Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

“I guess we’re both a couple of sad sacks,” he says. I go along with his mood. I’m finding him particularly attractive at the moment and I’m hoping he’ll put his arms around me and kiss me. I’m longing to be pressed up against that lean chest. I sit in the beanbag chair, instead.

“Why’d she take the furniture?” I ask.

“My wife?”

“I thought you were divorced,” I say, trying to keep him on point.

“She’s mad at me.”

“Can’t you make her give it back?”

“I don’t think so. No.”

“Why not?”

“She stubborn. Oh Lord. She’s as stubborn as a mule on race day. Always has been. That’s how she got so far.”

“Hmmm.” I roll around seductively on the beanbag.

My actions have their desired effect, that being why should he think about his ex-wife when he has a lovely young woman—me—to concentrate on instead? Sure enough, in the next second, he asks, “How about you? Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.”

“There’s a little French place around the corner. We could go there.”

“Terrific,” I say, leaping to my feet, despite the fact that the word “French” reminds me of the restaurant I used to go to in Hartford with my old boyfriend, Sebastian, who dumped me for my best friend, Lali.

“You like French food?” he asks.

“Love it,” I reply. Sebastian and Lali were a long time ago. And besides, I’m with Bernard Singer now, not some mixed-up high school boy.

The “little French place around the corner” turns out to be several blocks away. And it’s not exactly “little.” It’s La Grenouille. Which is so famous, even I’ve heard of it.

Bernard ducks his head in embarrassment as the maître d’ greets him by name. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Singer. We have your usual table.”

I look at Bernard curiously. If he comes here all the time, why didn’t he say he was a regular?

The maître d’ picks up two menus and with an elegant tip of his head, leads us to a charming table by the window.

Then Mr. Monkey-suit pulls out my chair, unfolds my napkin, and places it on my lap. He rearranges my wine glasses, picks up a fork, inspects it, and, the fork having passed muster, replaces it next to my plate. Honestly, all the attention is disorienting. When the maître d’ finally retreats, I look to Bernard for help.

He’s studying the menu. “I don’t speak French. Do you?” he asks.

“Un peu.”

“Really?”

“Vraiment.”

“You must have gone to a very fancy school. The only foreign language I learned was fisticuffs.”

“Ha.”

“I was pretty good at it too,” he says, making jabbing motions in the air. “Had to be. I was this runt of a kid and everyone’s favorite punching bag.”

“But you’re so tall,” I point out.

“I didn’t grow until I was eighteen. What about you?”