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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.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“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.
