie. She’s been drinking red wine, and her lips are a ghastly shade of purple. “On the other hand, I don’t need your wife’s good opinion in order to succeed.”
That’s the egg part of my ego rising to the surface.
“You’re quite a confident young lady,” Peter remarks. And then, as if to emphasize the fact that I’ve gone too far, he gives me one of those devastatingly polite smiles that could probably put the queen of England in her place.
I sit frozen in disgrace. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? Peter was only trying to be friendly, and now I’ve insulted his wife. In addition to committing the supposed sin of arrogance. It’s acceptable in a man, but not in a woman. Or not in this crowd, anyway.
I tap Peter on the arm.
“Yes?” He turns. There’s no sharpness in his tone, merely a deadening disinterest.
I’m about to ask him if I were a man, would I be judged so harshly, but his expression stops me. “Could you pass the salt?” I ask, adding quietly, “Please?”
I manage to make it through the rest of the dinner by pretending to be interested in a long story about golfing in Scotland, with which Peter regales our end of the table. When the plates are cleared, I hope Bernard and I can escape, but instead we’re ushered onto the terrace for coffee and dessert. This is followed by chess in the living room. Bernard plays with Peter, while I perch on the edge of Bernard’s chair, pretending to play dumb. The truth is, anyone who’s halfway good at math can play chess, and after enduring several bad moves by Bernard, I begin quietly giving him advice. Bernard starts winning and a small crowd gathers to witness the spectacle.