“Why not?”
He turns off the light. “It’s rude.”
I turn it back on. “Rude?”
“Teensie and Peter are in the next room.” He turns off the light again.
“So?” I say in the dark.
“I don’t want them to hear us. It might make them… uncomfortable.”
I frown in the darkness, my arms crossed over my chest. “Don’t you think it’s time Teensie got over the fact that you’ve moved on? From her
“Oh, Carrie.” He sighs.
“I’m serious. Teensie needs to accept that you’re seeing other people now. That you’re seeing me-”
“Yes, she does,” he says softly. “But we don’t need to rub it in her face.”
“I think we do,” I reply.
“Let’s go to sleep. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”
This is my cue to flounce out of the room in anger. But I figure I’ve done enough flouncing for the evening. Instead, I lie silently, mulling over every scene, every conversation, fighting back tears and the gnawing realization that somehow, I haven’t necessarily managed to come out on top this weekend, after all.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“I’m so glad you came to see me,” Bobby proclaims as he opens the door. “This is a very nice surprise. Yes, a very nice surprise,” he patters on, taking my arm.
I shift my bag from one side to the other. “It’s really not a surprise, Bobby. I called you, remember?”
“Oh, but it’s always a surprise to see a friend, don’t you think? Especially when the friend is so attractive.”
“Well,” I say, frowning, wondering what this has to do with my play.
Bernard and I returned to the city late Sunday afternoon, hitching a ride with Teensie and Peter in the old Mercedes. Teensie drove, while Bernard and Peter talked about sports and I sat quietly, determined to be on my best behavior. Which wasn’t difficult, as I didn’t have much to say anyway. I kept wondering if Bernard and I stayed together, if this was what our life would be. Weekends with Teensie and Peter. I didn’t think I could take it. I wanted Bernard, but not his friends.
I went back to Samantha’s, vowing to get my life in order, which included calling Bobby and scheduling an appointment to discuss the reading. Unfortunately, Bobby doesn’t seem to be taking it as seriously as I am.
“Let me show you around the space,” he says now, with irritating insistence, especially as I saw the space when I was at his party. That night feels like ages ago, an uncomfortable reminder that while time is racing on, my own time may be running out.
The reading may be my last chance to establish a toehold in New York. A firm grip on the rock of Manhattan from which I cannot be removed.
“We’ll set up chairs here.” Bobby indicates the gallery space. “And we’ll serve cocktails. Get the audience liquored up. Should we have white wine or vodka or both?”
“Oh, both,” I murmur.
“And are you planning on having real actors? Or will it just be a reading?”
“I think maybe just a reading. For now,” I say, envisioning the bright lights of Broadway. “I’m planning to read the whole play myself.” After the class reading with Capote, it seemed easier not to get anyone else involved.
“Better that way, yes?” Bobby nods. His nodding-his unbridled enthusiasm-is starting to get to me. “We should have some champagne. To celebrate.”
“It’s barely noon,” I object.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those time Nazis,” he intones, urging me down a short hallway that leads to his living quarters. I follow him uncertainly, a warning bell chiming in my head. “Artists can’t live like other people. Schedules and all that-kills the creativity, don’t you think?” he asks.
“I guess so.” I sigh, wishing I could escape. But Bobby’s doing me an enormous favor, staging a reading of my play in his space. And with this thought I accept a glass of champagne.
“Let me show you around the rest of the place.”
“Honestly, Bobby,” I say in frustration. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to! I’ve cleared my whole afternoon for you.”
“But why?”
“I thought we might want to get to know each other better.”
Oh for goodness’ sake. He can’t possibly be trying to seduce me. It’s too ridiculous. For one thing, he’s shorter than I am. And he has jowls, meaning he must be over fifty years old. And he’s gay. Isn’t he?
“This is my bedroom,” he says, with a flourish. The decor is minimalist and the room is spotless, so I imagine he has a maid to pick up after him.
He plunks himself on the edge of the neatly made bed and takes a sip of champagne, patting the spot next to him.
“Bobby,” I say firmly. “I really should go.” In demonstration of my intentions, I place my glass on the windowsill.
“Oh, don’t put it there,” he cries. “It will leave a ring.”
I pick up the glass. “I’ll put it back in the kitchen, then.”
“But you can’t go,” he clucks. “We haven’t finished talking about your play.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t want to completely offend him. I figure I’ll sit next to him for a moment and then leave.
I perch gingerly on the side of the bed, as far away from him as possible. “About the play-”
“Yes, about the play,” he agrees. “What made you want to write it?”
“Well, I…” I fumble for the words but I take too long and Bobby becomes impatient.
“Hand me that photograph, will you?” And before I can protest, he’s scooted next to me and is pointing at the picture with a manicured finger. “My wife,” he says, followed by a giggle. “Or should I say my ex-wife?”
“You were married?” I ask as politely as possible, given those alarm bells are now clanging away like a bell tower.
“For two years. Annalise was her name. She’s French, you see?”
“Uh-huh.” I peer more closely at the image. Annalise is one of those beauties who looks absolutely insane, with a ridiculous pouty mouth and wild, scorching black eyes.
“You remind me of her.” Bobby puts his hand on my leg.
I unceremoniously remove it. “I don’t look a thing like her.”
“Oh, but you do. To me,” he murmurs. And then, in hideous slow motion, he purses his lips and pushes his face toward mine for a kiss.
I quickly turn away and wrestle free from his grasping fingers. Ugh. What kind of man gets manicures anyway?
“Bobby!” I pick up my glass from the floor and start out of the room.
He follows me into the kitchen, wagging his tail like a chastened puppy. “Don’t go,” he pleads. “There’s nearly a whole bottle of champagne left. You can’t expect me to drink it myself. Besides, it doesn’t keep.”
The kitchen is tiny, and Bobby has stationed himself in the doorway, blocking my exit.
“I have a boyfriend,” I say fiercely.
“He doesn’t have to know.”
I’m about to flee, when he changes his tack from sly to hurt. “Really, Carrie. It’s going to be very hard to work together if I think you don’t like me.”
He has to be kidding. But maybe Samantha was right. Doing business with men is tricky. If I reject Bobby, is he going to cancel my play reading? I swallow and try to summon a smile. “I do like you, Bobby. But I have a boyfriend,” I repeat, figuring the emphasis of this fact is probably my best tactic.
“Who?” he demands.
