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
