Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

As per Bernard’s instructions, I enter through the stage door. It’s nothing special—just a dingy lobby with gray cement walls and peeling linoleum on the floor and a man stationed behind a little window that slides open. “Bernard Singer?” I ask.

The guard looks up from his Post, his face a map of veins. “Here to audition?” he asks, taking down a clipboard.

“No, I’m a friend.”

“Ah. You’re the young lady. Carrie Bradshaw.”

“That’s right.”

“He said he was expecting you. He’s out, but he’ll be back soon. He said I should take you on a backstage tour.”

“Yes, please,” I exclaim. The Shubert Theatre. A Chorus Line. Backstage!

“Ever been here before?”

“No!” I can’t keep the squeal of excitement out of my voice.

“Mr. Shubert founded the theater in 1913.” The guard pulls apart a heavy black curtain to reveal the stage. “Katharine Hepburn performed here in 1939. The Philadelphia Story.”

“On this very stage?”

“Used to stand right where you are now, every evening, before her first entrance. ‘Jimmy,’ she’d say, ‘how’s the house tonight?’ And I’d say, ‘All the better for you being here, Miss Hepburn.’”

“Jimmy,” I plead. “Could I—”

He smiles, catching my enthusiasm. “Only for a second. No one’s allowed on that stage who ain’t union—”

And before he can change his mind, I’m crossing the boards, looking out at the house. I stride to the footlights and take in row after row of velvet chairs, the balconies, the luxurious boxes on the side. And for a moment, I imagine the theater filled with people, all there to see little ol’ me.

I fling out my arms. “Hello, New York!”

“Oh my.” I hear a deep, throaty laugh, followed by the sound of one person clapping. I turn around in horror, and there, in the wings, is Bernard, wearing sunglasses, an open white shirt, and Gucci loafers. Next to him is the clapper, whom I immediately recognize as the actress Margie Shephard. His ex-wife. What the hell is she doing here? And what must she think of me, after witnessing my little performance?

It doesn’t take long to find out, because the next thing she says is, “I see a star is born,” in a flinty voice.

“Take it easy, Margie,” Bernard says, having the sense to at least sound slightly annoyed by her.

“Hello. I’m Carrie.” I hold out my hand.

She does me the honor of shaking it, but doesn’t provide her own name, confident that I already know who she is. I think I’ll always remember what her hand feels like—the long, smooth fingers, the palm, warm and firm. Someday I’ll probably even say, “I met Margie Shephard. I shook her hand and she was amazing.”

Margie opens her mouth prettily, and emits a sly laugh. “Well, well,” she says.

Nobody can say, “Well, well,” and get away with it, except Margie Shephard. I can’t stop gaping at her. She isn’t technically beautiful, but has some kind of inner light that makes you think she’s one of the most attractive women you’ve ever seen.

I totally understand why Bernard married her. What I can’t understand is why he isn’t still married to her.

I don’t stand a chance.

“Nice to meet you,” Margie says, with a whisper of a wink at Bernard.

“Me too.” I stumble over the words. Margie probably thinks I’m an idiot.

She twinkles at Bernard. “We’ll continue this discussion later.”

“I suggest we don’t continue it at all,” Bernard mutters. Apparently he isn’t as starstruck by her as I am.

“I’ll call you.” Again, there’s the pretty smile, and the eyes that seem to know everything. “Good-bye, Carrie.”