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Poor Bernard, I think. It’s my duty to save him from the Teensies of the world.
I quickly pick up a book and arrange myself on the bed. Sure enough, a minute later Bernard knocks on my door.
“Come in!”
“Carrie?” He pushes open the door. “What are you doing? I’ve been waiting for you at the pool. We’re having lunch.”
I put down my book and smile. “I’m sorry. No one told me.”
“Silly goose,” he says, coming toward me and kissing the top of my head. He lies down next to me. “Love the bikini,” he murmurs.
We fool around frantically until we hear Teensie calling our names. This cracks me up and causes Bernard to guffaw as well. And that’s when I decide to break my own rule. I will have Bernard. Tonight. I’ll sneak into his room and we’ll finally do it. Right under Teensie’s little bobbed nose.
Chapter Thirty-Two
At dinner, Teensie’s husband, Peter, makes good on his threat and I’m seated next to the Bolivian president. He’s a pockmarked thug of a man, with a heavy, self-important demeanor that frightens me. Knowing nothing about Bolivia or its politics, I’m determined not to say the wrong thing. I have a feeling if I do, I may possibly be eliminated.
Luckily, el presidente, as Peter keeps calling him, has absolutely no interest in me. We’ve barely unfolded our napkins and placed them on our laps when he takes one look at me, sums me up as being of no importance, and immediately turns to the woman on his left. At the other end of the table, Teensie has placed Bernard to her right. I’m too far away to hear their conversation, but Teensie, who is laughing and gesturing, appears to be keeping her little group engaged. Ever since the first guests began to arrive, Teensie’s become a different person. There’s no trace of the subtle, calculated nastiness she displayed this afternoon.
I take a bite of my fish, determined not to betray the fact that I’m becoming mortifyingly bored. The only thing that’s keeping me going is the thought of Bernard, and how we can be together, later.
I idly wonder if Teensie’s husband, Peter, knows about Teensie and Bernard. I take a sip of my wine and sigh quietly. I cut another piece of fish and stare at my fork, wondering if it’s worth hazarding another mouthful. The fish is dry and plain, as if someone decided food should be a punishment instead of a pleasure.
“Don’t like the fish?” Peter’s voice comes from my left.
“A
ctually, I don’t.” I smile, relieved someone is talking to me.
“That bad, eh?” He pushes the fish to the side of his plate. “It’s this newfangled diet my wife has going. No butter, no salt, no skin, no fat, and no spices. All part of a misguided attempt to live forever.”
I giggle. “I’m not sure living forever is a good idea.”
“Not sure?” Peter declares. “It’s a bloody awful idea. How’d you get thrown in with this lot anyway?”
“I met Bernard, and—”
“I mean, what do you do in New York?”
“Oh. I’m a writer,” I say simply. I sit up a little straighter, and add, “I’m studying at The New School, but I’m having my first play reading next week.”
“Well done,” he says, sounding impressed. “Have you talked to my wife?”
I look down at my plate. “I don’t think your wife is interested in me or my writing.” I glance across the table at Teensie. She’s been drinking red wine, and her lips are a ghastly shade of purple. “On the other hand, I don’t need your wife’s good opinion in order to succeed.”
That’s the egg part of my ego rising to the surface.
“You’re quite a confident young lady,” Peter remarks. And then, as if to emphasize the fact that I’ve gone too far, he gives me one of those devastatingly polite smiles that could probably put the queen of England in her place.
I sit frozen in disgrace. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? Peter was only trying to be friendly, and now I’ve insulted his wife. In addition to committing the supposed sin of arrogance. It’s acceptable in a man, but not in a woman. Or not in this crowd, anyway.
I tap Peter on the arm.
“Yes?” He turns. There’s no sharpness in his tone, merely a deadening disinterest.
I’m about to ask him if I were a man, would I be judged so harshly, but his expression stops me. “Could you pass the salt?” I ask, adding quietly, “Please?”
I manage to make it through the rest of the dinner by pretending to be interested in a long story about golfing in Scotland, with which Peter regales our end of the table. When the plates are cleared, I hope Bernard and I can escape, but instead we’re ushered onto the terrace for coffee and dessert. This is followed by chess in the living room. Bernard plays with Peter, while I perch on the edge of Bernard’s chair, pretending to play dumb. The truth is, anyone who’s halfway good at math can play chess, and after enduring several bad moves by Bernard, I begin quietly giving him advice. Bernard starts winning and a small crowd gathers to witness the spectacle.
