Candace Bushnell - Summer and the City

“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.

“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.

“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 David .”

“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.”