Candace Bushnell - Summer and the City

“Wow.” The thought of fishing villages and long stretches of empty sand suddenly sounds as quaint as living two hundred years ago.

“What about guys?” I ask.

She wriggles her feet out of her tennis shoes, rubbing one heel like she’s already developed a blister. “They’re gorgeous. Hank-that’s this one guy-he’s six two and he’s on the varsity tennis team at Duke. I swear, Carrie, we should both transfer to Duke. They have the hottest guys.”

I smile. “We have lots of hot guys in New York, too-”

“Not like these guys.” She sighs dramatically. “Hank would be perfect, except for one thing.”

“He has a girlfriend?”

“No.” She gives me a pointed look. “I would never date someone who had a girlfriend. Not after Lali.”

“Lali.” I shrug. Each mention of the past causes my intestines to lurch. Next thing I know, we’ll be talking about Sebastian. And I really don’t want to. Since I arrived in New York, I’ve barely thought about Lali or Sebastian or what went on last spring. It feels like all that stuff happened to someone else, not me. “So Hank,” I say, attempting to remain in the present.

“He’s…” She shakes her head, picks up her sneaker, and puts it down. “He’s not… good in bed. Have you ever had that?”

“I’ve certainly heard about it.”

“You still haven’t-”

I try to brush this away as well. “What does that mean, exactly? ‘Bad in bed’?”

“He doesn’t really do anything. Just sticks it in. And then it’s over in like three seconds.”

“Isn’t it always like that?” I ask, remembering what Miranda’s told me.

“No. Peter was really good in bed.”

“He was?” I still can’t believe that nerdly old Peter was such a big stud.

“Didn’t you know? That was one of the reasons I was so angry when we broke up.”

“What are you going to do, then?” I ask, twisting my hair into a bun. “About Hank?”

She gives me a secret smile. “I’m not married. I’m not even engaged. So-”

“You’re sleeping with another guy?”

She nods.

“You’re sleeping with two guys. At the same time?” Now I’m aghast.

She gives me a look.

“Well, I’m sure you don’t sleep with both of them at once, but-” I waver.

“It’s the eighties. Things have changed. Besides, I’m using birth control.”

“You could get a disease.”

“Well, I haven’t.” She glares at me and I drop it. Maggie’s always been stubborn. She does what she wants when she wants, and there’s no talking her out of it. I absentmindedly rub my arm. “Who’s this other guy?”

“Tom. He works at a gas station.”

I look at her in consternation.

“What?” she demands. “What is wrong with a guy who works at a gas station?”

“It’s such a cliché.”

“First of all, he’s an incredible windsurfer. And secondly, he’s trying to make something of his life. His father has a fishing boat. He could be a fisherman, but he doesn’t want to end up like his father. He’s going to community college.”

“That’s great,” I say, chastised.

“I know,” she agrees. “I kind of miss him.” She looks at her watch. “Do you mind if I call him? He’s probably back from the beach by now.”

“Go ahead.” I hand her the phone. “I’m going to take a shower.”

I head to the bathroom while I inform her of our itinerary: “Tonight we’re going to meet Bernard for a drink at Peartree’s, which is this fancy bar near the United Nations. And maybe this afternoon we can go to the White Horse Tavern for lunch. It’s where all these famous writers hang out. And in between, we can go to Saks. I’d love you to meet my friend Miranda.”

“Sure,” she says, as if she’s barely heard a word. Her concentration is focused entirely on the phone as she dials her boyfriend’s-or should I say “lover’s”-number.

Ryan and Capote Duncan are at the White Horse Tavern, seated at a table on the sidewalk. There’s a pot of coffee in front them, and they look rough, like they went to bed late and just got up. Ryan’s eyes are puffy and Capote is unshaven, his hair still damp from a shower.

“Hey,” I say. They’re next to the entrance, making it impossible to avoid them.

“Oh. Hi,” Capote says wearily.

“This is my friend Maggie.”

Ryan immediately perks up at the sight of Maggie’s fresh-faced, all-American prettiness. “What are you girls up to?” he asks flirtatiously, which seems to be his default mode with women. “Do you want to join us?”

Capote gives him a frustrated look, but Maggie sits down before either one of us can object. She probably thinks Ryan is cute.

“Where are you from, Maggie?” Ryan asks.

“Castlebury. Carrie and I are best friends.”

“Really?” Ryan asks, as if this is supremely interesting.

“Ryan and Capote are in my writing class,” I explain.

“I still can’t believe Carrie got into that class. And actually came to New York and everything.”

Capote raises his eyebrows.

“What do you mean?” I ask, slightly annoyed.

“Well, no one ever really thought you’d become a writer.” Maggie laughs.

“That’s crazy. I always said I wanted to be a writer.”

“But you didn’t really write. Until senior year. Carrie worked on the school newspaper,” she says to Ryan. She turns back to me. “But even then you didn’t actually write for the newspaper, did you?”

I roll my eyes. Maggie never figured out I was writing all those stories for the newspaper under a pen name. And I’m not about to tell her now. On the other hand, she’s making me sound like a dilettante in front of Capote. Who already seems to believe I don’t belong in the class.

Fantastic. Maggie’s just added fuel to his fire.

“I’ve always written a lot. I just didn’t show you.”

“Sure,” Maggie says, grinning as if it’s a joke. I sigh. Can’t she see how much I’ve changed? Perhaps it’s because she hasn’t changed at all. She’s the same old Maggie, so she probably assumes I’m the same as well.

“How was the fashion show?” I ask, diverting the conversation away from my supposed lack of writing.

“Great,” Capote says listlessly.

“As you can tell, Capote is a man who knows nothing about fashion. He does, on the other hand, know quite a bit about models,” Ryan says.

“Aren’t models really stupid?” Maggie asks.

Ryan laughs. “That’s not really the point.”

“Ryan’s engaged to a model,” I say, wondering if Becky broke up with Ryan after all. He certainly isn’t acting like a man who’s been dumped. I glance at Capote inquiringly. He shrugs.

“When are you getting married?” Maggie asks politely. She and Ryan seem to have developed a connection and I wonder if she’s disappointed he’s not available.

“Next year,” Ryan says easily. “She went to Paris this morning.” Aha. So no need for a formal breakup after all. And poor Ryan, sitting here without a clue. On the other hand, Capote is probably perfectly capable of lying about the situation. He might have told me Becky was going to dump Ryan because he wants Becky for himself.

“Interesting,” I say, to no one in particular.

Capote puts five dollars on the table. “I’m taking off.”

“But-” Ryan objects. Capote gives a small shake of his head. “I guess I am too,” Ryan says reluctantly. “Nice to meet you.” He smiles at Maggie. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Carrie’s making us have drinks with some guy.”

“Bernard Singer is not ‘some guy,’” I point out.

Capote pauses. “Bernard Singer? The playwright?”

“He’s Carrie’s boyfriend,” Maggie says dismissively.

Capote’s eyes widen behind his glasses. “You’re dating Bernard Singer?” he asks, as if it can’t be possible someone as esteemed as Bernard Singer would be interested in me.

“Uh-huh,” I say, like it’s no big deal.

Capote rests his hand on the back of his chair, unsure if he should go after all. “Bernard Singer is a genius.”

“I know.”

“I’d love to meet Bernard Singer,” Ryan says. “Why don’t we meet up with you guys for a drink, later?”

“That would be great,” Maggie says.

As soon as they’re gone, I groan.

“What?” Maggie asks, slightly defensive, knowing she’s done something wrong.

“I can’t bring them to drinks with Bernard.”

“Why not? Ryan is nice ,” she says, as if he’s the only normal person she’s met so far. “I think he likes me.”

“He’s engaged.”

“And?” Maggie picks up the menu. “You heard him. She’s not around.”

“He’s a big flirt. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“I’m a flirt too. So it’s perfect.”

I was wrong. Maggie has changed. She’s become a sex addict. And how can I explain about Bernard? “Bernard won’t want to meet them-”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s older. He’s thirty.”

She looks at me in horror. “Oh my God, Carrie. Thirty? That’s disgusting!”

Given Maggie’s attitude, I decide not to introduce her to Miranda after all. They’d probably get into a big fight about sex and I’d be stuck in the middle. Instead, we walk around the Village, where Maggie has her tarot cards read by a psychic-“I see a man with dark hair and blue eyes.” “Ryan!” Maggie exclaims-and then I take her to Washington Square Park. There’s the usual assortment of freaks, musicians, drug dealers, Hare Krishnas, and even two men walking on stilts, but all she can talk about is how there isn’t any grass. “How can they call it a park if it’s all dirt?”

“There probably was grass, once. And there are trees,” I point out.

“But look at the leaves. They’re black. Even the squirrels are dirty.”

“Nobody notices the squirrels.”

“They should,” she says. “Did I tell you I’m going to become a marine biologist?”

“No-”

“Hank’s a biology major. He says if you’re a marine biologist, you can live in California or Florida.”