Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

“Bernard’s a bit of a mess right now. Which is not surprising. Margie walked all over him. Cheated on him with one of the actors in his play.”

“You’re kidding,” I say, aghast.

Samantha shrugs. “It was in all the papers so it’s hardly a secret. Not very nice for Bernard, but I always say there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Besides, New York is a small town. Smaller than small, if you really think about it.”

I nod carefully. Our interview seems to be over. “I wanted to return the twenty dollars you gave me,” I say quickly, digging around in my pocket. I pull out a twenty-dollar bill and hand it to her.

She takes the bill and smiles. And then she laughs. I suddenly wish I could laugh like that—knowing and tinkling at the same time.

“I’m surprised,” she says. “I wasn’t expecting to see you, or my twenty dollars, ever again.”

“And I wanted to thank you. For lending me the money. And for taking me to the party. And for introducing me to Bernard. If there’s anything I can do—”

“Not a thing,” she says, rising to her feet.

She walks me to the door and holds out her hand. “Good luck. And if you need to borrow another twenty sometime—well, you know where to find me.”

“Are you sure nobody called?” I ask L’il for the twentieth time.

“I’ve been here since two. The phone didn’t ring once.”

“He might have called. While you were visiting your mother’s friend. In the hospital.”

“Peggy was home then,” L’il points out.

“But maybe he did call and Peggy didn’t tell me. On purpose.”

L’il gives her hair a firm brush. “Why would Peggy do that?”

“Because she hates me?” I ask, rubbing my lips with gloss.

“You only saw him last night,” L’il says. “Guys never call the next day. They like to keep you guessing.”

“I don’t like to be kept guessing. And he said he would call—” I break off as the phone rings. “It’s him!” I yelp. “Can you get it?”

“Why?” L’il grumbles.

“Because I don’t want to seem too eager. I don’t want him to think I’ve been sitting by the phone all day.”

“Even though you have?” But she picks up the phone anyway. I wait in anticipation as she nods and holds out the receiver. “It’s your father.”

Of course. His timing couldn’t be worse. I called him yesterday and left a message with Missy, but he didn’t call back. What if Bernard tries to call while I’m talking to my father and it’s busy? “Hi, Dad,” I sigh.

“Hi, Dad? Is that how you greet your father? Whom you haven’t called once since you got to New York?”

“I did call you, Dad.” My father, I note, sounds slightly strange. Not only is he in a really good mood, he doesn’t seem to remember that I tried to reach him. Which is fine by me. So many things have happened since I’ve arrived in New York—not

all of which my father would consider good—that I’ve been dreading this conversation. Unnecessarily, it seems.

“I’ve been really busy,” I say.

“I’m sure you have.”

“But everything’s great.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says. “Now that I know you’re still alive, I can rest easy.” And with a quick good-bye, he hangs up.

This really is odd. My father has always been distracted, but he’s never been this enthusiastic and removed. I tell myself it’s only because my father, like most men, hates talking on the phone.