Page 116 of Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

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.”