Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

“Does anyone actually like their father?” Rainbow asks.

“I do,” I murmur. Maybe it’s the dope, but I’m suddenly feeling sentimental about my old man. “He’s a really good guy.”

“You’re lucky,” Colin says. “I haven’t seen my real father since I was ten.”

I nod as though I understand, but honestly, I don’t. My father might not be perfect, but I know he loves me. If something bad happened, he’d be there for me—or would try to be, anyway.

“Which reminds me,” Colin says, reaching into his pocket and extracting a small aspirin bottle that he shakes in Rainbow’s face. “I found these in Barry’s stash.”

“Oh, Colin. You didn’t,” Rainbow squeals.

Colin pops open the top and shakes out three large round pills. “I did.”

“What if he notices they’re gone?”

“He won’t. By the end of the night, he’ll be too high to notice anything.”

Rainbow plucks one of the pills out of Colin’s hand and washes it down with a gulp of champagne.

“You want one, Carrie?” Colin offers me a pill.

I don’t ask what it is. I don’t want to know. I already feel like I’ve found out more than I should. I shake my head.

“They’re really fun,” Colin urges, popping the pill into his mouth.

“I’m good,” I say.

“If you change your mind, you know where to find me. Just ask for an aspirin,” he says as he and Rainbow fall onto the cushions, laughing.

Back in the main room, there’s the usual frenetic energy of people jabbering and shouting into one another’s faces to be heard above the din. Cigarette and marijuana smoke waft through the air, while Pican and some of her model friends lounge indolently on the couches with half-closed eyes. I walk past them to the open window for some fresh air.

I remind myself that I’m having a good time.

Bobby spots me and begins waving frantically. He’s talking to a middle-aged woman in a skin-tight white dress that looks like it’s made of bandages. I wave back and hold up my cup, indicating I’m on my way to the bar, but he won’t be deterred. “Carrie,” he shouts. “Come meet Teensie Dyer.”

I put on my best game face and saunter over.

Teensie looks like someone who eats small children for breakfast. “This is Carrie Bradshaw,” Bobby crows. “You should be her agent. Did you know she’s written a play?”

“Hello,” she says, giving me a narrow smile.

Bobby puts his arm around my shoulder, trying to press me closer as I stiffly resist. “We’re going to perform Carrie’s new play in my space. You must come.”

Teensie flicks her cigarette ash on the floor. “What’s it about?”

Damn Bobby, I think, as I wriggle out of his grasp. I’m not about to talk about my play to a complete stranger. Especially as I hardly know what it’s about myself.

“Carrie won’t say.” Bobby pats my arm. And leaning into my ear, adds in a stage whisper, “Teensie’s the biggest agent in town. She represents everyone. Including Bernard Singer.”

The smile freezes on my face. “That’s nice.”

There must be something in my expression that sets off a warning bell because Teensie deigns to finally look me in the eye.

I glance away, hoping to steer the conversation in another direction. Something tells me this Teensie person will be none too pleased to discover her biggest client is dating little ol’ me. Or was dating little ol’ me, anyway.

The music stops.

“Dinner is served!” shouts Barry Jessen from the top of a ladder.