A cab pulls up to the curb and a couple gets out. Maggie slides into the backseat. “Are you coming?”
“What choice do I have?” I grumble under my breath.
Maggie has written Capote’s address on the back of a napkin. “Green-wich Street?” she asks, pronouncing each syllable.
“It’s ‘Grenich.’”
She looks at me. “Okay. Grenich,” she says to the cabbie.
The taxi peels away, throwing me against Maggie. “Sorry,” I murmur coldly.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“Is it because I didn’t like Bernard?”
“How could you not like him.” It’s not a question.
She folds her arms. “Do you want me to lie to you?” And before I can protest, she continues, “He’s too old. I know he’s not as old as our parents, but he might as well be. And he’s strange. He’s not like anyone we grew up with. I just can’t see you with him.” To soften the blow, she adds kindly, “I’m only telling you this for your own good.”
I hate when friends tell you something is “for your own good.” How do they know it’s for your own good? Do they know the future? Maybe in the future, I’ll look back and see that Bernard has actually been “good for me.”
“Okay, Mags.” I sigh. The taxi is racing down Fifth Avenue, and I study each landmark: Lord & Taylor, the Toy Building, the Flatiron Building, committing each to memory. If I lived here forever, would I ever get tired of these sights?
“Anyway,” Maggie says cheerfully, “I forgot to tell you the most important part. Lali’s gone to France!”
“Really?” I ask dully.
“You know how the Kandesies have all that land? Well, some big developer came along and bought, like, fifty acres and now the Kandesies are millionaires.”
“I bet Lali went to France to meet Sebastian,” I say, trying to act like I care.
“That’s what I think too,” Maggie agrees. “And she’ll probably get him back. I always thought Sebastian was one of those guys who used women. He’ll probably be with Lali because of her money.”
“He has his own money,” I point out.
“Doesn’t matter. He’s a user,” Maggie says.
And while Maggie natters on, I spend the rest of the taxi ride thinking about relationships. There must be such a thing as “pure” love. But there also seems to be quite a bit of “impure” love as well. Look at Capote and Ryan with their models. And Samantha with her rich mogul boyfriend. And what about Maggie and her two boyfriends—one for show and one for sex? And then there’s me. Maybe what Maggie was hinting at is true. If Bernard wasn’t a famous playwright, would I even be interested?
The taxi pulls up in front of a pretty brownstone with chrysanthemums in the window boxes. I grit my teeth. I like to think of myself as a good person. A girl who doesn’t cheat or lie or pretend to be something she’s not in order to get a guy. But maybe I’m no better than anyone else. Maybe I’m worse.
“Come on,” Maggie says gaily, leaping from the cab and hurrying up the steps. “Now we can finally have fun!”
Chapter Fifteen
Capote’s apartment is not what I expected. The furniture consists of soft couches and armchairs, covered in chintz. There’s a small dining room with decorative plates on the walls. In the bedroom is an antique armoire; the bedspread is yellow chenille. “It looks like an old lady lives here,” I say.
“She does. Or did. The woman who lived here is an old family friend. She moved to Maine,” Capote explains.
“Right,” I say, dropping onto the couch. The springs are shot and I sink several inches below the cushions. Capote and his “old family friends,” I think grumpily. He seems to have an inside track on everything, including apartments. He’s one of those people who expect to get things with very little effort, and does.
“Drink?” he asks.
“What do you have?” Maggie says coquettishly.
Huh? I thought she was interested in Ryan. But maybe it’s Capote she’s after. On the other hand, maybe Maggie flirts with every guy she meets. Every guy except Bernard.
I shake my head. Either way, this situation can lead to no good. How did I get involved in the aiding and abetting of this?
“Anything you want, I have,” Capote replies. He doesn’t sound particularly flirtatious back. He actually sounds very matter-of-fact, as if he’s not exactly thrilled we’re here, but has decided to tolerate us nonetheless.
“Beer?” Maggie asks.
“Sure.” Capote opens the refrigerator, takes out a Heineken, and hands it to her. “Carrie?”
I’m surprised he’s being so polite. Maybe it’s his Southern upbringing. Manners trump personal dislikes.
“Vodka?” I get up and follow him into the kitchen. It’s a proper kitchen, with a counter that opens into the living room. I’m suddenly a bit envious. I wouldn’t mind living here in this charming old apartment with a fireplace and working kitchen. Several pans hang from a rod in the ceiling. “Do you cook?” I ask, with a mixture of sarcasm and surprise.
“I love to cook,” Capote says proudly. “Mostly fish. I’m famous for my fish.”
“I cook,” I say, somewhat defiantly, as if I know everything about it and far more than he can possibly comprehend.
“Like what?” He takes two tumblers out of the cabinet and sets them down, adding ice and vodka and a splash of cranberry juice.
“Everything,” I say. “Mostly desserts though. I’m really good at Bûche de Noël. It takes two days to make it.”
“I’d never want to dedicate that much time to cooking,” he says dismissively, raising his glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
The buzzer rings and Capote strides to the door, no doubt relieved at the interruption.
Ryan comes in with Rainbow and another girl, who’s the size of a twig. She has short dark hair, enormous brown eyes, acne, and is wearing a skirt that barely covers her bottom. For some reason, I’m immediately jealous. Despite the acne, she must be another one of Ryan’s model friends. I feel horribly out of place.
Rainbow’s eyes scour the room and land on me. She, too, looks as though she can’t imagine what I’m doing here.
“Hi.” I wave from the kitchen.
“Oh. Hi.” She comes over, while Ryan greets Maggie and plops next to her on the couch. “Are you serving drinks?” she asks.
“I guess so. What do you want? Capote says he has everything.”
“Tequila.”
I find the bottle and pour some into a glass. Why am I serving her? I wonder in annoyance. “So are you and Capote seeing each other?”
“No.” Her nose wrinkles. “What makes you say that?”
“You seem so close, is all.”
“We’re friends.” She pauses, looks around again, and seeing that Ryan is still engaged with Maggie and Capote is talking to the strange skinny girl, decides I’m her only option for conversation. “I would never go out with him. I think any girl who dates him is insane.”
“Why?” I take a gulp of my drink.
“She’ll have her heart broken.”
Well. I take another gulp of my drink, and add a little more vodka and ice. I don’t feel particularly drunk. In fact, I feel disturbingly sober. And resentful. Of everyone else’s life.
I join Maggie and Ryan on the couch. “What are you guys talking about?”
“You,” Ryan says. This is a person who cannot lie.
Maggie blushes. “Ryan!” she scolds.
“What?” he asks, looking from Maggie to me. “I thought you guys were best friends. Don’t best friends tell each other everything?”
“You know nothing about women,” Maggie giggles.
“At least I try. Unlike most men.”
“What about me?” I ask.
“Maggie was telling me about you and Bernard.” There’s a note of admiration in Ryan’s voice. Bernard Singer is obviously some kind of hero to both him and Capote. He??
?s exactly what they’d like to be someday. And apparently my association with him elevates my status. But I knew that, didn’t I?
“Maggie doesn’t like him. She says he’s too old.”
“I didn’t say that. I said he wasn’t right for you.”
“No man is ever too old,” Ryan says, half jokingly. “If Carrie can go out with a guy fifteen years older, it means there’s hope for me when I’m in my thirties.”
Maggie’s face twists in distaste. “You really want to date someone who’s seventeen when you’re thirty?”
“Maybe not seventeen.” Ryan winks. “I’d prefer it if she were legal.”
Maggie titters. Ryan’s looks and charm seem to have overcome his stupidity about women.
“Anyway, who’s seventeen?” he asks.
“Carrie,” Maggie says accusingly.
“I’ll be eighteen in a month.” I glare at her. Why is she doing this to me?
“Does Bernard know you’re seventeen?” Ryan asks with too much interest.
“No,” Maggie says. “She told me to lie and say she was nineteen.”
“Aha. The old lying-up trick,” Ryan teases.
The apartment buzzer goes off again. “Reinforcements,” Ryan announces as Maggie laughs. Five more people arrive—three scruffy guys and two very serious young women.
“Let’s go,” I say to Maggie.
Ryan looks at me in surprise. “You can’t go,” he insists. “The party’s just getting started.”
“Yeah.” Maggie agrees. “I’m having fun.” She holds out her empty beer bottle. “Do you mind getting me another?”
“Fine.” I get up, annoyed, and go into the kitchen. The new arrivals wander over and ask for drinks. I comply, because I don’t have anything better to do and there’s really no one I want to talk to at this party.
I spot the phone on the wall next to the refrigerator. Maggie is completely occupied with Ryan, who is now sitting cross-legged on the couch, entertaining her with what appears to be a long and animated story. I tell myself Maggie won’t mind if I take off without her. I pick up the phone and dial Bernard’s number.
It rings and rings. Where is he? A dozen scenarios run through my head. He went out to a club, but if he did, why didn’t he invite Maggie and me? Or he met another girl at Peartree’s and he’s with her, having sex. Or worse, he’s decided he doesn’t want to see me anymore and isn’t answering his phone.
The suspense is killing me. I call again.
Still no answer. I hang up, rattled. Now I’m really convinced I’m never going to see him again. I can’t bear it. I don’t care what Maggie says. What if I am in love with Bernard and Maggie just ruined it?
I search the room for her, but she and Ryan have disappeared. Before I can look for them, one of the shaggy guys strikes up a conversation.
“How do you know Capote?”
“I don’t,” I snap. Then I feel bad and add, “He’s in my writing class.”
“Ah yes. The fabled New School writing course. Is Viktor Greene still teaching?” he asks in a Boston accent.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, wanting to get away from him, “I have to find my friend.”
“What’s she look like?”
“Blond. Pretty. All-American?”
“She’s with Ryan. In the bedroom.”
I scowl at him like it’s his fault. “I have to get her out.”
“Why?” he asks. “They’re two healthy young animals. What do you care?”
I feel even more lost than I did just a few minutes ago. Are all my values and ideals just plain wrong? “I need to use the phone.”
“You’ve got somewhere better to go?” He laughs. “This is where it’s all happening.”
“I certainly hope not,” I mutter, dialing Bernard’s number. No answer. I slap down the phone and head to the bedroom.
The music is blaring while one of the serious girls bangs on the door of the bathroom. It finally opens and Capote comes out with Rainbow and the model girl. They’re laughing loudly. Normally, I’d love to be at a party like this, but all I can think about is Bernard. And if I can’t see him, I want to go home.
I want to crawl into Samantha’s bed and pull her slippery sheets over my head and cry.
“Maggie?” I knock briskly on the door. “Maggie, are you in there?” Silence. “I know you’re in there, Maggie.” I try the handle, but it’s locked. “Maggie, I want to go home,” I wail.
Finally, the bedroom door opens. Maggie is flushed, twisting her hair. Behind her, Ryan stands grinning, tugging on his pants. “Jesus, Carrie,” Maggie says.
“I need to go home. We have class tomorrow,” I remind Ryan, sounding like an old schoolmarm.
“Let’s go to your house, then,” Ryan suggests.
“No.”
Maggie gives me a look. “That’s a great idea.”
I weigh my options and decide it’s the better choice. At least I can get out of here.
We walk to Samantha’s building. Upstairs, Ryan extracts a bottle of vodka he pinched from Capote and proceeds to pour us drinks. I shake my head. “I’m tired.” While Ryan finds the stereo, I go into Samantha’s room and call Bernard.
The phone rings and rings. He’s still not there. It’s over.
I go out into the living room, where Maggie and Ryan are dancing. “Come on, Carrie.” Maggie holds out her arms. What the hell, I think, and join them. Within minutes, though, Maggie and Ryan are making out.
“Hey, guys. Cut it out,” I scold.
“Cut what out?” Ryan laughs.
Maggie takes his hand, leading him to the bedroom. “Do you mind? We’ll be right out.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Have a drink,” Ryan chortles.
They go into the bedroom and close the door. The Blondie album is still playing. “Heart of Glass.” That’s me, I think. I pick up my vodka and sit at the tiny table in the corner. I light up a cigarette. I try Bernard again.
I know it’s wrong. But something alien has taken over my emotions. Having sunk this far, the only place to go is down.
The album stops playing, and from inside the bedroom, I hear panting and the occasional comment, like, “Oh, that’s good.”
I light another cigarette. Do Maggie and Ryan have any idea how inconsiderate they are? Or do they simply not care?
I ring Bernard once more. Smoke another cigarette. An hour has passed and they’re still going at it. Aren’t they tired? Then I tell myself to get over it. I shouldn’t be so judgmental. I know I’m not perfect. But I would never do what they’re doing. I just wouldn’t.
I may have suddenly learned something about myself after all. I have what Miranda would call “boundaries.”
I should probably bunk down on the futon. Maggie and Ryan don’t sound like they’re going to be finished anytime soon. But anger and frustration and fear are keeping me wide awake. I smoke yet another cigarette and dial Bernard.
This time he answers on the second ring. “Hello?” he asks, confused as to who could be calling him at two in the morning.
“It’s me,” I whisper, suddenly realizing what a bad idea it was to call him.
“Carrie?” he asks sleepily. “What are you doing up?”
“Maggie is having sex,” I hiss.
“And?”
“She’s doing it with some guy from my class.”
“Are they doing it in front of you?”
What a question! “They’re in the bedroom.”
“Ah,” he says.
“Can I come over?” I don’t want to sound like I’m begging, but I am.
“Poor thing. You’re having a lousy night, aren’t you?”
“The worst.”
“Coming over here probably won’t make it better,” he cautions. “I’m tired. I need to sleep. And so do you.”
“We could just sleep then. It’d be nice.”
“I can’t do it tonight, Carrie. I’m sorry. Some other time.”
&n
bsp; I swallow. “Okay,” I say, sounding like a little mouse.
“Good night, kiddo,” he says, and hangs up.
I gently replace the receiver. I go to the futon and sit with my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth. My face screws up, and tears trickle out of the corners of my eyes.
Miranda was right. Men do suck.
Chapter Sixteen
Ryan sneaks out at five in the morning. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, pretending to be asleep, not wanting to look at him or talk to him. I hear his footsteps cross the floor, followed by the squeak of the door. Get over it, I scold myself. It’s not a big deal. They had sex. So what? It’s not my business. But still. Doesn’t Ryan care about his fiancée? And what about Maggie and her two boyfriends? Are there no limits when it comes to sex? Is sex really so powerful it can erase your history and common sense?
I fall into a fitful sleep and then a deeper one. I’m in the middle of a dream in which Viktor Greene is saying he loves me, except that Viktor looks just like Capote, when Maggie startles me awake.
“Hi,” she says cheerfully, as if nothing untoward has happened. “Want some coffee?”
“Sure,” I say, the whole rotten evening coming back to me. I’m drained and slightly angry again. I light a cigarette.
“You’re smoking a lot,” Maggie says.
“Ha,” I say, thinking about how much she smokes.
“Did you notice I quit?”
Actually, I hadn’t. “When?” I defiantly blow a few smoke rings.
“After I met Hank. He said it was disgusting and I realized he was right.”
I wonder what Hank would think about Maggie’s behavior last night.
She goes into the kitchen, finds the instant coffee and a kettle, and waits for the water to boil. “That was so much fun, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. I had a great time.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“What’s wrong now?” Maggie says. As if I’m the one who’s been constantly complaining.
It’s too early for a contentious discussion. “Nothing. But Ryan’s in my class—”
“Which reminds me. Ryan is taking me to a movie. By some Chinese director. The Seven something?”
“The Seven Samurai. By Kurosawa. He’s Japanese.”