I freeze.
And suddenly, I’m suffocating. I put my hands on Bernard’s shoulders. “I can’t.”
“Something I said?” His lips close back over mine. My heart races. An artery throbs in my neck. I wriggle away.
He sits back on his haunches. “Too intense?”
I fan my face and laugh a little. “Maybe.”
“You’re not used to guys like me.”
“I guess not!” I stand up and brush myself off.
There’s a clap of thunder outside. Bernard comes up behind me, pushing my hair aside to mouth my neck. “Have you ever made love in a thunderstorm?”
“Not yet.” I giggle, trying to put him off.
“Maybe it’s time you did.”
Oh no. Right now? Is this the moment? My body trembles. I don’t think I can do it. I’m not prepared.
Bernard massages my shoulders. “Relax.” He leans in and nibbles my earlobe.
If I do it with him now, he’s going to compare me to Margie. I imagine them having sex all the time, in this apartment. I picture Margie kissing Bernard with an intensity that matches his, like in the movies. Then I see myself lying naked on that bare mattress, my arms and legs splayed out stiffly to the side.
Why didn’t I do it with Sebastian when I had the chance? At least I’d know how to do it. I never guessed someone like Bernard would come along. A grown man who obviously assumes his girlfriend has sex regularly and wants to do it all the time.
“C’mon,” he says gently, pulling at my hand.
I balk and he squints at me. “Don’t you want to make love?”
“I do,” I say quickly, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “It’s just that-”
“Yes?”
“I forgot my birth control.”
“Oh.” He drops my hand and laughs. “What do you use? A diaphragm?”
I blush. “Yeah. Sure. Uh-huh.” I nod.
“A diaphragm’s a pain. And it’s messy. With the cream. You use a cream with it, right?”
“Yes.” I mentally pedal backward to the health classes we had in high school. I picture the diaphragm, a funny little object that looks like a rubber cap. But I don’t recall any mention of cream.
“Why don’t you go on the pill? It’s so much easier.”
“I will. Yes indeedy.” I agree vigorously. “I keep meaning to get a prescription but-”
“I know. You don’t want to take the pill until you know the relationship is serious.”
My throat goes dry. Is this relationship serious? Am I ready for it? But in the next second, Bernard is lying on the bed, and has turned on the TV. Is it my imagination, or does he look slightly relieved?
“C’mere, puddy tat,” he says, patting the spot next to him. He holds out his hands. “Do you think my nails are too long?”
“Too long for what?” I frown.
“Seriously,” he says.
I take his hand in mine, running my fingers over the palm. His hands are lovely and lean, and I can’t help thinking about those hands on my body. The sexiest part of a man is his hands. If a man has girlish hands, it doesn’t matter what the rest of him is like. “They are, a little.”
“Could you cut them and file them for me?” he asks.
“Margie used to do it for me,” he explains. My heart softens. He’s so sweet. I had no idea a man could be so cozy. But it’s not surprising, given my limited experience with romance.
Bernard goes into the bathroom to get clippers and a nail file. I look around the spare bedroom. Poor Bernard, I think, for the hundredth time.
“Primate grooming,” he says when he returns. He sits across from me, and I begin carefully clipping his nails. I can hear the rain drumming on the awning below while I file rhythmically, the motion and the rain putting me into a soothing trance. Bernard strokes my arm and then my face as I lean over his hand.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply simply.
“This is what it should be like. No fighting. Or arguing about whose turn it is to walk the dog.”
“Did you have a dog?”
“A long-haired dachshund. He was Margie’s dog first, but she could never be bothered to pay attention to him.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
“Yeah. She stopped paying attention to me, too. It was all about her career.”
“That’s terrible,” I say, filing contentedly. I can’t imagine any woman ever losing interest in Bernard.
Chapter Eleven
I wake up the next morning with an idea.
Maybe it’s because of all the time I spent with Bernard, but I’m finally inspired. I know what I have to do: write a play.
This brilliant notion lasts for about three seconds before it’s crushed under a million and one reasons why it’s impossible. Like Bernard will think I’m copying him. Like I won’t be able to do it anyway. Like Viktor Greene won’t let me.
I sit on Samantha’s bed with my legs crossed, making faces. The fact is, I need to prove I can make it in New York. But how? Maybe I’ll get lucky and be discovered. Or maybe it will turn out I have hidden talents even I don’t know about. I clutch the silk bedcovers like a survivor clinging to a lifeboat. Despite my fears, it seems my life is starting to take off here-and Brown is less than seven weeks away.
I pluck at a thread. Not that there’s anything wrong with Brown, but I’ve already gotten in there. On the other hand, if New York were a college, I’d still be applying. And if all these other people can make it in New York, why can’t I?
I jump out of bed and run around the apartment just for the hell of it, throwing on my clothes while typing the following three sentences: “I will succeed. I must succeed. Damn everyone,” and then I grab my Carrie bag and practically slide down all five flights to the lobby.
I beetle up Fourteenth Street, expertly weaving through the crowd, picturing my feet flying a few inches off the ground. I turn right on Broadway and hurl myself into the Strand.
The Strand is a legendary secondhand bookstore where you can find any book for cheap. It’s musty and all the salespeople have a very big attitude, like they’re the keepers of the flame of high literature. Which wouldn’t matter, except the salespeople cannot be avoided. If you’re looking for a specific book, you can’t find it without help.
I buttonhole a weedy fellow wearing a sweater with elbow patches.
“Do you have
“I should hope so,” he says, crossing his arms.
“And
“Slow down. Do I look like a shoe salesman?”
“No,” I murmur, as I follow him into the stacks.
After fifteen minutes of searching, he finally finds
