Summer and the City

I fling out my arms. “Hello, New York!”

“Oh my.” I hear a deep, throaty laugh, followed by the sound of one person clapping. I turn around in horror, and there, in the wings, is Bernard, wearing sunglasses, an open white shirt, and Gucci loafers. Next to him is the clapper, whom I immediately recognize as the actress Margie Shephard. His ex-wife. What the hell is she doing here? And what must she think of me, after witnessing my little performance?

It doesn’t take long to find out, because the next thing she says is, “I see a star is born,” in a flinty voice.

“Take it easy, Margie,” Bernard says, having the sense to at least sound slightly annoyed by her.

“Hello. I’m Carrie.” I hold out my hand.

She does me the honor of shaking it, but doesn’t provide her own name, confident that I already know who she is. I think I’ll always remember what her hand feels like-the long, smooth fingers, the palm, warm and firm. Someday I’ll probably even say, “I met Margie Shephard. I shook her hand and she was amazing.”

Margie opens her mouth prettily, and emits a sly laugh. “Well, well,” she says.

Nobody can say, “Well, well,” and get away with it, except Margie Shephard. I can’t stop gaping at her. She isn’t technically beautiful, but has some kind of inner light that makes you think she’s one of the most attractive women you’ve ever seen.

I totally understand why Bernard married her. What I can’t understand is why he isn’t still married to her.

I don’t stand a chance.

“Nice to meet you,” Margie says, with a whisper of a wink at Bernard.

“Me too.” I stumble over the words. Margie probably thinks I’m an idiot.

She twinkles at Bernard. “We’ll continue this discussion later.”

“I suggest we don’t continue it at all,” Bernard mutters. Apparently he isn’t as starstruck by her as I am.

“I’ll call you.” Again, there’s the pretty smile, and the eyes that seem to know everything. “Good-bye, Carrie.”

“Good-bye.” I’m suddenly disappointed to see her go.

Bernard and I watch as she strides through the hallway, one hand caressing the back of her neck-a poignant reminder to Bernard of what he’s missing.

I swallow, prepared to apologize for my little show, but instead of being embarrassed, Bernard grabs me under my arms and presses me to him, spinning me around like a child. He kisses me all over my face. “Am I glad to see you, kiddo. You’ve got great timing. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

“No-”

“You do. If you hadn’t been here, I wouldn’t have been able to get rid of her. C’mon.” He grabs my hand and briskly leads me out the other end of the alley like a madman on a mission. “It’s you, baby,” he says. “When I saw you, it suddenly made sense.”

“Sense?” I ask breathlessly, trying to keep up, confused about his sudden adoration. It’s what I’d been hoping for, but now that he actually seems smitten, I’m a bit wary.

“Margie is over. Finished. I’m moving on.” We come out on Forty-fourth Street and head to Fifth Avenue. “You’re a woman. Where can I buy some furniture?”

“Furniture?” I laugh. “I have no idea.”

“Someone’s got to know. Excuse me.” He accosts a nicely dressed lady in pearls. “Where’s the best place to buy furniture around here?”

“What kind of furniture?” she asks, as if this kind of encounter with a stranger is perfectly normal.

“A table. And some sheets. And maybe a couch.”

“Bloomingdale’s,” she says, and moves on.

Bernard looks down at me. “You busy this afternoon? Got time to do some furniture shopping?”

“Sure.” It wasn’t exactly the romantic lunch I had in mind, but so what?

We jump into a cab. “Bloomingdale’s,” Bernard directs the driver. “And make it fast. We need to buy sheets.”

The cabbie smiles. “You two lovebirds getting married?”

“The opposite. I’m officially getting unmarried,” Bernard says, and squeezes my leg.

When we get to Bloomingdale’s, Bernard and I run around the fifth floor like two little kids, trying out the beds, bouncing on the sofas, pretending to drink tea from the china display. One of the salesmen recognizes Bernard (“Oh, Mr. Singer. It’s an honor. Will you sign this sales slip for my mother?”) and follows us around like a puppy.

Bernard buys a dining room set, a brown leather couch and ottoman, an armoire, and a pile of pillows, sheets, and towels. “Can I have it delivered right away?”

“Normally, no,” the salesman simpers. “But for you, Mr. Singer, I’ll try.”

“Now what?” I ask Bernard.

“We go to my apartment and wait.”

“I still don’t understand why Margie took the furniture,” I say as we stroll up Fifty-ninth Street.

“To punish me, I suppose.”

“But I thought she was the one who left,” I venture, carefully avoiding the word “cheated.”

“Chickadee, don’t you know anything about women? Fair play doesn’t enter into their vocabulary.”

“Not all women. I would never be like that. I’d be reasonable.”

“That’s what’s so great about you. You’re unspoiled.” Still holding hands, we breeze into his building, right past the nasty doorman. Take that, buddy, I think. In the apartment, Bernard puts on a record. Frank Sinatra. “Let’s dance,” he says. “I want to celebrate.”

“I can’t dance to this.”

“Sure you can.” He opens his arms. I rest one hand on his shoulder the way we learned to do in ballroom dancing classes, a million years ago when I was thirteen. He pulls me tighter, his breath scorching my neck. “I like you, Carrie Bradshaw. I really do. Do you think you can like me back?”

“Of course,” I giggle. “If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t dance with you.”

“I don’t believe that’s true. I think you’d dance with a man and when you got tired of him, you’d dance with another.”

“Never.” I twist my head to look at his face. His eyes are closed, his expression beatific. I still can’t fathom his new attitude. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was falling in love with me.

Or maybe he’s falling in love with the idea of falling in love with me. Maybe he wants to be in love with someone and I’ve ended up in the right place at the right time.

And suddenly, I’m nervous. If Bernard were to fall in love with me, I’d never be able to live up to his expectations. I’d end up being a disappointment. And what am I going to do if he tries to have sex with me?

“I want to know what happened,” I say, trying to change the subject. “Between you and Margie.”

“I told you what happened,” he murmurs.

“I meant this afternoon. What were you arguing about?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not.”

“The apartment,” he says. “We were arguing about the apartment. She wants it back and I said no.”

“She wants the apartment, too?” I ask, astounded.

“She might have convinced me if it weren’t for you.” He takes my hand and twirls me around and around. “When I saw you on that stage, I thought, That’s a sign.”

“What kind of sign?”

“A sign that I should put my life back together. Buy furniture. Make this place my home again.”

He lets go of my hand but I keep spinning and spinning until I collapse to the floor. I lie still as the bare room revolves around me and for a moment I picture myself in an insane asylum, in a white space with no furniture. I close my eyes, and when I open them again, Bernard’s face is hovering above mine. He has pretty eyelashes and a crease on either side of his mouth. A small mole is buried in the hair of his right eyebrow. “Crazy, crazy girl,” he whispers, before he leans in to kiss me.

I allow myself to be carried away by the kiss. Bernard’s mouth envelops mine, absorbing all reality until life seems to consist only of these lips and tongues engaged in a funny dance of their own.