Summer and the City (21 page)

“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.

“Actually, 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.

Bernard gives me all the credit, and at last, I can see my esteem rising slightly in their eyes. Maybe I’m a contender after all.

“Where’d you learn to play chess?” he asks, fixing us another round of drinks from a wicker cart in the corner.

“I’ve always played. My father taught me.”

Bernard regards me, bemused. “You’ve just made me realize I don’t know a thing about you.”

“That’s because you forgot to ask,” I say playfully, my equilibrium restored. I look around the room. “Don’t any of these people ever go to bed?”

“Are you tired?”

“I was thinking—”

“Plenty of time for that later,” he says, brushing the back of my hair with his lips.

“You two lovebirds.” Teensie waves from the couch. “Come over here and join the discussion.”

I sigh. Bernard may be willing to call it an evening, but Teensie is determined to keep us downstairs.

I endure another hour of political discussions. Finally, Peter’s eyes close, and when he falls asleep in his chair, Teensie murmurs that perhaps we should all go to bed.

I give Bernard a meaningful look and scurry to my room. Now that the moment has arrived, I’m shaking with fear. My body trembles in anticipation. What will it be like? Will I scream? And what if there’s blood?

I slip on my negligee and brush my hair a hundred times. When thirty minutes have passed and the house is quiet, I slip out, creep across the living room, and up the other set of stairs, which leads to Bernard’s room. It’s at the end of a long hall, located conveniently next to Teensie and Peter, but, like all the rooms in the new wing, it has its own en suite bathroom.

En suite
. My, what a lot of things I’ve learned this weekend. I giggle as I turn the knob on Bernard’s door.

He’s in bed, reading. Under the soft light of the lamp, he looks sleek and mysterious, like something out of a Victorian novel. He puts his finger to his lips as he slides back the covers. I fall silently into his arms, close my eyes, and hope for the best.

He turns off the light and rearranges himself under the sheets. “Good night, kitten.”

I sit up, perplexed. “Good night?”

I lean over and turn on the light.

He grabs my hand. “What are you doing?”

“You want to
sleep
?”

“Don’t you?”

I pout. “I thought we could—”

He smiles. “Here?”

“Why not?”

He turns off the light. “It’s rude.”

I turn it back on. “Rude?”

“Teensie and Peter are in the next room.” He turns off the light again.

“So?” I say in the dark.

“I don’t want them to hear us. It might make them . . . uncomfortable.”

I frown in the darkness, my arms crossed over my chest. “Don’t you think it’s time Teensie got over the fact that you’ve moved on? From her
and
Margie?”

“Oh, Carrie.” He sighs.

“I’m serious. Teensie needs to accept that you’re seeing other people now. That you’re seeing me—”

“Yes, she does,” he says softly. “But we don’t need to rub it in her face.”

“I think we do,” I reply.

“Let’s go to sleep. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

This is my cue to flounce out of the room in anger. But I figure I’ve done enough flouncing for the evening. Instead, I lie silently, mulling over every scene, every conversation, fighting back tears and the gnawing realization that somehow, I haven’t necessarily managed to come out on top this weekend, after all.

Chapter Thirty-Three

“I’m so glad you came to see me,” Bobby proclaims as he opens the door. “This is a very nice surprise. Yes, a very nice surprise,” he patters on, taking my arm.

I shift my bag from one side to the other. “It’s really not a surprise, Bobby. I called you, remember?”

“Oh, but it’s always a surprise to see a friend, don’t you think? Especially when the friend is so attractive.”

“Well,” I say, frowning, wondering what this has to do with my play.

Bernard and I returned to the city late Sunday afternoon, hitching a ride with Teensie and Peter in the old Mercedes. Teensie drove, while Bernard and Peter talked about sports and I sat quietly, determined to be on my best behavior. Which wasn’t difficult, as I didn’t have much to say anyway. I kept wondering if Bernard and I stayed together, if this was what our life would be. Weekends with Teensie and Peter. I didn’t think I could take it. I wanted Bernard, but not his friends.

I went back to Samantha’s, vowing to get my life in order, which included calling Bobby and scheduling an appointment to discuss the reading. Unfortunately, Bobby doesn’t seem to be taking it as seriously as I am.

“Let me show you around the space,” he says now, with irritating insistence, especially as I saw the space when I was at his party. That night feels like ages ago, an uncomfortable reminder that while time is racing on, my own time may be running out.

The reading may be my last chance to establish a toehold in New York. A firm grip on the rock of Manhattan from which I cannot be removed.

“We’ll set up chairs here.” Bobby indicates the gallery space. “And we’ll serve cocktails. Get the audience liquored up. Should we have white wine or vodka or both?”

“Oh, both,” I murmur.

“And are you planning on having real actors? Or will it just be a reading?”

“I think maybe just a reading. For now,” I say, envisioning the bright lights of Broadway. “I’m planning to read the whole play myself.” After the class reading with Capote, it seemed easier not to get anyone else involved.

“Better that way, yes?” Bobby nods. His nodding—his unbridled enthusiasm—is starting to get to me. “We should have some champagne. To celebrate.”

“It’s barely noon,” I object.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those time Nazis,” he intones, urging me down a short hallway that leads to his living quarters. I follow him uncertainly, a warning bell chiming in my head. “Artists can’t live like other people. Schedules and all that—kills the creativity, don’t you think?” he asks.

“I guess so.” I sigh, wishing I could escape. But Bobby’s doing me an enormous favor, staging a reading of my play in his space. And with this thought I accept a glass of champagne.

“Let me show you around the rest of the place.”

“Honestly, Bobby,” I say in frustration. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to! I’ve cleared my whole afternoon for you.”

“But why?”

“I thought we might want to get to know each other better.”

Oh for goodness’ sake. He can’t possibly be trying to seduce me. It’s too ridiculous. For one thing, he’s shorter than I am. And he has jowls, meaning he must be over fifty years old. And he’s gay. Isn’t he?

“This is my bedroom,” he says, with a flourish. The decor is minimalist and the room is spotless, so I imagine he has a maid to pick up after him.

He plunks himself on the edge of the neatly made bed and takes a sip of champagne, patting the spot next to him.

“Bobby,” I say firmly. “I really should go.” In demonstration of my intentions, I place my glass on the windowsill.

“Oh, don’t put it there,” he cries. “It will leave a ring.”

I pick up the glass. “I’ll put it back in the kitchen, then.”

“But you can’t go,” he clucks. “We haven’t finished talking about your play.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t want to completely offend him. I figure I’ll sit next to him for a moment and then leave.

I perch gingerly on the side of the bed, as far away from him as possible. “About the play—”

“Yes, about the play,” he agrees. “What made you want to write it?”

“Well, I . . .” I fumble for the words but I take too long and Bobby becomes impatient.

“Hand me that photograph, will you?” And before I can protest, he’s scooted next to me and is pointing at the picture with a manicured finger. “My wife,” he says, followed by a giggle. “Or should I say my ex-wife?”

“You were married?” I ask as politely as possible, given those alarm bells are now clanging away like a bell tower.

“For two years. Annalise was her name. She’s French, you see?”

“Uh-huh.” I peer more closely at the image. Annalise is one of those beauties who looks absolutely insane, with a ridiculous pouty mouth and wild, scorching black eyes.

“You remind me of her.” Bobby puts his hand on my leg.

I unceremoniously remove it. “I don’t look a thing like her.”

“Oh, but you do. To me,” he murmurs. And then, in hideous slow motion, he purses his lips and pushes his face toward mine for a kiss.

I quickly turn away and wrestle free from his grasping fingers. Ugh. What kind of man gets manicures anyway?

“Bobby!” I pick up my glass from the floor and start out of the room.

He follows me into the kitchen, wagging his tail like a chastened puppy. “Don’t go,” he pleads. “There’s nearly a whole bottle of champagne left. You can’t expect me to drink it myself. Besides, it doesn’t keep.”

The kitchen is tiny, and Bobby has stationed himself in the doorway, blocking my exit.

“I have a boyfriend,” I say fiercely.

“He doesn’t have to know.”

I’m about to flee, when he changes his tack from sly to hurt. “Really, Carrie. It’s going to be very hard to work together if I think you don’t like me.”

He has to be kidding. But maybe Samantha was right. Doing business with men is tricky. If I reject Bobby, is he going to cancel my play reading? I swallow and try to summon a smile. “I do like you, Bobby. But I have a boyfriend,” I repeat, figuring the emphasis of this fact is probably my best tactic.

“Who?” he demands.

“Bernard Singer.”

Bobby breaks into a glass-shattering peal. “Him?” He moves closer and tries to take my hand. “He’s too old for you.”

I shake my head in wonder.

The momentary lull gives Bobby another chance to attack. He wraps his arms around my neck and attempts to mouth me again.

There’s a kind of tussle, with me trying to maneuver around him and him trying to push me against the sink. Luckily, Bobby not only looks like a butter ball, but has the consistency of one as well. Besides, I’m more desperate. I duck under his outstretched arms and hightail it for the door.

“Carrie! Carrie,” he cries, clapping his hands as he skitters down the hall after me.

I reach the door, and pause, breathless. I’m about to tell him what a scumball he is and how I don’t appreciate being taken in under false pretenses—all the while seeing my future crumble before me—when I catch his pained expression.

“I’m sorry.” He hangs his head like a child. “I hope—”

“Yes?” I ask, rearranging my hair.

“I hope this doesn’t mean you hate me. We can still do your reading, yes?”

I do my best to look down my nose at him. “How can I trust you? After this.”

“Oh, forget about it,” he says, waving his hands in front of his face as though encased in a swarm of flies. “I didn’t mean it. I’m too forward. Friends?” he asks sheepishly, holding out his hand.

I straighten my shoulders and take it. Quick as a wink, he’s clutched my hand and is lifting it to his mouth.

I allow him to kiss it before I jerk it back.

“What about your play?” he pronounces. “You have to allow me to read it before Thursday. Since you won’t let me kiss you, I need to know what I’m getting into.”

“I don’t have it. I’ll drop it off tomorrow,” I say hastily. Miranda has it, but I’ll get it from her later.

“And invite some of your friends to the reading. The pretty ones,” he adds.

I shake my head and walk out the door. Some men never give up.

Nor some women. I fan myself in relief as I ride down the elevator. At least I still have my reading. I’ll probably be fighting Bobby off all night, but it seems like a small price to pay for impending fame.