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And while Maggie natters on, I spend the rest of the taxi ride thinking about relationships. There must be such a thing as “pure” love. But there also seems to be quite a bit of “impure” love as well. Look at Capote and Ryan with their models. And Samantha with her rich mogul boyfriend. And what about Maggie and her two boyfriends—one for show and one for sex? And then there’s me. Maybe what Maggie was hinting at is true. If Bernard wasn’t a famous playwright, would I even be interested?
The taxi pulls up in front of a pretty brownstone with chrysanthemums in the window boxes. I grit my teeth. I like to think of myself as a good person. A girl who doesn’t cheat or lie or pretend to be something she’s not in order to get a guy. But maybe I’m no better than anyone else. Maybe I’m worse.
“Come on,” Maggie says gaily, leaping from the cab and hurrying up the steps. “Now we can finally have fun!”
Chapter Fifteen
Capote’s apartment is not what I expected. The furniture consists of soft couches and armchairs, covered in chintz. There’s a small dining room with decorative plates on the walls. In the bedroom is an antique armoire; the bedspread is yellow chenille. “It looks like an old lady lives here,” I say.
“She does. Or did. The woman who lived here is an old family friend. She moved to Maine,” Capote explains.
“Right,” I say, dropping onto the couch. The springs are shot and I sink several inches below the cushions. Capote and his “old family friends,” I think grumpily. He seems to have an inside track on everything, including apartments. He’s one of those people who expect to get things with very little effort, and does.
“Drink?” he asks.
“What do you have?” Maggie says coquettishly.
Huh? I thought she was interested in Ryan. But maybe it’s Capote she’s after. On the other hand, maybe Maggie flirts with every guy she meets. Every guy except Bernard.
I shake my head. Either way, this situation can lead to no good. How did I get involved in the aiding and abetting of this?
“Anything you want, I have,” Capote replies. He doesn’t sound particularly flirtatious back. He actually sounds very matter-of-fact, as if he’s not exactly thrilled we’re here, but has decided to tolerate us nonetheless.
“Beer?” Maggie asks.
“Sure.” Capote opens the refrigerator, takes out a Heineken, and hands it to her. “Carrie?”
I’m surprised he’s being so polite. Maybe it’s his Southern upbringing. Manners trump personal dislikes.
“Vodka?” I get up and follow him into the kitchen. It’s a proper kitchen, with a counter that opens into the living room. I’m suddenly a bit envious. I wouldn’t mind living here in this charming old apartment with a fireplace and working kitchen. Several pans hang from a rod in the ceiling. “Do you cook?” I ask, with a mixture of sarcasm and surprise.
“I love to cook,” Capote says proudly. “Mostly fish. I’m famous for my fish.”
“I cook,” I say, somewhat defiantly, as if I know everything about it and far more than he can possibly comprehend.
“Like what?” He takes two tumblers out of the cabinet and sets them down, adding ice and vodka and a splash of cranberry juice.
“Everything,” I say. “Mostly desserts though. I’m really good at Bûche de Noël. It takes two days to make it.”
“I’d never want to dedicate that much time to cooking,” he says dismissively, raising his glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
The buzzer rings and Capote strides to the door, no doubt relieved at the interruption.
Ryan comes in with Rainbow and another girl, who’s the size of a twig. She has short dark hair, enormous brown eyes, acne, and is wearing a skirt that barely covers her bottom. For some reason, I’m immediately jealous. Despite the acne, she must be another one of Ryan’s model friends. I feel horribly out of place.
Rainbow’s eyes scour the room and land on me. She, too, looks as though she can’t imagine what I’m doing here.
“Hi.” I wave from the kitchen.
“Oh. Hi.” She comes over, while Ryan greets Maggie and plops next to her on the couch. “Are you serving drinks?” she asks.
“I guess so. What do you want? Capote says he has everything.”
“Tequila.”
I find the bottle and pour some into a glass. Why am I serving her? I wonder in annoyance. “So are you and Capote seeing each other?”
