Summer and the City (4 page)

Chapter Six

The next morning, triumphant, perhaps, in her perceived victory, Peggy sleeps until nine. This allows the Prisoners of Second Avenue a much-needed extra hour of shut-eye.

But once Peggy’s up, she’s up. And while early-morning silence has never been her forte, this morning she appears to be in an especially good mood.

She’s singing show tunes.

I turn over on my cot, and rap quietly on the plywood. L’il raps back, indicating she’s awake and has heard the singing as well.

I slide under the sheet and pull the covers up to my nose. Maybe if I lie flat on my bed and put the pillow over my head, Peggy won’t notice me. It was a trick my sisters and I perfected when we were kids. But I’m quite a bit bigger now, and Peggy, with her beady crow eyes, is sure to notice the lumps. Perhaps I could hide under my cot?

This, I decide, is beyond ridiculous.

I won’t have it. I’m going to confront Peggy. And full of brio, I hop out of bed and put my ear to the door.

The shower is running, and above that, I can hear Peggy’s particularly grating rendition of “I Feel Pretty” from
West Side Story
.

I wait, my hand on the doorknob.

Finally, the water stops. I imagine Peggy toweling herself off and applying creams to her body. She carries her toiletries to and from the bathroom in a plastic shower basket she keeps in her room. It’s yet another deliberate reminder that no one is to use her precious possessions on the sly.

When I hear the bathroom door open, I step out into the living room. “Good morning, Peggy.”

Her hair is wrapped in a pink towel, and she’s wearing a worn chenille robe and fluffy slippers in the shape of bears. At the sound of my voice, she throws up her arms, nearly dropping her basket of toiletries. “You almost scared me to death.”

“Sorry,” I say. “If you’re finished in the bathroom—”

Perhaps Peggy’s not such a bad actress after all, because she immediately recovers. “I need it back in a minute. I have to dry my hair.”

“No problem.” We stand there, wondering who’s going to bring up the locking-out issue first. I say nothing and neither does Peggy. Then she gives me a shrewd, vicious smile and goes into her room.

She’s not going to mention it.

On the other hand, she doesn’t have to. She made her point.

I trip into the bathroom. If she isn’t going to say anything to me, I’m certainly not going to say anything to her.

When I exit, Peggy is standing there with a blow-dryer in her hand. “Excuse me,” I say as I wriggle past her.

She goes back into the bathroom and shuts the door.

While the apartment is filled with the buzz of the dryer, I take the opportunity to check in on L’il. She’s so tiny, she looks like a doll someone laid under the comforter, her round face as pale as porcelain.

“She’s drying her hair,” I report.

“You should sneak in there and drop her blow-dryer into the sink.”

I tilt my head. The whirring has suddenly ceased, and I skittle back to my cell. I quickly plop myself in the chair in front of my mother’s old Royal typewriter.

A few seconds later, Peggy’s behind me. I just love the way she insists we respect her privacy, yet doesn’t believe we deserve the same, barging into our rooms whenever she feels like it.

She’s slurping down her ubiquitous can of Tab. It must be like mother’s milk to her—good for any occasion, including breakfast.

“I’ve got an audition this afternoon, so I’ll need quiet in the apartment while I’m practicing.” She eyes my typewriter doubtfully. “I hope you’re not planning on using that noisy thing. You need to get an electric typewriter. Like everyone else.”

“I’d love to, but I can’t exactly afford one right now,” I reply, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my tone.

“That’s not my problem, is it?” she says with more saccharine than an entire six-pack of diet soda.

“It’s that
little
itch.” Pause. “No. It’s
that
little itch.

“Damn. It’s that little
itch
.”

Yes, it’s true. Peggy is auditioning for a hemorrhoid commercial.

“What did you expect?” L’il mouths. “Breck?” She checks her appearance in a hand mirror, carefully dabbing her cheeks with a pot of blush.

“Where are you going?” I hiss in outrage, as if I can’t believe she’s going to abandon me to Peggy and her little itch.

“Out,” she says, mysteriously.

“But where?” And then, feeling like Oliver Twist asking for more grub, I say, “Can I come?”

L’il is suddenly flustered. “You can’t. I have to—”

“What?”

“See someone,” she says firmly.

“Who?”

“A friend of my mother’s. She’s very old. She’s in the hospital. She can’t have visitors.”

“How come she can see you?”

L’il blushes, holding up the mirror as if to block my inquiries. “I’m like family,” she says, fiddling with her lashes. “What are you doing today?”

“Haven’t decided,” I grumble, eyeing her suspiciously. “Don’t you want to hear about my evening with Bernard?”

“Of course. How was it?”

“Incredibly interesting. His ex-wife took all his furniture. Then we went to La Grenouille.”

“That’s nice.” L’il is annoyingly distracted this morning. I wonder if it’s due to Peggy locking me out—or something else entirely. I’m sure she’s lying about her mother’s sick friend, though. Who puts on blush and mascara to go to a hospital?

But then I don’t care, because I get an idea.

I dash into my cubbyhole and come back with my Carrie bag. I rifle through it and pull out a piece of paper. “I’m going to see Samantha Jones.”

“Who’s that?” L’il murmurs.

“The woman who let me stay at her apartment?” I ask, trying to jog her memory. “Donna LaDonna’s cousin? She lent me twenty dollars. I’m going to pay her back.” This, of course, is merely an excuse. Both to get out of the apartment and to talk to Samantha about Bernard.

“Good idea.” L’il puts down the mirror and smiles, as if she hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.

I open my bag to replace the paper, and find the folded-up invitation to the party at The Puck Building, which I wave in L’il’s face. “That party is tonight. We should go.” And maybe, if Bernard calls, he could come with us.

L’il looks skeptical. “I’m sure there’s a party every night in New York.”

“I’m sure there is,” I counter. “And I plan to go to every one.”

Samantha’s steel and glass office building is a forbidding bastion of serious business. The lobby is sharply air-conditioned, with all manner of people rushing about, harassed and irritated. I find the name of Samantha’s company—Slovey, Dinall Advertising—and board an elevator for the twenty-sixth floor.

The elevator ride actually makes me a little queasy. I’ve never ridden an elevator so high up. What if something happens and we crash to the ground?

But no one else seems the least concerned. Everyone has their eyes turned to the numbers that tick off the floors, their faces intentionally blank, deliberately ignoring the fact that there are at least half a dozen people in the space of a large closet. This must be elevator protocol, and I attempt to copy their demeanor.

But I don’t quite get it right, because I actually manage to catch the eye of a middle-aged woman holding a sheaf of folders in front of her chest. I smile, and she quickly looks away.

Then it occurs to me that popping in unexpectedly on Samantha in her place of work might not be the best idea. Nevertheless, when the elevator opens on her floor, I get out and bump around in the softly carpeted hallway until I find two enormous doors with
SLOVEY, DINALL ADVERTISING INCORPORATED
etched into the glass. On the other side is a large desk behind which sits a small woman with black hair that rises in sharp spikes. She takes in my appearance, and after a beat, says, “Can I help you,” in a doubtful, grating tone that sounds like her nose is speaking instead of her mouth.

This is very disconcerting, and in a hesitant voice intended to convey the fact that I hope I’m not bothering her, I say, “Samantha Jones? I just want to—”

I’m about to say I want to leave the twenty dollars for her in an envelope, but the woman waves me to a seat and picks up the phone. “Someone’s here for Samantha,” she whines into the receiver. Then she asks for my name and nods. “Her assistant will be out to get you,” she says wearily. She picks up a paperback book and starts reading.

The reception area is decorated with posters of advertisements, some of which appear to go back to the 1950s. I’m kind of surprised that Samantha Jones has her own assistant. She doesn’t look old enough to be anyone’s boss, but I guess Donna LaDonna was right when she said her cousin was a “big deal in advertising.”

In a few minutes, a young woman appears, wearing a navy suit, a light blue shirt with two straps tied around her neck in a loose bow, and blue running shoes.

“Follow me,” she commands. I jump up and trot behind her, through a maze of cubicles, ringing telephones, and the sound of a man shouting.

“Seems like everyone around here is pretty cranky,” I wisecrack.

“That’s because we are,” she snaps, coming to a halt by the open door of a small office. “Except for Samantha,” she adds. “She’s
always
in a good mood.”

Samantha looks up and waves at the chair in front of her. She’s seated behind a white Formica table, wearing an outfit that’s nearly identical to her assistant’s, with the exception of her shoulder pads, which are much wider. Perhaps the wider your shoulder pads, the more important you are. Her head is cocked against an enormous phone cradle. “Yes, of course, Glenn,” she says, making a yakking motion with her hand. “The Century Club is perfect. But I don’t see why we have to have flower arrangements in the shape of baseballs. . . . Well, I know it’s what Charlie wants, but I’ve always thought the wedding was supposed to be the bride’s day. . . . Yes, of course. . . . I’m sorry, Glenn, but I have a meeting. I really have to go,” she continues, with mounting frustration. “I’ll call you later. I promise.” And with a roll of her eyes, she firmly replaces the receiver, looks up, and tosses her head.

“Charlie’s mother,” she explains. “We’ve been engaged for about two minutes and already she’s driving me crazy. If I ever get married again, I’m going to skip the engagement completely and go right to City Hall. The minute you get engaged, you become public property.”

“But then you wouldn’t have the ring,” I say awkwardly, suddenly intimidated by Samantha, her office, and her glamorous life.

“I suppose that’s true,” she concedes. “Now if I could only find someone to sublet my apartment—”

“Aren’t you moving in with Charlie?”

“My God. You really are a sparrow. When you have an apartment like mine, rent-controlled and only two hundred and twenty-five dollars a month, you don’t ever give it up.”

“Why not?”

“Because real estate is impossible in this town. And I might need it back someday. If things don’t work out with Charlie. I’m not saying they
won’t
, but you never know with men in New York. They’re spoiled. They’re like kids in a candy store. If you have a good deal—well, naturally, you want to hang on to it.”

“Like Charlie?” I ask, wondering if he’s a good deal as well.

She smiles. “You catch on quick, Sparrow. As a matter of fact, Charlie is a good deal. Even if he is a baseball freak. He wanted to be a player himself, but of course, his father wouldn’t let him.”

I nod encouragingly. Samantha seems to be in a mood to talk, and I’m like a sponge, ready to absorb anything she says. “His father?”

“Alan Tier.”

When I look at her blankly, she adds, “The Tiers? The mega real estate family?” She shakes her head as if I’m hopeless. “Charlie is the oldest son. His father expects him to take over the business.”

“I see.”

“And it’s about time.
You
know how it is with men,” she says, as if I, too, am some kind of guy expert. “If a man doesn’t ask you to marry him—or at least live with him—after two years, he never will. It means he’s only interested in having a good time.” She folds her arms and puts her feet on the desk. “I’m as interested in having a good time as any man, but the difference between me and Charlie is that my clock is ticking. And his isn’t.”

Clocks? Ticking? I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I keep mum, nodding my head as if I understand.

“He may not have a timetable, but I do.” She holds up her hand and ticks off the moments on her fingers. “Married by twenty-five. Corner office by thirty. And somewhere in there—
children
. So when that bachelor story came out, I decided it was time to do something about Charlie. Speed things along.”

She pushes aside some papers on her desk to retrieve a battered copy of
New York Magazine
.

“Here.” She holds it out. The headline reads,
NEW YORK’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELORS
, above a photograph of several men standing on bleachers like a sports team in a high school yearbook. “That’s Charlie,” she says, pointing to a man whose face is partially hidden by a baseball cap. “I told him not to wear that stupid cap, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Do people still care about this stuff?” I ask. “I mean, aren’t debutantes and eligible bachelors sort of over?”

Samantha laughs. “You really are a rube, kiddo. If only it
didn’t
matter. But it does.”

“All right—”

“So I broke up with him.”

I smile knowingly. “But if you wanted to be with him—”

“It’s all about getting the guy to realize he wants to be with
you
.” She swings her feet off the desk and comes around to the side. I sit up, aware that I’m about to receive a valuable lesson in man management.

“When it comes to men,” she begins, “it’s all about their egos. So when I broke up with Charlie, he was furious. Couldn’t believe I’d leave him. Giving him no choice but to come crawling after me. Naturally, I resisted. ‘Charlie,’ I said. ‘You know how crazy I am about you, but if I don’t respect myself, who will? If you really care about me—I mean me as a person and not just as a lover—then you’re going to have to prove it. You’re going to have to
make a commitment
.’”