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Chapter Twenty-Two
As if the night couldn’t get any weirder, I find myself seated next to Capote.
“You again?” I ask, squeezing past him onto my folding chair.
“What’s your problem?” he says.
I roll my eyes. Where to begin? With the fact that I miss Bernard and wish he were here? Or that I’d prefer to be sitting next to someone else? I settle on: “I just met Teensie Dyer.”
He looks impressed. “She’s a big agent.”
Figures he’d say that. “She seemed like a bitch to me.”
“That’s stupid, Carrie.”
“Why? It’s the truth.”
“Or your perspective.”
“Which is?”
“This is a hard city, Carrie. You know that.”
“So?” I say.
“You want to end up hard too? Like most of these people?”
I look at him in disbelief. Doesn’t he realize he’s one of them? “I’m not worried,” I retort.
A bowl of pasta comes our way. Capote grabs it and politely serves me, then himself. “Tell me you’re not really going to do your play at Bobby’s.”
“Why not?”
“Because Bobby is a joke.”
I give him a nasty smile. “Or is it because he hasn’t asked you to perform your great work?”
“I wouldn’t do it even if he did. It’s not the way to do things, Carrie. You’ll see.”
I shrug. “I guess that’s the difference between you and me. I don’t mind taking chances.”
“Do you want me to lie to you? Like everyone else in your life?”
I shake my head, mystified. “How do you know people lie to me? More likely they lie to you. But the biggest liar in your life? Yourself.” I take a gulp of wine, hardly believing what I just said.
“Fine,” he says, as if I’m hopeless.
He turns to the woman on his other side. I follow his cue and smile at the man on my left.
I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s Cholly. “Hello,” I say brightly, determined to forget about my encounter with Teensie and my hatred of Capote.
“Little one!” he exclaims. “My goodness. You certainly do get around. Is New York turning out to be everything you hoped?”
I glance around the table. Rainbow is slumped in her chair, eyes half closed, while Capote is pontificating about his favorite topic again—Proust. I spot Ryan, who has had the good luck to be seated next to Teensie. He’s making eyes at her, no doubt hoping she’ll take him on as a client. Meanwhile, Bobby is standing behind Barry Jessen, desperately trying to engage him while Barry, now sweating profusely, angrily wipes his face with a napkin.
I experience one of those bizarre moments where the universe telescopes and everything is magnified: the movement of Pican’s lipsticked mouth, the stream of red wine Bobby pours into his glass, the gold signet ring on Teensie’s right finger as she raises her hand to her temple.
I wonder if Maggie was right. Maybe we are all crazy.
