Summer and the City

“Alan Tier.”

When I look at her blankly, she adds, “The Tiers? The mega real estate family?” She shakes her head as if I’m hopeless. “Charlie is the oldest son. His father expects him to take over the business.”

“I see.”

“And it’s about time. You know how it is with men,” she says, as if I, too, am some kind of guy expert. “If a man doesn’t ask you to marry him—or at least live with him— after two years, he never will. It means he’s only interested in having a good time.” She folds her arms and puts her feet on the desk. “I’m as interested in having a good time as any man, but the difference between me and Charlie is that my clock is ticking. And his isn’t.”

Clocks? Ticking? I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I keep mum, nodding my head as if I understand.

“He may not have a timetable, but I do.” She holds up her hand and ticks off the moments on her fingers. “Married by twenty-five. Corner office by thirty. And somewhere in there—children. So when that bachelor story came out, I decided it was time to do something about Charlie. Speed things along.”

She pushes aside some papers on her desk to retrieve a battered copy of New York Magazine.

“Here.” She holds it out. The headline reads, NEW YORK’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELORS, above a photograph of several men standing on bleachers like a sports team in a high school yearbook. “That’s Charlie,” she says, pointing to a man whose face is partially hidden by a baseball cap. “I told him not to wear that stupid cap, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Do people still care about this stuff?” I ask. “I mean, aren’t debutantes and eligible bachelors sort of over?”

Samantha laughs. “You really are a rube, kiddo. If only it didn’t matter. But it does.”

“All right—”

“So I broke up with him.”

I smile knowingly. “But if you wanted to be with him—”

“It’s all about getting the guy to realize he wants to be with you.” She swings her feet off the desk and comes around to the side. I sit up, aware that I’m about to receive a valuable lesson in man management.

“When it comes to men,” she begins, “it’s all about their egos. So when I broke up with Charlie, he was furious. Couldn’t believe I’d leave him. Giving him no choice but to come crawling after me. Naturally, I resisted. ‘Charlie,’ I said. ‘You know how crazy I am about you, but if I don’t respect myself, who will? If you really care about me—I mean me as a person and not just as a lover—then you’re going to have to prove it. You’re going to have to make a commitment.’”

“And did he?” I ask, on the edge of my seat.

“Well, obviously,” she says, waving her ringed finger. “And it didn’t hurt that the Yankees are on strike.”

“The Yankees?”

“Like I said, he’s obsessed. You don’t know how many baseball games I’ve had to sit through in the last two years. I’m more of a football girl, but I kept telling myself that someday, it’d be worth it. And it was. With no baseball, Charlie didn’t have anything to distract him. And voilà,” she says, indicating her hand.

I take the opportunity to mention Bernard. “Did you know Bernard Singer was married?”

“Of course. He was married to Margie Shephard. The actress. Why? Did you see him?”

“Last night,” I say, blushing.

“And?”

“We kissed.”

“That’s it?” She sounds disappointed.

I squirm in my chair. “I only just met him.”

“Bernard’s a bit of a mess right now. Which is not surprising. Margie walked all over him. Cheated on him with one of the actors in his play.”

“You’re kidding,” I say, aghast.

Samantha shrugs. “It was in all the papers so it’s hardly a secret. Not very nice for Bernard, but I always say there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Besides, New York is a small town. Smaller than small, if you really think about it.”

I nod carefully. Our interview seems to be over. “I wanted to return the twenty dollars you gave me,” I say quickly, digging around in my pocket. I pull out a twenty-dollar bill and hand it to her.

She takes the bill and smiles. And then she laughs. I suddenly wish I could laugh like that—knowing and tinkling at the same time.

“I’m surprised,” she says. “I wasn’t expecting to see you, or my twenty dollars, ever again.”

“And I wanted to thank you. For lending me the money. And for taking me to the party. And for introducing me to Bernard. If there’s anything I can do—”

“Not a thing,” she says, rising to her feet.

She walks me to the door and holds out her hand. “Good luck. And if you need to borrow another twenty sometime—well, you know where to find me.”

“Are you sure nobody called?” I ask L’il for the twentieth time.

“I’ve been here since two. The phone didn’t ring once.”

“He might have called. While you were visiting your mother’s friend. In the hospital.”

“Peggy was home then,” L’il points out. “But maybe he did call and Peggy didn’t tell me. On purpose.”

L’il gives her hair a firm brush. “Why would Peggy do that?”

“Because she hates me?” I ask, rubbing my lips with gloss.

“You only saw him last night,” L’il says. “Guys never call the next day. They like to keep you guessing.”

“I don’t like to be kept guessing. And he said he would call—” I break off as the phone rings. “It’s him!” I yelp. “Can you get it?”

“Why?” L’il grumbles.

“Because I don’t want to seem too eager. I don’t want him to think I’ve been sitting by the phone all day.”

“Even though you have?” But she picks up the phone anyway. I wait in anticipation as she nods and holds out the receiver. “It’s your father.”

Of course. His timing couldn’t be worse. I called him yesterday and left a message with Missy, but he didn’t call back. What if Bernard tries to call while I’m talking to my father and it’s busy? “Hi, Dad,” I sigh.

“Hi, Dad? Is that how you greet your father? Whom you haven’t called once since you got to New York?”

“I did call you, Dad.” My father, I note, sounds slightly strange. Not only is he in a really good mood, he doesn’t seem to remember that I tried to reach him. Which is fine by me. So many things have happened since I’ve arrived in New York—not all of which my father would consider good—that I’ve been dreading this conversation. Unnecessarily, it seems.

“I’ve been really busy,” I say.

“I’m sure you have.”

“But everything’s great.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says. “Now that I know you’re still alive, I can rest easy.” And with a quick good-bye, he hangs up.

This really is odd. My father has always been distracted, but he’s never been this enthusiastic and removed. I tell myself it’s only because my father, like most men, hates talking on the phone.

“Are you ready?” L’il demands. “You’re the one who wanted to go to this party. And we can’t get home too late. I don’t want Peggy locking both of us out this time.”

“I’m ready,” I sigh. I grab my Carrie bag, and with one last, longing look at the phone, follow her out.

A few minutes later, we’re strolling down Second Avenue in a flurry of giggles as we do our best Peggy imitations.

“I’m so glad I got you as a roommate,” L’il says, taking my arm.

There’s a line in front of the entrance to the Puck Building, but by now we’ve realized that in New York, there’s a line for everything. We’ve already passed three lines on Second Avenue: two in front of movie theaters, and one for a cheese shop. Neither L’il nor I could understand why so many people felt they needed cheese at nine p.m., but chalked it up to yet another fascinating mystery about Manhattan.

We get through the line pretty quick, though, and find ourselves in an enormous room filled with what appears to be every variety of young person. There are rocker types in leather and punk kids with piercings and crazy-colored hair. Tracksuits and heavy gold chains and shiny gold watches. A glittering disco ball spins from the ceiling, but the music is something I’ve never heard, discordant and haunting and insistent, the kind of music that demands you dance. “Let’s get a drink,” I shout to L’il. We make our way to the side, where I’ve spotted a makeshift bar set up on a long plywood table.

“Hey!” a voice exclaims. It’s the arrogant blond guy from our class. Capote Duncan. He has his arm around a tall, painfully thin girl with cheekbones like icebergs. Who must be a model, I think, in annoyance, realizing that maybe L’il was right about Capote’s ability to get girls.

“I was just saying to Sandy here,” he says, in a slight Southern accent, indicating the startled girl next to him, “that this party is like something out of Swann’s Way.”

“Actually, I was thinking Henry James,” L’il shouts back.

“Who’s Henry James?” the girl named Sandy asks. “Is he here?”

Capote smiles as if the girl has said something charming and tightens his grip around her shoulders. “No, but he could be if you wanted.”

Now I know I was right. Capote is an asshole. And since no one is paying attention to me anyway, I figure I’ll get a drink on my own and catch up with L’il later.

I turn away, and that’s when I spot her. The red-haired girl from Saks. The girl who found my Carrie bag.

“Hi!” I say, frantically waving my arm as if I’ve discovered an old friend.

“Hi what?” she asks, put out, taking a sip of beer.

“It’s me, remember? Carrie Bradshaw. You found my bag.” I hold the bag up to her face to remind her.

“Oh, right,” she says, unimpressed.

She doesn’t seem inclined to continue the conversation, but for some reason, I do. I suddenly have a desire to placate her. To make her like me.

“Why do you do that, anyway?” I ask. “That protesting thing?”

She looks at me arrogantly, as if she can hardly be bothered to answer the question. “Because it’s important?”

“Oh.”

“And I work at the battered women’s center. You should volunteer sometime. It’ll shake you out of your secure little world,” she says loudly over the music.

“But . . . doesn’t it make you think all men are bad?”

“No. Because I know all men are bad.”

I have no idea why I’m even having this conversation. But I can’t seem to let it—or her—go. “What about being in love? I mean, how can you have a boyfriend or husband knowing this stuff?”

“Good question.” She takes another sip of her beer and looks around the room, glaring.

“I meant what I said,” I shout, trying to regain her attention. “About thanking you. Could I buy you a cup of coffee or something? I want to hear more about . . . what you do.”

“Really?” she asks, dubious.

I nod enthusiastically.

“Okay,” she says, giving in. “I guess you could call me.”

“What’s your name?”

She hesitates. “Miranda Hobbes. H-o-b-b-e-s. You can get my number from information.”

And as she walks away, I nod, making a dialing motion with my finger.

Chapter Seven

“It’s Chinese silk. From the 1930s.”

I finger the blue material lovingly and turn it over. There’s a gold dragon stitched on the back. The robe is probably way more than I can afford, but I try it on anyway. The sleeves hang at my sides like folded wings. I could really fly in this.

“That looks good on you,” the salesman adds. Although “salesman” is probably not the right word for a guy in a porkpie hat, plaid pants, and a black Ramones T-shirt. “Purveyor” might be more appropriate. Or “dealer.”

I’m in a vintage clothing store called My Old Lady. The name of which turns out to be startlingly appropriate.

“Where do you get this stuff?” I ask, reluctant to remove the robe but too scared to ask the price.

The owner shrugs. “People bring things in. Mostly from their old relatives who have died. One man’s trash is another one’s treasure.”

“Or one woman’s,” I correct him. I screw up my courage. “How much is this, anyway?”

“For you? Five dollars.”

“Oh.” I slide my arms out of the sleeves.

He wags his head back and forth, considering. “What can you pay?”

“Three dollars?”

“Three fifty,” he says. “That old thing’s been sitting around for months. I need to get rid of it.”

“Done!” I exclaim.

I exit the store still wearing the robe, and head back up to Peggy’s.

This morning, when I tried to face the typewriter, I once again drew a blank. Family. I thought I could write about my own, but they suddenly felt as foreign to me as French people. French people made me think of La Grenouille, and that made me think about Bernard. And how he still hasn’t called. I considered calling him, but told myself not to be weak. Another hour passed, in which I clipped my toenails, braided and unbraided my hair, and scanned my face for blackheads.

“What are you doing?” L’il demanded.

“I’ve got writer’s block.”

“There’s no such thing as writer’s block,” she proclaimed. “If you can’t write it’s because you don’t have anything to say. Or you’re avoiding something.”

“Hmph,” I said, squeezing my skin, wondering if maybe I just wasn’t a writer after all.

“Don’t do that,” L’il yelped. “You’ll only make it worse. Why don’t you go for a walk or something?”

So I did. And I knew exactly where to go. Down to Samantha’s neighborhood, where I’d spotted the vintage store on Seventh Avenue.

I catch my reflection in a plate-glass window and stop to admire the robe. I hope it will bring me good luck and I’ll be able to write. I’m getting nervous. I don’t want to end up in Viktor’s 99.9 percent of failed students.

“My Lord!” L’il exclaims. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

“I feel like something the cat dragged in. But look what I got.” I spin around to show off my new purchase.

L’il appears doubtful, and I realize how flaky I must seem, shopping instead of writing. Why do I keep evading my work? Is it because I’m afraid of being confronted by my lack of abilities?

I collapse onto the love seat and gently ease off my sandals. “It was about fifty blocks away and my feet are killing me. But it was worth it,” I add, trying to convince myself.

“I finished my poem,” L’il says casually.

I smile, biting back envy. Am I the only one who has to struggle? L’il doesn’t seem to labor at all. But that’s probably because she’s way more talented.

“And I got some Chinese food, too,” she says. “Moo shu pork. There’s plenty left over if you want some.”

“Oh, L’il. I don’t want to eat your food.”

“No need to stand on ceremony.” She shrugs. “Besides, you’ve got to eat. How can you work if you’re hungry?”

She’s right. And it will give me a few more minutes to put off writing.

L’il sits on my bed as I polish off the moo shu pork straight from the carton.

“Don’t you ever get scared?” I ask.

“Of what?” she says.

“Of not being good enough.”

“You mean at writing?” L’il asks.

I nod. “What if I’m the only one who thinks I can do it and no one else does? What if I’m completely fooling myself—”

“Oh, Carrie.” She smiles. “Don’t you know that every writer feels that way? Fear is part of the job.”

She picks up her towel to take a long bath, and while she’s in the bathroom, I manage to eke out one page, and then two. I type in a title, “Home.” I cross it out and write, “My New Home.” This somehow reminds me of Samantha Jones. I picture her in her four-poster bed, wearing fancy lingerie and eating chocolates, which, for some strange reason, is how I imagine she spends her weekends.

I push these thoughts out of my head and try to focus, but now the throbbing in my feet is overwhelming and I can’t concentrate for the pain.

“L’il?” I knock on the bathroom door. “Do you have any aspirin?”

“I don’t think so,” she calls out. “Damn.” Peggy must have aspirin somewhere. “Can I come in?” I ask. L’il is in the shallow tub, under a soft pile of bubbles. I check the medicine cabinet. Nothing. I look around, my gaze resting on the closed door to Peggy’s bedroom.

Don’t do it, I think, remembering Peggy’s one final rule. We’re not allowed into her room. Ever. Under any circumstances. Her bedroom is strictly verboten.

I carefully open the door.

“What are you doing?” L’il shrieks, jumping out of the tub and grabbing her towel. Remnants of bubbles cling to her shoulders.

I put my finger to my lips to shush her. “I’m only looking for aspirin. Peggy’s so cheap, she probably keeps the aspirin hidden in her room.”

“What if she realizes some of her aspirin is missing?”

“Even Peggy can’t be that crazy.” I push the door wider. “You’d have to be really wacky to count your aspirin. Besides,” I hiss, “aren’t you dying to know what her room’s like?”

The blinds are drawn, so it takes a second for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I squeal in horror.

Peggy’s bed is covered with bears. Not real bears, of course, but what appears to be every variation on the stuffed animal kind. There are big bears and small bears, bears holding tennis rackets and bears wearing aprons. Bears with pink fur and bears with earmuffs. There’s even a bear that appears to be constructed entirely of clothespins.

“That’s her big secret?” L’il asks, disappointed. “Bears?”

“She’s a middle-aged woman. What kind of middle-aged woman has stuffed animals all over her room?”

“Maybe she collects them,” L’il says. “People do, you know.”

“Not normal people.” I pick up the pink bear and hold it in front of L’il’s face. “Hello,” I say, in a funny voice. “My name is Peggy and I’d like to explain a few of my rules. But first I need to put on my rubber suit—”

“Carrie, stop,” L’il pleads, but it’s too late. We’re already in stitches.

“Aspirin,” I remind her. “If you were Peggy, where would you keep it?” My eye goes to the top drawer in Peggy’s bedside table. Like everything else in the apartment, it’s cheap, and when I tug on the knob, the whole drawer flies out, spilling the contents onto the floor.

“Now she’s going to kill us for sure,” L’il moans.

“We won’t tell her,” I say, scrambling to pick up the pieces. “Besides, it’s only a bunch of pictures.” I begin gathering the snapshots when I’m startled by what seems to be an image of a naked breast.

I take a closer look.

Then I scream and drop the picture like it’s on fire.

“What is it?” L’il shouts.

I sit down on the floor, shaking my head in disbelief. I pick up the photograph and examine it more closely, still not convinced. But it’s exactly what I thought it was. I shuffle through the other photographs, trying to suppress my laughter. They’re of Peggy, all right, but in each and every one of them she’s buck naked.

And not just any old naked. She’s arranged herself like a model in a porn magazine.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t exactly look like one. “L’il?” I ask, wanting to delve into this mystery of why Peggy would have posed for these photographs and who might have taken them, but L’il is gone. I hear a faint thud as the door to her room closes, followed by the louder bang of the front door. And before I have a chance to move, Peggy is standing over me.

We both freeze. Peggy’s eyes get bigger and bigger as her face turns from red to purple and I wonder if her head is going to explode. She opens her mouth and raises her arm.

The photograph falls from my fingers as I shrink back in fear.

“Get out! Get out!” she screams, swatting at my head. I drop to my hands and knees, and before she can figure out what’s happening, crawl between her legs to the hall. I stand up, run to my room, and shut the door.

She immediately yanks it open. “Listen, Peggy—” I begin, but really, what can I say? Besides, she’s shouting too much for me to get a word in.

“The minute I laid eyes on you, I knew you were trouble. Who do you think you are, coming into my home and going through my things? Where did you grow up? In a barn? What kind of animal are you?”

“A bear?” I want to say. But she’s right. I did violate her privacy. I knew it was wrong and I did it anyway. It was worth it to see those naked photos, though.

“I want you, and your stuff, out of here now!”

“But—”

“You should have thought about your ‘buts’ before you went into my room,” she snaps, which doesn’t help much, because after seeing those photographs, all I can think about is her butt. Indeed, I’m so absorbed by the image, I hardly notice her segue into how good it will be for me to spend a night or two on the streets.

The next thing I know, she’s pulling my suitcase out from under the bed and heaving it onto the mattress. “Start packing,” she orders. “I’m going out for twenty minutes and when I get back, you’d better be gone. If you’re not, I’m calling the police.”

She grabs her purse and storms out.

I stand there in shock. The plywood door opens and L’il comes in, white as a sheet.

“Oh, Lord, Carrie,” she whispers. “What are you going to do?”

“Leave,” I say, picking up a pile of my clothes and dumping them into the suitcase.

“But where will you go? This is New York City. It’s night and it’s dangerous. You can’t be out there on your own. What if you’re attacked or end up dead? Maybe you could go to the YMCA—”

I’m suddenly angry. At Peggy and her irrationality. “I have plenty of places to go.”

“Like where?”

Good question.

I slip on the Chinese robe for good luck and snap my suitcase shut. L’il looks dazed, as if she can’t believe I’m going to carry through with my plan. I give her a wan smile and a brief hug. My stomach is clenched in fear, but I’m determined not to back down.

L’il follows me to the street, begging me to stay. “You can’t just leave with no place to go.”

“Honestly, L’il. I’ll be fine,” I insist, with way more confidence than I actually feel.

I hold out my arm and hail a cab.

“Carrie! Don’t,” L’il pleads as I shove my suitcase and typewriter into the backseat.

The cab driver turns around. “Where to?”

I close my eyes and grimace.

Thirty minutes later, stuck outside in the torrential rain of a thunderstorm, I wonder what I was thinking.

Samantha’s not home. In the back of my mind, I guess I was figuring if Samantha wasn’t there, I could always go to Bernard’s and throw myself on his mercy. But now, having splurged on one cab, I don’t have enough money for another.

A rivulet of water runs down the back of my neck. My robe is soaked and I’m scared and miserable but I attempt to convince myself that everything is going to be all right. I imagine the rain washing the city clean, and washing Peggy away with it.

But another rumble of thunder changes my mind, and suddenly I’m being attacked by pinpricks of ice. The rain has turned to hail and I need to find shelter.

I drag my suitcase around the corner, where I spot a small, glass-fronted shop at the bottom of a short flight of steps. At first, I’m not sure it even is a store, but then I see a big sign that reads, no change—do not even ask. I peer through the glass and spot a shelf dotted with candy bars. I pull open the door and go inside.

A strange, hairless man who looks quite a bit like a boiled beet is sitting on a stool behind a Plexiglas barrier. There’s a small opening cut into the plastic where you can slide your money across the counter. I’m dripping all over the floor, but the man doesn’t seem to mind. “What can I get for you, girlie?” he asks.

I look around in confusion. The store is even tinier on the inside than it looked from the outside. The walls are thin and there’s a door in the back that’s bolted shut.

I shiver. “How much for a Hershey’s bar?”

“Twenty-five cents.”

I reach into my pocket and extract a quarter, sliding it through the slot. I pick out a candy bar and start to unwrap it. It’s pretty dusty, and I immediately feel sorry for the man. Apparently he doesn’t have much business. I wonder how he’s able to survive.