“Damn,” I say, impressed.

“Meanwhile, if the rest of us want to be successful, we have to do it the old-fashioned way. We have to write something great.”

“What a bore,” I say sarcastically.

L’il laughs while I pick at an imaginary thread. “And what about that guy with the blond hair and the attitude? He acts like he knows her.”

“Capote Duncan?” she says in surprise. “I’m sure he does. Capote’s the type who knows everyone.”

“Why?”

“Oh, he just is. He’s from the South,” she says, as if this explains it. “He’s kind of dreamy, isn’t he?”

“No. But he is kind of an asshole.”

“He’s older. He and Ryan are seniors in college. They’re friends. Apparently the two of them are quite the ladies’ men.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.” She pauses, and in a slightly formal tone of voice, adds, “If you don’t mind-”

“I know, I know,” I say, jumping off the bed. “We’re supposed to be writing.”

L’il doesn’t seem to share my overweening interest in other people. Perhaps she’s so confident in her own talents, she feels like she doesn’t need to. I, on the other hand, could easily spend the entire day engaged in gossip, which I prefer to call “character analysis.” Unfortunately, you can’t engage in character analysis by yourself. I go back into my cubbyhole, sit down at my desk, roll a piece of paper into my typewriter, and sit there.

Ten minutes later, I’m still sitting there, staring at the wall. There’s only one window in our area, and it’s in L’il’s room. Feeling like I’m suffocating, I get up, go into the living room, and look out the window there.

Peggy’s apartment is in the back of the building, facing the back of another nearly identical building on the next street. Maybe I could get a telescope and spy on the apartments across the way. I could write a story about the residents. Unfortunately, the denizens of that building appear to be as dull as we are. I spot the flickering blue screen of a television set, a woman washing the dishes, and a sleeping cat.

I sigh, feeling thwarted. There’s a whole world out there and I’m stuck in Peggy’s apartment. I’m missing everything. And now I only have fifty-nine days left.

I’ve got to make something happen.

I race to my cubby, grab Bernard’s number, and pick up the phone.

I hesitate, considering what I’m about to do, and put it down.

“L’il?” I call out.

“Yes?”

“Should I call Bernard Singer?”

L’il comes to the door. “What do you think?”

“What if he doesn’t remember me?”

“He gave you his number, didn’t he?”

“But what if he didn’t mean it? What if he was only being polite? What if-”

“Do you want to call him?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Then do.” L’il is very decisive. It’s a quality I hope to develop in myself someday.

And before I can change my mind, I dial.

“Y-ello,” he says, after the third ring.

“Bernard?” I say, in a voice that’s way too high. “It’s Carrie Bradshaw.”

“Aha. Had a feeling it might be you.”

“You did?” I curl the phone cord around my finger.

“I’m a bit psychic.”

“Do you have visions?” I ask, not knowing what else to say.

“Feelings,” he murmurs sexily. “I’m very in touch with my feelings. What about you?”

“I guess I am too. I mean, I never seem to be able to get rid of them. My feelings.”

He laughs. “What are you doing right now?”

“Me?” I squeak. “Well, I’m just kind of sitting here trying to write-”

“Want to come over?” he asks suddenly.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it isn’t this. I suppose I had a vague yet hopeful idea that he would invite me to dinner. Take me out on a proper date. But asking me to come to his apartment? Yikes. He probably thinks I’m going to have sex with him.

I pause.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“On Forty-seventh Street?”

“You’re less than ten blocks away.”

“Okay,” I cautiously agree. As usual, my curiosity trumps my better judgment. A very bad trait, and one I hope to amend. Someday.

But maybe dating is different in New York. For all I know, inviting a strange girl to your apartment is just the way they do things around here. And if Bernard tries anything funny, I can always kick him.

On my way out, I run into Peggy coming in. She’s got her hands full trying to maneuver three old shopping bags onto the love seat. She looks me up and down and sighs. “Going out?”

I deliberate, wondering how much I need to tell her. But my excitement gets the better of me. “I’m going to see my friend. Bernard Singer?”

The name has its desired effect. Peggy inhales, nostrils flaring. The fact that I know Bernard Singer has to be killing her. He’s the most famous playwright in all of New York and she’s still a struggling actress. She’s probably dreamed of meeting him for years, and yet here I am, only three days in the city, and already I know him.

“Some people have quite the life, don’t they?” She grumbles as she goes to the refrigerator and extracts one of her many cans of Tab-which are also off-limits for L’il and me.

For a moment, I feel victorious, until I take in Peggy’s despondent expression. She jerks the ring from the top of the can and drinks thirstily, like the solutions to all her problems lie in that can of Tab. She drains it, absentmindedly rubbing the metal ring against her thumb.

“Peggy, I-”

“Damn!” She drops the can and sticks her thumb in her mouth, sucking the blood from the cut where the ring has sliced the skin. She closes her eyes as if holding back tears.

“Are you all right?” I ask quickly.

“Of course.” She looks up, furious that I’ve witnessed this moment of weakness. “You’re still here?”

She brushes past me on her way to her room. “Tonight’s my night off and I intend to make it an early one. So don’t be home late.”

She closes the door. For a second, I stand there, wondering what just happened. Maybe it’s not me Peggy hates. Maybe it’s her life .

“Okay,” I say to no one in particular.

Chapter Five

Bernard lives in Sutton Place. It’s only a few blocks away, but it might as well be in another city. Gone are the noise, the grime, and the vagrant types that populate the rest of Manhattan. Instead, there are buildings constructed of soft-colored stone with turrets and green copper mansards. Uniformed doormen wearing white gloves stand under quiet awnings; a limousine idles at the curb. I pause, breathing in the atmosphere of luxury as a nanny passes me wheeling a baby carriage, behind which prances a small fluffy dog.

Bernard must be rich.

Rich, famous, and attractive. What am I getting myself into?

I scan the street, looking for number 52. It’s on the east side facing the river. Swanky, I think, hurrying toward the building. I step inside, where I’m immediately halted by a low growl from a stern-faced doorman. “Can I help you?”

“Going to see a friend,” I mutter, attempting to snake my way around him. And that’s when I make my first mistake: never, ever try to get around a doorman in a white-glove building.

“You can’t just walk in here.” He holds up one gloved mitt, as if the mere sight of his hand is enough to ward off the unwashed.

Unfortunately, something about that glove sets me off. There’s nothing I hate more than some old guy telling me what to do. “How did you expect me to enter? By horseback?”

“Miss!” he exclaims, taking a step back in displeasure. “Please state your business. And if you cannot state your business, I suggest you take your business elsewhere.”

Aha. He thinks I’m some kind of hooker. He must be half blind. I’m hardly even wearing makeup. “I’m here to see Bernard,” I say tightly.

“Bernard who?” he demands, refusing to budge.

“Bernard Singer?”

“ Mr. Singer?”

How much longer can this go on? We stare at each other in a stalemate. He must know he’s beat. After all, he can’t actually deny that Bernard lives here-or can he?

“I’ll ring Mr. Singer,” he finally concedes.

He makes a great show of strolling across the marble lobby to a desk containing a huge spray of flowers, a notebook, and a telephone. He presses a few buttons and, while he waits for Bernard to answer, rubs his jaw in aggravation. “Mr. Singer?” he says, into the receiver. “There’s a”-he glares at me-“young, er, person downstairs asking to see you.” His expression changes to one of disappointment as he glances my way. “Yes, thank you, sir. I’ll send her right up.”

And just when I think I’ve made it past that guard dog of a doorman, I’m confronted by yet another man in a uniform, who operates the elevator. Being the twentieth century and all, you’d think most people would have figured out how to press the button themselves, but apparently the occupants of Sutton Place are slightly feeble when it comes to technology.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

Not again. “Bernard Singer,” I say. As he presses the button for the ninth floor, he clears his throat in disapproval. But at least he’s not peppering me with questions.

The elevator doors fold open to reveal a small hallway, another desk, another spray of flowers, and patterned wallpaper. There are two doors at either end of the corridor, and mercifully, Bernard is standing in one of them.

So this is the lair of a wunderkind, I think, taking a look around the apartment. It’s surprising, all right. Not because of what’s in it, but because of what isn’t.

The living room, with its mullioned windows, cozy fireplace, and stately bookshelves, calls out for well-loved, well-worn furniture, but contains a single beanbag chair. Ditto for the dining room, which is populated by a Ping-Pong table and a couple of folding chairs. Then there’s the bedroom: a king-size bed, a king-size television. On the bed itself, a lone sleeping bag.