Summer and the City by Candace Bushnell Read Free Book Online

grumble, eyeing her suspiciously. “Don’t you want to hear about my evening with Bernard?”
    “Of course. How was it?”
    “Incredibly interesting. His ex-wife took all his furniture. Then we went to La Grenouille.”
    “That’s nice.” L’il is annoyingly distracted this morning. I wonder if it’s due to Peggy locking me out—or something else entirely. I’m sure she’s lying about her mother’s sick friend, though. Who puts on blush and mascara to go to a hospital?
    But then I don’t care, because I get an idea.
    I dash into my cubbyhole and come back with my Carrie bag. I rifle through it and pull out a piece of paper. “I’m going to see Samantha Jones.”
    “Who’s that?” L’il murmurs.
    “The woman who let me stay at her apartment?” I ask, trying to jog her memory. “Donna LaDonna’s cousin? She lent me twenty dollars. I’m going to pay her back.” This, of course, is merely an excuse. Both to get out of the apartment and to talk to Samantha about Bernard.
    “Good idea.” L’il puts down the mirror and smiles, as if she hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.
    I open my bag to replace the paper, and find the folded-up invitation to the party at The Puck Building, which I wave in L’il’s face. “That party is tonight. We should go.” And maybe, if Bernard calls, he could come with us.
    L’il looks skeptical. “I’m sure there’s a party every night in New York.”
    “I’m sure there is,” I counter. “And I plan to go to every one.”
    Samantha’s steel and glass office building is a forbidding bastion of serious business. The lobby is sharply air-conditioned, with all manner of people rushing about, harassed and irritated. I find the name of Samantha’s company—Slovey, Dinall Advertising—and board an elevator for the twenty-sixth floor.
    The elevator ride actually makes me a little queasy. I’ve never ridden an elevator so high up. What if something happens and we crash to the ground?
    But no one else seems the least concerned. Everyone has their eyes turned to the numbers that tick off the floors, their faces intentionally blank, deliberately ignoring the fact that there are at least half a dozen people in the space of a large closet. This must be elevator protocol, and I attempt to copy their demeanor.
    But I don’t quite get it right, because I actually manage to catch the eye of a middle-aged woman holding a sheaf of folders in front of her chest. I smile, and she quickly looks away.
    Then it occurs to me that popping in unexpectedly on Samantha in her place of work might not be the best idea. Nevertheless, when the elevator opens on her floor, I get out and bump around in the softly carpeted hallway until I find two enormous doors with SLOVEY, DINALL ADVERTISING INCORPORATED etched into the glass. On the other side is a large desk behind which sits a small woman with black hair that rises in sharp spikes. She takes in my appearance, and after a beat, says, “Can I help you,” in a doubtful, grating tone that sounds like her nose is speaking instead of her mouth.
    This is very disconcerting, and in a hesitant voice intended to convey the fact that I hope I’m not bothering her, I say, “Samantha Jones? I just want to—”
    I’m about to say I want to leave the twenty dollars for her in an envelope, but the woman waves me to a seat and picks up the phone. “Someone’s here for Samantha,” she whines into the receiver. Then she asks for my name and nods. “Her assistant will be out to get you,” she says wearily. She picks up a paperback book and starts reading.
    The reception area is decorated with posters of advertisements, some of which appear to go back to the 1950s. I’m kind of surprised that Samantha Jones has her own assistant. She doesn’t look old enough to be anyone’s boss, but I guess Donna LaDonna was right when she said her cousin was a “big deal in advertising.”
    In a few minutes, a young woman appears, wearing a navy suit, a light blue