Chapter Seventeen
“What do we do first?” Samantha asks, clapping her hands in an attempt at enthusiasm.
I look at her like she has to be kidding. “Well, first we buy the food,” I say, as if I’m talking to a kindergartner.
“Where do we do that?”
My jaw drops in disbelief. “At a supermarket?” When Samantha said she knew nothing about cooking, I never assumed she meant absolutely nothing, including the fact that “food” is usually made from “ingredients” purchased at a “supermarket.”
“And where’s the supermarket?”
I want to scream. Instead, I stare at her blankly.
She’s sitting behind her desk in her office, wearing a low-cut sweater with linebacker shoulders, pearls, and a short skirt. She looks sexy, cool, and collected. I, on the other hand, look ragged and out of place, especially as I’m wearing what is basically some old lady’s slip that I’ve cinched with a cowboy belt. Another great find at the vintage store. “Have you considered takeout?” I ask smartly.
She emits her tinkling laugh. “Charlie thinks I can cook. I don’t want to disabuse him of the fact.”
“And why, pray tell, does he think that?”
“Because I told him, Sparrow,” she says, becoming slightly irked. She stands up and puts her hands on her hips. “Haven’t you heard the expression ‘Fake it till you make it’? I’m the original fake-it girl.”
“Okay.” I throw up my hands in defeat. “I’ll need to see Charlie’s kitchen first. See what kind of pans he has.”
“No problem. His apartment is spectacular. I’ll take you there now.” She picks up a giant Kelly bag, which I’ve never seen before.
“Is that new?” I ask, half in admiration and half in envy.
She strokes the soft leather before she slings it over her shoulder. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Charlie bought it for me.”
“Some people have quite the life.”
“Play your cards right, and you’ll have quite the life too, Sparrow.”
“How’s this grand scheme of yours going to go down?” I ask. “What if Charlie finds out-”
She waves this away. “He won’t. The only time Charlie’s been in the kitchen is when we have sex on the counter.”
I make a face. “And you honestly expect me to prepare food on it?”
“It’s clean, Carrie. Haven’t you ever heard of maids?”
“Not in my universe.”
We’re interrupted by the entry of a short man with sandy brown hair who looks exactly like a tiny Ken doll. “Are you leaving?” he says sharply to Samantha.
A flash of annoyance crosses her face before she quickly composes herself. “Family emergency,” she says.
“What about the Smirnoff account?” he demands.
“Vodka has been around for over two hundred years, Harry. I daresay it will still be here tomorrow. My sister, on the other hand,” she says, indicating me, “may not.”
As if on cue, my entire body floods in embarrassment, rendering me bright red.
Harry, however, isn’t buying it. He scrutinizes me closely-apparently, he needs glasses but is too vain to wear them. “Your sister?” he asks. “When did you get a sister?”
“Really, Harry.” Samantha shakes her head.
Harry stands aside to let us pass, then follows us down the hall. “Will you be back later?”
Samantha stops and slowly turns around. Her lips curl into a smile. “My goodness, Harry. You sound just like my father.”
This does the trick, all right. Harry turns about fifteen shades of green. He’s not much older than Samantha, and I’m sure the last thing he expected was to be compared to someone’s old man.
“What was that about?” I ask, when we’re out on the street.
“Harry?” she says, unconcerned. “He’s my new boss.”
“You talk to your new boss like that?”
“Have to,” she says. “Considering how he talks to me.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, let’s see,” she says, pausing at the light. “On his first day of work, he comes into my office and says, ‘I’ve heard you’re highly competent at everything you put your mind to.’ Sounds like a compliment, right? But then he adds, ‘Both in and out of the office.’”
“Can he actually get away with that?”
“Of course.” She shrugs. “You’ve never worked in an office, so you have no idea. But eventually, sex always comes up. When it does, I give it right back to them.”
“But shouldn’t you tell someone?”
“Who?” she says. “His boss? Human Resources? He’ll either say he was joking or I came on to him. What if I’m fired? I don’t plan to sit at home all day, popping out babies and baking cookies.”
“I don’t know about your mothering skills, but considering your cooking abilities, it’s probably not a good idea.”
“Thank you,” she says, having made her point.
Samantha may have lied to Charlie about her culinary knowledge, but she wasn’t kidding about the apartment. His building is on Park Avenue in Midtown, and it’s gold. Not real gold, of course, but some kind of shiny gold metal. And if I thought the doormen in Bernard’s building were sharp, the doormen in Charlie’s building have them beat. Not only are they wearing white gloves, they’re sporting caps with gold braid. Even their uniforms have loops of gold braid hanging from the shoulders. It’s all pretty tacky. But impressive.
“You really live here?” I ask in a whisper as we cross the lobby. It’s marble and it echoes.
“Of course,” she says, greeting a doorman who is politely holding the elevator. “It’s very me, don’t you think? Glamorous yet classy.”
“I guess that’s one way to look at it,” I murmur, taking in the smoky mirrored walls that line the interior of the lift.
Charlie’s apartment is, not surprisingly, enormous. It’s on the forty-fifth floor with floor-to-ceiling windows, a sunken living room, another wall of smoky mirrors, and a large Plexiglas case filled with baseball memorabilia. I’m sure it has several bedrooms and bathrooms, but I don’t get to see them because Samantha immediately directs me to the kitchen. It, too, is enormous, with marble countertops and gleaming appliances. It’s new all right. Too new.
“Has anyone ever cooked in here?” I ask, opening the cabinets to look for pots and pans.
“I don’t think so.” Samantha pats me on the shoulder. “You’ll figure it out. I have faith in you. Now wait till you see what I’m going to wear.”
“Great,” I mutter. The kitchen is practically bare. I find a roll of aluminum foil, some muffin tins, three bowls, and a large frying pan.
“Ta-da!” She says, reappearing in the doorway in a French maid’s outfit. “What do you think?”
“If you’re planning to work on Forty-second Street, it’s just peachy.”
“Charlie loves it when I wear this.”
“Look, sweetie,” I say, between gritted teeth. “This is a dinner party. You can’t wear that.”
“I know,” she says, exasperated. “God, Carrie, can’t you take a joke?”
“Not when I have to prepare an entire meal with three bowls and a roll of aluminum foil. Who’s coming to this shindig anyway?”
She holds up her hand. “Me, Charlie, some really boring couple who Charlie works with, another really boring couple, and Charlie’s sister, Erica. And my friend Cholly, to liven things up.”
“Cholly?”
“Cholly Hammond. You met him at the same party where you met Bernard.”
“The seersucker guy.”
“He runs a literary magazine. You’ll like him.”
