“Bernard Singer.”
Bobby breaks into a glass-shattering peal. “Him?” He moves closer and tries to take my hand. “He’s too old for you.”
I shake my head in wonder.
The momentary lull gives Bobby another chance to attack. He wraps his arms around my neck and attempts to mouth me again.
There’s a kind of tussle, with me trying to maneuver around him and him trying to push me against the sink. Luckily, Bobby not only looks like a butter ball, but has the consistency of one as well. Besides, I’m more desperate. I duck under his outstretched arms and hightail it for the door.
“Carrie! Carrie,” he cries, clapping his hands as he skitters down the hall after me.
I reach the door, and pause, breathless. I’m about to tell him what a scumball he is and how I don’t appreciate being taken in under false pretenses-all the while seeing my future crumble before me-when I catch his pained expression.
“I’m sorry.” He hangs his head like a child. “I hope-”
“Yes?” I ask, rearranging my hair.
“I hope this doesn’t mean you hate me. We can still do your reading, yes?”
I do my best to look down my nose at him. “How can I trust you? After this.”
“Oh, forget about it,” he says, waving his hands in front of his face as though encased in a swarm of flies. “I didn’t mean it. I’m too forward. Friends?” he asks sheepishly, holding out his hand.
I straighten my shoulders and take it. Quick as a wink, he’s clutched my hand and is lifting it to his mouth.
I allow him to kiss it before I jerk it back.
“What about your play?” he pronounces. “You have to allow me to read it before Thursday. Since you won’t let me kiss you, I need to know what I’m getting into.”
“I don’t have it. I’ll drop it off tomorrow,” I say hastily. Miranda has it, but I’ll get it from her later.
“And invite some of your friends to the reading. The pretty ones,” he adds.
I shake my head and walk out the door. Some men never give up.
Nor some women. I fan myself in relief as I ride down the elevator. At least I still have my reading. I’ll probably be fighting Bobby off all night, but it seems like a small price to pay for impending fame.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Who is this creep, exactly?” Samantha asks, tearing the top off a pink package of Sweet’N Low and pouring the powdered chemicals into her coffee.
“He’s some kind of art dealer. He’s the guy with the space. I went to the fashion show there?” I gather the tiny strips of pink paper from the middle of the table, fold them neatly, and wrap them in my napkin. I can’t help it. Those damn leavings from fake sugar packages drive me crazy. Mostly because you can’t go two feet without finding one.
“The space guy,” Samantha says, musingly.
“Bobby. Do you know him?” I ask, thinking she must. She knows everyone.
We’re at the Pink Tea Cup, this very famous restaurant in the West Village. It’s pink all right, with twee wrought-iron chairs and ancient tablecloths printed with cabbage roses. They’re open twenty-four hours, but they only serve breakfast, so if you time it right, you get to see Joey Ramone eating pancakes at five in the afternoon.
Samantha has left work early, claiming she’s still in pain from the operation. But it can’t be too bad, since she’s managed to make it out of the apartment. “Is he short?” she asks.
“He had to stand on his tippy-toes when he tried to kiss me.” The memory of Bobby’s attempted assault causes a fresh round of irritation, and I pour way too much sugar into my cup.
“Bobby Nevil.” She nods. “Everyone knows him. He’s infamous.”
“For jumping young girls?”
Samantha makes a face. “That would garner him no notoriety at all.” She lifts her cup and tastes her coffee. “He tried to attack Michelangelo’s
“The sculpture?” Oh, great. Just my luck. “He’s a criminal?”
“More like an art revolutionary. He was trying to make a statement about art.”
“Meaning what? Art sucks?”
“Who sucks?” Miranda demands, arriving at the table with her knapsack and a black Saks shopping bag slung over her shoulder. She grabs a handful of napkins from the dispenser and mops her brow. “It’s ninety degrees out there.” She waves at the waitress and asks for a glass of ice.
“Are we talking about sex again?” She looks at Samantha accusingly. “I hope I didn’t come all the way down here for another conversation about Kegel exercises. Which I tried, by the way. They made me feel like a monkey.”
“Monkeys do Kegel exercises?” I ask, surprised.
Samantha shakes her head. “You two are hopeless.”
I sigh. I’d walked away from Bobby’s thinking I could handle his underhanded behavior, but the more I thought about it, the more incensed I became. Was it wrong to assume that when I finally got a break, it would be based on my own merits, as opposed to the random horniness of some old coot? “Bobby tried to jump me,” I inform Miranda.
“That little thing?” She’s not impressed. “I thought he was gay.”
“He’s one of those guys no one wants on their team. Gay or straight,” Samantha says.
“Is that an actual thing?” Miranda asks.
“They’re called the lost boys of sexual orientation. Come on, guys,” I say. “This is serious.”
“There was a professor at my school,” Miranda says. “Everyone knew if you slept with him he’d give you an A.”
I glare at her. “Not helping.”
“Well, come on, Carrie. This is nothing new. Every bar I’ve worked in has an unspoken rule that if you have sex with the manager, you’ll get the best shifts,” Samantha says. “And every office I’ve worked in-same thing. There’s always some guy coming on to you. And most of them are married.”
I groan. “And do you-?”
“Have sex with them? What do you think, Sparrow?” she asks sharply. “I don’t
Miranda’s face contorts into an expression that signifies she’s about to say something inappropriate. “If that’s true, why won’t you tell Charlie about the endometriosis? If you’re not ashamed, why can’t you be honest?”
Samantha’s lips curl into a patronizing smile. “My relationship with Charlie is none of your business.”
“Why do you talk about it all the time, then?” Miranda asks, refusing to back down.
I put my head in my hands, wondering why we’re all so worked up. It must be the heat. It curdles the brain.
“So should I have my play reading at Bobby’s or not?” I ask.
“Of course,” Samantha says. “You can’t let Bobby’s stupid little pass make you question your talents. Then he’ll have won.”
Miranda has no choice but to agree. “Why should you let that squat little toad define who you are or what you can do?”
I know they’re right, but for a moment, I feel defeated. By life and the never-ending struggle to make something of it. Why can’t things just be easy?
“Did you read my play?” I ask Miranda.
She reddens. And in a voice that’s too high, says, “I meant to. But I was so busy. I promise I’ll read it tonight,
