Summer and the City

  “Thank you.” She removes the hanger from my hands.

  “Can you afford that?”

  “I can’t not afford it. If you want the life, you have to look the part.” She frowns. “I would think you of all people would understand. Aren’t you obsessed with fashion?”

  “Not at these prices. This lovely garment I’m wearing cost two bucks.”

  “It looks it,” she says, taking off the French maid’s outfit and dropping it onto the floor.

  She slides into the Chanel suit and considers her image in the full-length mirror. “What do you think?”

  “Isn’t that what all those ladies wear? The ones who lunch? I know it’s Chanel, but it’s not really you.”

  “Which makes it perfect for an up-and-coming Upper East Side lady.”

  “But you’re not one,” I object, thinking about all those crazy nights we’ve spent together.

  She puts her finger to her lips. “I am now. And I will be, for as long as I need to be.”

  “And then what?”

  “I’ll be independently wealthy. Maybe I’ll live in Paris.”

  “You’re planning to divorce Charlie before you’ve even married him? What if you have kids?”

  “What do you think, Sparrow?” She kicks the French maid’s uniform into the closet and looks at me pointedly. “I believe someone has some cooking to do.”

  Four hours later, despite the fact that the oven is going and two burners are lit, I’m shivering with cold. Charlie keeps the apartment cooled to the temperature of a refrigerated truck. It’s probably ninety degrees outside, but I sure could use one of his cashmere sweaters right now.

  How can Samantha take it? I wonder, stirring the pan. But I suppose she’s used to it. If you marry one of these mogul types, you kind of have to do what they want.

  “Carrie?” Samantha asks, coming into the kitchen. “How’s it going?”

  “The main course is almost ready.”

  “Thank God,” she says, taking a gulp of red wine from a large goblet. “I’m going insane out there.”

  “What do you think I’m doing in here?”

  “At least you don’t have to talk about window treatments.”

  “How do you ‘treat’ a window? Do you send it to a doctor?”

  “Decorator,” she sighs. “Twenty thousand dollars. For curtains. I don’t think I can do it.”

  “You’d better do it. I’m freezing my butt off in here so you can look good. I still don’t understand why you didn’t hire a caterer.”

  “Because Superwoman doesn’t hire a caterer. She does everything herself.”

  “Here,” I say, handing her two finished plates. “And don’t forget your cape.”

  “What are we having, anyway?” She looks at the plates in consternation.

  “Lamp chops with a mushroom cream sauce. The green stuff is asparagus. And those brown things are potatoes,” I say sardonically. “Has Charlie figured out I’m back here cooking?”

  “Doesn’t have a clue.” She smiles.

  “Good. Then just tell him it’s French.”

  “Thanks, Sparrow.” She wheels out. Through the open door, I hear her exclaim, “Voilà.”

  Unfortunately, I can’t see the guests, because the dining room is around the corner. I caught a glimpse of it though. The table was also Plexiglas. Apparently Charlie has a love of plastic.

  I get to work on the mini chocolate soufflés. I’m about to put them into the oven when a voice exclaims, “Aha! I knew it was too good to be true.”

  I jump a mile, nearly dropping the muffin pan. “Cholly?” I hiss.

  “Carrie Bradshaw, I presume,” he says, strolling purposefully into the kitchen and opening the freezer. “I was wondering what became of you. Now I know.”

  “Actually, you don’t,” I say, gently closing the oven door.

  “Why is Samantha keeping you hidden back here?”

  I open my mouth to explain, then catch myself. Cholly seems like the gossipy type—he’ll probably run out and spill the beans that it’s me doing the cooking. I’m just like Cyrano, except I don’t think I’m going to get the guy at the end.

  “Listen, Cholly—”

  “I get it,” he says with a wink. “I’ve known Samantha for years. I doubt she can boil an egg.”

  “Are you going to tell?”

  “And spoil the fun? No, little one,” he says, kindly. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  He goes out, and two minutes later, Samantha comes running back in. “What happened?” she asks in a panic. “Did Cholly see you? That meddling old man. I knew I shouldn’t have invited him. And it was going so well. You could practically see the steam coming out of the other women’s ears, they were so jealous.” She grits her teeth in frustration and puts her hands over her face. It’s the first time I’ve seen her genuinely distraught, and I wonder if her fabulous relationship with Charlie is everything she says it is.

  “Hey,” I say, touching her shoulder. “It’s okay. Cholly promised he wouldn’t tell.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. And I think he’ll keep his word. He seems like a pretty nice old guy.”

  “He is,” she says in relief. “And those women out there, they’re like snakes. During cocktails, one of them kept asking me when we were planning to have children. When I said I didn’t know, she got all superior and told me I’d better get on it right away before Charlie changed his mind about marrying me. And then she asked me when I was planning to quit my job.”

  “What’d you say?” I ask, in indignation.

  “I said, ‘Never. Because I don’t consider my work a job. I consider it a career. And you don’t quit a career.’ That shut her up for a minute. Then she asked where I went to college.”

  “And?”

  Samantha straightens. “I lied. Said I went to a little school in Boston.”

  “Oh, sweetie.”

  “What difference does it make? I’m not going to risk losing Charlie because some uptight society matron doesn’t approve of where I went to school. I’ve gotten this far, and I don’t plan to go back.”

  “Of course not,” I say, touching her shoulder. I pause. “Maybe I should go. Before anyone else wanders in.”

  She nods. “That’s a good idea.”

  “The soufflés are in the oven. All you have to do is take them out in twenty minutes, turn them over onto a plate, and put a scoop of ice cream on top.”

  She looks at me gratefully, and envelops me in a hug. “Thanks, Sparrow. I couldn’t have pulled this off without you.”

  She takes a step back and smoothes her hair. “Oh, and Sparrow?” she adds carefully. “Would you mind going out the service entrance?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Where is everybody? I think in annoyance as I bang down the phone for the millionth time.

  When I got home last night, I kept wondering about Samantha and Charlie. Was that the way to a happy relationship? Turning yourself into what the man wanted?

  On the other hand, it seemed to be working. For Samantha, anyway. And in comparison, my own relationship with Bernard was sorely lacking. Not only in sex, but in the simple fact that I still wasn’t sure I was ever going to see him again. I guess the best thing about living with a guy is that you know you’re going to see him again. I mean, he has to come home at some point, right?

  Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of Bernard. And it’s all Maggie’s fault. If she hadn’t been so rude, if she hadn’t insisted on tracking down Ryan and seducing him . . . And she’s still with Ryan, having a mini affair, while I’ve got nothing. I’ve become a handmaiden to other people’s relationships. Aiding and abetting. And now I’m all alone.

  Thank God for Miranda. I’ll always have her. Miranda will never have a relationship. So where the hell is she?

  I pick up the phone and try her again. No answer. Strange, as it’s raining, which means she can’t be marching around in front of Saks. I try Bernard again too. No answer there eit
her. Feeling thoroughly pissed off, I call Ryan. Jeez. Even he’s not picking up. Figures. He and Maggie are probably holed up having sex for the twentieth time.

  I give up. I stare at the rain. Drip, drip, drip. It’s depressing.

  At last the buzzer goes off. Two short toots, followed by a long one, like someone’s leaning on the button. Maggie. Great friend she is. She came to New York to see me, but spent all her time with stupid old Ryan. I go out into the hallway and lean over the stairs, prepared to give her a piece of my mind.

  Instead I see the top of Miranda’s head. The rain has flattened her bright red hair into a neat cap.

  “Hey,” I exclaim.

  “It’s pissing out there. Thought I’d stop off here till it lets up.”

  “C’mon in.” I hand her a towel and she rubs her hair, the damp strands standing up from her head like the crest on a rooster. Unlike me, she appears to be full of good cheer. She goes into the kitchen, opens the refrigerator, and peers in. “Got anything to eat in this place?”

  “Cheese.”

  “Yum. I’m starving.” She grabs a small knife and attacks the brick of cheddar. “Hey. Have you noticed how you haven’t heard from me for two days?”

  Actually, I haven’t. I’ve been too busy with Maggie and Samantha and Bernard. “Yeah,” I say. “Where were you?”

  “Guess.” She grins.

  “You went to a rally? In Washington?”

  “Nope. Guess again.”

  “I give up.” I wander to the futon and flop down, gazing out the window. I light a cigarette, thinking about how I’m not in the mood for games.

  She balances on the arm of the futon, munching her cheese. “Having sex.”

  “Huh?” I stub out the cigarette.

  “Having sex,” she repeats. She slides onto the cushion. “I met a guy and we’ve been having nonstop sex for the last two days. And the worst thing about it? I couldn’t poop. I honestly could not poop until he finally left this morning.”

  “Hold on. You met a guy?”

  “Yes, Carrie. I did. Believe it or not, there are some men who find me attractive.”

  “I never said there weren’t. But you always say—”

  “I know.” She nods. “Sex sucks. But this time, it didn’t.”

  I stare at her wide-eyed and slightly jealous, not knowing where to begin.

  “He’s a law student at NYU,” she says, settling into the couch. “I met him in front of Saks. At first, I didn’t want to talk to him because he was wearing a bow tie—”

  “What?”

  “And it was yellow. With black polka dots. He kept walking by and I kept trying to ignore him, but he signed the petition, so I thought I’d try to be polite. Turns out he’s been studying all these cases about free speech and pornography. He says the porn industry was the first to use the printing press. Did you know that? It wasn’t because everyone wanted to read all this great literature. It was because men wanted to look at dirty pictures!”

  “Wow,” I bleat, trying to get into the spirit of things.

  “We were talking and talking, and then he said why don’t we continue this discussion over dinner? I wasn’t really attracted to him, but he seemed like an interesting guy and I thought maybe we could be friends. So I said yes.”

  “Fantastic.” I force a smile. “Where did you go?”

  “Japonica. This Japanese restaurant on University. And it wasn’t cheap, by the way. I tried to split it with him but he wouldn’t.”

  “You let a man pay for you?” This isn’t at all like Miranda.

  She smiles awkwardly. “It goes against everything I believe in. But I told myself that maybe this once, I could let it go. I kept thinking about that night with you and your friend L’il. About how her mother was a lesbian. I kept wondering if maybe I was a lesbian, but if I am, how come I’m not attracted to women?”

  “Maybe you haven’t met the right one,” I joke.

  “Carrie!” she says, but she’s in too good a mood to be offended. “I’ve always been attracted to guys. I just wish they were more like women. But with Marty—”

  “That’s his name? Marty?”

  “He can’t help his name. I mean, you don’t exactly get to name yourself, do you? But I was kind of worried. Because I wasn’t sure I could even kiss him.” She lowers her voice. “He’s not the best-looking guy. But I told myself that looks aren’t everything. And he really is smart. Which can be a turn-on. I’ve always said I’d rather be with a smart, ugly guy than a good-looking dumb guy. Because what are you going to talk about with a dumb guy?”

  “The weather?” I ask, wondering if Bernard thinks the same thing about me. Maybe I’m not smart enough for him and that’s why he hasn’t called.

  “So then,” Miranda continues, “we’re walking through the Mews—that cute little cobblestoned street—and suddenly he pushes me up against the wall and starts making out with me!”

  I shriek while Miranda bobs her head. “I couldn’t believe it myself,” she titters. “And the crazy thing about it was that it was totally sexy. We made out every five seconds on the street and when we got to my house, we ripped off our clothes and we did it!”

  “Amazing,” I say, lighting another cigarette. “Absolutely amazing.”

  “We did it three times that night. And the next morning, he took me to breakfast. I was worried it was a one-night stand, but he called in the afternoon and came over and we had sex again and he spent the night and we’ve seen each other practically every minute since then.”

  “Hold on,” I say, waving my cigarette. “Every minute?” And another one bites the dust. Miranda is going to have some big romance with this guy she just met, and I’ll never see her again either.

  “I hardly know him,” she giggles, “but so what? If it’s right, it’s right, don’t you think?”

  “I guess so,” I say grudgingly.

  “Can you believe it? Me? Having nonstop sex? Especially after all those things I told you. And now that I’ve finally had good sex, I’m thinking it might give me a new perspective on life. Like all men aren’t necessarily horrible after all.”

  “That’s great,” I say weakly, feeling sorry for myself.

  And then it happens. My eyes well up with tears.

  I quickly brush them away, but Miranda catches me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why are you crying?” Her face screws up with worry. “You’re not mad because I have a boyfriend now, are you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Carrie. I can’t help you unless you tell me what’s wrong,” she says gently.

  I spill the whole story, starting with the disastrous dinner with Bernard and how Maggie insisted we go to a party and how she ended up with Ryan and how Bernard hasn’t called me and now it’s probably over. “How did this happen to me?” I wail. “I should have slept with Bernard when I had the chance. Now it will never happen. I’ll be a virgin for the rest of my life. Even L’il isn’t a virgin. And my friend Maggie is sleeping with three guys. At once! What’s wrong with me?”

  Miranda puts her arms around my shoulders. “Poor baby,” she says soothingly. “You’re having a bad day.”

  “Bad day? More like bad week,” I sniffle. But I’m grateful for her kindness. Miranda is usually so prickly. I can’t help but wonder if maybe she’s right and two days of great sex have awakened her maternal instinct.

  “Not everyone is the same,” she says firmly. “People develop at different times.”

  “But I don’t want to be the last.”

  “Lots of famous people are late bloomers. My father says it’s an advantage to be a late bloomer. Because when good things start happening, you’re ready for it.”

  “Like you were finally ready for Marty?”

  “I guess so.” She nods. “I liked it, Carrie. Oh my God. I really liked it.” She covers her mouth in horror. “If I like sex, do you think it means I can’t be a feminist?”

  “No.” I s
hake my head. “Because being a feminist—I think it means being in charge of your sexuality. You decide who you want to have sex with. It means not trading your sexuality for . . . other things.”

  “Like marrying some gross guy who you’re not in love with just so you can have a nice house with a picket fence.”

  “Or marrying a rich old geezer. Or a guy who expects you to cook him dinner every night and take care of the children,” I say, thinking of Samantha.

  “Or a guy who makes you have sex with him whenever he wants, even if you don’t,” Miranda concludes.

  We look at each other in triumph, as if we’ve finally solved one of the world’s great problems.

  Chapter Nineteen

  At about seven, when Miranda and I have taken a few swigs from the bottle of vodka and have proceeded to interpretive-dance our way through Blondie, the Ramones, The Police, and Elvis Costello, Maggie arrives.

  “Magwitch!” I exclaim, throwing my arms around her, determined to forgive and forget.

  She takes in Miranda, who has picked up a candle and is singing into it like it’s a microphone. “Who is that?”

  “Miranda!” I shout. “This is my friend Maggie. My best friend from high school.”

  “Hi.” Miranda waves the candle at her.

  Maggie spots the vodka, storms toward it, and proceeds to pour half the bottle down her throat. “Don’t worry,” she snaps, catching my expression. “I can buy more. I’m eighteen, remember?”

  “So?” I say, wondering what this has to do with anything. She glares at Miranda and drops onto the futon.

  “Ryan stood me up,” she snarls.

  “Huh?” I’m puzzled. “Haven’t you been with him for the last twenty-four hours?”

  “Yes. But the minute I let him out of my sight, he disappeared.”

  I can’t help it. I start laughing.

  “It isn’t funny. We were at some coffee shop getting breakfast at six in the evening. I went into the bathroom, and when I came out, he was gone.”

  “He ran away?”

  “Sure sounds like it, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, Mags.” I’m trying to be sympathetic. But I can’t quite get there. It’s all too ridiculous. And not terribly surprising.