“We got this idea to do a calendar of hot girls in Brooklyn, nude, eating cupcakes from Clementine’s Picnic. Cassandra! Just look me in the eyes and tell me that’s not brilliant.”
“Hmm,” Cassandra said, thinking.
“Oh! I have to text Gala to let her know about the calendar. I have to get her to pose, of course.”
It was in this fashion that Cassandra first learned that Sylvie had no intention of asking her to pose for the calendar— not that she would have wanted to exactly, because she thought it was lame. But still. It just proved what she had always suspected, ever since they were teenagers, which was that Sylvie didn’t think that Cassandra was as hot as she was.
“Oh also, here’s another idea I had. Once it takes off, I want to get Clementine’s Picnic to start operating at night. You know how you always get late-night cravings for sweets? Like how we always used to go get Nutella? I was thinking, people would totally buy my cupcakes at night. And I feel like there’s a real market here, you know? It’s about time that somebody provided an alternative to those child molester ice cream trucks!”
“Child molester ice cream trucks?”
“You know! Those greasy white trucks that look like they’re from the seventies that go rattling down the streets at night, with some low-life guy sitting there peddling unwholesome frozen treats to the neighborhood children. Jesus! Those things give me the creeps.”
“Oh,” said Cassandra, relieved, “Mister Softee.”
“Oh, is that what they’re called? Anyway. I think I’m really onto something here. I think there’s a market.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Another thing. Did I tell you that the Italian ice guy bought a cupcake from us last week? Hannah told me all about it. He was really checking out our operation, Hannah said.”
“Oh, good.”
“Good! Cassandra, is that all you have to say? Cassandra, it’s an incredible compliment, is what it is! He was an immigrant. Those people don’t spend their money on stupid shit the way Americans do. They send it back to their families in Nicaragua or wherever. Cassandra! I feel like you’re not even listening to me. You seem really out of it tonight.”
“If I could just take a shower—”
“Yeah, why don’t you? You smell like sex. Dirty sex.”
“Well, what of it? This apartment smells like lemons. Dirty lemons.”
It came to her in a sickening wave that that’s what this scent was, this scent that seemed to have penetrated the whole of the apartment and even her skin: that of rotting, once beautiful, once innocent plump young yellow lemons. Their numbers were mounting and their corpses still decaying in Sylvie’s hallway. Oh no, I hope I’m not coming down with a migraine, she thought.
“Before you get in the shower, I just wanted to ask you something, really quickly. No big deal. But I was hoping you could give me a thousand dollars, to start.”
“For what?”
“For Clementine’s Picnic. Obviously I want you to be one of the first investors,” said Sylvie, in a royal tone of voice that suggested that she was doing Cassandra an honor.
“Oh yeah, well, we can talk about that a little later. After I get out of—”
“Oh, but it’s kind of time sensitive.”
“Time sensitive?”
“It just is. I have so much momentum right now. I don’t want to lose it!”
“Well, you won’t lose it by letting me get in the shower, I don’t think.”
“I’ve made up my mind, Cassandra. I have to be serious about this thing and to do that I need to start getting more investors. The more investors I have, the more it will start to look like I have a legitimate business.”
“Oh, okay. Well, that’s great, Sylvie. But, since you brought it up, I don’t really think I can afford to be an investor right now. Maybe—”
Sylvie panicked. The day had been going so well and she hadn’t counted on Cassandra being so difficult. Cassandra was usually so easy where money was concerned. Not for nothing, thought Sylvie, was the phrase taking candy from a baby a cliché.
“But Cassandra, you have t—”
“But Sylvie. You’re doing quite well, it seems to me. You’ve been doing fine ever since you started babysitting. Good for you! That’s fantastic about Toby giving you the five thousand dollars.”
“Yeah, but it’s not enough, obviously. I’ll need to get other investors. And I was counting on getting at least a thousand from you right now.” In fact, she had been counting on getting much more from Cassandra, over time. “I need to buy an industrial-size refrigerator, see—”
“Sylvie, I really want to get in the shower. I’m desperate to get in the shower.”
“Cassandra!” Sylvie was shrieking as Cassandra slammed the bathroom door.
And then Cassandra, trying as best she could to rinse shampoo out of her hair under the anemic water pressure, recalled that Pansy Chapin had asked her to be her roommate. It struck her that she was having the exact same thought Sylvie had had all those years ago when she first moved to New York—a beautiful, dewy, untested young thing just twenty-two years old, and living in Greenwich Village with Rosa Lalage.
Jesus Christ! I’ve got to get out of this place.
CHAPTER 26
Cassandra stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a plushy pink towel but, due to the state of the water pressure, not quite sufficiently refreshed. Sylvie was crouched on top of the kitchen counter, smoking a joint and trying to chill out. But for some reason it wasn’t working tonight. She was so mad. She was so mad at Cassandra. She had never been so mad in all her life, and hers was a life that had long been full of indignation. Here we go again, thought Sylvie, and tried once more to convince her.
“The thing is, Cassandra, I’ve been thinking and you have the money. I know you have it. I know you could afford to give it to me. Come on.”
“Do you remember?” Cassandra began, in a different tone of voice, a voice that was melancholy and searching and made Sylvie think that something inconvenient was coming.
“Do I remember what?”
“Sylvie, do you remember that the summer we graduated, when you moved to New York, I gave you the money for the deposit on your apartment? It was a thousand dollars, and up until now I’ve never mentioned it, but you never paid me back. Remember?”
Fuck, thought Sylvie. She remembers! She could have sworn that Cassandra had forgotten by now. Trying to make her voice sound casual, she decided to say:
“I don’t know; I don’t remember. Maybe.”
“Well, I do,” Cassandra said. “I have a long memory, and I remember. And I’m not going to give you money again, Sylvie. I’m just not.”
Sylvie, now springing off of the kitchen counter and standing before Cassandra with her hands on her hips, was incredulous.
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” Cassandra said simply.
“But—Cassandra!” shrieked Sylvie again.
“Don’t Cassandra! me. My mind is made up and my answer is not going to change.”
“Edward,” Sylvie suggested. She already had a back-up scheme in mind. “Edward has plenty of money.”
“So what?”
“Well, I was just thinking—”
“I mean. So what if Edward has plenty of money? He wouldn’t give it to you.”
“No, obviously not. But he would give it to you, wouldn’t he? And then—”
And then I’d be all set, Sylvie was thinking. She didn’t get much past that.
“Sylvie.” Cassandra was flabbergasted. “Sylvie, I don’t understand. Why are you talking this way? What the hell happened to you?”
There came, out of nowhere, an image of Sylvie, beautiful, brown-armed, twenty-two-year-old Sylvie, appearing in her white peasant dress that lilac-perfumed evening on the Bennington quad. What had happened to that Sylvie? Cassandra meant, all of a sudden missing that earlier incarnation keenly. What had happened to her?
“I’m broke, is what happen
ed to me! I’m in debt, is what happened to me! New York City is what happened to me!”
“New York City?” echoed Cassandra blankly.
“Yes, New York City!” Sylvie shouted, and now it was her turn to go running into the bathroom and slam the door. Cassandra heard the water running and went and hid in her bedroom. For the first time ever in the history of their friendship, both girls were silent for the rest of the night.
CHAPTER 27
The next morning, Cassandra pretended to sleep in late, waiting to get up until she heard Sylvie leave the apartment. Then she decided to go to Central Park for the day. But by the time she got there, it started to rain and she got a text from Sylvie saying:
IF YOU DON’T WANT TO BE AN INVESTOR, FINE. BUT AT LEAST YOU COULD REIMBURSE ME FOR ALL OF THAT LINGERIE I BOUGHT YOU LAST CHRISTMAS. THAT STUFF COST ME $600.
On reading this, Cassandra called Pansy Chapin immediately. Pansy was at the spa having her toes done for the upcoming weekend in Montauk and happy to pick up. Uncharacteristically for her, Cassandra got straight to the point and asked if she still wanted to be roommates.
“Yes! The move-in date’s June first and I don’t want to have to call my father for money, in case I don’t find someone. I hate him.”
By now, it was May 15. Then Pansy remembered something.
“But, wait, I thought you said you were living with Sylvie Furst.”
“Yes, but I’d like to get out,” said Cassandra simply, and Pansy accepted this without asking any questions because, to her mind, Manhattan was still Manhattan and the boroughs were still the outer boroughs. She didn’t care what people said.
“Oh, good! This is so exciting. So you can move in June first. But I hope you can cover your portion of the security deposit? I had to get a broker just because and the fee is hideous.”
Then Pansy named the fee, and it was. It was such a large sum that Cassandra saw, in one swift moment, that she was going to survive her youth in one way or another but not, perhaps, in New York City.
Nevertheless:
“Guess what? I’m moving to the Upper East Side!” she announced to Edward over the phone. “Seventy-Ninth and Second.”
“Well, then!” exclaimed Edward, thinking: Second, huh? That was kind of far over from the park. “I love that neighborhood. My grandmother used to live on Park and Seventy-Seventh, remember. I pointed the building out to you one time.”
“Oh, right! I’m moving in with my friend Pansy Chapin. She has all of these great antiques. You’ll like her.”
“Antiques! That sounds like just the right kind of place for you, sweetie. Is Pansy a Bennington girl?”
“Oh, yes.”
“What was her major?”
“Italian. She did a year in Rome. And she was really into art history.”
That sounded respectable, Edward thought.
“Actually, it’s just possible you might know some of her ex-boyfriends. Pansy’s been with a lot of Harvard guys.”
The phrase been with sounded, somehow, not quite so respectable.
“Can I come see you?” Cassandra asked.
“Anytime.”
“How about tonight?”
“Tonight? Wait, but sweetie. We just saw each other a few days ago.”
“I miss you.”
“And I miss you. But—”
“I could get there tonight,” said Cassandra, caressing the last word with her tongue.
“Okay.” Edward melted. “It would be nice to see you and—you know.”
“I’ll get the first train I can.”
“Wow. You want it that bad?”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it.”
“What’s it?”
“Yes—it’s just that I miss you so much. I can’t wait to see you.”
“Sweetie. You’re sure that everything’s all right with Sylvie and you?” Briefly, he recalled the frantic-sounding conversation he’d overheard the two women having about muffins. “You’re just moving because you want to live in a better neighborhood, right?”
“Oh yeah, and Pansy and I will make the place really nice.” She almost added We have great taste but caught herself. “It will be so much more romantic when you come visit.”
“Well, I don’t know about you having a roommate, sweetie. I figured we’d still meet up at the Harvard Club.”
—
On the train to Philadelphia, Cassandra received another text message from Sylvie:
HEY, MEGAN JUST ASKED ME WHY IMOGEN WANTS A WHIP FOR HER BIRTHDAY. YOUR FAULT, YOU PERVERT.
And then, just seconds later:
P.S. WHY ARE YOU NOT RESPONDING TO ME ABOUT THE $$ YOU OWE ME FOR THE LINGERIE?
Cassandra stayed with Edward in Philadelphia for the next two weeks. She had sent Sylvie an e-mail stating her intention to move out, to which she received yet another text message saying:
WHEN YOU COME GET YOUR STUFF, BRING ME A CHECK FOR THE LINGERIE.
And, two days later, when she still had not replied:
ACTUALLY DON’T BRING A CHECK. BRING CASH. I’M TRYING NOT TO REPORT MY INCOME. DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO PAY TAXES.
The day after that:
IF YOU DON’T WANT TO PAY ME FOR THE LINGERIE, MAYBE I SHOULD SEND EDWARD AN INVOICE. HE SHOULD GIVE ME A COMMISSION FOR DOING SO MUCH FOR YOUR SEX LIFE. WHAT’S HIS ADDRESS?
“Gala, get this.” Cassandra called Gala immediately and told her about Sylvie’s texts.
“What is it now?”
Gala was exhausted, having heard Sylvie’s version of the events already. But Cassandra proceeded to read her the text messages word for word.
“You know,” Gala eventually said after listening to Cassandra rant and rave. “Sylvie’s always having these big blowouts with roommates. But I didn’t think this kind of thing would happen between Sylvie and you.”
But I did think, Gala thought, not without schadenfreude. I did think that things wouldn’t last once they were living together. Most friendships do not survive such proximity. Nor do most romances, Gala thought, remembering that time she moved in with Tess Fox in the studio apartment her parents had bought for her in the East Village—it had been domestic bliss at first, and then! Then Tess had accused Gala of stealing her favorite red cardigan from her Mount Holyoke days without her permission and from that moment on there was no turning back: everything ruined, everything lost.
Meanwhile, Cassandra was relieved when Pansy said that she could move her stuff into the apartment on May 30, a Saturday. Edward agreed to rent a car and help Cassandra move, and for this she was extraordinarily grateful, because she didn’t think that Sylvie would dare try anything in front of him, especially when she’d never met him before and because Edward’s smooth male presence was, to her mind, imposing.
She was wrong.
CHAPTER 28
Sylvie opened the door to the apartment wearing a dirty white peasant blouse and a pair of little pale floral underpants. Cassandra figured that she was just waking up and would put some pants on, at least, once she saw Edward, but she didn’t. Instead, she stood in front of the door and said: “Cash. Did you bring cash, Cassandra?”
“Let me get my stuff, Sylvie.”
But even as she marched into the apartment, all she could think of was the sight of Sylvie’s face this morning—it haunted her: it seemed to belong, already, to a stranger. Cassandra imagined her, years later, becoming the kind of rich person who tips badly in restaurants; who during the Christmas season sifts through bargain basements with a pinched, red nose and a bad attitude. She saw her becoming, in short, the kind of person she wanted nothing whatsoever to do with.
Over the years, Cassandra and Sylvie had shared a remarkable degree of physical closeness. They often slept in the same bed. If Cassandra was crashing at her place and had forgotten a toothbrush, she’d use hers. But this morning when she looked at Sylvie, she didn’t see that person, that pretty young girl, at all. No. She saw a withered, squirrel-like figure with bags of death under her eyes.<
br />
Meanwhile, the apartment looked, to Edward, like something out of a nineteenth-century tenement. What was that smell, that rotting smell? Was it—could it be— lemons?
“You two better get out of here fast,” Sylvie was saying. “I’m very busy today. I’m having an industrial-sized refrigerator delivered any minute now.”
Cassandra thought: The hell you are. How is an industrial refrigerator going to fit in this tiny apartment? Then: Oh, what do I care anymore? She just wanted to get her stuff and get out of here.
Sylvie began to roam around the apartment like a rabid animal on a pair of little scratched naked legs. It was only then that she happened to glance down at them and realize that she had forgotten to put any pants on. Hah! She wasn’t going to put them on either. That would serve Cassandra right, in front of Edward. God, did he look like a stiff or what? She noted the judgmental clench of his jaw, the staunchly masculine contempt he exuded. Sylvie could just picture him tying somebody to a bed, that one!
“Did you bring cash? Cassandra? Come on, did you bring the money? You owe me six hundred dollars!”
Six hundred dollars for what? Edward was wondering as he scooped into his arms as many pieces of Cassandra’s clothing and bedding as he could carry. He kept his own financial affairs in perfect order and any talk of outstanding debts aroused his suspicions.
“I need that money, Cassandra. I need it for rent.”
“Rent? But I paid you for May already and I’m leaving right now.”
“If you don’t give me that money, I won’t be able to pay my rent and Pete will get mad at me again. He tried to evict me once, remember!”
Now they were talking about eviction? thought Edward. Jesus! This was getting serious.
“I remember, Sylvie, but that was ages ago. You’ve been paying your rent just fine for months now.”
“But I still owe him back rent! Back rent!”
Cassandra sighed.
“Then that’s your back rent, Sylvie, not mine.”
Bennington Girls Are Easy Page 13