Samantha stops and slowly turns around. Her lips curl into a smile. “My goodness, Harry. You sound just like my father.”
This does the trick, all right. Harry turns about fifteen shades of green. He’s not much older than Samantha, and I’m sure the last thing he expected was to be compared to someone’s old man.
“What was that about?” I ask, when we’re out on the street.
“Harry?” she says, unconcerned. “He’s my new boss.”
“You talk to your new boss like that?”
“Have to,” she says. “Considering how he talks to me.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, let’s see,” she says, pausing at the light. “On his first day of work, he comes into my office and says, ‘I’ve heard you’re highly competent at everything you put your mind to.’ Sounds like a compliment, right? But then he adds, ‘Both in and out of the office.’”
“Can he actually get away with that?”
“Of course.” She shrugs. “You’ve never worked in an office, so you have no idea. But eventually, sex always comes up. When it does, I give it right back to them.”
“But shouldn’t you tell someone?”
“Who?” she says. “His boss? Human Resources? He’ll either say he was joking or I came on to him. What if I’m fired? I don’t plan to sit at home all day, popping out babies and baking cookies.”
“I don’t know about your mothering skills, but considering your cooking abilities, it’s probably not a good idea.”
“Thank you,” she says, having made her point.
Samantha may have lied to Charlie about her culinary knowledge, but she wasn’t kidding about the apartment. His building is on Park Avenue in Midtown, and it’s gold. Not real gold, of course, but some kind of shiny gold metal. And if I thought the doormen in Bernard’s building were sharp, the doormen in Charlie’s building have them beat. Not only are they wearing white gloves, they’re sporting caps with gold braid. Even their uniforms have loops of gold braid hanging from the shoulders. It’s all pretty tacky. But impressive.
“You really live here?” I ask in a whisper as we cross the lobby. It’s marble and it echoes.
“Of course,” she says, greeting a doorman who is politely holding the elevator. “It’s very me, don’t you think? Glamorous yet classy.”
“I guess that’s one way to look at it,” I murmur, taking in the smoky mirrored walls that line the interior of the lift.
Charlie’s apartment is, not surprisingly, enormous. It’s on the forty-fifth floor with floor-to-ceiling windows, a sunken living room, another wall of smoky mirrors, and a large Plexiglas case filled with baseball memorabilia. I’m sure it has several bedrooms and bathrooms, but I don’t get to see them because Samantha immediately directs me to the kitchen. It, too, is enormous, with marble countertops and gleaming appliances. It’s new all right. Too new.
“Has anyone ever cooked in here?” I ask, opening the cabinets to look for pots and pans.
“I don’t think so.” Samantha pats me on the shoulder. “You’ll figure it out. I have faith in you. Now wait till you see what I’m going to wear.”
“Great,” I mutter. The kitchen is practically bare. I find a roll of aluminum foil, some muffin tins, three bowls, and a large frying pan.
“Ta-da!” She says, reappearing in the doorway in a French maid’s outfit. “What do you think?”
“If you’re planning to work on Fo
rty-second Street, it’s just peachy.”
“Charlie loves it when I wear this.”
“Look, sweetie,” I say, between gritted teeth. “This is a dinner party. You can’t wear that.”
“I know,” she says, exasperated. “God, Carrie, can’t you take a joke?”
“Not when I have to prepare an entire meal with three bowls and a roll of aluminum foil. Who’s coming to this shindig anyway?”
She holds up her hand. “Me, Charlie, some really boring couple who Charlie works with, another really boring couple, and Charlie’s sister, Erica. And my friend Cholly, to liven things up.”