Page 120 of Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

“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.