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“I’ll have a beer.”
“Have a cocktail,” I urge.
“I don’t want a cocktail. I want a beer,” Maggie insists.
“Let her have a beer if she wants one,” Bernard says jocularly, the implication being that I’m needlessly giving Maggie a hard time.
“Sorry.” My voice sounds hollow. I can already tell this is a mistake. I don’t have a clue how to reconcile my past—Maggie—with my present—Bernard.
Two men squeeze in next to Maggie, intent on establishing a place at the bar. “Should we get a table?” Bernard asks. “We could eat. I’d be happy to feed you girls dinner.”
Maggie gives me a questioning look. “I thought we were going to meet Ryan.”
“We could have dinner. The food’s good here.”
“It’s lousy. But the atmosphere is entertaining.” Bernard waves to the maître d’ and motions to an empty table near the window.
“Come on.” I nudge Maggie and give her a meaningful look. Her stare is slightly hostile, as if she still doesn’t understand why we’re here.
Nevertheless, she follows Bernard to the table. He even pulls out her chair for her.
I sit next to him, determined to make this work. “How was the rehearsal?” I ask brightly.
“Lousy,” Bernard says. He smiles at Maggie to include her in the conversation. “There’s always a point in the middle of rehearsals when all the actors seem to forget their lines.”
Which is exactly how I feel right now.
“Why is that?” Maggie asks, playing with her water glass.
“I have no idea.”
“But they’ve been saying their lines for at least two weeks, right?” I frown, as if knowing Bernard has given me an inside track on the theater.
“Actors are like children,” Bernard says. “They sulk and get their feelings hurt.”
Maggie gives him a vacant look.
Bernard smiles tolerantly and opens his menu. “What would you like, Maggie?”
“I don’t know. Duck breast?”
“Good choice.” Bernard nods. “I’m going to have the usual. Skirt steak.”
Why does he sound so formal? Was Bernard always like this and I never noticed before? “Bernard is a creature of habit,” I explain to Maggie.
“That’s nice,” Maggie says.
“What do you always say about being a writer?” I ask him. “You know—about how you have to live a life of habit.”
Bernard nods indulgently. “Others have said it better than I can. But the basic idea is that if you’re a writer, you need to live your life on the page.”
“In other words, your real life should be as uncomplicated as possible,” I clarify to Maggie. “When Bernard is working he eats practically the same thing every day for lunch. A pastrami sandwich.”
Maggie attempts to look interested. “It sounds kind of boring. But I’m not a writer. I don’t even like writing a letter.”
Bernard laughs, playfully pointing a finger at me. “I think you need to take more of your own advice, young lady.” He shakes his head at Maggie, as if the two of them are in cahoots. “Carrie’s an expert at living large. I keep telling her to focus more on the page.”
“You’ve never said that,” I reply, indignant. I look down, as if I simply have to readjust my napkin. Bernard’s comment brings all of my insecurities about being a writer to the surface.
