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“Bernard Singer?”
“Mr. Singer?”
How much longer can this go on? We stare at each other in a stalemate. He must know he’s beat. After all, he can’t actually deny that Bernard lives here—or can he?
“I’ll ring Mr. Singer,” he finally concedes.
He makes a great show of strolling across the marble lobby to a desk containing a huge spray of flowers, a notebook, and a telephone. He presses a few buttons 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 wallpaper. There are two doors at either end of the corridor, and mercifully, B
ernard 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.
