Summer and the City Page 27
I’m shaking. What should I do? I look around the room, imagining the people turning to leaves, red and then brown and then crumbling to pieces onto the ground. How can I . . . what can I . . . ?
“I thought it was really good.” Bernard moves toward me, his grin like the smile of the clown in a jack-in-the-box. “Quite refreshing.”
“It was great,” Miranda says, giving me a hug. “I don’t know how you stood up in front of all those people. I would have been so frightened.”
I look to Samantha, who nods. “It was fun, Sparrow.”
This is one of those situations where no one can help you. Your need is so great, it’s like a black hole sucking the life out of everyone around you. I stumble forward, blindly.
“Let’s get a drink,” Bernard says, taking my hand.
“Yes, let’s all have a drink,” Samantha agrees. This is too much. Even Samantha, who’s my biggest cheerleader, knows my play is a disaster.
I’m like Typhoid Mary. No one wants to be around me.
Bernard hurries to the bar, and, as if shedding a virus, deposits me next to Teensie, of all people, who is now talking to Capote.
I smile awkwardly.
“Well,” Teensie says, with a dramatic sigh.
“You must have worked on it,” Capote says. “Since class. I thought it was better than what you read in class.”
“I had to completely rewrite it. In three days.” And suddenly, I realize Capote was right. About what he said at the Jessens’ dinner. Bobby is a joke. And a reading in his space wasn’t the right way to get my work noticed. Why didn’t I listen? The summer’s over and the only thing I’ve managed to achieve is making a complete and utter fool of myself.
The blood drains from my face.
Capote must understand my distress, because he pats my shoulder and says, “It’s good to take chances, remember?”
And as he wanders away, Teensie moves in for the kill. “I thought it was amusing. Very, very amusing,” she purrs. “But look at you, dear. You’re a mess. You look exhausted. And you’re way too thin. I’m sure your parents must be very worried about you.”
She pauses, and with a glittering smile asks, “Don’t you think it’s time to go home?”
Chapter Thirty-Six
I am trying to get drunk and not succeeding.
I’m a total failure. I can’t even win at inebriation.
“Carrie,” Bernard cautions.
“What?” I ask, lifting a purloined bottle of champagne to my lips. I snuck it out of the party in my carpenter’s bag. I knew that bag would come in handy someday.
“You could hurt yourself.” Bernard wrenches the bottle away from me. “The cab could stop short and you could knock out your teeth.”
I pull the bottle back, clinging to it tightly. “It’s my birthday.”
“I know.”
“Aren’t you going to say happy birthday?”
“I have. Several times. Maybe you didn’t hear me.”
“Did you get me a present?”
“Yes. Now look,” he says becoming stern. “Maybe I should drop you at your apartment. There’s no reason to do this tonight.”
“But I want my present,” I wail. “And it’s my birthday. It has to be done on the day or it doesn’t count.”
“Technically, it’s not your birthday anymore. It’s after two.”
“Technically my birthday didn’t start until after two last night. So it still counts.”
“It’s going to be okay, kiddo.” He pats my leg.
“You didn’t like it, did you?” I take another swig and look out the open window, feeling the stinky summer air whooshing across my face.
“Like what?” he asks.
Jeez. What does he think I’m talking about? Is he really that thick? Is everyone this thick and I just never noticed before? “My play. You said you liked it but you didn’t.”
“You said you rewrote it.”
“Only because I had to. If Miranda—”
“Come on, kiddo,” he says, reassuringly. “These things happen.”
“To me. Only to me. Not to you or anyone else.”
It seems Bernard has had enough of my histrionics. He folds his arms.
His gesture scares some sense into me. I can’t lose him, too. Not tonight. “Please,” I say. “Let’s not fight.”
“I didn’t know we were fighting.”
“We’re not.” I put down the bottle and cling to him like a limpet.
“Awwww, kiddo.” He strokes my cheek. “I know you had a rough night. But that’s the way it is when you put something out there.”
“Really?” I sniff.
“It’s all about rewriting. You’ll rework the play, and it’ll be great. You’ll see.”
“I hate rewriting,” I grumble. “Why can’t the world come out right the first time?”
“What would be the fun in that?”
“Oh, Bernard.” I sigh. “I love you.”
“Yeah, I love you, too, kitten.”
“Honest? At two in the morning? On Madison Avenue? You love me?”
He smiles.
“What’s my present?” I coo.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a present, now, would it?”
“I’m giving you a present,” I slur.
“You don’t have to give me a present.”
“Oh, but I do,” I say cryptically. Even if my play was a disaster, losing my virginity could salvage it.
“Here!” Bernard says, triumphantly, handing me a perfectly wrapped box in shiny black paper complete with a big black bow.
“Oh my God.” I sink to my knees on the carpet in his living room. “Is it really what I think it is?”
“I hope so,” he says nervously.
“I already love it.” I look at him with shining eyes.
“You don’t know what it is yet.”
“Oh, but I do,” I cry out in excitement, tearing away the paper and fingering the raised white lettering on the box. CHANEL.
Bernard looks slightly uncomfortable with my overwhelming demonstrance. “Teensie thought you’d like it.”
“Teensie? You asked Teensie what to get me? I thought she hated me.”
“She said you needed something nice.”
“Oh, Bernard.” I lift the cover from the box and gently open the tissue paper. And there it is: my first Chanel handbag.
I lift it out and cradle it in my arms.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“I love it,” I say solemnly. I hold it for a few seconds more, savoring the soft leather. With sweet reluctance, I slip it back into its cotton pouch and carefully replace it in the box.
“Don’t you want to use it?” Bernard asks, perplexed by my actions.
“I want to save it.”
“Why?” he says.
“Because I always want it to be . . . perfect.” Because nothing ever is. “Thank you, Bernard.” I wonder if I’m going to cry.
“Hey, puddy tat. It’s only a purse.”
“I know, but—” I get up and curl next to him on the couch, stroking the back of his neck.
“Eager little beaver, aren’t you?” He kisses me and I kiss him back and as we’re starting to get into it, he takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom.
This is it. And suddenly, I’m not so sure I’m ready.
I remind myself that this should not be a big deal. We’ve done everything but. We’ve spent the entire night together a dozen times. But knowing what’s to come makes it feel different. Even kissing is awkward. Like we barely know each other.
“I need a drink,” I say.
“Haven’t you had enough?” Bernard looks worried.
“No—I mean a drink of water,” I lie. I grab one of his shirts to cover myself and race into the kitchen. There’s a bottle of vodka on the counter. I close my eyes, brace myself, and take a gulp. I quickly rinse my mouth with water.
“Okay. I’m ready,” I announce, standing in the doorway.
“Come here,” Bernard laughs, patting the bed. “And don’t get any ideas about stealing that shirt. Margie used to take my shirts.”
“Margie?”
“Let’s not talk about her, okay?”
We start making out again, but now it feels like Margie is in the room. I try to banish her, telling myself that Bernard is mine now. But it only makes me feel more diminished in comparison. Maybe after we get it over with, it’ll be better. “Let’s just do it, okay?” I say.
He raises his head. “Don’t you like this?”
“No. I love it. But I just want to do it.”
“I can’t just—”
“Bernard. Please.”
Miranda was right. This is terrible. Why didn’t I get this over with a long time ago? At least I’d know what to expect.
“Okay,” he murmurs. He lies on top of me. He wriggles around a bit. Then he wriggles some more.
“Has it happened?” I’m confused. Boy, Miranda wasn’t kidding. It really is nothing.
“No. I—” He breaks off. “Look. I’m going to need you to help me a little.”
Help him? What is he talking about? No one told me “help” was part of the program.
Why can’t he just do it?
And there we are, naked. Naked in our skins. But naked mostly in our emotions. I wasn’t prepared for this. The raw, unfortunate intimacy.
“Could you just—?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say.
I do my best, but it isn’t enough. Then he tries. Then it seems he’s finally ready. He gets on top of me. Okay, let’s go, buddy, I think. He makes a few thrusting motions. He puts his hand down there to help himself.
“Is it supposed to be like this?” I ask.
“What do you think?” he says.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I’ve never done it before.”
“What!” He draws back in shock.
“Don’t be mad at me,” I plead, clinging to his leg as he leaps off the bed. “I never met the right guy before. There has to be a first time for everyone, right?”
“Not with me.” He darts around the room, snatching up my things.
“What are you doing?”
“You need to get dressed.”
“Why?”
He pulls at his hair. “Carrie, you cannot stay here. We cannot do this. I’m not that guy.”
“Why not?” I ask, my obstinance turning to panic.
“Because I’m not.” He stops, takes a breath, gets ahold of himself. “I’m an adult. And you’re a kid—”
“I’m not a kid. I’m eighteen.”
“I thought you were a sophomore in college.” More horror.
“Oops,” I say, trying to make a joke of it.
His jaw drops. “Are you insane?”
“No, I don’t think so. I mean, the last time I checked I seemed to be fairly normal—” Then I lose it. “It’s me, isn’t it? You don’t want me. That’s why you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t get it up. Because—” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize this is just about the worst thing you can say to a guy. Ever. Because I can promise you, he’s none too happy about it himself.
“I can’t do this,” he wails, more to himself than to me. “I cannot do this. What am I doing? What’s happened to my life?”
I try to remember everything I’ve read about impotence. “Maybe I can help you,” I falter. “Maybe we can work on it—”
“I don’t want to have to work on my sex life,” he roars. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to have to work on my marriage. I don’t want to have to work on my relationships. I want them to just happen, without effort. And if you weren’t such an asshole all the time, maybe you’d understand.”
What? For a moment, I’m too stung to react. Then I draw back in hurt and indignation. I’m an asshole? Can women even be assholes? I must really be terrible if a man calls me an asshole.
I shut my mouth. I pick up my pants from where he’s dropped them on the bed.
“Carrie,” he says.
“What?”
“It’s probably best if you go.”
“No kidding.”
“And we . . . probably shouldn’t see each other anymore.”
“Right.”
“I still want you to have the purse,” he says, trying to make nice.
“I don’t want it.” This, however, is very much a lie. I do want it. Badly. I want to get something out of this debacle of a birthday.
“Take it, please,” he says.
“Give it to Teensie. She’s just like you.” I want to slap him. It’s like one of those dreams where you try to hit a guy and keep missing.
“Don’t be a jerk,” he says. We’re dressed and at the door. “Take it, for Christ’s sake. You know you want it.”
“That’s just gross, Bernard.”
“Here.” He tries to shove the bag into my hands but I yank open the door, hit the elevator button, and cross my arms.
Bernard rides down in the lift with me. “Carrie,” he says, trying not to make a scene in front of the elevator man.
“No.” I shake my head.
He follows me outside and raises his hand to hail a cab. Why is it that whenever you don’t want a taxi, there’s one right there? Because half of me is still hoping this isn’t actually happening, and a miracle will occur and everything will go back to normal. But then Bernard is giving the driver my address and ten dollars to get me home.
I get into the backseat, fuming.
“Here,” he says, offering me the bag again.
“I told you. I don’t want it,” I scream.
And as the cab pulls away from the curb, he yanks open the door and tosses it inside.
The bag lands at my feet. For a moment, I think about throwing it out the window. But I don’t. Because now I’m crying hysterically. Great, heaving sobs that feel like they’re going to rip me apart.
“Hey,” the taxi driver says. “Are you cryin’? You’re cryin’ in my cab? You want sumpin to cry about, lady, I’ll give you sumpin. How about them Yankees then? How about that goddamned baseball strike?”
Huh?
The cab pulls up in front of Samantha’s building. I stare at it helplessly, unable to move for my tears.
“Hey, lady,” the driver growls. “You gonna get out? I don’t have all night.”
I wipe my eyes as I make one of those rash and ill-advised decisions everyone tells you not to. “Take me to Greenwich Street.”
“But—”
“Greenwich Street.”
I get out at the phone booth on the corner. My fingers are trembling as I search for a dime and drop it into the slot. The phone rings several times. A sleepy voice says, “Yeah?”
“Capote?”
“Yeah?” He yawns.
“It’s me. Carrie Bradshaw.”
“Yeah, Carrie. I know your last name.”
“Can I come up?”
“It’s four in the morning.”
“Please?”
“All right.” The light goes on in his window. His shadow moves back and forth, back and forth. The window opens and he throws down the keys.
I catch them neatly in the palm of my hand.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I open one eye and close it. Open it again. Where the hell am I? This must be one of those bad dreams when you think you’re awake but you’re still actually asleep.
I don’t feel asleep, though.
Besides, I’m naked. And it kind of hurts down there.
But that’s because . . . I smile. It happened. I am officially no longer a vir
gin.
I’m in Capote Duncan’s apartment. I’m in his bed. The bed with the plaid sheets his mother bought him. And the two foam pillows (why are guys so chintzy about pillows?), and the scratchy army blanket that belonged to his grandfather. Who got it from his father, who fought in the Civil War. Capote is very sentimental. I can hear Patsy Cline still crooning softly on the stereo. “I Fall to Pieces.” From now on, every time I hear that song, I’ll think of Capote and the night we spent together. The night he kindly took my virginity.
I guess I’m lucky, because it was pretty much the way I’d always hoped it would be. And while we were doing it, I honestly felt like I was in love with him. He kept telling me how beautiful I was. And how I shouldn’t be afraid. And how happy he was to be with me. And how he’d wanted to be with me from the beginning, but he thought I couldn’t stand him. And then, when I started dating Bernard, how he figured he’d lost his chance. And when I actually managed to write a play, he decided I’d think he wasn’t “good enough.” Because he hadn’t managed to write much of anything.
Yow. Guys can be so insecure.
Naturally, I told him he’d gotten me all wrong, although it is true—which I didn’t tell him—that I didn’t find him terribly attractive at the beginning.
Now, of course, I think he’s the most gorgeous creature on earth.
I peek at him. He’s still asleep, lying on his back, his face so peaceful and relaxed, I actually think I can detect a slight smile on his lips. Without his glasses, he looks shockingly vulnerable. Last night, after we kissed for a bit and he did the sexy librarian thing and took off his specs, we stared and stared into each other’s eyes. I felt like I could see his entire history in his pupils.
I could know everything about him in a way I’d never known anyone before.
It was a little eerie, but also kind of profound.
I guess that’s what I found most surprising about sex: the knowing. How you can understand a person completely and vice versa.
I lean over the edge of the bed, searching for my Skivvies. I want to get out while Capote’s still asleep. A deal’s a deal, and I said I’d leave first thing in the morning.
I raise myself slowly, sliding carefully off the bed so as not to jiggle the mattress. The mattress itself is about a hundred years old, left here by the original owners. I wonder how many people have had sex on this bed. I hope a lot. And I hope it was as good for them as it was for me.