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“Will you come to the reading?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Other than the fact that Bobby and all his friends are complete idiots. And what about Capote Duncan? Who the hell does he think he is?”
“He’s a big jerk,” I say, remembering the expression of fury on his face. I smile. I suddenly realize I enjoy making Capote Duncan angry.
Miranda and I part ways, with me promising to call her tomorrow. When I get inside my building, I swear I can hear Samantha’s phone ringing all the way down the stairs. A ringing phone is like a call to arms for me, and I take the steps two at a time. After about the tenth ring, the phone stops, but then it starts again.
I burst through the door and grab it from where it’s slid under the couch. “Hello?” I ask breathlessly.
“What are you doing on Thursday night?” It’s Samantha herself.
“Thursday night?” I ask dumbly. When is Thursday night? Oh, right, the day after tomorrow. “I have no idea.”
“I need you to help me with something. I’m throwing an intimate little dinner party with Charlie at his apartment—”
“I’d love to come,” I gush, thinking she’s inviting me. “Can I bring Bernard, too?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she purrs. “But I actually need you to cook. You did say you could cook, right?”
I frown. “I might have. But—”
“I can’t cook at all. And I don’t want Charlie to find out.”
“So I’ll be in the kitchen all night.”
“You’d be doing me an enormous favor,” she coos. “And you did say you’d do me a favor someday, if I asked.”
“That’s true,” I admit reluctantly, still not convinced.
“Look,” she says, putting on the pressure. “If it’s that big a deal, I’ll trade you. One night of cooking for any pair of my shoes.”
“But your feet are bigger than mine.”
“You can put tissue in the toes.”
“What about the Fiorucci boots?” I ask craftily.
She pauses, mulling it over. “Oh, why not?” she agrees. “I can always get Charlie to buy me another pair. Especially when he finds out what a wonderful cook I am.”
“Right,” I mutter as she says good-bye.
How did I get into this mess? Technically, I do know how to cook. But I’ve only cooked for friends. How many people is she expecting at this intimate dinner? Six? Or sixteen?
The phone rings again. Probably Samantha calling back to discuss the menu. “Samantha?” I ask, cautiously.
“Who’s Samantha?” demands the familiar voice on the other end.
“Maggie!” I yip.
“What’s going on? I tried calling your number and this nasty woman said you didn’t live there anymore. Then your sister said you moved—”
“It’s a long story,” I
say, settling onto the couch for a chat.
