Summer and the City Read online

  “Do you know him?” L’il asks.

  “Never seen him before in my life. But that’s cool, isn’t it?” Ryan says. “Where else would some stranger walk up to you and invite you to a party?”

  “Along with a thousand other strangers,” L’il adds.

  “Only in New York, kids,” Ryan says.

  We head inside as I examine the postcard. On the front is an image of a smiling stone cupid. Underneath are the words, LOVE. SEX. FASHION. I fold the postcard and stick it into my bag.

  Chapter Four

  Ryan wasn’t kidding. Viktor Greene is strange.

  For one thing, he droops. It’s like someone dropped him out of the sky and he never quite got his sea legs here on earth. Then there’s his mustache. It’s thick and glossy across his upper lip, but curls forlornly around each side of his mouth like two sad smiles. He keeps stroking that mustache like it’s some kind of pet.

  “Carrie Bradshaw?” he asks, consulting a list.

  I raise my hand. “That’s me.”

  “It is I,” he corrects. “One of the things you’ll learn in this seminar is proper grammar. You’ll find it improves your manner of speaking as well.”

  I redden. Five minutes into my first real writing class and I’ve made a bad impression.

  Ryan catches my eye and winks as if to say, “I told you so.”

  “Ah, and here’s L’il.” Viktor Greene nods as he gives his mustache a few more comforting pats. “Does everyone know Ms. Elizabeth Waters? She’s one of our most promising writers. I’m sure we’ll be hearing a lot from her.”

  If Viktor Greene had said something like that about me, I’d be worried everyone in the class was going to hate me. But not L’il. She takes Viktor’s praise in stride, as if she’s used to being regaled for her talent.

  For a moment, I’m jealous. I try to reassure myself that everyone in the class is talented. Otherwise they wouldn’t be here, right? Including myself. Maybe Viktor Greene just doesn’t know how talented I am—yet?

  “Here’s how this seminar works.” Viktor Greene shuffles around as if he’s lost something and can’t remember what it is. “The theme for the summer is home and family. In the next eight weeks, you’ll write four short stories or a novella or six poems exploring these themes. Each week, I’ll choose three or four works to be read aloud. Then we’ll discuss them. Any questions?”

  A hand shoots up belonging to a slim guy with glasses and a mane of blond hair. Despite his resemblance to a pelican, he nevertheless manages to give off the impression that he thinks he’s better than everyone else. “How long are the short stories supposed to be?”

  Viktor Greene taps his mustache. “As long as it takes to tell the story.”

  “So that could mean two pages?” demands a girl with an angular face and tawny eyes. A baseball cap is perched backward over her luxurious crop of dark hair and she’s wearing a pile of beaded necklaces slung around her neck.

  “If you can tell a whole story in five hundred words, be my guest,” Viktor Greene says mournfully.

  The girl nods, a triumphant expression on her beautiful face. “It’s just that my father is an artist. And he says—”

  Viktor sighs. “We all know who your father is, Rainbow.”

  Wait a minute. Rainbow? What kind of name is that? And who is this artist father of hers?

  I sit back and fold my arms. The guy with the long nose and blond hair catches Rainbow’s eye and nods, edging his chair a little closer to hers, as if they’re already friends.

  “I have a question.” Ryan raises his hand. “Can you guarantee that after taking this course, we’ll all become writers?”

  This causes Viktor Greene to droop even more. I actually wonder if he’s going to disappear into the floor.

  He frantically pats down his mustache with both hands. “Good question. And the answer is no. Chances are ninety-nine point nine percent of you won’t make it as writers at all.”

  The class groans.

  “If I’m not going to make it as a writer, I’ll have to demand my money back,” Ryan says jokingly.

  Everyone laughs, except Viktor Greene. “If that’s the way you feel, you should contact the bursar’s office.”

  He twirls the ends of his mustache between his fingers.

  That mustache is going to drive me insane. I wonder if Viktor Greene is married and what his wife thinks of all his mustache stroking. Living with that mustache must be like having an extra person in the house. Does it have its own name and eat its own food as well?

  And suddenly, I’m burning with passion. I don’t care what Viktor Greene says: I’m going to make it. I’m going to become a real writer if it kills me.

  I look around the room at my fellow students. Now I’m the one judging the competition.

  “All right,” I say, plopping onto L’il’s bed. “Who is Rainbow’s father?”

  “Barry Jessen,” she says with a sigh.

  “Who the hell is Barry Jessen? I know he’s an artist and all, but—”

  “He’s not just any artist. He’s one of the most important artists in New York right now. He’s the leader of some new art movement. They live in abandoned buildings in SoHo—”

  “Rainbow lives in an abandoned building?” I ask, perplexed. “Do they have running water? Heat? She doesn’t look like she’s homeless.”

  “She’s not,” L’il says in exasperation. “They only used to be abandoned buildings. Garment and print factories. But then all these artists moved in and started fixing them up. And now they have parties in their lofts and take drugs and people buy their art and write about them in The New York Times and New York Magazine.”

  “And Rainbow?”

  “Well, her father is Barry Jessen. And her mother is Pican—”

  “The model?”

  “That’s why she’s so beautiful and will get anything she wants. Which includes becoming a writer. Does that answer your question?”

  “So she’s a million times cooler than us.”

  “Than ‘we are,’” L’il corrects. “And, yes, she is. Her parents know a ton of people, and if Rainbow wants to get a book published, all she has to do is snap her fingers and her father will find someone to publish it for her. And then he’ll get a bunch of journalists to write about it and critics to give her good reviews.”

  “Damn,” I say, impressed.

  “Meanwhile, if the rest of us want to be successful, we have to do it the old-fashioned way. We have to write something great.”

  “What a bore,” I say sarcastically.

  L’il laughs while I pick at an imaginary thread. “And what about that guy with the blond hair and the attitude? He acts like he knows her.”

  “Capote Duncan?” she says in surprise. “I’m sure he does. Capote’s the type who knows everyone.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, he just is. He’s from the South,” she says, as if this explains it. “He’s kind of dreamy, isn’t he?”

  “No. But he is kind of an asshole.”

  “He’s older. He and Ryan are seniors in college. They’re friends. Apparently the two of them are quite the ladies’ men.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.” She pauses, and in a slightly formal tone of voice, adds, “If you don’t mind—”

  “I know, I know,” I say, jumping off the bed. “We’re supposed to be writing.”

  L’il doesn’t seem to share my overweening interest in other people. Perhaps she’s so confident in her own talents, she feels like she doesn’t need to. I, on the other hand, could easily spend the entire day engaged in gossip, which I prefer to call “character analysis.” Unfortunately, you can’t engage in character analysis by yourself. I go back into my cubbyhole, sit down at my desk, roll a piece of paper into my typewriter, and sit there.

  Ten minutes later, I’m still sitting there, staring at the wall. There’s only one window in our area, and it’s in L’il’s room. Feeling like I’m suffocating, I get up
, go into the living room, and look out the window there.

  Peggy’s apartment is in the back of the building, facing the back of another nearly identical building on the next street. Maybe I could get a telescope and spy on the apartments across the way. I could write a story about the residents. Unfortunately, the denizens of that building appear to be as dull as we are. I spot the flickering blue screen of a television set, a woman washing the dishes, and a sleeping cat.

  I sigh, feeling thwarted. There’s a whole world out there and I’m stuck in Peggy’s apartment. I’m missing everything. And now I only have fifty-nine days left.

  I’ve got to make something happen.

  I race to my cubby, grab Bernard’s number, and pick up the phone.

  I hesitate, considering what I’m about to do, and put it down.

  “L’il?” I call out.

  “Yes?”

  “Should I call Bernard Singer?”

  L’il comes to the door. “What do you think?”

  “What if he doesn’t remember me?”

  “He gave you his number, didn’t he?”

  “But what if he didn’t mean it? What if he was only being polite? What if—”

  “Do you want to call him?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Then do.” L’il is very decisive. It’s a quality I hope to develop in myself someday.

  And before I can change my mind, I dial.

  “Y-ello,” he says, after the third ring.

  “Bernard?” I say, in a voice that’s way too high. “It’s Carrie Bradshaw.”

  “Aha. Had a feeling it might be you.”

  “You did?” I curl the phone cord around my finger.

  “I’m a bit psychic.”

  “Do you have visions?” I ask, not knowing what else to say.

  “Feelings,” he murmurs sexily. “I’m very in touch with my feelings. What about you?”

  “I guess I am too. I mean, I never seem to be able to get rid of them. My feelings.”

  He laughs. “What are you doing right now?”

  “Me?” I squeak. “Well, I’m just kind of sitting here trying to write—”

  “Want to come over?” he asks suddenly.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it isn’t this. I suppose I had a vague yet hopeful idea that he would invite me to dinner. Take me out on a proper date. But asking me to come to his apartment? Yikes. He probably thinks I’m going to have sex with him.

  I pause.

  “Where are you?” he asks.

  “On Forty-seventh Street?”

  “You’re less than ten blocks away.”

  “Okay,” I cautiously agree. As usual, my curiosity trumps my better judgment. A very bad trait, and one I hope to amend. Someday.

  But maybe dating is different in New York. For all I know, inviting a strange girl to your apartment is just the way they do things around here. And if Bernard tries anything funny, I can always kick him.

  On my way out, I run into Peggy coming in. She’s got her hands full trying to maneuver three old shopping bags onto the love seat. She looks me up and down and sighs. “Going out?”

  I deliberate, wondering how much I need to tell her. But my excitement gets the better of me. “I’m going to see my friend. Bernard Singer?”

  The name has its desired effect. Peggy inhales, nostrils flaring. The fact that I know Bernard Singer has to be killing her. He’s the most famous playwright in all of New York and she’s still a struggling actress. She’s probably dreamed of meeting him for years, and yet here I am, only three days in the city, and already I know him.

  “Some people have quite the life, don’t they?” She grumbles as she goes to the refrigerator and extracts one of her many cans of Tab—which are also off-limits for L’il and me.

  For a moment, I feel victorious, until I take in Peggy’s despondent expression. She jerks the ring from the top of the can and drinks thirstily, like the solutions to all her problems lie in that can of Tab. She drains it, absentmindedly rubbing the metal ring against her thumb.

  “Peggy, I—”

  “Damn!” She drops the can and sticks her thumb in her mouth, sucking the blood from the cut where the ring has sliced the skin. She closes her eyes as if holding back tears.

  “Are you all right?” I ask quickly.

  “Of course.” She looks up, furious that I’ve witnessed this moment of weakness. “You’re still here?”

  She brushes past me on her way to her room. “Tonight’s my night off and I intend to make it an early one. So don’t be home late.”

  She closes the door. For a second, I stand there, wondering what just happened. Maybe it’s not me Peggy hates. Maybe it’s her life.

  “Okay,” I say to no one in particular.

  Chapter Five

  Bernard lives in Sutton Place. It’s only a few blocks away, but it might as well be in another city. Gone are the noise, the grime, and the vagrant types that populate the rest of Manhattan. Instead, there are buildings constructed of soft-colored stone with turrets and green copper mansards. Uniformed doormen wearing white gloves stand under quiet awnings; a limousine idles at the curb. I pause, breathing in the atmosphere of luxury as a nanny passes me wheeling a baby carriage, behind which prances a small fluffy dog.

  Bernard must be rich.

  Rich, famous, and attractive. What am I getting myself into?

  I scan the street, looking for number 52. It’s on the east side facing the river. Swanky, I think, hurrying toward the building. I step inside, where I’m immediately halted by a low growl from a stern-faced doorman. “Can I help you?”

  “Going to see a friend,” I mutter, attempting to snake my way around him. And that’s when I make my first mistake: never, ever try to get around a doorman in a white-glove building.

  “You can’t just walk in here.” He holds up one gloved mitt, as if the mere sight of his hand is enough to ward off the unwashed.

  Unfortunately, something about that glove sets me off. There’s nothing I hate more than some old guy telling me what to do. “How did you expect me to enter? By horseback?”

  “Miss!” he exclaims, taking a step back in displeasure. “Please state your business. And if you cannot state your business, I suggest you take your business elsewhere.”

  Aha. He thinks I’m some kind of hooker. He must be half blind. I’m hardly even wearing makeup. “I’m here to see Bernard,” I say tightly.

  “Bernard who?” he demands, refusing to budge.

  “Bernard Singer?”

  “Mr. Singer?”

  How much longer can this go on? We stare at each other in a stalemate. He must know he’s beat. After all, he can’t actually deny that Bernard lives here—or can he?

  “I’ll ring Mr. Singer,” he finally concedes.

  He makes a great show of strolling across the marble lobby to a desk containing a huge spray of flowers, a notebook, and a telephone. He presses a few buttons and, while he waits for Bernard to answer, rubs his jaw in aggravation. “Mr. Singer?” he says, into the receiver. “There’s a”—he glares at me—“young, er, person downstairs asking to see you.” His expression changes to one of disappointment as he glances my way. “Yes, thank you, sir. I’ll send her right up.”

  And just when I think I’ve made it past that guard dog of a doorman, I’m confronted by yet another man in a uniform, who operates the elevator. Being the twentieth century and all, you’d think most people would have figured out how to press the button themselves, but apparently the occupants of Sutton Place are slightly feeble when it comes to technology.

  “Can I help you?” he asks.

  Not again. “Bernard Singer,” I say. As he presses the button for the ninth floor, he clears his throat in disapproval. But at least he’s not peppering me with questions.

  The elevator doors fold open to reveal a small hallway, another desk, another spray of flowers, and patterned wallpaper. There are two doors at either end of the corridor, and mercifully, B
ernard is standing in one of them.

  So this is the lair of a wunderkind, I think, taking a look around the apartment. It’s surprising, all right. Not because of what’s in it, but because of what isn’t.

  The living room, with its mullioned windows, cozy fireplace, and stately bookshelves, calls out for well-loved, well-worn furniture, but contains a single beanbag chair. Ditto for the dining room, which is populated by a Ping-Pong table and a couple of folding chairs. Then there’s the bedroom: a king-size bed, a king-size television. On the bed itself, a lone sleeping bag.

  “I love to watch TV in bed,” Bernard says. “I think it’s sexy, don’t you?”

  I’m about to give him a don’t-even-try-it look, when I notice his expression. He seems sad.

  “Did you just move in?” I ask brightly, searching for an explanation.

  “Someone just moved out,” he replies.

  “Who?”

  “My wife.”

  “You’re married?” I shriek. Of all the possibilities, I never considered the one in which he might be hitched. What kind of married man invites a girl he just met to his apartment?

  “My ex-wife,” he corrects. “I keep forgetting we’re not married. We got divorced a month ago and I’m still not used to it.”

  “So you were married?”

  “For six years. But we were together for two before that.”

  Eight years? My eyes narrow as I do a quick calculation. If Bernard was in a relationship for that long, it means he has to be at least thirty. Or thirty-one. Or even . . . thirty-five?

  When was his first play released? I remember reading about it, so I had to be at least ten. To cover up my ruminations, I quickly ask, “How was it?”

  “How was what?”

  “Your marriage.”

  “Well,” he laughs. “Not so good. Considering we’re divorced now.”

  It takes me a second to emotionally recalibrate. During the walk over, the far-off reaches of my imagination were constructing visions of Bernard and me together, but nowhere in that picture was there an ex-wife. I always figured my one true love would have only one true love, too—me. The fact of Bernard’s previous marriage throws a real monkey wrench into my fantasy.