Summer and the City (20 page)

Where the hell is Samantha, anyway?

Boy, this is really making me uncomfortable. I’ve got to get out of here. “Can I use the phone?” I ask, and without waiting for permission, pick up the receiver and dial Bernard’s number. He’s still not there. I hang up, fuming, and decide to call him every thirty minutes until I reach him.

When I turn back to the room, the conversation has flagged. So much so that Donna actually asks how my summer is going.

Now it’s my turn to brag.

“I’m having a play reading next week.”

“Oh,” Donna says, clearly unimpressed. “What’s a play reading?”

“Well, I wrote this play, and my professor really loved it and then I met this guy, Bobby, who has a sort of performance space in his apartment, and I have a boyfriend who actually
is
a playwright—Bernard Singer, maybe you’ve heard of him—not that I’m not an actual writer but . . .” My voice gets smaller and smaller until it trails off into a painful little nothingness.

And where is Samantha in all this?

Glenn taps her watch impatiently.

“Oh, she’ll show up,” Mrs. LaDonna gushes. “We LaDonnas are always late,” she says proudly, as if this is a plus. I look at her and shake my head. She’s no help at all.

“I think your play sounds very exciting,” Erica says, tactfully changing the subject.

“It is,” I agree, praying Samantha will arrive at any moment. “It’s kind of a big deal. Being my first play and all.”

“I always told Erica she should become a writer,” Glenn says, giving her daughter a disapproving look. “If you’re a writer, you can stay at home with your children. If you actually decide to have children.”

“Mother, please,” Erica says, as if she’s had to tolerate this discussion many times before.

“Instead Erica’s decided to become a public defender!” Glenn exclaims grimly.

“A public defender,” Mrs. LaDonna says, attempting to look impressed.

“What’s that?” Donna asks, examining her manicure.

“It’s a special kind of lawyer,” I answer, wondering how Donna cannot know this.

“It’s all about choice, Mother,” Erica says firmly. “And I choose not to be chosen.”

Glenn gives her a stiff little smile. She probably can’t move her muscles too much due to the face-lift. “It all sounds so terribly sad.”

“But it isn’t sad at all,” Erica replies evenly. “It’s freeing.”

“I don’t believe in choice,” Glenn announces, addressing the room. “I believe in destiny. And the sooner you accept your destiny, the better. It seems to me you young girls waste a terrible amount of time trying to choose. And all you end up with is nothing.”

Erica smiles. And turning to me, she explains, “Mother’s been trying to marry Charlie off for years. She’s pushed every debutante in the Blue Book in his direction, but of course, he never liked any of them. Charlie’s not that dumb.”

There’s an audible gasp from Mrs. LaDonna as I peer around in shock. Donna and her mother look like they’ve had face-lifts as well. Their expressions are as frozen as Glenn’s.

The phone rings and I automatically reach for it, wondering if it’s Bernard, having somehow managed to track me down at Kleinfeld.

I’m such a dummy sometimes. It’s Samantha.

“Where are you?” I whisper urgently. “Everyone’s here. Glenn and Erica—”

“Carrie.” She cuts me off. “I’m not going to be able to make it.”

“What?”

“Something came up. A meeting I can’t get out of. So if you wouldn’t mind telling Glenn . . .”

Actually, I would mind. I’m suddenly tired of doing her dirty work. “I think you should tell her yourself.” I hand Glenn the phone.

While Glenn speaks to Samantha, a saleswoman peeks into the room, beaming with excitement, pulling an enormous rack of wedding dresses behind her. The atmosphere explodes as Donna and her mother rush toward the dresses, pawing and fondling the garments like they’re sugary confections.

I’ve had enough. I dive into the rack of wedding dresses and fight my way through to the other side.

Weddings are like a train. Once you get on, you can’t get off.

Sort of like the subway.

The train is stopped, again, somewhere in the dark catacombs between Forty-second and Fifty-ninth streets. It’s been stuck for twenty minutes now, and the natives are getting restless.

Including myself. I yank open the door between the cars and step out onto the tiny platform, leaning over the edge in an attempt to discover the cause of the holdup. It’s useless, of course. It always is. I can just make out the walls of the tunnel until they disappear into darkness.

The train lurches unexpectedly and I nearly tip off the platform. I grab the handle of the door just in time, reminding myself that I need to be more careful. It’s hard to be careful, though, when you feel indestructible.

My heart does that jackhammer thing that happens whenever I get all anticipatory about the future.

Bernard read my play.

The minute I escaped from Kleinfeld, I ran to a phone booth and finally reached him. He said he was in the middle of casting. I could tell by his voice that he didn’t want me to come by, but I kept insisting and finally he relented. He could probably tell by
my
voice that I was in one of those nothing-is-going-to-stop-me moods.

Not even the subway.

The train screeches to a halt just inside the platform at Fifty-ninth Street.

I bang though the cars until I reach the head compartment, then I do the dangerous thing again and leap from the train onto the concrete. I run up the escalator, zoom through Bloomingdale’s, and race up to Sutton Place, sweating like a mad thing in the white vinyl.

I catch Bernard in front of his building, hailing a cab. I spring up behind him.

“You’re late,” he says, jangling his keys. “And now I’m late too.”

“I’ll ride with you to the theater. Then you can tell me how much you loved my play.”

“It’s not the best time, Carrie. My mind’s not focused.” He’s being all business. I hate it when he’s like this.

“I’ve been waiting all day,” I plead. “I’m going crazy. You
have
to tell me what you thought.”

I don’t know why I’m in such a frenzy. Maybe it’s because I just came from Kleinfeld. Maybe it’s because Samantha didn’t show up. Or maybe it’s because I don’t ever want to have to marry a man like Charlie and have a mother-in-law like Glenn. Which means I
have
to succeed at something else.

Bernard grimaces.

“Oh my God. You didn’t like it.” I can feel my knees buckling beneath me.

“Take it easy, kid,” he says, hustling me into the cab.

I perch on the seat next to him like a bird about to take flight. I swear I see a look of pity cross his face, but it’s immediately gone and I tell myself I must have imagined it.

He smiles and pats my leg. “It’s good, Carrie. Really.”

“Good? Or really good?”

He shifts in his seat. “Really good.”

“Honestly? Do you mean it? You’re not just humoring me?”

“I said it was really good, didn’t I?”

“Say it again.
Please
.”

“It’s really good.” He smiles.

“Yippee!” I shout.

“Can I go to my casting now?” he asks, extracting the manuscript from his briefcase and holding it out to me.

I suddenly realize I’ve been clutching his arm in fear. “Cast away,” I say gallantly. “Castaways. Ha-ha. Get it?”

“Sure, kiddo.” He leans over to give me a quick kiss.

But I hold on to him. I put my hands around his face and kiss him hard. “That’s for liking my play.”

“I guess I’ll have to like your plays more often,” he jokes, getting out of the cab.

“Oh, you will,” I say from the open window.

Bernard goes into the theater as I throw back my head in relief. I wonder what I was so worked up about. And then it hits me: If Bernard didn’t like my play, if he didn’t like my writing, would I still be able to like
him
?

Luckily, that’s one question I don’t have to answer.

Chapter Thirty-One

“And she has the nerve to tell Samantha I’ve got a big head.”

“Well—” Miranda says cautiously.

“A big fat swollen head. Like a basketball,” I say, leaning into the mirror to apply more lipstick. “And meanwhile, she’s marrying this stupid jock—”

“Why do you care so much?” Miranda asks. “It’s not like you have to see them again.”

“I know. But couldn’t they have been a little impressed? I’m doing so much more with my life than they ever will.”

I’m talking, of course, about Donna LaDonna and her mother. After her no-show at Kleinfeld, Samantha took the LaDonnas to Benihana as a consolation prize. When I asked Samantha if Donna mentioned me, she said Donna told her I’d become completely full of myself and obnoxious. Which really pissed me off.

“Did Samantha find a dress?” Miranda asks, fluffing her hair.

“She never showed up. She had an important meeting she couldn’t get out of. But that’s not the point. What bugs me is that this girl, who thought she was such a big deal in high school—” I break off, wondering if I have become a monster. “You don’t think I have a big head, do you?”

“Oh, Carrie. I don’t know.”

Which means yes. “Even if I do, I don’t care,” I insist, trying to justify my attitude. “Maybe I do have a bit of an ego. So what? Do you know how long it’s taken me to even get an ego? And I’m still not sure it’s fully developed. It’s more of an ‘egg’ than an ‘ego.’”

“Uh-huh.” Miranda looks dubious.

“Besides, men have egos all the time and no one says they’re full of themselves. And now that I have this tiny little bit of self-esteem, I don’t intend to let it go.”

“Good,” she says. “Don’t.”

I march past her into the bedroom, where I snake my legs into a pair of fishnet stockings and slip the white plastic dress with the clear plastic cut-outs over my head. I pull on the bright blue Fiorucci boots and check my appearance in the full-length mirror.

“Who are these people again?” Miranda eyes me with a worried expression.

“Bernard’s agent—Teensie Dyer. And her husband.”

“Is that what you’re supposed to wear to the Hamptons?”

“It’s what
I
wear to the Hamptons.”

True to his word, Bernard has actually come through on his promise to introduce me to Teensie. In fact, he’s gone above and beyond his call to duty and invited me to the Hamptons to stay with Teensie and her husband. It’s only for Saturday night, but who cares? It’s the Hamptons! All summer, I’ve been dying to go. Not just to find out why they’re such a big deal, but to be able to say, “I went to the Hamptons,” to people like Capote.

“Do you really think you should be wearing plastic?” Miranda asks. “What if they think you’re wearing a garbage bag?”

“Then
they’re
stupid.”

Yep, I’m full of myself all right.

I toss a bathing suit, the Chinese robe, my new red rubber pants, and the hostess gown into my carpenter’s bag. The bag reminds me of how Bernard said I needed a valise. Which leads me to wonder if Bernard is finally going to demand I have sex with him. I’ve been taking the pill, so I suppose there’s no reason not to, but I’m pretty adamant about waiting for my eighteenth birthday. I want the event to be special and memorable, something I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

Of course, the thought of finally doing it also makes me queasy.

Miranda must pick up on my mood, because she looks at me curiously. “Have you slept with him yet?”

“No.”

“How can you go away with him and not sleep with him?”

“He respects me.”

“No offense, but it sounds weird. Are you
sure
he’s not gay?”

“Bernard is not gay!” I nearly shout.

I go out into the living room and pick up my play, wondering if I should bring it with me in case I have a chance to slip it to Teensie. But that might be too obvious. Instead, I have another idea.

“Hey,” I say, holding up the manuscript. “
You
should read my play.”

“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?”

Teensie’s face twists in annoyance. “I thought you said her name was 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.