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