Summer and the City. Candace Bushnell
and, while he waits for Bernard to answer, rubs his jaw in aggravation. “Mr. Singer?” he says, into the receiver. “There’s a”—he glares at me—“young, er, person downstairs asking to see you.” His expression changes to one of disappointment as he glances my way. “Yes, thank you, sir. I’ll send her right up.”
And just when I think I’ve made it past that guard dog of a doorman, I’m confronted by yet another man in a uniform, who operates the elevator. Being the twentieth century and all, you’d think most people would have figured out how to press the button themselves, but apparently the occupants of Sutton Place are slightly feeble when it comes to technology.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
Not again. “Bernard Singer,” I say. As he presses the button for the ninth floor, he clears his throat in disapproval. But at least he’s not peppering me with questions.
The elevator doors fold open to reveal a small hallway, another desk, another spray of flowers, and patterned wall-paper. There are two doors at either end of the corridor, and mercifully, Bernard is standing in one of them.
So this is the lair of a wunderkind, I think, taking a look around the apartment. It’s surprising, all right. Not because of what’s in it, but because of what isn’t.
The living room, with its mullioned windows, cozy fireplace, and stately bookshelves, calls out for well-loved, well-worn furniture, but contains a single beanbag chair. Ditto for the dining room, which is populated by a Ping-Pong table and a couple of folding chairs. Then there’s the bedroom: a king-size bed, a king-size television. On the bed itself, a lone sleeping bag.
“I love to watch TV in bed,” Bernard says. “I think it’s sexy, don’t you?”
I’m about to give him a don’t-even-try-it look, when I notice his expression. He seems sad.
“Did you just move in?” I ask brightly, searching for an explanation.
“Someone just moved out,” he replies.
“Who?”
“My wife.”
“You’re married?” I shriek. Of all the possibilities, I never considered the one in which he might be hitched. What kind of married man invites a girl he just met to his apartment?
“My ex-wife,” he corrects. “I keep forgetting we’re not married. We got divorced a month ago and I’m still not used to it.”
“So you were married?”
“For six years. But we were together for two before that.”
Eight years? My eyes narrow as I do a quick calculation. If Bernard was in a relationship for that long, it means he has to be at least thirty. Or thirty-one. Or even . . . thirty-five?
When was his first play released? I remember reading about it, so I had to be at least ten. To cover up my ruminations, I quickly ask, “How was it?”
“How was what?”
“Your marriage.”
“Well,” he laughs. “Not so good. Considering we’re divorced now.”
It takes me a second to emotionally recalibrate. During the walk over, the far-off reaches of my imagination were constructing visions of Bernard and me together, but nowhere in that picture was there an ex-wife. I always figured my one true love would have only one true love, too—me. The fact of Bernard’s previous marriage throws a real monkey wrench into my fantasy.
“And my wife took all the furniture. What about you?” he asks. “Have you ever been married?”
I look at him in astonishment. I’m barely old enough to drink, I nearly say. Instead, I shake my head as if I, too, have been disappointed in love.
“I guess we’re both a couple of sad sacks,” he says. I go along with his mood. I’m finding him particularly attractive at the moment and I’m hoping he’ll put his arms around me and kiss me. I’m longing to be pressed up against that lean chest. I sit in the beanbag chair, instead.
“Why’d she take the furniture?” I ask.
“My wife?”
“I thought you were divorced,” I say, trying to keep him on point.
“She’s mad at me.”
“Can’t you make her give it back?”
“I don’t think so. No.”
“Why not?”
“She stubborn. Oh Lord. She’s as stubborn as a mule on race day. Always has been. That’s how she got so far.”
“Hmmm.” I roll around seductively on the beanbag.
My actions have their desired effect, that being why should he think about his ex-wife when he has a lovely young woman—me—to concentrate on instead? Sure enough, in the next second, he asks, “How about you? Are you hungry?”
“I’m always hungry.”
“There’s a little French place around the corner. We could go there.”
“Terrific,” I say, leaping to my feet, despite the fact that the word “French” reminds me of the restaurant I used to go to in Hartford with my old boyfriend, Sebastian, who dumped me for my best friend, Lali.
“You like French food?” he asks.
“Love it,” I reply. Sebastian and Lali were a long time ago. And besides, I’m with Bernard Singer now, not some mixed-up high school boy.
The “little French place around the corner” turns out to be several blocks away. And it’s not exactly “little.” It’s La Grenouille. Which is so famous, even I’ve heard of it.
Bernard ducks his head in embarrassment as the maître d’ greets him by name. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Singer. We have your usual table.”
I look at Bernard curiously. If he comes here all the time, why didn’t he say he was a regular?
The maître d’ picks up two menus and with an elegant tip of his head, leads us to a charming table by the window.
Then Mr. Monkey-suit pulls out my chair, unfolds my napkin, and places it on my lap. He rearranges my wine glasses, picks up a fork, inspects it, and, the fork having passed muster, replaces it next to my plate. Honestly, all the attention is disorienting. When the maître d’ finally retreats, I look to Bernard for help.
He’s studying the menu. “I don’t speak French. Do you?” he asks.
“Un peu.”
“Really?”
“Vraiment.”
“You must have gone to a very fancy school. The only foreign language I learned was fisticuffs.”
“Ha.”
“I was pretty good at it too,” he says, making jabbing motions in the air. “Had to be. I was this runt of a kid and everyone’s favorite punching bag.”
“But you’re so tall,” I point out.
“I didn’t grow until I was eighteen. What about you?”
“I stopped growing when I was six.”
“Hahaha. You’re funny.”
And just as the conversation is about to take off, the maître d’ returns with a bottle of white wine. “Your Pouilly-Fuissé, Monsieur Singer.”
“Oh, thanks,” Bernard says, looking sheepish again. This is very odd. The apartment, the restaurant, the wine—surely Bernard is wealthy. Why, then, does he insist on acting like he’s not? Or rather, that it’s all a burden which he must somehow endure?
The wine pouring is yet