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This cracked her up. “Harharhar. That’s a good word for him. Randy. That’s exactly what he is. Randy with no candy.”
I wasn’t exactly sure what she was talking about, but I went along with it.
In the light of day, Jinx looked less sinister and more, dare I say, normal. I could see she was one of those women who wore lots of makeup not because she was trying to frighten anyone, but because she had bad skin. And her hair was very dry, due to the black henna. And I imagined she didn’t come from a very nice home and maybe had a father who was a drunk and a mother who yelled all the time. I knew Jinx had talent though, and I suddenly appreciated the efforts it must have taken her to get here.
“So you need something to wear. For Bobby’s,” she said.
“Yes.” I hadn’t actually gotten around to thinking about what to wear to the reading, but once she said it, I realized it was all I should have been worrying about.
“I’ve got just the thing.” She went into the back and came out holding a white vinyl jumpsuit with black piping along the sleeves. “I didn’t have enough money for fabric, so I had to make it really small. If it fits, it’s yours.”
I wasn’t expecting such generosity. Especially when I ended up walking out with an armload of clothes. Apparently I’m one of the few people in New York who is actually willing to wear a white vinyl jumpsuit or a plastic dress or red rubber pants.
It was like Cinderella and that damn slipper.
And just in time, too. I’ve gotten awfully sick of my ratty blue silk robe and my hostess dress and my surgical scrubs. It’s like Samantha always says: If people keep seeing you in the same old outfits, they start to think you haven’t any prospects.
Samantha, meanwhile, has gone back to chez Charlie. She says they’re bickering about china patterns and crystal decanters and the pluses and minuses of a raw bar at their reception. She can’t believe her life has been reduced to this, but I keep reminding her that come October, the wedding will be over and she won’t have to worry about her life ever again. This caused her to make one of her notorious deals with me: She would help with the guest list for the play reading if I agreed to go shopping with her for a wedding dress.
That’s the problem with weddings. They’re contagious.
In fact, they’re so contagious Donna LaDonna and her mother are coming to New York to participate in the ritual. When Samantha mentioned they were coming, I realized I’d become so caught up in my New York life, I’d actually forgotten that Donna is Samantha’s cousin.
The idea of seeing Donna again made me a little uneasy, but not as jumpy as giving Bernard my play.
Last night I screwed up my courage and finally presented Bernard with the manuscript. I literally delivered it to him on a silver platter. We were in his apartment and I found a silver platter that Margie had overlooked, and I tied a big red ribbon around it, and I served it to him while he was watching MTV. All the while, of course, thinking I should have been on that silver platter myself.
Now I wish I hadn’t given it to him at all. The thought of Bernard reading my play and not liking it has made me frantic with worry. I’ve been pacing the apartment all morning, waiting for him to call, praying he will call before I have to meet Samantha and Donna LaDonna at Kleinfeld.
I haven’t heard from Bernard, but I’ve had plenty of contact with Samantha. She keeps calling to remind me of the appointment. “It’s at noon sharp. If we’re not there on the dot of twelve, we lose the room.”
“What are you? Cinderella? Will your taxi turn into a pumpkin as
well?”
“Don’t be funny, Carrie. This is my wedding.”
And now it’s almost time to meet Samantha, and Bernard still hasn’t called to tell me whether he likes my play or not.
My whole life is hanging by one tulle thread.
The phone rings. Must be Bernard. Samantha has to have run out of dimes by now.
“Carrie?” Samantha practically shrieks into the phone. “Why are you still at home? You should be on your way to Kleinfeld.”
“I’m just leaving.” I glare at the phone, jump into my new jumpsuit, and careen down the stairs.
Kleinfeld is miles away, in Brooklyn. It takes about five subways to get there, and when I change trains, I give in to my trembling paranoia and call Bernard. He’s not home. He’s not at the theater. At the next station, I try him again. Where the hell is he? When I get off the train in Brooklyn, I rush right to a phone booth on the corner. The phone rings and rings. I hang up, destroyed. I’m sure Bernard is avoiding my calls on purpose. He must have read my play and hated it and he doesn’t want to tell me.
I arrive at the temple of holy matrimony disheveled and disturbingly sweaty. Vinyl is not the thing to wear on a humid August day in New York, even if it is white.
Kleinfeld is nothing to look at from the outside, being one of those enormous soot-stained buildings with windows like sad, streaky eyes, but inside, it’s another story. The decor is pink, plush, and hushed like the petals of a flower. Ageless saleswomen with put-on faces and soft demeanors glide through the waiting room. The Jones party has its own suite, complete with dressing room, raised platform, and 360-degree mirrors. It also contains a pitcher of water, a pot of tea, and a plate of cookies. And, thank heavens, a phone.
Samantha isn’t there, though. Instead, I find a pretty, middle-aged woman sitting stiffly on a velvet settee, legs crossed demurely at the ankles, hair smoothed into a perfect helmet. This must be Charlie’s mother, Glenn.
Seated next to her is another woman, who could be Glenn’s polar opposite. She’s in her midtwenties, dressed in a lumpy navy suit without a lick of makeup. She’s not inherently unattractive, but given her messy hair and an expression that indicates she’s used to making the best of things, I suspect she tries to deliberately make herself homely.
“I’m Glenn,” the first woman says, holding out a long, bony hand with a discreet platinum watch clasped around her thin wrist. She must be left-handed, because left-handed people always wear their watches on their right wrist so everyone will know they’re left-handed and, therefore, possibly more interesting and special. She indicates the young woman next to her. “This is my daughter, Erica.”
