Summer and the City Read online

“I have a friend who did it for the first time and loved it. She said she had an actual orgasm.”

  “From intercourse?” Miranda yelps. “She’s lying. Everyone knows women cannot have an orgasm from intercourse only.”

  “Then why does everyone do it?”

  “Because they have to,” she practically screams. “And then you just lie there, waiting for it to be over. The only good thing about it is that it only lasts a minute or two.”

  “Maybe you have to do it a lot to like it.”

  “Nope. I’ve done it at least twenty times, and each time it was as bad as the first.” She crosses her arms. “You’ll see. And it doesn’t matter who you do it with. I did it with another guy six months ago to make sure it wasn’t me, and it was just as lousy.”

  “What about with an older guy?” I ask, thinking about Bernard. “A guy with experience—”

  “How old?”

  “Thirty?”

  “That’s even worse,” she declares. “His thing could be all wrinkly. There’s nothing more disgusting than a wrinkly thing.”

  “Have you ever seen one?” I ask.

  “Nope. And I hope I never have to.”

  “Well,” I say, laughing. “What if I do it and I like it? Then what?”

  Miranda snickers, as if this is not a possibility. She jabs her finger at Samantha’s photograph. “I bet even she thinks it’s boring. She looks like she likes it, but I promise you, she’s pretending. Just like every other goddamn woman on the planet.”

  Part Two

  Bite the Big Apple

  Chapter Ten

  Bernard!

  “He called me,” I sing to myself like a little bird, skipping down Forty-fifth Street into the Theater District. Apparently, he did call my old apartment and Peggy told him I no longer lived there and she didn’t know where I was. And then Peggy had the gall to ask Bernard if she could audition for his new play. Bernard coldly suggested she call his casting director, and suddenly, Peggy’s memory as to my whereabouts mysteriously returned. “She’s staying with a friend of hers. Cindy? Samantha?”

  Just as I’d given up hope of him calling me on his own, Bernard, bless his soul, managed to put two and two together and rang me first.

  “Can you meet me at the theater around lunchtime tomorrow?” he asked.

  Bernard sure has some odd ideas about what constitutes a date. But he is a wunderkind, so perhaps he lives outside the rules.

  The Theater District is so exciting, even during the day. There are the flashing lights of Broadway, the cute little restaurants, and the seedy theaters promising “LIVE GIRLS,” which makes me scratch my head. Would anyone want dead ones?

  And then on to Shubert Alley. It’s only a narrow street, but I can’t help imagining what it would be like to have my own play performed in this theater. If that happened, it would mean everything in my life was perfect.

  As per Bernard’s instructions, I enter through the stage door. It’s nothing special—just a dingy lobby with gray cement walls and peeling linoleum on the floor and a man stationed behind a little window that slides open. “Bernard Singer?” I ask.

  The guard looks up from his Post, his face a map of veins. “Here to audition?” he asks, taking down a clipboard.

  “No, I’m a friend.”

  “Ah. You’re the young lady. Carrie Bradshaw.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He said he was expecting you. He’s out, but he’ll be back soon. He said I should take you on a backstage tour.”

  “Yes, please,” I exclaim. The Shubert Theatre. A Chorus Line. Backstage!

  “Ever been here before?”

  “No!” I can’t keep the squeal of excitement out of my voice.

  “Mr. Shubert founded the theater in 1913.” The guard pulls apart a heavy black curtain to reveal the stage. “Katharine Hepburn performed here in 1939. The Philadelphia Story.”

  “On this very stage?”

  “Used to stand right where you are now, every evening, before her first entrance. ‘Jimmy,’ she’d say, ‘how’s the house tonight?’ And I’d say, ‘All the better for you being here, Miss Hepburn.’”

  “Jimmy,” I plead. “Could I—”

  He smiles, catching my enthusiasm. “Only for a second. No one’s allowed on that stage who ain’t union—”

  And before he can change his mind, I’m crossing the boards, looking out at the house. I stride to the footlights and take in row after row of velvet chairs, the balconies, the luxurious boxes on the side. And for a moment, I imagine the theater filled with people, all there to see little ol’ me.

  I fling out my arms. “Hello, New York!”

  “Oh my.” I hear a deep, throaty laugh, followed by the sound of one person clapping. I turn around in horror, and there, in the wings, is Bernard, wearing sunglasses, an open white shirt, and Gucci loafers. Next to him is the clapper, whom I immediately recognize as the actress Margie Shephard. His ex-wife. What the hell is she doing here? And what must she think of me, after witnessing my little performance?

  It doesn’t take long to find out, because the next thing she says is, “I see a star is born,” in a flinty voice.

  “Take it easy, Margie,” Bernard says, having the sense to at least sound slightly annoyed by her.

  “Hello. I’m Carrie.” I hold out my hand.

  She does me the honor of shaking it, but doesn’t provide her own name, confident that I already know who she is. I think I’ll always remember what her hand feels like—the long, smooth fingers, the palm, warm and firm. Someday I’ll probably even say, “I met Margie Shephard. I shook her hand and she was amazing.”

  Margie opens her mouth prettily, and emits a sly laugh. “Well, well,” she says.

  Nobody can say, “Well, well,” and get away with it, except Margie Shephard. I can’t stop gaping at her. She isn’t technically beautiful, but has some kind of inner light that makes you think she’s one of the most attractive women you’ve ever seen.

  I totally understand why Bernard married her. What I can’t understand is why he isn’t still married to her.

  I don’t stand a chance.

  “Nice to meet you,” Margie says, with a whisper of a wink at Bernard.

  “Me too.” I stumble over the words. Margie probably thinks I’m an idiot.

  She twinkles at Bernard. “We’ll continue this discussion later.”

  “I suggest we don’t continue it at all,” Bernard mutters. Apparently he isn’t as starstruck by her as I am.

  “I’ll call you.” Again, there’s the pretty smile, and the eyes that seem to know everything. “Good-bye, Carrie.”

  “Good-bye.” I’m suddenly disappointed to see her go.

  Bernard and I watch as she strides through the hallway, one hand caressing the back of her neck—a poignant reminder to Bernard of what he’s missing.

  I swallow, prepared to apologize for my little show, but instead of being embarrassed, Bernard grabs me under my arms and presses me to him, spinning me around like a child. He kisses me all over my face. “Am I glad to see you, kiddo. You’ve got great timing. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

  “No—”

  “You do. If you hadn’t been here, I wouldn’t have been able to get rid of her. C’mon.” He grabs my hand and briskly leads me out the other end of the alley like a madman on a mission. “It’s you, baby,” he says. “When I saw you, it suddenly made sense.”

  “Sense?” I ask breathlessly, trying to keep up, confused about his sudden adoration. It’s what I’d been hoping for, but now that he actually seems smitten, I’m a bit wary.

  “Margie is over. Finished. I’m moving on.” We come out on Forty-fourth Street and head to Fifth Avenue. “You’re a woman. Where can I buy some furniture?”

  “Furniture?” I laugh. “I have no idea.”

  “Someone’s got to know. Excuse me.” He accosts a nicely dressed lady in pearls. “Where’s the best place to buy furniture around here?”

  “What
kind of furniture?” she asks, as if this kind of encounter with a stranger is perfectly normal.

  “A table. And some sheets. And maybe a couch.”

  “Bloomingdale’s,” she says, and moves on.

  Bernard looks down at me. “You busy this afternoon? Got time to do some furniture shopping?”

  “Sure.” It wasn’t exactly the romantic lunch I had in mind, but so what?

  We jump into a cab. “Bloomingdale’s,” Bernard directs the driver. “And make it fast. We need to buy sheets.”

  The cabbie smiles. “You two lovebirds getting married?”

  “The opposite. I’m officially getting unmarried,” Bernard says, and squeezes my leg.

  When we get to Bloomingdale’s, Bernard and I run around the fifth floor like two little kids, trying out the beds, bouncing on the sofas, pretending to drink tea from the china display. One of the salesmen recognizes Bernard (“Oh, Mr. Singer. It’s an honor. Will you sign this sales slip for my mother?”) and follows us around like a puppy.

  Bernard buys a dining room set, a brown leather couch and ottoman, an armoire, and a pile of pillows, sheets, and towels. “Can I have it delivered right away?”

  “Normally, no,” the salesman simpers. “But for you, Mr. Singer, I’ll try.”

  “Now what?” I ask Bernard.

  “We go to my apartment and wait.”

  “I still don’t understand why Margie took the furniture,” I say as we stroll up Fifty-ninth Street.

  “To punish me, I suppose.”

  “But I thought she was the one who left,” I venture, carefully avoiding the word “cheated.”

  “Chickadee, don’t you know anything about women? Fair play doesn’t enter into their vocabulary.”

  “Not all women. I would never be like that. I’d be reasonable.”

  “That’s what’s so great about you. You’re unspoiled.” Still holding hands, we breeze into his building, right past the nasty doorman. Take that, buddy, I think. In the apartment, Bernard puts on a record. Frank Sinatra. “Let’s dance,” he says. “I want to celebrate.”

  “I can’t dance to this.”

  “Sure you can.” He opens his arms. I rest one hand on his shoulder the way we learned to do in ballroom dancing classes, a million years ago when I was thirteen. He pulls me tighter, his breath scorching my neck. “I like you, Carrie Bradshaw. I really do. Do you think you can like me back?”

  “Of course,” I giggle. “If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t dance with you.”

  “I don’t believe that’s true. I think you’d dance with a man and when you got tired of him, you’d dance with another.”

  “Never.” I twist my head to look at his face. His eyes are closed, his expression beatific. I still can’t fathom his new attitude. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was falling in love with me.

  Or maybe he’s falling in love with the idea of falling in love with me. Maybe he wants to be in love with someone and I’ve ended up in the right place at the right time.

  And suddenly, I’m nervous. If Bernard were to fall in love with me, I’d never be able to live up to his expectations. I’d end up being a disappointment. And what am I going to do if he tries to have sex with me?

  “I want to know what happened,” I say, trying to change the subject. “Between you and Margie.”

  “I told you what happened,” he murmurs.

  “I meant this afternoon. What were you arguing about?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I guess not.”

  “The apartment,” he says. “We were arguing about the apartment. She wants it back and I said no.”

  “She wants the apartment, too?” I ask, astounded.

  “She might have convinced me if it weren’t for you.” He takes my hand and twirls me around and around. “When I saw you on that stage, I thought, That’s a sign.”

  “What kind of sign?”

  “A sign that I should put my life back together. Buy furniture. Make this place my home again.”

  He lets go of my hand but I keep spinning and spinning until I collapse to the floor. I lie still as the bare room revolves around me and for a moment I picture myself in an insane asylum, in a white space with no furniture. I close my eyes, and when I open them again, Bernard’s face is hovering above mine. He has pretty eyelashes and a crease on either side of his mouth. A small mole is buried in the hair of his right eyebrow. “Crazy, crazy girl,” he whispers, before he leans in to kiss me.

  I allow myself to be carried away by the kiss. Bernard’s mouth envelops mine, absorbing all reality until life seems to consist only of these lips and tongues engaged in a funny dance of their own.

  I freeze.

  And suddenly, I’m suffocating. I put my hands on Bernard’s shoulders. “I can’t.”

  “Something I said?” His lips close back over mine. My heart races. An artery throbs in my neck. I wriggle away.

  He sits back on his haunches. “Too intense?”

  I fan my face and laugh a little. “Maybe.”

  “You’re not used to guys like me.”

  “I guess not!” I stand up and brush myself off.

  There’s a clap of thunder outside. Bernard comes up behind me, pushing my hair aside to mouth my neck. “Have you ever made love in a thunderstorm?”

  “Not yet.” I giggle, trying to put him off.

  “Maybe it’s time you did.”

  Oh no. Right now? Is this the moment? My body trembles. I don’t think I can do it. I’m not prepared.

  Bernard massages my shoulders. “Relax.” He leans in and nibbles my earlobe.

  If I do it with him now, he’s going to compare me to Margie. I imagine them having sex all the time, in this apartment. I picture Margie kissing Bernard with an intensity that matches his, like in the movies. Then I see myself lying naked on that bare mattress, my arms and legs splayed out stiffly to the side.

  Why didn’t I do it with Sebastian when I had the chance? At least I’d know how to do it. I never guessed someone like Bernard would come along. A grown man who obviously assumes his girlfriend has sex regularly and wants to do it all the time.

  “C’mon,” he says gently, pulling at my hand.

  I balk and he squints at me. “Don’t you want to make love?”

  “I do,” I say quickly, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “It’s just that—”

  “Yes?”

  “I forgot my birth control.”

  “Oh.” He drops my hand and laughs. “What do you use? A diaphragm?”

  I blush. “Yeah. Sure. Uh-huh.” I nod.

  “A diaphragm’s a pain. And it’s messy. With the cream. You use a cream with it, right?”

  “Yes.” I mentally pedal backward to the health classes we had in high school. I picture the diaphragm, a funny little object that looks like a rubber cap. But I don’t recall any mention of cream.

  “Why don’t you go on the pill? It’s so much easier.”

  “I will. Yes indeedy.” I agree vigorously. “I keep meaning to get a prescription but—”

  “I know. You don’t want to take the pill until you know the relationship is serious.”

  My throat goes dry. Is this relationship serious? Am I ready for it? But in the next second, Bernard is lying on the bed, and has turned on the TV. Is it my imagination, or does he look slightly relieved?

  “C’mere, puddy tat,” he says, patting the spot next to him. He holds out his hands. “Do you think my nails are too long?”

  “Too long for what?” I frown.

  “Seriously,” he says.

  I take his hand in mine, running my fingers over the palm. His hands are lovely and lean, and I can’t help thinking about those hands on my body. The sexiest part of a man is his hands. If a man has girlish hands, it doesn’t matter what the rest of him is like. “They are, a little.”

  “Could you cut them and file them for me?” he asks.

  What?

  “Margie used to do it for me,�
� he explains. My heart softens. He’s so sweet. I had no idea a man could be so cozy. But it’s not surprising, given my limited experience with romance.

  Bernard goes into the bathroom to get clippers and a nail file. I look around the spare bedroom. Poor Bernard, I think, for the hundredth time.

  “Primate grooming,” he says when he returns. He sits across from me, and I begin carefully clipping his nails. I can hear the rain drumming on the awning below while I file rhythmically, the motion and the rain putting me into a soothing trance. Bernard strokes my arm and then my face as I lean over his hand.

  “This is nice, isn’t it?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I reply simply.

  “This is what it should be like. No fighting. Or arguing about whose turn it is to walk the dog.”

  “Did you have a dog?”

  “A long-haired dachshund. He was Margie’s dog first, but she could never be bothered to pay attention to him.”

  “Is that what happened to you?”

  “Yeah. She stopped paying attention to me, too. It was all about her career.”

  “That’s terrible,” I say, filing contentedly. I can’t imagine any woman ever losing interest in Bernard.

  Chapter Eleven

  I wake up the next morning with an idea.

  Maybe it’s because of all the time I spent with Bernard, but I’m finally inspired. I know what I have to do: write a play.

  This brilliant notion lasts for about three seconds before it’s crushed under a million and one reasons why it’s impossible. Like Bernard will think I’m copying him. Like I won’t be able to do it anyway. Like Viktor Greene won’t let me.

  I sit on Samantha’s bed with my legs crossed, making faces. The fact is, I need to prove I can make it in New York. But how? Maybe I’ll get lucky and be discovered. Or maybe it will turn out I have hidden talents even I don’t know about. I clutch the silk bedcovers like a survivor clinging to a lifeboat. Despite my fears, it seems my life is starting to take off here—and Brown is less than seven weeks away.

  I pluck at a thread. Not that there’s anything wrong with Brown, but I’ve already gotten in there. On the other hand, if New York were a college, I’d still be applying. And if all these other people can make it in New York, why can’t I?