Summer and the City (22 page)

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Who is this creep, exactly?” Samantha asks, tearing the top off a pink package of Sweet’N Low and pouring the powdered chemicals into her coffee.

“He’s some kind of art dealer. He’s the guy with the space. I went to the fashion show there?” I gather the tiny strips of pink paper from the middle of the table, fold them neatly, and wrap them in my napkin. I can’t help it. Those damn leavings from fake sugar packages drive me crazy. Mostly because you can’t go two feet without finding one.

“The space guy,” Samantha says, musingly.

“Bobby. Do you know him?” I ask, thinking she must. She knows everyone.

We’re at the Pink Tea Cup, this very famous restaurant in the West Village. It’s pink all right, with twee wrought-iron chairs and ancient tablecloths printed with cabbage roses. They’re open twenty-four hours, but they only serve breakfast, so if you time it right, you get to see Joey Ramone eating pancakes at five in the afternoon.

Samantha has left work early, claiming she’s still in pain from the operation. But it can’t be too bad, since she’s managed to make it out of the apartment. “Is he short?” she asks.

“He had to stand on his tippy-toes when he tried to kiss me.” The memory of Bobby’s attempted assault causes a fresh round of irritation, and I pour way too much sugar into my cup.

“Bobby Nevil.” She nods. “Everyone knows him. He’s infamous.”

“For jumping young girls?”

Samantha makes a face. “That would garner him no notoriety at all.” She lifts her cup and tastes her coffee. “He tried to attack Michelangelo’s
David
.”

“The sculpture?” Oh, great. Just my luck. “He’s a criminal?”

“More like an art revolutionary. He was trying to make a statement about art.”

“Meaning what? Art sucks?”

“Who sucks?” Miranda demands, arriving at the table with her knapsack and a black Saks shopping bag slung over her shoulder. She grabs a handful of napkins from the dispenser and mops her brow. “It’s ninety degrees out there.” She waves at the waitress and asks for a glass of ice.

“Are we talking about sex again?” She looks at Samantha accusingly. “I hope I didn’t come all the way down here for another conversation about Kegel exercises. Which I tried, by the way. They made me feel like a monkey.”

“Monkeys do Kegel exercises?” I ask, surprised.

Samantha shakes her head. “You two are hopeless.”

I sigh. I’d walked away from Bobby’s thinking I could handle his underhanded behavior, but the more I thought about it, the more incensed I became. Was it wrong to assume that when I finally got a break, it would be based on my own merits, as opposed to the random horniness of some old coot? “Bobby tried to jump me,” I inform Miranda.

“That little thing?” She’s not impressed. “I thought he was gay.”

“He’s one of those guys no one wants on their team. Gay or straight,” Samantha says.

“Is that an actual thing?” Miranda asks.

“They’re called the lost boys of sexual orientation. Come on, guys,” I say. “This is serious.”

“There was a professor at my school,” Miranda says. “Everyone knew if you slept with him he’d give you an A.”

I glare at her. “Not helping.”

“Well, come on, Carrie. This is nothing new. Every bar I’ve worked in has an unspoken rule that if you have sex with the manager, you’ll get the best shifts,” Samantha says. “And every office I’ve worked in—same thing. There’s always some guy coming on to you. And most of them are married.”

I groan. “And do you—?”

“Have sex with them? What do you think, Sparrow?” she asks sharply. “I don’t
need
to have sex with some guy to get ahead. On the other hand, I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done. Shame is a useless emotion.”

Miranda’s face contorts into an expression that signifies she’s about to say something inappropriate. “If that’s true, why won’t you tell Charlie about the endometriosis? If you’re not ashamed, why can’t you be honest?”

Samantha’s lips curl into a patronizing smile. “My relationship with Charlie is none of your business.”

“Why do you talk about it all the time, then?” Miranda asks, refusing to back down.

I put my head in my hands, wondering why we’re all so worked up. It must be the heat. It curdles the brain.

“So should I have my play reading at Bobby’s or not?” I ask.

“Of course,” Samantha says. “You can’t let Bobby’s stupid little pass make you question your talents. Then he’ll have won.”

Miranda has no choice but to agree. “Why should you let that squat little toad define who you are or what you can do?”

I know they’re right, but for a moment, I feel defeated. By life and the never-ending struggle to make something of it. Why can’t things just be easy?

“Did you read my play?” I ask Miranda.

She reddens. And in a voice that’s too high, says, “I meant to. But I was so busy. I promise I’ll read it tonight, okay?”

“Can’t,” I say sharply. “I need it back. I have to give it to Bobby first thing tomorrow.”

“Don’t get testy—”

“I’m not.”

“It’s right here,” she says, opening her knapsack and riffling through it. She looks inside in confusion, then picks up the shopping bag and dumps the contents onto the table. “It must have gotten mixed up with my flyers.”

“You took my play to Saks?” I ask, incredulous, as Miranda paws frantically through her papers.

“I was going to read it when things got slow. Here it is,” she says in relief, holding up a few pages.

I quickly flip through them. “Where’s the rest? This is only the first third.”

“Has to be here,” she mutters as I join her in going through each piece of paper one by one. “Oh my God.” She sits back in her chair. “Carrie, I’m sorry. This guy got in my face yesterday. Grabbed a bunch of flyers and ran. The rest of your play must have been mixed up with them—”

I stop breathing. I have one of those terrible premonitions that my life is about to fall apart.

“You must have another copy,” Samantha says soothingly.

“My professor has one.”

“Well, then,” Miranda chirps, as if everything’s all right.

I grab my bag. “I’ve got to go,” I squeak, just before my mouth goes completely dry.

Damn. Crap! And every other expletive I can think of.

If I don’t have my play, I don’t have anything. No reading, no life.

But surely Viktor has a copy. I specifically remember the day I gave it to him. And what kind of teacher throws out their students’ work?

I run through the Village, barging through traffic and nearly knocking over several passersby on my route to The New School. I arrive heaving, take the stairs two at a time, and throw myself on Viktor’s door.

It’s locked.

I wheel around in a frenzy, trip down the stairs, and run all the way back to Samantha’s place.

She’s lying in bed with a pile of magazines. “Carrie? Can you believe what Miranda said to me? About Charlie? I thought it was very uncalled for—”

“Yeah,” I say as I search the kitchen for the white pages.

“Did you find your play?”

“No!” I scream, flipping through the phone book.

I pat my heart, trying to get a grip. There it is: Viktor Greene. With an address in the Mews.

“Carrie?” Samantha asks, on my way back out. “Could you pick me up something to eat? Maybe Chinese? Or pizza. With pepperoni. And not too much cheese. Be sure to tell them no extra cheese—”

Argh!!!!!!

I haul myself back to the Mews, every muscle in my body screaming with pain from the exertion. I walk up and down the cobblestoned street twice before I find Viktor’s place, tucked behind a portcullis and hidden by ivy. I bang on the door several times, and when I can’t rouse him, plop down on the stoop.

Where the hell is he? Viktor’s always around. He has no life, apart from the school and his occasional affair with one of his students. The bastard. I get up and kick the door, and when there’s still no answer, I peek in the window.

The tiny carriage house is dark. I sniff the air, convinced I can catch a whiff of decay.

It’s not surprising. Viktor is a pig.

Then I notice three days’ worth of newspapers strewn next to the door. What if he’s gone away? But where would he go? I snuffle around the window again, wondering if the smell is an indication that he’s dead. Maybe he had a heart attack and, since he doesn’t have any friends, no one’s thought to look for him.

I bang on the window, which is totally useless. I look around for something to break it with, loosening a brick from the edge of the cobblestones. I raise it above my head, ready to attack.

“Looking for Viktor?” comes a voice from behind me.

I lower the brick and turn around.

The speaker is an elderly lady with a cat on a leash. She walks cautiously forward and bends down painstakingly to scoop up the papers. “Viktor’s gone,” she informs me. “I told him I’d save his newspapers. Lots of crooks around here.”

I surreptitiously drop the brick. “When is he coming back?”

She squints. “Friday? His mother died, poor thing. He’s gone to the Midwest to bury her.”

“Friday?” I take a step and nearly trip on the brick. I grab a vine of ivy to steady myself.

“That’s what he said. Friday.” The old woman bobs her head.

The reality of my situation hits me like a truckload of cement. “That’s too late!” I cry, as I let go of the vine and collapse to the ground in despair.

“Sparrow?” Samantha asks, coming into the living room. “What are you doing?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been sitting there for over an hour with your mouth hanging open. It’s not very attractive,” she scolds. When I don’t respond, she stands over me and knocks on my head. “Hello? Anyone home?”

I unhinge my eyes from a blank spot on the wall and swivel my head around to look at her.

She shakes a sheaf of newspaper pages in my face. “I thought we could have some fun. Work on my engagement announcement for
The New York Times
. You’re a writer. This should be a snap for you.”

“I’m not a writer. Not anymore,” I respond dully.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve had one small setback.” She settles in next to me with the pile of papers on her lap. “I’ve been collecting these since May. The wedding and engagement announcements in
The New York Times
. Also known as the ‘women’s sports pages.’”

“Who cares?” I lift my head.

“Everyone who’s anyone in New York, Sparrow,” she explains, as if talking to a child. “And it’s especially important because the
Times
won’t take just any old announcement. The man has to be Ivy League. And both parties need to come from the right sort of families. Old money is best, but new money will do. Or fame. If, for instance, the bride has a famous father, like an actor or a sculptor or a composer, she’ll definitely get in.”

“Why can’t you just get married?” I rub my cheeks. My skin is cold, as if I’ve lost all circulation.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Samantha asks. “Why get married in New York if you’re going to be a nobody? You might as well have stayed home. A wedding in New York is all about taking your proper place in society. It’s why we’re getting married at the Century Club. If you get married there, it’s a statement.”

“Meaning?”

She pats my leg. “You belong, Sparrow.”

“But what if you don’t? Belong.”

“For God’s sake, Sparrow. You
act
like you do. What is wrong with you? Have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you?”

And before I can protest, she goes to the typewriter, rolls a piece of paper into the carriage, and points at the chair. “You write. I’ll dictate.”

My shoulders slump, but I follow her order and place my hands on the keys, more out of rote than of conscious action.

Samantha plucks a page from her pile and scans the announcements. “Here’s a good one. ‘Miss Barbara Halters from Newport, Rhode Island, known to her friends as Horsie . . .’”

If she’s joking, it’s completely lost on me. “I thought you were from Weehawken.”

“Who wants to be from there? Put down ‘Short Hills.’ Short Hills is acceptable.”

“But what if someone checks—”

“They
won’t.
Can we please continue? Miss Samantha Jones—”

“What about ‘Ms.’?”

“Okay. Ms. Samantha Jones, of Short Hills, New Jersey, attended . . .” She pauses. “What college is near Short Hills?”

“I don’t know.”

“Just say ‘Princeton’ then. It’s close enough. Princeton,” she continues, satisfied with her choice. “And I graduated with a degree in . . . English literature.”

“No one’s going to believe that,” I protest, beginning to come to life. “I’ve never seen you read anything other than a self-help book.”

“Okay. Skip the part about my degree. It doesn’t matter anyway,” she says with a wave. “The tricky part is my parents. We’ll say my mother was a homemaker—that’s neutral—and my father was an international businessman. That way I can explain why he was never around.”

I take my hands off the keys and fold them in my lap. “I can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t lie to
The New York Times
.”

“You’re not the one who’s lying. I am.”

“Why
do
you
have to lie?”

“Carrie,” she says, becoming frustrated. “Everyone lies.”

“No, they don’t.”

“You lie. Didn’t you lie to Bernard about your age?”

“That’s different. I’m not marrying Bernard.”

She gives me a cold smile, as if she can’t believe I’m challenging her. “Fine. I’ll write it myself.”

“Be my guest.” I get up as she sits down in front of the typewriter.

She bangs away for several minutes while I watch. Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “Why can’t you tell the truth?”

“Because the truth isn’t good enough.”

“That’s like saying you’re not good enough.”

She stops typing. She sits back and folds her arms. “I am good enough. I’ve never had any doubt in my mind—”

“Why don’t you be yourself, then?”

“Why don’t
you
?” She jumps up. “You’re worried about
me
? Look at you. Sniveling around the apartment because you lost half your play. If you’re such a great writer, why don’t you write another one?”