because of her.
Things are tense enough with Maggie as it is. Getting ready to go out tonight, she kept saying she couldn’t understand why I was “dressing up” to go to a bar. I tried to explain it wasn’t that kind of bar, but she only stared at me in incomprehension and said, “Sometimes I really do not get you.”
That’s when I had a moment of clarity: Maggie is never going to like New York. She’s constitutionally unsuited for the city. And when I realized this, my simmering animosity disappeared.
It’s okay. It’s not Maggie’s fault, or mine. It’s simply the way we are.
“There’s Bernard,” I say now, nudging Maggie past the maitre d’ to the bar. The interior of Peartree’s is slick- black walls with chrome sconces, black marble tables, and a mirror along the back wall. Samantha says it’s the best pickup place in town: She met Charlie here, and she gets irritated when he comes here without her, thinking he might meet another girl.
“Why is it so dark in here?” Maggie asks.
“It’s supposed to be mysterious.”
“What’s mysterious about not being able to see who you’re talking to?”
“Oh, Mags,” I say, and laugh.
I creep up behind Bernard and tap him on the shoulder. He starts, grins, and picks up his drink. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming. Thought maybe you’d had a better offer.”
“We did, but Maggie insisted we had to meet you first.” I briefly touch the back of his hair. It’s like a talisman for me. The first time I touched it I was shocked by its delicate softness, so much like a girl’s, and I was surprised by how tender it made me feel toward him, as if his hair was a harbinger of his soft, kind heart.
“You must be the friend,” he says, crinkling his eyes at Maggie. “Hello, friend.”
“Hello,” Maggie says cautiously. With her sun-bleached hair and pink cheeks, she’s as creamy as a wedding cake, in sharp contrast to Bernard’s angles and crooked nose, and the bags under his eyes that make him appear to be a person who spends all of his time inside-in dark caves like Peartree’s. I’m hoping Maggie will see the romance of him, but at the moment her expression is one of pure wariness.
“Drink?” Bernard asks, seemingly unaware of the culture clash.
“Vodka tonic,” I say.
“I’ll have a beer.”
“Have a cocktail,” I urge.
“I don’t want a cocktail. I want a beer,” Maggie insists.
“Let her have a beer if she wants one,” Bernard says jocularly, the implication being that I’m needlessly giving Maggie a hard time.
“Sorry.” My voice sounds hollow. I can already tell this is a mistake. I don’t have a clue how to reconcile my past-Maggie-with my present-Bernard.
Two men squeeze in next to Maggie, intent on establishing a place at the bar. “Should we get a table?” Bernard asks. “We could eat. I’d be happy to feed you girls dinner.”
Maggie gives me a questioning look. “I thought we were going to meet Ryan.”
“We could have dinner. The food’s good here.”
“It’s lousy. But the atmosphere is entertaining.” Bernard waves to the maitre d’ and motions to an empty table near the window.
“Come on.” I nudge Maggie and give her a meaningful look. Her stare is slightly hostile, as if she still doesn’t understand why we’re here.
Nevertheless, she follows Bernard to the table. He even pulls out her chair for her.
I sit next to him, determined to make this work. “How was the rehearsal?” I ask brightly.
“Lousy,” Bernard says. He smiles at Maggie to include her in the conversation. “There’s always a point in the middle of rehearsals when all the actors seem to forget their lines.”
Which is exactly how I feel right now.
“Why is that?” Maggie asks, playing with her water glass.
“I have no idea.”
“But they’ve been saying their lines for at least two weeks, right?” I frown, as if knowing Bernard has given me an inside track on the theater.
“Actors are like children,” Bernard says. “They sulk and get their feelings hurt.”
Maggie gives him a vacant look.
Bernard smiles tolerantly and opens his menu. “What would you like, Maggie?”
“I don’t know. Duck breast?”
“Good choice.” Bernard nods. “I’m going to have the usual. Skirt steak.”
Why does he sound so formal? Was Bernard always like this and I never noticed before? “Bernard is a creature of habit,” I explain to Maggie.
“That’s nice,” Maggie says.
“What do you always say about being a writer?” I ask him. “You know-about how you have to live a life of habit.”
Bernard nods indulgently. “Others have said it better than I can. But the basic idea is that if you’re a writer, you need to live your life on the page.”
“In other words, your real life should be as uncomplicated as possible,” I clarify to Maggie. “When Bernard is working he eats practically the same thing every day for lunch. A pastrami sandwich.”
Maggie attempts to look interested. “It sounds kind of boring. But I’m not a writer. I don’t even like writing a letter.”
Bernard laughs, playfully pointing a finger at me. “I think you need to take more of your own advice, young lady.” He shakes his head at Maggie, as if the two of them are in cahoots. “Carrie’s an expert at living large. I keep telling her to focus more on the page.”
“You’ve never said that,” I reply, indignant. I look down, as if I simply have to readjust my napkin. Bernard’s comment brings all of my insecurities about being a writer to the surface.
“I’ve been meaning to say it.” He squeezes my hand. “So there you go. I’ve said it. Do we want wine?”
“Sure,” I say, stung.
“Beaujolais okay for you, Maggie?” he asks politely.
“I like red,” Maggie says.
“Beaujolais is red,” I comment, and immediately feel like a heel.
“Maggie knew that,” Bernard says kindly. I look from one to the other. How did this happen? Why am I the bad guy? It’s like Bernard and Maggie are ganging up on me.
I get up to go to the bathroom. “I’ll come with you,” Maggie says. She follows me down the stairs as I try to compose myself.
“I really want you to like him,” I say, parking myself in front of the mirror while Maggie goes into the stall.
“I just met him. How can I know if I like him or not?”
“Don’t you think he’s sexy?” I ask.
“Sexy?” Maggie says. “I wouldn’t call him that.”
“But he is. Sexy,” I insist.
“If you think he’s sexy, that’s all that counts.”
“Well, I do. And I really, really like him.”
The toilet flushes and Maggie comes out. “He doesn’t seem very much like a boyfriend,” she ventures.
“What do you mean?” I take a lipstick out of my bag, trying not to panic.
“He doesn’t act like he’s your boyfriend. He seems like he’s more of an uncle or something.”
I freeze. “He certainly isn’t.”
“It just seems like he’s trying to help you. Like he likes you and, I don’t know-” She shrugs.
“It’s only because he’s going through a divorce,” I say.
“That’s too bad,” she remarks, washing her hands.
I apply the lipstick. “Why?”
“I wouldn’t want to marry a divorced man. It kind of ruins it, doesn’t it? The idea that a man has been married to someone else? I wouldn’t be able to take it. I’d be jealous. I want a guy who’s only ever been in love with me.”
