We started by fooling around on the new couch. Then we moved into the bedroom and fooled around while we watched TV. Then we ordered Chinese food (why does sex always seem to make people hungry?) and fooled around some more. We finished off with a bubble bath. Bernard was very gentle and sweet, and he didn’t even try to put in the old weenie. Or at least I’m pretty sure he didn’t. Miranda says the guy really has to jam it in there, so I doubt I could have missed it.
I wonder if Bernard secretly knows I’m a virgin. If there’s something about me that flashes “undefiled.”
“Hiya, butterfly,” he says now, stretching his arms toward the ceiling. He rolls over and smiles, and moves in for a kiss, morning breath and all.
“Have you gotten the pill yet?” Bernard asks, making coffee in the spiffy new machine that gurgles like a baby’s belly.
I casually light a cigarette and hand him one. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
Good question. “I forgot?”
“Pumpkin, you can’t neglect these kinds of things,” he chastises gently.
“I know. But it’s just that-with my father and his new girlfriend-I’ll take care of it this week, I promise.”
“If you did, you could spend the night more often.” Bernard sets two cups of coffee on the sleek dining room table. “And you could get a small valise for your things.”
“Like my toothbrush?” I giggle.
“Like whatever you need,” he says.
A valise, huh? The word makes spending the night sound planned and glamorous, as opposed to last-minute and smutty. I laugh. A valise sounds very expensive. “I don’t think I can afford a
“Oh well then.” He shrugs. “Something nice. So the doormen won’t be suspicious.”
“They’ll be suspicious if I’m carrying a plastic grocery bag but not if I’m carrying a valise?”
“You know what I mean.”
I nod. With a valise, I wouldn’t look so much like a troubled teenager he’d picked up at Penn Station. Which reminds me of Teensie.
“I met your agent. At a party,” I say easily, not wanting to ruin the mood.
“Did you?” He smiles, clearly unconcerned about the incident. “Was she a dragon lady?”
“She practically ripped me to shreds with her claws,” I say jokingly. “Is she always like that?”
“Pretty much.” He rubs the top of my head. “Maybe we should have dinner with her. So the two of you can get to know each other.”
“Whatever you want, Mr. Singer,” I purr, climbing into his lap. If he wants me to have dinner with his agent, it means our relationship is not only back on track, but speeding forward like a European train. I kiss him on the mouth, imagining I’m a Katharine Hepburn character in a romantic black-and-white movie.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Later, on my way downtown, I pass a store for medical supplies. In the window are three mannequins. Not the pretty kind you see in Saks or Bergdorf’s, where they make the mannequins from molds of actual women, but the scary cheap ones that look like oversized dolls from the 1950s. The dolls are wearing surgical scrubs, and it suddenly hits me that scrubs would make the perfect New York uniform. They’re cheap, washable, and totally cool.
And they come neatly packaged in cellophane. I buy three pairs in different colors, and remember what Bernard said about a valise.
The only good thing about going to my father’s this weekend was that I found an old binoculars case that belonged to my mother, which I purloined to use as a handbag. Perhaps other items can be similarly repurposed as well. When I trip by a fancy hardware store, I spot the perfect carryall.
It’s a carpenter’s tool bag, made of canvas with a real leather bottom, big enough for a pair of shoes, a manuscript, and a change of scrubs. And it’s only six dollars. A steal.
I buy the tool bag and stick my purse and scrubs into it, grab my suitcase, and head to the train.
It’s been humid the past few days, and when I enter Samantha’s apartment there’s a closed-in smell, as if every odor has been trapped. I breathe deeply, partly due to relief at being back, and partly because this particular smell will always remind me of New York and Samantha. It’s a mixture of old perfume and scented candles, cigarette smoke and something else I can’t quite identify: a sort of comforting musk.
I put on the blue scrubs, make a cup of tea, and sit down at the typewriter. All summer I’ve been terrified about facing the blank page. But maybe because I went home and realized I have worse things to worry about-like not making it and ending up like Wendy-that I’m actually excited. I have hours and hours stretching before me in which to write. Tenacity, I remind myself. I’m going work until I finish this play. And I will not answer the phone. In an effort to make good on my promise, I even unplug it.
I write for four hours straight, until hunger forces me out in search of food. I wander dazedly into the deli, the characters still in my head, yapping away as I buy a can of soup, heat it up, and place it next to my typewriter so I can eat and work. I beetle on for quite a while, and when I finally feel finished for the day, I decide to visit my favorite street.
It’s a tiny, brick-paved path called Commerce Street-one of those rare places in the West Village that you can never find if you’re actually looking for it. You have to sneak up on it by using certain landmarks: the junk store on Hudson Street. The sex shop on Barrow. Somewhere near the pet store is a small gate. And there it is, just on the other side.
I stroll slowly down the sidewalk, wanting to memorize each detail. The tiny, charming town houses, the cherry trees, the little neighborhood bar where, I imagine, all the patrons know one another. I take several turns up and down the street, pausing in front of each house, picturing how it would feel to live there. As I gaze up at the tiny windows on the top floor of a red-brick carriage house, it dawns on me that I’ve changed. I used to worry that my dream of becoming a writer was just that-a dream. I had no idea how to do it, where to begin and how to continue. But lately, I’m beginning to feel that I
And tomorrow, if I skip class, I’ll have another day like this one, all to myself. I’m suddenly overcome with joy. I run all the way back to the apartment, and when I spot my pile of plays on the table, I’m can’t believe how happy I am.
I settle in to read, making notes with a pencil and underlining especially poignant bits of dialogue. I can do this. Who cares what my father thinks? For that matter, who cares what anyone thinks? Everything I need is in my head, and no one can take that away.
At eight o’clock, I fall into one of those rare, deep sleeps where your body is so exhausted, you wonder if you’ll ever wake up. When I finally wrench myself out of bed, it’s ten a.m.
I count the hours I slept-fourteen. I must have been really tired. So tired, I didn’t even know how shattered I was. At first, I’m groggy from all the sleep, but when the grogginess dissipates, I feel terrific. I put on my scrubs from the day before, and without bothering to brush my teeth, go straight to the typewriter.
My powers of concentration are remarkable. I write without stopping, without noticing the time, until I type the words “THE END.” Elated and a little woozy, I check the clock. It’s just after four. If I hurry, I can get the play photocopied and into Viktor Greene’s office by five.
I leap into the shower, my heart pounding in triumph. I slide into a clean pair of scrubs, grab my manuscript, and run out the door.
The copy place is on Sixth Avenue, just around the corner from the school. For once, it’s my lucky day-there’s no line. My play is forty pages long and copying is expensive, but I can’t risk losing it. Fifteen minutes later, one copy of my play tucked neatly into a manila envelope, I gallop to The New School.
Viktor is in his office, slumped over his desk. At first I think he’s asleep, and when he doesn’t move, I wonder if he actually
