Summer and the City

Chapter Ten

Bernard!

“He called me,” I sing to myself like a little bird, skipping down Forty-fifth Street into the Theater District. Apparently, he did call my old apartment and Peggy told him I no longer lived there and she didn’t know where I was. And then Peggy had the gall to ask Bernard if she could audition for his new play. Bernard coldly suggested she call his casting director, and suddenly, Peggy’s memory as to my whereabouts mysteriously returned. “She’s staying with a friend of hers. Cindy? Samantha?”

Just as I’d given up hope of him calling me on his own, Bernard, bless his soul, managed to put two and two together and rang me first.

“Can you meet me at the theater around lunchtime tomorrow?” he asked.

Bernard sure has some odd ideas about what constitutes a date. But he is a wunderkind, so perhaps he lives outside the rules.

The Theater District is so exciting, even during the day. There are the flashing lights of Broadway, the cute little restaurants, and the seedy theaters promising “LIVE GIRLS,” which makes me scratch my head. Would anyone want dead ones?

And then on to Shubert Alley. It’s only a narrow street, but I can’t help imagining what it would be like to have my own play performed in this theater. If that happened, it would mean everything in my life was perfect.

As per Bernard’s instructions, I enter through the stage door. It’s nothing special-just a dingy lobby with gray cement walls and peeling linoleum on the floor and a man stationed behind a little window that slides open. “Bernard Singer?” I ask.

The guard looks up from his Post , his face a map of veins. “Here to audition?” he asks, taking down a clipboard.

“No, I’m a friend.”

“Ah. You’re the young lady. Carrie Bradshaw.”

“That’s right.”

“He said he was expecting you. He’s out, but he’ll be back soon. He said I should take you on a backstage tour.”

“Yes, please,” I exclaim. The Shubert Theatre . A Chorus Line . Backstage!

“Ever been here before?”

“No!” I can’t keep the squeal of excitement out of my voice.

“Mr. Shubert founded the theater in 1913.” The guard pulls apart a heavy black curtain to reveal the stage. “Katharine Hepburn performed here in 1939. The Philadelphia Story. ”

“On this very stage?”

“Used to stand right where you are now, every evening, before her first entrance. ‘Jimmy,’ she’d say, ‘how’s the house tonight?’ And I’d say, ‘All the better for you being here, Miss Hepburn.’”

“Jimmy,” I plead. “Could I-”

He smiles, catching my enthusiasm. “Only for a second. No one’s allowed on that stage who ain’t union-”

And before he can change his mind, I’m crossing the boards, looking out at the house. I stride to the footlights and take in row after row of velvet chairs, the balconies, the luxurious boxes on the side. And for a moment, I imagine the theater filled with people, all there to see little ol’ me.

I fling out my arms. “Hello, New York!”

“Oh my.” I hear a deep, throaty laugh, followed by the sound of one person clapping. I turn around in horror, and there, in the wings, is Bernard, wearing sunglasses, an open white shirt, and Gucci loafers. Next to him is the clapper, whom I immediately recognize as the actress Margie Shephard. His ex-wife. What the hell is she doing here? And what must she think of me, after witnessing my little performance?

It doesn’t take long to find out, because the next thing she says is, “I see a star is born,” in a flinty voice.

“Take it easy, Margie,” Bernard says, having the sense to at least sound slightly annoyed by her.

“Hello. I’m Carrie.” I hold out my hand.

She does me the honor of shaking it, but doesn’t provide her own name, confident that I already know who she is. I think I’ll always remember what her hand feels like-the long, smooth fingers, the palm, warm and firm. Someday I’ll probably even say, “I met Margie Shephard. I shook her hand and she was amazing.”

Margie opens her mouth prettily, and emits a sly laugh. “Well, well,” she says.

Nobody can say, “Well, well,” and get away with it, except Margie Shephard. I can’t stop gaping at her. She isn’t technically beautiful, but has some kind of inner light that makes you think she’s one of the most attractive women you’ve ever seen.

I totally understand why Bernard married her. What I can’t understand is why he isn’t still married to her.

I don’t stand a chance.

“Nice to meet you,” Margie says, with a whisper of a wink at Bernard.

“Me too.” I stumble over the words. Margie probably thinks I’m an idiot.

She twinkles at Bernard. “We’ll continue this discussion later.”

“I suggest we don’t continue it at all,” Bernard mutters. Apparently he isn’t as starstruck by her as I am.

“I’ll call you.” Again, there’s the pretty smile, and the eyes that seem to know everything. “Good-bye, Carrie.”

“Good-bye.” I’m suddenly disappointed to see her go.

Bernard and I watch as she strides through the hallway, one hand caressing the back of her neck-a poignant reminder to Bernard of what he’s missing.

I swallow, prepared to apologize for my little show, but instead of being embarrassed, Bernard grabs me under my arms and presses me to him, spinning me around like a child. He kisses me all over my face. “Am I glad to see you, kiddo. You’ve got great timing. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

“No-”

“You do. If you hadn’t been here, I wouldn’t have been able to get rid of her. C’mon.” He grabs my hand and briskly leads me out the other end of the alley like a madman on a mission. “It’s you, baby,” he says. “When I saw you, it suddenly made sense.”

“Sense?” I ask breathlessly, trying to keep up, confused about his sudden adoration. It’s what I’d been hoping for, but now that he actually seems smitten, I’m a bit wary.

“Margie is over. Finished. I’m moving on.” We come out on Forty-fourth Street and head to Fifth Avenue. “You’re a woman. Where can I buy some furniture?”

“Furniture?” I laugh. “I have no idea.”

“Someone’s got to know. Excuse me.” He accosts a nicely dressed lady in pearls. “Where’s the best place to buy furniture around here?”

“What kind of furniture?” she asks, as if this kind of encounter with a stranger is perfectly normal.

“A table. And some sheets. And maybe a couch.”

“Bloomingdale’s,” she says, and moves on.

Bernard looks down at me. “You busy this afternoon? Got time to do some furniture shopping?”

“Sure.” It wasn’t exactly the romantic lunch I had in mind, but so what?

We jump into a cab. “Bloomingdale’s,” Bernard directs the driver. “And make it fast. We need to buy sheets.”

The cabbie smiles. “You two lovebirds getting married?”

“The opposite. I’m officially getting unmarried,” Bernard says, and squeezes my leg.

When we get to Bloomingdale’s, Bernard and I run around the fifth floor like two little kids, trying out the beds, bouncing on the sofas, pretending to drink tea from the china display. One of the salesmen recognizes Bernard (“Oh, Mr. Singer. It’s an honor. Will you sign this sales slip for my mother?”) and follows us around like a puppy.

Bernard buys a dining room set, a brown leather couch and ottoman, an armoire, and a pile of pillows, sheets, and towels. “Can I have it delivered right away?”

“Normally, no,” the salesman simpers. “But for you, Mr. Singer, I’ll try.”

“Now what?” I ask Bernard.

“We go to my apartment and wait.”

“I still don’t understand why Margie took the furniture,” I say as we stroll up Fifty-ninth Street.

“To punish me, I suppose.”

“But I thought she was the one who left,” I venture, carefully avoiding the word “cheated.”

“Chickadee, don’t you know anything about women? Fair play doesn’t enter into their vocabulary.”

“Not all women. I would never be like that. I’d be reasonable.”

“That’s what’s so great about you. You’re unspoiled.” Still holding hands, we breeze into his building, right past the nasty doorman. Take that, buddy, I think. In the apartment, Bernard puts on a record. Frank Sinatra. “Let’s dance,” he says. “I want to celebrate.”

“I can’t dance to this.”

“Sure you can.” He opens his arms. I rest one hand on his shoulder the way we learned to do in ballroom dancing classes, a million years ago when I was thirteen. He pulls me tighter, his breath scorching my neck. “I like you, Carrie Bradshaw. I really do. Do you think you can like me back?”

“Of course,” I giggle. “If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t dance with you.”

“I don’t believe that’s true. I think you’d dance with a man and when you got tired of him, you’d dance with another.”

“Never.” I twist my head to look at his face. His eyes are closed, his expression beatific. I still can’t fathom his new attitude. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was falling in love with me.

Or maybe he’s falling in love with the idea of falling in love with me. Maybe he wants to be in love with someone and I’ve ended up in the right place at the right time.

And suddenly, I’m nervous. If Bernard were to fall in love with me, I’d never be able to live up to his expectations. I’d end up being a disappointment. And what am I going to do if he tries to have sex with me?

“I want to know what happened,” I say, trying to change the subject. “Between you and Margie.”

“I told you what happened,” he murmurs.

“I meant this afternoon. What were you arguing about?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not.”

“The apartment,” he says. “We were arguing about the apartment. She wants it back and I said no.”

“She wants the apartment, too?” I ask, astounded.

“She might have convinced me if it weren’t for you.” He takes my hand and twirls me around and around. “When I saw you on that stage, I thought, That’s a sign.”

“What kind of sign?”

“A sign that I should put my life back together. Buy furniture. Make this place my home again.”

He lets go of my hand but I keep spinning and spinning until I collapse to the floor. I lie still as the bare room revolves around me and for a moment I picture myself in an insane asylum, in a white space with no furniture. I close my eyes, and when I open them again, Bernard’s face is hovering above mine. He has pretty eyelashes and a crease on either side of his mouth. A small mole is buried in the hair of his right eyebrow. “Crazy, crazy girl,” he whispers, before he leans in to kiss me.

I allow myself to be carried away by the kiss. Bernard’s mouth envelops mine, absorbing all reality until life seems to consist only of these lips and tongues engaged in a funny dance of their own.

I freeze.

And suddenly, I’m suffocating. I put my hands on Bernard’s shoulders. “I can’t.”

“Something I said?” His lips close back over mine. My heart races. An artery throbs in my neck. I wriggle away.

He sits back on his haunches. “Too intense?”

I fan my face and laugh a little. “Maybe.”

“You’re not used to guys like me.”

“I guess not!” I stand up and brush myself off.

There’s a clap of thunder outside. Bernard comes up behind me, pushing my hair aside to mouth my neck. “Have you ever made love in a thunderstorm?”

“Not yet.” I giggle, trying to put him off.

“Maybe it’s time you did.”

Oh no. Right now? Is this the moment? My body trembles. I don’t think I can do it. I’m not prepared.

Bernard massages my shoulders. “Relax.” He leans in and nibbles my earlobe.

If I do it with him now, he’s going to compare me to Margie. I imagine them having sex all the time, in this apartment. I picture Margie kissing Bernard with an intensity that matches his, like in the movies. Then I see myself lying naked on that bare mattress, my arms and legs splayed out stiffly to the side.

Why didn’t I do it with Sebastian when I had the chance? At least I’d know how to do it. I never guessed someone like Bernard would come along. A grown man who obviously assumes his girlfriend has sex regularly and wants to do it all the time.

“C’mon,” he says gently, pulling at my hand.

I balk and he squints at me. “Don’t you want to make love?”

“I do,” I say quickly, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “It’s just that-”

“Yes?”

“I forgot my birth control.”

“Oh.” He drops my hand and laughs. “What do you use? A diaphragm?”

I blush. “Yeah. Sure. Uh-huh.” I nod.

“A diaphragm’s a pain. And it’s messy. With the cream. You use a cream with it, right?”

“Yes.” I mentally pedal backward to the health classes we had in high school. I picture the diaphragm, a funny little object that looks like a rubber cap. But I don’t recall any mention of cream.

“Why don’t you go on the pill? It’s so much easier.”

“I will. Yes indeedy.” I agree vigorously. “I keep meaning to get a prescription but-”

“I know. You don’t want to take the pill until you know the relationship is serious.”

My throat goes dry. Is this relationship serious? Am I ready for it? But in the next second, Bernard is lying on the bed, and has turned on the TV. Is it my imagination, or does he look slightly relieved?

“C’mere, puddy tat,” he says, patting the spot next to him. He holds out his hands. “Do you think my nails are too long?”

“Too long for what?” I frown.

“Seriously,” he says.

I take his hand in mine, running my fingers over the palm. His hands are lovely and lean, and I can’t help thinking about those hands on my body. The sexiest part of a man is his hands. If a man has girlish hands, it doesn’t matter what the rest of him is like. “They are, a little.”

“Could you cut them and file them for me?” he asks.

What?

“Margie used to do it for me,” he explains. My heart softens. He’s so sweet. I had no idea a man could be so cozy. But it’s not surprising, given my limited experience with romance.

Bernard goes into the bathroom to get clippers and a nail file. I look around the spare bedroom. Poor Bernard, I think, for the hundredth time.

“Primate grooming,” he says when he returns. He sits across from me, and I begin carefully clipping his nails. I can hear the rain drumming on the awning below while I file rhythmically, the motion and the rain putting me into a soothing trance. Bernard strokes my arm and then my face as I lean over his hand.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply simply.

“This is what it should be like. No fighting. Or arguing about whose turn it is to walk the dog.”

“Did you have a dog?”

“A long-haired dachshund. He was Margie’s dog first, but she could never be bothered to pay attention to him.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

“Yeah. She stopped paying attention to me, too. It was all about her career.”

“That’s terrible,” I say, filing contentedly. I can’t imagine any woman ever losing interest in Bernard.

Chapter Eleven

I wake up the next morning with an idea.

Maybe it’s because of all the time I spent with Bernard, but I’m finally inspired. I know what I have to do: write a play.

This brilliant notion lasts for about three seconds before it’s crushed under a million and one reasons why it’s impossible. Like Bernard will think I’m copying him. Like I won’t be able to do it anyway. Like Viktor Greene won’t let me.

I sit on Samantha’s bed with my legs crossed, making faces. The fact is, I need to prove I can make it in New York. But how? Maybe I’ll get lucky and be discovered. Or maybe it will turn out I have hidden talents even I don’t know about. I clutch the silk bedcovers like a survivor clinging to a lifeboat. Despite my fears, it seems my life is starting to take off here-and Brown is less than seven weeks away.

I pluck at a thread. Not that there’s anything wrong with Brown, but I’ve already gotten in there. On the other hand, if New York were a college, I’d still be applying. And if all these other people can make it in New York, why can’t I?

I jump out of bed and run around the apartment just for the hell of it, throwing on my clothes while typing the following three sentences: “I will succeed. I must succeed. Damn everyone,” and then I grab my Carrie bag and practically slide down all five flights to the lobby.

I beetle up Fourteenth Street, expertly weaving through the crowd, picturing my feet flying a few inches off the ground. I turn right on Broadway and hurl myself into the Strand.

The Strand is a legendary secondhand bookstore where you can find any book for cheap. It’s musty and all the salespeople have a very big attitude, like they’re the keepers of the flame of high literature. Which wouldn’t matter, except the salespeople cannot be avoided. If you’re looking for a specific book, you can’t find it without help.

I buttonhole a weedy fellow wearing a sweater with elbow patches.

“Do you have Death of a Salesman ?”

“I should hope so,” he says, crossing his arms.

“And The Importance of Being Earnest ? And maybe The Little Foxes ? The Women ? Our Town ?”

“Slow down. Do I look like a shoe salesman?”

“No,” I murmur, as I follow him into the stacks.

After fifteen minutes of searching, he finally finds The Women . At the end of the stacks I spot Ryan from class. He’s got his nose in Swann’s Way , scratching his head and jiggling his foot as if overcome by the text.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.” He closes the book. “What are you doing here?”

“Going to write a play.” I indicate my small pile of books. “Thought I should read a few first.”

He laughs. “Good idea. The best way to avoid writing is by reading. Then you can at least pretend you’re working.”

I like Ryan. He seems okay as a person, unlike his best friend, Capote Duncan.

I pay for my books, and when I turn around, Ryan is still there. He has the air of someone who doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “Want to get a coffee?” he asks.

“Sure.”

“I’ve got a couple of hours to kill before I have to meet my fiancée,” he says.

“You’re engaged?” Ryan can’t be more than twenty-one or two. He seems too young to get married.

“My fiancée’s a model.” He scratches his cheek, as if he’s both proud and ashamed of her profession. “I always find if a woman really, really, really wants you to do something, you should do it. It’s easier in the long run.”

“So you don’t want to marry her?”

He smiles awkwardly. “If I sleep with a woman ten times, I think I should marry her. I can’t help myself. If she weren’t so busy, we’d already be married by now.”

We walk down Broadway and go into a hamburger joint. “I wish I could find a guy like that,” I say jokingly. “A guy who does everything I want.”

“Can’t you?” He peers at me in confusion.

“I don’t think I’m the man-wrangler type.”

“I’m surprised.” He absentmindedly picks up his fork and tests the prongs on his thumb. “You’re pretty hot.”

I grin. Coming from another guy, I’d take this as a pickup line. But Ryan doesn’t seem to have an agenda. I suspect he’s one of those guys who says exactly what he’s thinking and is then stupefied by the consequences.

We order coffee. “How’d you meet her? Your model fiancée?”

He jiggles his leg. “Capote introduced us.”

“What is with that guy?” I ask.

“Don’t tell me you’re interested too.”

I give him a dirty look. “Are you kidding? I can’t stand him. He’s supposedly got all these women after him-”

“I know.” Ryan nods in appreciative agreement. “I mean, the guy’s not even that good-looking.”

“He’s like the guy every girl has a crush on in sixth grade. And no one can figure out why.”

Ryan laughs. “I always thought I was that guy.”

“Were you?”

“Kind of, yeah.”

I can see it. Ryan at twelve-masses of dark hair, bright blue eyes-a real teen heartthrob. “No wonder you’re engaged to a model.”

“She wasn’t a model when we met, though. She was studying to be a veterinary assistant.”

I take a sip of my coffee. “That’s like the default profession for girls who don’t know what they want to do. But they ‘love’ animals.”

“Harsh but true.”

“How’d she become a model?”

“Discovered,” Ryan says. “She came to visit me in New York and a guy came up to her in Bergdorf’s and gave her his card.”

“And she couldn’t resist.”

“Don’t all women want to be models?” he asks.

“No. But all men want to date them.”

He chuckles. “You should come to this party tonight. It’s a fashion show for some downtown designer. Becky’s modeling in it. And Capote’s coming.”

“Capote?” I scoff. “How can I resist?” But I write down the address on a napkin, anyway.

After Ryan, I pop by Viktor Greene’s office to tell him about my exciting new plan to write a play. If I’m really jazzed about it, he’ll have to say yes.

Viktor’s door is wide open as if he’s expecting someone, so I walk right in. He grunts, startled, and pets his mustache.

He doesn’t offer me a seat, so I stand in front of his desk. “I’ve figured out what my project should be.”

“Yes?” he asks cautiously, his eyes going past me to the hallway.

“I’m going to write a play!”

“That’s fine.”

“You don’t mind? It’s not a short story or a poem-”

“As long as it’s about family,” he says quickly.

“It will be.” I nod. “I’m thinking it should be about this couple. They’ve been married for a few years and they hate each other-”

Viktor stares at me blankly. It appears he has nothing more to say. I stand awkwardly for a moment then add, “I’ll get started right away.”

“Good idea.” It’s now patently clear he wants me out of there. I give him a little wave as I exit.

I run right into L’il. “Carrie!” She flushes.

“I’m going to write a play,” I inform her excitedly. “Viktor says it’s okay.”

“That’s perfect for you. I can’t wait to read it.”

“I’ve got to write it first.”

She steps to the side, trying to get around me.

“What are you doing tonight?” I ask quickly. “Want to have dinner with me and my friend Miranda?”

“I’d love to, but-”

Viktor Greene comes out of his office. L’il glances up at him. “You sure?” I ask, pressing her. “Miranda’s really interesting. And we’re going to go to one of those cheap Indian places on Sixth Street. Miranda says she knows the best ones-”

L’il blinks as she focuses her attention back on me. “All right. I guess I could-”

“Meet me on Fourteenth and Broadway at eight-thirty. And afterward, we can go to this party,” I say over my shoulder.

I leave L’il and Viktor standing there, staring at me like I’m a mugger who has suddenly decided to spare them.

Chapter Twelve

I write three pages of my play. It’s all about Peggy and her lover-the guy who took those naughty photos-whom I’ve named Moorehouse. Peggy and Moorehouse are having an argument about toilet paper. I think it’s pretty funny and pretty real-I mean, what couple doesn’t argue about toilet paper-and I actually feel satisfied with my work.

At eight o’clock, I pick up Miranda at her house. Miranda’s lucky-she has an old aunt who lives in a small, run-down townhouse, consisting of four floors and a basement, where Miranda lives. The basement has its own entrance and two windows just below the sidewalk. It would be perfect but for the fact that it’s damp and perpetually dark.

I ring the bell, thinking about how I love the way I can walk to my friends’ apartments and how my life has this frenetic, unstructured pace where I never know exactly what’s going to happen. Miranda opens the door, her hair still wet from the shower. “I’m not ready.”

“That’s okay.” I stroll past her and plop onto an ancient sofa covered in worn damask. Miranda’s aunt used to be rich, about thirty years ago. Then her husband took off with another woman and left her flat broke, except for the house. The aunt worked as a waitress and put herself through school and now she’s a professor of Women’s Studies at NYU. The apartment is filled with books like Woman, Culture, and Society and Women: A Feminist Perspective . I always think the best part about Miranda’s apartment is the books. The only books Samantha has are astrology, self-help, and The Kama Sutra . Other than those, she mostly reads magazines.

Miranda goes into her room to change. I light a cigarette and idly survey the bookshelves, picking out a book by Andrea Dworkin. It falls open and I read the following: “just some wet, ratty, bedraggled thing, semen caked on you, his piss running down your legs…”

“What’s that?” Miranda asks, peering over my shoulder. “Oh. I love that book.”

“Really? I just read this part about semen caked on you-”

“And what about the part when it oozes out and runs down your leg?”

“Says here, it’s pee.”

“Semen, pee, what’s the difference?” Miranda shrugs. “It’s all gross.” She slings a brown saddlebag over her shoulder. “Did you see that guy after all?”

“‘That guy’ happens to have a name. Bernard. And yes, I did see him. I’m pretty crazy about him. We went furniture shopping.”

“So he’s already turned you into his slave.”

“We’re having fun,” I say pointedly.

“Has he tried to get you into bed?”

“No,” I say, somewhat defensively. “I need to go on the pill, first. And I’ve decided I’m not going to sleep with him until my eighteenth birthday.”

“I’ll be sure to mark it on my calendar. ‘Carrie’s birthday and lose-her-virginity day.’”

“Maybe you’d like to be there. For moral support.”

“Does Bernie have any idea you’re planning to use him as a stud service?”

“I believe the word ‘stud’ only applies if you’re planning on reproducing. Which I’m not.”

“In that case, ‘dud’ might be more appropriate.”

“Bernard is no dud,” I say threateningly. “He’s a famous playwright-”

“Yada yada yada.”

“And I’m sure his ‘sword’ is mightier than his word.”

“You’d better hope so,” Miranda says. She raises her index finger and slowly lowers it into a crook as we burst out laughing.

“I just love these prices,” L’il says, scanning the menu.

“I know.” Miranda nods, pleased. “You can get a whole meal for three dollars.”

“And a whole beer for fifty cents,” I add.

We’re seated at a table in the Indian restaurant Miranda kept telling us about, although it wasn’t so easy to find. We walked up and down the block three times past nearly identical restaurants until Miranda insisted this was the place, recognizable by the three peacock feathers in a vase in the window. The tablecloths are red-and-white-checkered plastic; the knives and forks tinny. The air is musty and sweet.

“This reminds me of home,” L’il says.

“You live in India?” Miranda asks, astonished.

“No, silly. North Carolina.” She gestures around the restaurant. “This is exactly like one of those barbecue places tucked off the freeway.”

“Freeway?” Miranda queries.

“Highway,” I translate.

I hope the whole dinner isn’t like this. Miranda and L’il are both intense in their own way, so I assumed they’d like each other. And I need them to get along. I miss having a group of friends. Sometimes it feels like every part of my life is so different, I’m constantly visiting another planet.

“You’re a poet?” Miranda asks L’il.

“Indeed,” she replies. “What about you?”

I jump in. “Miranda’s majoring in Women’s Studies.”

L’il smiles. “No offense, but what can you do with that?”

“Anything.” Miranda glares. She’s probably wondering what you can do with a poetry degree.

“Miranda is doing very important work. Protesting against pornography. And she volunteers at a women’s shelter,” I say.

“You’re a feminist.” L’il nods.

“I wouldn’t consider being anything else.”

“I’m a feminist,” I volunteer. “I think every woman should be a feminist-”

“But it means you hate men.” L’il takes a sip of her beer, and stares straight across the table at Miranda.

“What if I do?” Miranda says.

This is not going well. “I don’t hate all men. Just some men,” I say, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Especially men whom I like and they don’t like me back.”

L’il gives me a sharp look, meaning she’s determined to lock horns with Miranda. “If you hate men, how can you ever marry? Have babies?”

“I guess if you truly believe a woman’s only purpose in life is to marry and have children-” Miranda breaks off and gives L’il a superior smile.

“I never said that,” L’il replies calmly. “Just because you’re married and have children doesn’t mean it’s the only point to your life. You can do all kinds of things and have children.”

“Good answer,” I say.

“I happen to think it’s wrong to bring a child into this patriarchal society,” Miranda replies swiftly. And just as the conversation is about to go completely haywire, our samosas arrive.

I quickly grab one of the pastries, dip it into a red sauce, and pop it into my mouth. “Fantastic,” I exclaim, as my eyes begin to water and my tongue burns. I frantically wave my hand in front of my face, reaching for a glass of water, as Miranda and L’il laugh. “Why didn’t you tell me that sauce was hot?”

“Why didn’t you ask?” Miranda giggles. “You dove right in. I figured you knew what you were doing.”

“I do!”

“Does that include sex?” Miranda asks wickedly.

“What is it with everyone and sex?”

“It’s very exciting,” L’il says.

“Ha,” I say. “She hates it.” I point to Miranda.

“Only the ‘intercourse’ part.” Miranda makes quotation marks with her fingers. “Why do they call it intercourse anyway? It makes it sound like it’s some kind of conversation. Which it isn’t. It’s penetration, pure and simple. There’s no give-and-take involved.”

Our curries arrive. One is white and creamy. The other two are brown and red, and look dangerous. I take a scoop of the white curry. L’il takes some of the brown and pushes it toward Miranda. “If you know how to do it properly, supposedly it is like a conversation,” she says.

“How?” Miranda asks, thoroughly unconvinced.

“The penis and vagina communicate.”

“No way,” I say.

“My mother told me,” L’il says. “It’s an act of love.”

“It’s an act of war,” Miranda objects, getting heated. “The penis is saying, ‘Let me in,’ and the vagina is saying, ‘Get the hell away from me, creep.’”

“Or maybe the vagina is saying, ‘Hurry up,’” I add.

L’il dabs at her mouth, and smiles. “That’s the problem. If you think it’s going to be terrible, it will be.”

“Why?” I dip my fork into the red curry to test it for hotness.

“Tension. If you tense up, it makes it more difficult. And painful. That’s why the woman should always have an orgasm first,” L’il says nonchalantly.

Miranda finishes her beer and immediately orders another. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. How can you tell if you’ve even had this supposed orgasm?”

L’il laughs.

“Yeah.” I gulp. “How?”

L’il slides back in her chair and puts on a teacherly face. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m not,” I say, looking at Miranda. Her face is closed, as if she doesn’t want to hear this.

“You have to know your own body,” L’il says cryptically.

“Meaning?”

“Masturbation.”

“Eeeeewwww.” Miranda puts her hands over ears.

“Masturbation is not a dirty word,” L’il scolds. “It’s part of a healthy sexuality.”

“And I suppose your mother told you this, too?” Miranda demands.

L’il shrugs. “My mother’s a nurse. She doesn’t believe in mincing words when it comes to health. She says healthy sex is simply a part of a healthy life.”

“Well.” I’m impressed.

“And she did all that consciousness-raising stuff,” L’il continues. “In the early seventies. When the women sit around in a circle with mirrors-”

“Aha.” This, I suppose, explains everything.

“She’s a lesbian now,” L’il says casually.

Miranda’s mouth opens as if she’s about to speak, but suddenly thinks better of it. For once, she has nothing to say.

After dinner, L’il begs off the party, claiming a headache. Miranda doesn’t want to go either, but I point out if she goes home, she’ll look like she’s sulking.

The party is on Broadway and Seventeenth Street in a building that was once a bank. A security guard tells us to take the elevator to the fourth floor. I figure this must be a big party if the guard is letting people in so easily.

The elevator opens into a white space with crazy art on the walls. As we’re taking it in, a small, rotund man with hair the color of butter bustles over, beaming.

“I’m Bobby,” he says, extending his hand to me.

“Carrie Bradshaw. And Miranda Hobbes.” Miranda gives Bobby a stiff smile while Bobby squints, summing us up.

“Carrie Bradshaw,” he says, like he’s delighted to meet me. “And what do you do?”

“Why is that always the first question out of everyone’s mouth?” Miranda mutters.

I glance at her so she knows I agree, and say boldly, “I’m a playwright.”

“A playwright!” Bobby exclaims. “That’s good. I love writers. Everyone loves writers. I used to be a writer before I became an artist.”

“You’re an artist?” Miranda asks, as if this can’t possibly be true.

Bobby ignores her. “You must tell me the names of your plays. Perhaps I’ve seen one-”

“I doubt it,” I falter, never expecting he’d assume I’d actually written a play. But now that I’ve said it, I can’t take it back.

“Because she hasn’t written any,” Miranda blurts out.

“Actually”-I give her a steely look-“I’m in the middle of writing one right now.”

“Wonderful,” Bobby cheers. “And when it’s finished, we can stage it here.”

“Really?” This Bobby must be some kind of crazy.

“Of course,” he says with a swagger, leading us farther into the room. “I’m doing all kinds of experimental productions. This is a nexus-a nexus,” he repeats, savoring the word, “of art, fashion, and photography. I haven’t done a play yet, but it seems exactly the right sort of thing. And we can get all kinds of people to come.”

Before I can begin to process the idea, Bobby is pawing his way through the crowd, with Miranda and me on his heels. “Do you know Jinx? The fashion designer? We’re showing her new collection this evening. You’ll love her,” he insists, depositing us in front of a scary-looking woman with long, blue-black hair, about a hundred coats of eyeliner, and black lipstick. She’s leaning over to light a joint when Bobby interrupts.

“Jinx, darling,” he says, which is extremely ironic, as it’s clear Jinx is nobody’s darling. “This is”-he searches for my name-“Carrie. And her friend,” he adds, indicating Miranda.

“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I can’t wait to see your fashion show.”

“Me too,” she responds, inhaling the smoke and holding it in her lungs. “If those friggin’ models don’t get here soon-I hate friggin’ models, don’t you?” Jinx holds up her left hand, displaying a contraption of metal through which each finger is inserted. “Brass knuckles,” she says. “Don’t even think about messing with me.”

“I won’t.” I look around, desperate to escape, and spot Capote Duncan in the corner.

“We have to go,” I say, nudging Miranda. “I just saw a friend of mine-”

“What friend?” Miranda asks. God, she really is bad at parties. No wonder she didn’t want to come.

“Someone I’m very happy to see right now.” Which is patently untrue. But as Capote Duncan is the only person I know at this party, I’ll take him.

And as we push through the crowd, I wonder if living in New York makes people crazy, or if they’re crazy to begin with and New York attracts them like flies.

Capote is leaning against an air conditioner talking to a medium-tall girl with one of those noses that turns up like a little snout. She has masses of blond hair and brown eyes, which gives her an interesting look, and since she’s with Capote, I assume she’s one of the errant models Jinx was referring to.

“I’ll give you a reading list,” Capote is saying. “Hemingway. Fitzgerald. And Balzac.” I immediately want to puke. Capote is always talking about Balzac, which reminds me of why I can’t stand him. He’s so pretentious.

“Hel lo ,” I say in a singsong voice.

Capote’s head jerks around as if he’s anticipating someone special. When he sees me, his face falls. He appears to undergo a brief, internal struggle, as if he’d like to ignore me, but his Southern manners won’t let him. Eventually, he manages to summon a smile.

“Carrie Bradshaw,” he says, in a slow drawl. “I didn’t know you were coming to this.”

“Why would you? Ryan invited me.”

At the name “Ryan,” the modely girl pricks up her ears. Capote sighs. “This is Becky. Ryan’s fiancée.”

“Ryan’s told me so much about you,” I say, extending my hand. She takes it limply. Then her face screws up like she’s about to cry, and she runs off.

Capote looks at me accusingly. “Nice job.”

“What’d I do?”

“She just told me she’s planning to dump Ryan.”

“That so?” I snicker. “And here I thought you were trying to improve her brain. The reading list?” I point out.

Capote’s face tightens. “That wasn’t smart, Carrie,” he says, pushing past us to follow Becky.

“It’s all about being smart with you, isn’t it?” I shout after him.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Miranda calls out sarcastically.

Unfortunately, the Capote exchange has pushed Miranda over the edge, and she insists on going home. Given Capote’s rudeness, I don’t really want to stay at the party alone, either.

I’m bummed we didn’t get to see the fashion show. On the other hand, I’m glad I met that Bobby character. During the walk home under the salty yellow lights, I keep talking about my play and how it would be so cool to have it performed in Bobby’s space, until Miranda finally turns to me and says, “Will you just write the damn thing?”

“Will you come to the reading?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Other than the fact that Bobby and all his friends are complete idiots. And what about Capote Duncan? Who the hell does he think he is?”

“He’s a big jerk,” I say, remembering the expression of fury on his face. I smile. I suddenly realize I enjoy making Capote Duncan angry.

Miranda and I part ways, with me promising to call her tomorrow. When I get inside my building, I swear I can hear Samantha’s phone ringing all the way down the stairs. A ringing phone is like a call to arms for me, and I take the steps two at a time. After about the tenth ring, the phone stops, but then it starts again.

I burst through the door and grab it from where it’s slid under the couch. “Hello?” I ask breathlessly.

“What are you doing on Thursday night?” It’s Samantha herself.

“Thursday night?” I ask dumbly. When is Thursday night? Oh, right, the day after tomorrow. “I have no idea.”

“I need you to help me with something. I’m throwing an intimate little dinner party with Charlie at his apartment-”

“I’d love to come,” I gush, thinking she’s inviting me. “Can I bring Bernard, too?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she purrs. “But I actually need you to cook. You did say you could cook, right?”

I frown. “I might have. But-”

“I can’t cook at all. And I don’t want Charlie to find out.”

“So I’ll be in the kitchen all night.”

“You’d be doing me an enormous favor,” she coos. “And you did say you’d do me a favor someday, if I asked.”

“That’s true,” I admit reluctantly, still not convinced.

“Look,” she says, putting on the pressure. “If it’s that big a deal, I’ll trade you. One night of cooking for any pair of my shoes.”

“But your feet are bigger than mine.”

“You can put tissue in the toes.”

“What about the Fiorucci boots?” I ask craftily.

She pauses, mulling it over. “Oh, why not?” she agrees. “I can always get Charlie to buy me another pair. Especially when he finds out what a wonderful cook I am.”

“Right,” I mutter as she says good-bye.

How did I get into this mess? Technically, I do know how to cook. But I’ve only cooked for friends. How many people is she expecting at this intimate dinner? Six? Or sixteen?

The phone rings again. Probably Samantha calling back to discuss the menu. “Samantha?” I ask, cautiously.

“Who’s Samantha?” demands the familiar voice on the other end.

“Maggie!” I yip.

“What’s going on? I tried calling your number and this nasty woman said you didn’t live there anymore. Then your sister said you moved-”

“It’s a long story,” I say, settling onto the couch for a chat.

“You can tell me tomorrow,” she exclaims. “I’m coming to New York!”

“You are ?”

“My sister and I are visiting our cousins in Pennsylvania. I’m taking the bus into the city tomorrow morning. I figured I’d stay with you for a couple of nights.”

“Oh, Mags, that’s fantastic. I can’t wait to see you. I have so much to tell you. I’m dating this guy-”

“Maggie?” someone asks in the background.

“Got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow. My bus gets in at nine a.m. Can you meet me at Port Authority?”

“Of course.” I hang up the phone, thrilled. Then I remember I’m supposed to see Bernard tomorrow night. But maybe Maggie can come with us. I can’t wait for her to meet him. She’ll probably freak out when she sees how sexy he is.

Full of excitement, I sit down at the typewriter to write a few more pages of my play. I’m determined to take advantage of Bobby’s offer to stage a reading in his space. And maybe, just maybe, if the reading is a success, I can stay in New York. I’ll have officially become a writer and I won’t have to go to Brown at all.

I work like a demon until three a.m., when I force myself to go to bed. I toss and turn with anticipation, thinking about my play and Bernard and all the interesting people I’ve met. What will Maggie think of my new life?

Surely she has to be impressed.

Chapter Thirteen

“You actually live here?” Maggie asks, aghast.

“Isn’t it great?”

She drops her knapsack on the floor and surveys the apartment. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Right here,” I say, pointing to the door behind her. “The bedroom is there. And this is the living room.”

She exhales. “It’s so small.”

“It’s big for New York. You should have seen where I was living before.”

“But-” She walks to the window and looks out. “It’s so dirty. And this building. I mean, it’s kind of falling down. And those people in the hallway-”

“The old couple? They’ve lived here their whole lives. Samantha keeps hoping they’ll die so she can get their apartment,” I quip, without thinking. “It has two bedrooms and the rent is cheaper than this place.”

Maggie’s eyes widen. “That’s awful. Wanting someone to die so you can get their apartment. This Samantha sounds like a horrible person. But I’m not surprised, being Donna LaDonna’s cousin.”

“It’s only a joke.”

“Well,” she says, patting the futon to make sure it’s sturdy before she sits down, “I should hope so.”

I look at her in surprise. When did Maggie become this prim and proper? She hasn’t stopped complaining about New York since I met her at Port Authority. The smell. The noise. The people. The subway terrified her. When we got out on Fourteenth Street and Eighth Avenue, I had to coach her on when to cross the street.

And now she’s insulting my apartment? And Samantha? But maybe it’s not intentional. Of course she assumes Samantha must be like Donna LaDonna. I would, too, if I didn’t know better.

I sit across from her, leaning forward. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

“I can’t either,” she says, full of enthusiasm. We’re both trying to recapture our old rapport.

“You look great!”

“Thanks,” she says. “I think I lost five pounds. I started windsurfing. Have you ever windsurfed? It’s amazing. And the beaches are so beautiful. And there are all these little fishing villages.”

“Wow.” The thought of fishing villages and long stretches of empty sand suddenly sounds as quaint as living two hundred years ago.

“What about guys?” I ask.

She wriggles her feet out of her tennis shoes, rubbing one heel like she’s already developed a blister. “They’re gorgeous. Hank-that’s this one guy-he’s six two and he’s on the varsity tennis team at Duke. I swear, Carrie, we should both transfer to Duke. They have the hottest guys.”

I smile. “We have lots of hot guys in New York, too-”

“Not like these guys.” She sighs dramatically. “Hank would be perfect, except for one thing.”

“He has a girlfriend?”

“No.” She gives me a pointed look. “I would never date someone who had a girlfriend. Not after Lali.”

“Lali.” I shrug. Each mention of the past causes my intestines to lurch. Next thing I know, we’ll be talking about Sebastian. And I really don’t want to. Since I arrived in New York, I’ve barely thought about Lali or Sebastian or what went on last spring. It feels like all that stuff happened to someone else, not me. “So Hank,” I say, attempting to remain in the present.

“He’s…” She shakes her head, picks up her sneaker, and puts it down. “He’s not… good in bed. Have you ever had that?”

“I’ve certainly heard about it.”

“You still haven’t-”

I try to brush this away as well. “What does that mean, exactly? ‘Bad in bed’?”

“He doesn’t really do anything. Just sticks it in. And then it’s over in like three seconds.”

“Isn’t it always like that?” I ask, remembering what Miranda’s told me.

“No. Peter was really good in bed.”

“He was?” I still can’t believe that nerdly old Peter was such a big stud.

“Didn’t you know? That was one of the reasons I was so angry when we broke up.”

“What are you going to do, then?” I ask, twisting my hair into a bun. “About Hank?”

She gives me a secret smile. “I’m not married. I’m not even engaged. So-”

“You’re sleeping with another guy?”

She nods.

“You’re sleeping with two guys. At the same time?” Now I’m aghast.

She gives me a look.

“Well, I’m sure you don’t sleep with both of them at once, but-” I waver.

“It’s the eighties. Things have changed. Besides, I’m using birth control.”

“You could get a disease.”

“Well, I haven’t.” She glares at me and I drop it. Maggie’s always been stubborn. She does what she wants when she wants, and there’s no talking her out of it. I absentmindedly rub my arm. “Who’s this other guy?”

“Tom. He works at a gas station.”

I look at her in consternation.

“What?” she demands. “What is wrong with a guy who works at a gas station?”

“It’s such a cliché.”

“First of all, he’s an incredible windsurfer. And secondly, he’s trying to make something of his life. His father has a fishing boat. He could be a fisherman, but he doesn’t want to end up like his father. He’s going to community college.”

“That’s great,” I say, chastised.

“I know,” she agrees. “I kind of miss him.” She looks at her watch. “Do you mind if I call him? He’s probably back from the beach by now.”

“Go ahead.” I hand her the phone. “I’m going to take a shower.”

I head to the bathroom while I inform her of our itinerary: “Tonight we’re going to meet Bernard for a drink at Peartree’s, which is this fancy bar near the United Nations. And maybe this afternoon we can go to the White Horse Tavern for lunch. It’s where all these famous writers hang out. And in between, we can go to Saks. I’d love you to meet my friend Miranda.”

“Sure,” she says, as if she’s barely heard a word. Her concentration is focused entirely on the phone as she dials her boyfriend’s-or should I say “lover’s”-number.

Ryan and Capote Duncan are at the White Horse Tavern, seated at a table on the sidewalk. There’s a pot of coffee in front them, and they look rough, like they went to bed late and just got up. Ryan’s eyes are puffy and Capote is unshaven, his hair still damp from a shower.

“Hey,” I say. They’re next to the entrance, making it impossible to avoid them.

“Oh. Hi,” Capote says wearily.

“This is my friend Maggie.”

Ryan immediately perks up at the sight of Maggie’s fresh-faced, all-American prettiness. “What are you girls up to?” he asks flirtatiously, which seems to be his default mode with women. “Do you want to join us?”

Capote gives him a frustrated look, but Maggie sits down before either one of us can object. She probably thinks Ryan is cute.

“Where are you from, Maggie?” Ryan asks.

“Castlebury. Carrie and I are best friends.”

“Really?” Ryan asks, as if this is supremely interesting.

“Ryan and Capote are in my writing class,” I explain.

“I still can’t believe Carrie got into that class. And actually came to New York and everything.”

Capote raises his eyebrows.

“What do you mean?” I ask, slightly annoyed.

“Well, no one ever really thought you’d become a writer.” Maggie laughs.

“That’s crazy. I always said I wanted to be a writer.”

“But you didn’t really write. Until senior year. Carrie worked on the school newspaper,” she says to Ryan. She turns back to me. “But even then you didn’t actually write for the newspaper, did you?”

I roll my eyes. Maggie never figured out I was writing all those stories for the newspaper under a pen name. And I’m not about to tell her now. On the other hand, she’s making me sound like a dilettante in front of Capote. Who already seems to believe I don’t belong in the class.

Fantastic. Maggie’s just added fuel to his fire.

“I’ve always written a lot. I just didn’t show you.”

“Sure,” Maggie says, grinning as if it’s a joke. I sigh. Can’t she see how much I’ve changed? Perhaps it’s because she hasn’t changed at all. She’s the same old Maggie, so she probably assumes I’m the same as well.

“How was the fashion show?” I ask, diverting the conversation away from my supposed lack of writing.

“Great,” Capote says listlessly.

“As you can tell, Capote is a man who knows nothing about fashion. He does, on the other hand, know quite a bit about models,” Ryan says.

“Aren’t models really stupid?” Maggie asks.

Ryan laughs. “That’s not really the point.”

“Ryan’s engaged to a model,” I say, wondering if Becky broke up with Ryan after all. He certainly isn’t acting like a man who’s been dumped. I glance at Capote inquiringly. He shrugs.

“When are you getting married?” Maggie asks politely. She and Ryan seem to have developed a connection and I wonder if she’s disappointed he’s not available.

“Next year,” Ryan says easily. “She went to Paris this morning.” Aha. So no need for a formal breakup after all. And poor Ryan, sitting here without a clue. On the other hand, Capote is probably perfectly capable of lying about the situation. He might have told me Becky was going to dump Ryan because he wants Becky for himself.

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

Capote puts five dollars on the table. “I’m taking off.”

“But-” Ryan objects. Capote gives a small shake of his head. “I guess I am too,” Ryan says reluctantly. “Nice to meet you.” He smiles at Maggie. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Carrie’s making us have drinks with some guy.”

“Bernard Singer is not ‘some guy,’” I point out.

Capote pauses. “Bernard Singer? The playwright?”

“He’s Carrie’s boyfriend,” Maggie says dismissively.

Capote’s eyes widen behind his glasses. “You’re dating Bernard Singer?” he asks, as if it can’t be possible someone as esteemed as Bernard Singer would be interested in me.

“Uh-huh,” I say, like it’s no big deal.

Capote rests his hand on the back of his chair, unsure if he should go after all. “Bernard Singer is a genius.”

“I know.”

“I’d love to meet Bernard Singer,” Ryan says. “Why don’t we meet up with you guys for a drink, later?”

“That would be great,” Maggie says.

As soon as they’re gone, I groan.

“What?” Maggie asks, slightly defensive, knowing she’s done something wrong.

“I can’t bring them to drinks with Bernard.”

“Why not? Ryan is nice ,” she says, as if he’s the only normal person she’s met so far. “I think he likes me.”

“He’s engaged.”

“And?” Maggie picks up the menu. “You heard him. She’s not around.”

“He’s a big flirt. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“I’m a flirt too. So it’s perfect.”

I was wrong. Maggie has changed. She’s become a sex addict. And how can I explain about Bernard? “Bernard won’t want to meet them-”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s older. He’s thirty.”

She looks at me in horror. “Oh my God, Carrie. Thirty? That’s disgusting!”

Chapter Fourteen

Given Maggie’s attitude, I decide not to introduce her to Miranda after all. They’d probably get into a big fight about sex and I’d be stuck in the middle. Instead, we walk around the Village, where Maggie has her tarot cards read by a psychic-“I see a man with dark hair and blue eyes.” “Ryan!” Maggie exclaims-and then I take her to Washington Square Park. There’s the usual assortment of freaks, musicians, drug dealers, Hare Krishnas, and even two men walking on stilts, but all she can talk about is how there isn’t any grass. “How can they call it a park if it’s all dirt?”

“There probably was grass, once. And there are trees,” I point out.

“But look at the leaves. They’re black. Even the squirrels are dirty.”

“Nobody notices the squirrels.”

“They should,” she says. “Did I tell you I’m going to become a marine biologist?”

“No-”

“Hank’s a biology major. He says if you’re a marine biologist, you can live in California or Florida.”

“But you don’t like science.”

“What are you talking about?” Maggie asks. “I didn’t like chemistry, but I loved biology.”

This is news to me. When we had to take biology in junior year, Maggie refused to memorize the names of the species and phyla, saying it was the kind of stupid thing that no one would ever use in their real life, so why bother?

We walk around a bit more, with Maggie becoming increasingly distressed about the heat and the odd people and how she thinks she’s getting another blister. When I take her back to the apartment, she complains about the lack of effective air-conditioning. By the time we’re supposed to leave to meet Bernard, I’m nearly at the end of my rope. Once more, Maggie balks at taking the subway. “I’m not going down there again,” she declares. “It stinks. I don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s the best way to get around,” I say, trying to urge her down the stairs.

“Why can’t we take a taxi? My sister and brother-in-law told me to take taxis because they’re safe.”

“They’re also expensive. And I don’t have the money.”

“I have fifty dollars.”

What? I wish she’d told me she had money earlier. She could have paid for our hamburgers.

When we’re safely in a cab, Maggie reveals her conclusion about why New Yorkers wear black. “It’s because it’s so dirty here. And black doesn’t show dirt. Could you imagine what their clothes would look like if they wore white? I mean, who wears black in the summer?”

“I do,” I say, nonplussed, especially as I’m in black. I’m wearing a black T-shirt, black leather pants that are two sizes too big-which I bought for 90 percent off at one of those cheap stores on Eighth Street-and pointy-toed black high heels from the 1950s that I found at the vintage shop.

“Black is for funerals,” Maggie says. “But maybe New Yorkers like black because they feel like they’ve died.”

“Or maybe for the first time in their lives they feel like they’re living. ”

We get stuck in traffic by Macy’s, and Maggie rolls down her window, fanning herself with her hand. “Look at all those people. This isn’t living. It’s surviving.”

I have to admit, she’s right about that. New York is about survival.

“Who are we meeting again?” she asks.

I sigh. “Bernard. The guy I’m seeing. The playwright.”

“Plays are boring.”

“Bernard doesn’t agree. So please don’t say ‘plays are boring’ when you meet him.”

“Does he smoke a pipe?”

I glare at her.

“You said he was over thirty. I picture him smoking a pipe and wearing slippers.”

“Thirty is not old . And don’t tell him my age, either. He thinks I’m nineteen or twenty. So you have to be nineteen or twenty too. We’re sophomores in college. Okay?”

“It’s not good when you have to lie to a guy,” Maggie says.

I take a deep breath. I want to ask her if Hank knows about Tom, but I don’t.

When we finally push through the revolving door at Peartree’s, I’m relieved to see Bernard’s dark head bent over a newspaper, a glass of scotch in front of him. I still get the jitters when I know I’m going to see him. I count down the hours, reliving the sensation of his soft mouth on mine. As our rendezvous approaches, I get nervous, worried he’s going to call and cancel, or not show up at all. I wish I didn’t care so much, but I’m glad to have a guy who makes me feel this way.

I’m not sure Bernard feels the same, though. This morning, when I told him I had a friend coming to town unexpectedly, he said, “See your friend, then. We’ll get together another time.”

I emitted a gasp of disappointment. “But I thought we were going to see each other. Tonight .”

“I’m not going anywhere. We can see each other when she leaves.”

“I told her all about you. I want her to meet you.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s my best friend. And-” I broke off. I didn’t know how to tell him that I wanted to show him off, wanted Maggie to be impressed by him and my astonishing new life. Wanted her to see how far I’d come in such a short time.

I thought he should be able to tell from my voice.

“I don’t want to babysit, Carrie,” he said.

“You’re not! Maggie’s nineteen, maybe twenty-” I must have sounded very insistent, because he relented and agreed to meet for a drink.

“But only one drink,” he cautioned. “You should spend time with your friend. She came to see you, not me.”

I hate it when Bernard acts all serious.

Then I decided his comment was vaguely insulting. Of course I wanted to spend time with Maggie. But I wanted to see him, too. I thought about calling him back and canceling, just to show him I didn’t care, but the reality of not seeing him was too depressing. And I suspected I’d secretly resent Maggie if I couldn’t see Bernard because of her.

Things are tense enough with Maggie as it is. Getting ready to go out tonight, she kept saying she couldn’t understand why I was “dressing up” to go to a bar. I tried to explain it wasn’t that kind of bar, but she only stared at me in incomprehension and said, “Sometimes I really do not get you.”

That’s when I had a moment of clarity: Maggie is never going to like New York. She’s constitutionally unsuited for the city. And when I realized this, my simmering animosity disappeared.

It’s okay. It’s not Maggie’s fault, or mine. It’s simply the way we are.

“There’s Bernard,” I say now, nudging Maggie past the maître d’ to the bar. The interior of Peartree’s is slick-black walls with chrome sconces, black marble tables, and a mirror along the back wall. Samantha says it’s the best pickup place in town: She met Charlie here, and she gets irritated when he comes here without her, thinking he might meet another girl.

“Why is it so dark in here?” Maggie asks.

“It’s supposed to be mysterious.”

“What’s mysterious about not being able to see who you’re talking to?”

“Oh, Mags,” I say, and laugh.

I creep up behind Bernard and tap him on the shoulder. He starts, grins, and picks up his drink. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming. Thought maybe you’d had a better offer.”

“We did, but Maggie insisted we had to meet you first.” I briefly touch the back of his hair. It’s like a talisman for me. The first time I touched it I was shocked by its delicate softness, so much like a girl’s, and I was surprised by how tender it made me feel toward him, as if his hair was a harbinger of his soft, kind heart.

“You must be the friend,” he says, crinkling his eyes at Maggie. “Hello, friend.”

“Hello,” Maggie says cautiously. With her sun-bleached hair and pink cheeks, she’s as creamy as a wedding cake, in sharp contrast to Bernard’s angles and crooked nose, and the bags under his eyes that make him appear to be a person who spends all of his time inside-in dark caves like Peartree’s. I’m hoping Maggie will see the romance of him, but at the moment her expression is one of pure wariness.

“Drink?” Bernard asks, seemingly unaware of the culture clash.

“Vodka tonic,” I say.

“I’ll have a beer.”

“Have a cocktail,” I urge.

“I don’t want a cocktail. I want a beer,” Maggie insists.

“Let her have a beer if she wants one,” Bernard says jocularly, the implication being that I’m needlessly giving Maggie a hard time.

“Sorry.” My voice sounds hollow. I can already tell this is a mistake. I don’t have a clue how to reconcile my past-Maggie-with my present-Bernard.

Two men squeeze in next to Maggie, intent on establishing a place at the bar. “Should we get a table?” Bernard asks. “We could eat. I’d be happy to feed you girls dinner.”

Maggie gives me a questioning look. “I thought we were going to meet Ryan.”

“We could have dinner. The food’s good here.”

“It’s lousy. But the atmosphere is entertaining.” Bernard waves to the maître d’ and motions to an empty table near the window.

“Come on.” I nudge Maggie and give her a meaningful look. Her stare is slightly hostile, as if she still doesn’t understand why we’re here.

Nevertheless, she follows Bernard to the table. He even pulls out her chair for her.

I sit next to him, determined to make this work. “How was the rehearsal?” I ask brightly.

“Lousy,” Bernard says. He smiles at Maggie to include her in the conversation. “There’s always a point in the middle of rehearsals when all the actors seem to forget their lines.”

Which is exactly how I feel right now.

“Why is that?” Maggie asks, playing with her water glass.

“I have no idea.”

“But they’ve been saying their lines for at least two weeks, right?” I frown, as if knowing Bernard has given me an inside track on the theater.

“Actors are like children,” Bernard says. “They sulk and get their feelings hurt.”

Maggie gives him a vacant look.

Bernard smiles tolerantly and opens his menu. “What would you like, Maggie?”

“I don’t know. Duck breast?”

“Good choice.” Bernard nods. “I’m going to have the usual. Skirt steak.”

Why does he sound so formal? Was Bernard always like this and I never noticed before? “Bernard is a creature of habit,” I explain to Maggie.

“That’s nice,” Maggie says.

“What do you always say about being a writer?” I ask him. “You know-about how you have to live a life of habit.”

Bernard nods indulgently. “Others have said it better than I can. But the basic idea is that if you’re a writer, you need to live your life on the page.”

“In other words, your real life should be as uncomplicated as possible,” I clarify to Maggie. “When Bernard is working he eats practically the same thing every day for lunch. A pastrami sandwich.”

Maggie attempts to look interested. “It sounds kind of boring. But I’m not a writer. I don’t even like writing a letter.”

Bernard laughs, playfully pointing a finger at me. “I think you need to take more of your own advice, young lady.” He shakes his head at Maggie, as if the two of them are in cahoots. “Carrie’s an expert at living large. I keep telling her to focus more on the page.”

“You’ve never said that,” I reply, indignant. I look down, as if I simply have to readjust my napkin. Bernard’s comment brings all of my insecurities about being a writer to the surface.

“I’ve been meaning to say it.” He squeezes my hand. “So there you go. I’ve said it. Do we want wine?”

“Sure,” I say, stung.

“Beaujolais okay for you, Maggie?” he asks politely.

“I like red,” Maggie says.

“Beaujolais is red,” I comment, and immediately feel like a heel.

“Maggie knew that,” Bernard says kindly. I look from one to the other. How did this happen? Why am I the bad guy? It’s like Bernard and Maggie are ganging up on me.

I get up to go to the bathroom. “I’ll come with you,” Maggie says. She follows me down the stairs as I try to compose myself.

“I really want you to like him,” I say, parking myself in front of the mirror while Maggie goes into the stall.

“I just met him. How can I know if I like him or not?”

“Don’t you think he’s sexy?” I ask.

“Sexy?” Maggie says. “I wouldn’t call him that.”

“But he is. Sexy,” I insist.

“If you think he’s sexy, that’s all that counts.”

“Well, I do. And I really, really like him.”

The toilet flushes and Maggie comes out. “He doesn’t seem very much like a boyfriend,” she ventures.

“What do you mean?” I take a lipstick out of my bag, trying not to panic.

“He doesn’t act like he’s your boyfriend. He seems like he’s more of an uncle or something.”

I freeze. “He certainly isn’t.”

“It just seems like he’s trying to help you. Like he likes you and, I don’t know-” She shrugs.

“It’s only because he’s going through a divorce,” I say.

“That’s too bad,” she remarks, washing her hands.

I apply the lipstick. “Why?”

“I wouldn’t want to marry a divorced man. It kind of ruins it, doesn’t it? The idea that a man has been married to someone else? I wouldn’t be able to take it. I’d be jealous. I want a guy who’s only ever been in love with me.”

“But what if-” I pause, remembering that’s what I’ve always thought I wanted as well. Until now. I narrow my eyes. Maybe it’s simply a leftover sentiment from Castlebury.

We get through the rest of dinner, but it’s awkward, with me saying things I know make me sound like a jerk, and Maggie being mostly silent, and Bernard pretending to enjoy the food and wine. When our plates are cleared, Maggie runs to the bathroom again, while I scoot my chair closer to Bernard’s and apologize for the lousy evening.

“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s what I expected.” He pats my hand. “Come on, Carrie. You and Maggie are in college. We’re from different generations. You can’t expect Maggie to understand.”

“I do, though.”

“Then you’re going to be disappointed.”

Maggie comes back to the table beaming, her demeanor suddenly light and fizzy. “I called Ryan,” she announces. “He said he’s going over to Capote’s and we should meet them there and then maybe we can go out.”

I look at Bernard, pleadingly. “But we’re already out.”

“Go,” he says, pushing back his chair. “Have fun with Maggie. Show her the town.”

He takes out his wallet and hands me twenty dollars. “Promise me you’ll take a cab. I don’t want you riding the subway at night.”

“No.” I try to give back the twenty but he won’t take it. Maggie is already at the exit as if she can’t get out of there fast enough.

Bernard gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “We can see each other anytime. Your friend is only here for two nights.”

“When?” I ask.

“When what?”

“When will I see you again?” I hate myself, sounding like a desperate schoolgirl.

“Soon. I’ll call you.”

I leave the restaurant in a huff. I’m so mad, I can barely look at Maggie.

A cab pulls up to the curb and a couple gets out. Maggie slides into the backseat. “Are you coming?”

“What choice do I have?” I grumble under my breath.

Maggie has written Capote’s address on the back of a napkin. “Green-wich Street?” she asks, pronouncing each syllable.

“It’s ‘Grenich.’”

She looks at me. “Okay. Grenich ,” she says to the cabbie.

The taxi peels away, throwing me against Maggie. “Sorry,” I murmur coldly.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Is it because I didn’t like Bernard?”

“How could you not like him.” It’s not a question.

She folds her arms. “Do you want me to lie to you?” And before I can protest, she continues, “He’s too old. I know he’s not as old as our parents, but he might as well be. And he’s strange. He’s not like anyone we grew up with. I just can’t see you with him.” To soften the blow, she adds kindly, “I’m only telling you this for your own good.”

I hate when friends tell you something is “for your own good.” How do they know it’s for your own good? Do they know the future? Maybe in the future, I’ll look back and see that Bernard has actually been “good for me.”

“Okay, Mags.” I sigh. The taxi is racing down Fifth Avenue, and I study each landmark: Lord & Taylor, the Toy Building, the Flatiron Building, committing each to memory. If I lived here forever, would I ever get tired of these sights?

“Anyway,” Maggie says cheerfully, “I forgot to tell you the most important part. Lali’s gone to France!”

“Really?” I ask dully.

“You know how the Kandesies have all that land? Well, some big developer came along and bought, like, fifty acres and now the Kandesies are millionaires.”

“I bet Lali went to France to meet Sebastian,” I say, trying to act like I care.

“That’s what I think too,” Maggie agrees. “And she’ll probably get him back. I always thought Sebastian was one of those guys who used women. He’ll probably be with Lali because of her money.”

“He has his own money,” I point out.

“Doesn’t matter. He’s a user ,” Maggie says.

And while Maggie natters on, I spend the rest of the taxi ride thinking about relationships. There must be such a thing as “pure” love. But there also seems to be quite a bit of “impure” love as well. Look at Capote and Ryan with their models. And Samantha with her rich mogul boyfriend. And what about Maggie and her two boyfriends-one for show and one for sex? And then there’s me. Maybe what Maggie was hinting at is true. If Bernard wasn’t a famous playwright, would I even be interested?

The taxi pulls up in front of a pretty brownstone with chrysanthemums in the window boxes. I grit my teeth. I like to think of myself as a good person. A girl who doesn’t cheat or lie or pretend to be something she’s not in order to get a guy. But maybe I’m no better than anyone else. Maybe I’m worse.

“Come on,” Maggie says gaily, leaping from the cab and hurrying up the steps. “Now we can finally have fun!”

Chapter Fifteen

Capote’s apartment is not what I expected. The furniture consists of soft couches and armchairs, covered in chintz. There’s a small dining room with decorative plates on the walls. In the bedroom is an antique armoire; the bedspread is yellow chenille. “It looks like an old lady lives here,” I say.

“She does. Or did. The woman who lived here is an old family friend. She moved to Maine,” Capote explains.

“Right,” I say, dropping onto the couch. The springs are shot and I sink several inches below the cushions. Capote and his “old family friends,” I think grumpily. He seems to have an inside track on everything, including apartments. He’s one of those people who expect to get things with very little effort, and does.

“Drink?” he asks.

“What do you have?” Maggie says coquettishly.

Huh? I thought she was interested in Ryan. But maybe it’s Capote she’s after. On the other hand, maybe Maggie flirts with every guy she meets. Every guy except Bernard.

I shake my head. Either way, this situation can lead to no good. How did I get involved in the aiding and abetting of this?

“Anything you want, I have,” Capote replies. He doesn’t sound particularly flirtatious back. He actually sounds very matter-of-fact, as if he’s not exactly thrilled we’re here, but has decided to tolerate us nonetheless.

“Beer?” Maggie asks.

“Sure.” Capote opens the refrigerator, takes out a Heineken, and hands it to her. “Carrie?”

I’m surprised he’s being so polite. Maybe it’s his Southern upbringing. Manners trump personal dislikes.

“Vodka?” I get up and follow him into the kitchen. It’s a proper kitchen, with a counter that opens into the living room. I’m suddenly a bit envious. I wouldn’t mind living here in this charming old apartment with a fireplace and working kitchen. Several pans hang from a rod in the ceiling. “Do you cook?” I ask, with a mixture of sarcasm and surprise.

“I love to cook,” Capote says proudly. “Mostly fish. I’m famous for my fish.”

“ I cook,” I say, somewhat defiantly, as if I know everything about it and far more than he can possibly comprehend.

“Like what?” He takes two tumblers out of the cabinet and sets them down, adding ice and vodka and a splash of cranberry juice.

“Everything,” I say. “Mostly desserts though. I’m really good at Bûche de Noël. It takes two days to make it.”

“I’d never want to dedicate that much time to cooking,” he says dismissively, raising his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

The buzzer rings and Capote strides to the door, no doubt relieved at the interruption.

Ryan comes in with Rainbow and another girl, who’s the size of a twig. She has short dark hair, enormous brown eyes, acne, and is wearing a skirt that barely covers her bottom. For some reason, I’m immediately jealous. Despite the acne, she must be another one of Ryan’s model friends. I feel horribly out of place.

Rainbow’s eyes scour the room and land on me. She, too, looks as though she can’t imagine what I’m doing here.

“Hi.” I wave from the kitchen.

“Oh. Hi.” She comes over, while Ryan greets Maggie and plops next to her on the couch. “Are you serving drinks?” she asks.

“I guess so. What do you want? Capote says he has everything.”

“Tequila.”

I find the bottle and pour some into a glass. Why am I serving her ? I wonder in annoyance. “So are you and Capote seeing each other?”

“No.” Her nose wrinkles. “What makes you say that?”

“You seem so close, is all.”

“We’re friends.” She pauses, looks around again, and seeing that Ryan is still engaged with Maggie and Capote is talking to the strange skinny girl, decides I’m her only option for conversation. “I would never go out with him. I think any girl who dates him is insane.”

“Why?” I take a gulp of my drink.

“She’ll have her heart broken.”

Well. I take another gulp of my drink, and add a little more vodka and ice. I don’t feel particularly drunk. In fact, I feel disturbingly sober. And resentful. Of everyone else’s life.

I join Maggie and Ryan on the couch. “What are you guys talking about?”

“You,” Ryan says. This is a person who cannot lie.

Maggie blushes. “Ryan!” she scolds.

“What?” he asks, looking from Maggie to me. “I thought you guys were best friends. Don’t best friends tell each other everything?”

“You know nothing about women,” Maggie giggles.

“At least I try. Unlike most men.”

“What about me?” I ask.

“Maggie was telling me about you and Bernard.” There’s a note of admiration in Ryan’s voice. Bernard Singer is obviously some kind of hero to both him and Capote. He’s exactly what they’d like to be someday. And apparently my association with him elevates my status. But I knew that, didn’t I?

“Maggie doesn’t like him. She says he’s too old.”

“I didn’t say that. I said he wasn’t right for you.”

“No man is ever too old,” Ryan says, half jokingly. “If Carrie can go out with a guy fifteen years older, it means there’s hope for me when I’m in my thirties.”

Maggie’s face twists in distaste. “You really want to date someone who’s seventeen when you’re thirty?”

“Maybe not seventeen.” Ryan winks. “I’d prefer it if she were legal.”

Maggie titters. Ryan’s looks and charm seem to have overcome his stupidity about women.

“Anyway, who’s seventeen?” he asks.

“Carrie,” Maggie says accusingly.

“I’ll be eighteen in a month.” I glare at her. Why is she doing this to me?

“Does Bernard know you’re seventeen?” Ryan asks with too much interest.

“No,” Maggie says. “She told me to lie and say she was nineteen.”

“Aha. The old lying-up trick,” Ryan teases.

The apartment buzzer goes off again. “Reinforcements,” Ryan announces as Maggie laughs. Five more people arrive-three scruffy guys and two very serious young women.

“Let’s go,” I say to Maggie.

Ryan looks at me in surprise. “You can’t go,” he insists. “The party’s just getting started.”

“Yeah.” Maggie agrees. “I’m having fun.” She holds out her empty beer bottle. “Do you mind getting me another?”

“Fine.” I get up, annoyed, and go into the kitchen. The new arrivals wander over and ask for drinks. I comply, because I don’t have anything better to do and there’s really no one I want to talk to at this party.

I spot the phone on the wall next to the refrigerator. Maggie is completely occupied with Ryan, who is now sitting cross-legged on the couch, entertaining her with what appears to be a long and animated story. I tell myself Maggie won’t mind if I take off without her. I pick up the phone and dial Bernard’s number.

It rings and rings. Where is he? A dozen scenarios run through my head. He went out to a club, but if he did, why didn’t he invite Maggie and me? Or he met another girl at Peartree’s and he’s with her, having sex. Or worse, he’s decided he doesn’t want to see me anymore and isn’t answering his phone.

The suspense is killing me. I call again.

Still no answer. I hang up, rattled. Now I’m really convinced I’m never going to see him again. I can’t bear it. I don’t care what Maggie says. What if I am in love with Bernard and Maggie just ruined it?

I search the room for her, but she and Ryan have disappeared. Before I can look for them, one of the shaggy guys strikes up a conversation.

“How do you know Capote?”

“I don’t,” I snap. Then I feel bad and add, “He’s in my writing class.”

“Ah yes. The fabled New School writing course. Is Viktor Greene still teaching?” he asks in a Boston accent.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, wanting to get away from him, “I have to find my friend.”

“What’s she look like?”

“Blond. Pretty. All-American?”

“She’s with Ryan. In the bedroom.”

I scowl at him like it’s his fault. “I have to get her out.”

“Why?” he asks. “They’re two healthy young animals. What do you care?”

I feel even more lost than I did just a few minutes ago. Are all my values and ideals just plain wrong? “I need to use the phone.”

“You’ve got somewhere better to go?” He laughs. “This is where it’s all happening.”

“I certainly hope not,” I mutter, dialing Bernard’s number. No answer. I slap down the phone and head to the bedroom.

The music is blaring while one of the serious girls bangs on the door of the bathroom. It finally opens and Capote comes out with Rainbow and the model girl. They’re laughing loudly. Normally, I’d love to be at a party like this, but all I can think about is Bernard. And if I can’t see him, I want to go home.

I want to crawl into Samantha’s bed and pull her slippery sheets over my head and cry.

“Maggie?” I knock briskly on the door. “Maggie, are you in there?” Silence. “I know you’re in there, Maggie.” I try the handle, but it’s locked. “Maggie, I want to go home,” I wail.

Finally, the bedroom door opens. Maggie is flushed, twisting her hair. Behind her, Ryan stands grinning, tugging on his pants. “Jesus, Carrie,” Maggie says.

“I need to go home. We have class tomorrow,” I remind Ryan, sounding like an old schoolmarm.

“Let’s go to your house, then,” Ryan suggests.

“No.”

Maggie gives me a look. “That’s a great idea.”

I weigh my options and decide it’s the better choice. At least I can get out of here.

We walk to Samantha’s building. Upstairs, Ryan extracts a bottle of vodka he pinched from Capote and proceeds to pour us drinks. I shake my head. “I’m tired.” While Ryan finds the stereo, I go into Samantha’s room and call Bernard.

The phone rings and rings. He’s still not there. It’s over.

I go out into the living room, where Maggie and Ryan are dancing. “Come on, Carrie.” Maggie holds out her arms. What the hell, I think, and join them. Within minutes, though, Maggie and Ryan are making out.

“Hey, guys. Cut it out,” I scold.

“Cut what out?” Ryan laughs.

Maggie takes his hand, leading him to the bedroom. “Do you mind? We’ll be right out.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Have a drink,” Ryan chortles.

They go into the bedroom and close the door. The Blondie album is still playing. “Heart of Glass.” That’s me, I think. I pick up my vodka and sit at the tiny table in the corner. I light up a cigarette. I try Bernard again.

I know it’s wrong. But something alien has taken over my emotions. Having sunk this far, the only place to go is down.

The album stops playing, and from inside the bedroom, I hear panting and the occasional comment, like, “Oh, that’s good.”

I light another cigarette. Do Maggie and Ryan have any idea how inconsiderate they are? Or do they simply not care?

I ring Bernard once more. Smoke another cigarette. An hour has passed and they’re still going at it. Aren’t they tired? Then I tell myself to get over it. I shouldn’t be so judgmental. I know I’m not perfect. But I would never do what they’re doing. I just wouldn’t.

I may have suddenly learned something about myself after all. I have what Miranda would call “boundaries.”

I should probably bunk down on the futon. Maggie and Ryan don’t sound like they’re going to be finished anytime soon. But anger and frustration and fear are keeping me wide awake. I smoke yet another cigarette and dial Bernard.

This time he answers on the second ring. “Hello?” he asks, confused as to who could be calling him at two in the morning.

“It’s me,” I whisper, suddenly realizing what a bad idea it was to call him.

“Carrie?” he asks sleepily. “What are you doing up?”

“Maggie is having sex,” I hiss.

“And?”

“She’s doing it with some guy from my class.”

“Are they doing it in front of you?”

What a question! “They’re in the bedroom.”

“Ah,” he says.

“Can I come over?” I don’t want to sound like I’m begging, but I am.

“Poor thing. You’re having a lousy night, aren’t you?”

“The worst.”

“Coming over here probably won’t make it better,” he cautions. “I’m tired. I need to sleep. And so do you.”

“We could just sleep then. It’d be nice.”

“I can’t do it tonight, Carrie. I’m sorry. Some other time.”

I swallow. “Okay,” I say, sounding like a little mouse.

“Good night, kiddo,” he says, and hangs up.

I gently replace the receiver. I go to the futon and sit with my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth. My face screws up, and tears trickle out of the corners of my eyes.

Miranda was right. Men do suck.

Chapter Sixteen

Ryan sneaks out at five in the morning. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, pretending to be asleep, not wanting to look at him or talk to him. I hear his footsteps cross the floor, followed by the squeak of the door. Get over it, I scold myself. It’s not a big deal. They had sex. So what? It’s not my business. But still. Doesn’t Ryan care about his fiancée? And what about Maggie and her two boyfriends? Are there no limits when it comes to sex? Is sex really so powerful it can erase your history and common sense?

I fall into a fitful sleep and then a deeper one. I’m in the middle of a dream in which Viktor Greene is saying he loves me, except that Viktor looks just like Capote, when Maggie startles me awake.

“Hi,” she says cheerfully, as if nothing untoward has happened. “Want some coffee?”

“Sure,” I say, the whole rotten evening coming back to me. I’m drained and slightly angry again. I light a cigarette.

“You’re smoking a lot,” Maggie says.

“Ha,” I say, thinking about how much she smokes.

“Did you notice I quit?”

Actually, I hadn’t. “When?” I defiantly blow a few smoke rings.

“After I met Hank. He said it was disgusting and I realized he was right.”

I wonder what Hank would think about Maggie’s behavior last night.

She goes into the kitchen, finds the instant coffee and a kettle, and waits for the water to boil. “That was so much fun, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. I had a great time.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“What’s wrong now?” Maggie says. As if I’m the one who’s been constantly complaining.

It’s too early for a contentious discussion. “Nothing. But Ryan’s in my class-”

“Which reminds me. Ryan is taking me to a movie. By some Chinese director. The Seven something?”

“ The Seven Samurai . By Kurosawa. He’s Japanese.”

“How do you know?”

“The guys are always talking about it. It’s like six hours or something.”

“I don’t think we’ll last six hours,” she says slyly, handing me a mug of coffee.

One night I can excuse. But two? No way. “Listen, Mags. It’s not a good idea if Ryan comes here tonight. Samantha might find out-”

“Don’t worry.” She settles next to me on the futon. “Ryan said we can go to his apartment.”

I pick a floating grain of coffee from my brew. “What about his fiancée?”

“He said he thinks she’s cheating.”

“So that makes it okay?”

“Jesus, Carrie. What’s your problem? You’re so uptight.”

I take a sip of coffee, willing myself not to react. “Uptight” is the one thing I pride myself on not being. But perhaps I don’t know myself so well after all.

Class is at one, but I leave the apartment early, claiming errands. Maggie and I were perfectly civil to each other on the surface, but I was walking on eggshells. It took a concerted effort not to bring up Ryan, and even more strength not to mention Bernard. I promised myself I wouldn’t talk about him, because if I did, I was afraid I’d accuse Maggie of ruining my relationship. And even to my illogical brain, this seemed a bit extreme.

When Maggie turned on the TV and started doing leg lifts, I made my escape.

There’s still an hour before class, so I head over to the White Horse Tavern, where I can load up on decent coffee for a mere fifty cents. To my happy surprise, L’il is there, writing in her journal.

“I’m exhausted,” I sigh, sitting across from her.

“You look fine,” she says.

“I think I slept about two hours.”

She closes her journal and looks at me knowingly. “Bernard?”

“I wish. Bernard dumped me-”

“I’m sorry.” She gives me a sympathetic smile.

“Not officially,” I say quickly. “But after last night, I think he will.” I stir three packets of sugar into my coffee. “And my friend Maggie had sex with Ryan last night.”

“That’s why you’re so pissed off.”

“I’m not pissed off. I’m disappointed.” She looks unconvinced, so I add, “I’m not jealous, either. Why would I be attracted to Ryan when I have Bernard?”

“Then why are you angry?”

“I don’t know.” I pause. “Ryan’s engaged. And she has two boyfriends. It’s wrong.”

“The heart wants what the heart wants,” she says, somewhat cryptically.

I purse my lips in disapproval. “You’d think the heart would know better.”

I keep to myself in class. Ryan tries to engage me with talk about Maggie and how great she is, but I only nod coldly. Rainbow actually says hi, but Capote ignores me, as usual. At least he’s still behaving normally.

And then Viktor asks me to read the first ten pages of my play. I’m shocked. Viktor has never asked me to read anything before, and it takes me a minute to adjust. How am I going to read the play alone? There are two parts-a man and a woman. I can’t read the man’s part too. I’ll sound like an idiot.

Viktor has managed to divine this as well. “You’ll read the part of Harriet,” he says. “And Capote can read Moorehouse.”

Capote glances around the room, peeved at the request. “Harriet? Moorehouse? What kind of name is Moorehouse?”

“I suppose we’ll find out,” Viktor says, twirling his mustache.

This is the best thing that’s happened to me in at least two days. It might even make up for all the bad.

Clutching my script, I make my way to the front of the room, followed by a red-faced Capote. “What am I playing?” he asks.

“You’re a forty-year-old guy who’s going through a midlife crisis. And I’m your bitchy wife.”

“Figures,” he grumbles.

I smile. Is this the reason for his continuing animosity? He thinks I’m a bitch? If he actually thinks I’m a bitch, I’m glad.

We begin reading. By the second page, I’m into the part, focusing on what it must be like to be Harriet, an unhappy woman who wanted to be a success but whose success has been eclipsed by her childish husband.

By the third page, the class gets the idea it’s supposed to be funny, and begins snickering. By the fifth page, I hear spurts of actual laughter. When we finish, there’s a smattering of applause.

Wow.

I look at Capote, foolishly expecting his approval. But his expression is firm as he studiously avoids my glance. “Good job,” he murmurs out of obligation.

I don’t care. I go back to my seat floating on air.

“Comments?” Viktor asks.

“It’s like a junior version of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? ,” Ryan ventures. I look at him gratefully. Ryan has a loyalty about him that I suddenly appreciate. It’s too bad his loyalty ends when it comes to sex. If a guy is a jerk about infidelity, but decent about everything else, is it okay to like him as a person?

“What I found intriguing is the way Carrie was able to make the most banal domestic scene interesting,” Viktor says. “I liked that it takes place while the couple is brushing their teeth. It’s an everyday activity we all do, no matter who we are.”

“Like taking a crap,” Capote remarks.

I smile as though I’m far too superior to take offense at his comment. But now it’s official, I decide. I hate him.

Viktor pats his mustache with one hand and the top of his head with the other-a gesture that suggests he’s attempting to keep all of his hair from running away. “And now, perhaps L’il will grace us with her poem?”

“Sure.” L’il stands and goes to the front of the class. “‘The Glass Slipper,’” she begins.

“‘My love broke me. As if my body were glass, smashed against the rocks, something used and disposed of…’” The poem continues in this vein for several more lines, and when L’il is finished, she smiles uneasily.

“Thoughts?” Viktor says. There’s an unusual edge to his voice.

“I liked it,” I volunteer. “The broken glass is a great description of a broken heart.” Which reminds me of how I’m going to feel if Bernard ends our relationship.

“It’s pedantic and obvious,” Viktor says. “Schoolgirlish and lazy. This is what happens when you take your talent for granted.”

“Thank you,” L’il says evenly, as if she doesn’t care. She takes her seat, and when I glance over my shoulder, her head is down, her expression stricken. I know L’il is too strong to cry in class, but if she did, everyone would understand. Viktor can be unkind in his straightforward assessments, but he’s never been deliberately mean.

He must be feeling guilty, though, because he’s raking at poor Waldo like he’s trying to rip him off his face. “To summarize, I’m looking forward to hearing more from Carrie’s play. While L’il-” He breaks off and turns away.

This should make me ecstatic, but it doesn’t. L’il doesn’t deserve the criticism. Which could mean, conversely, that I don’t deserve the excessive approval either. Being great isn’t so fabulous when it comes at someone else’s expense.

I gather my papers, wondering what just happened. Perhaps, when it comes right down to it, Viktor is just another fickle guy. Only instead of being fickle about women, he’s fickle about his favorite students. He bestowed his honors on L’il at the beginning, but now he’s bored, and I’m the one who’s captured his attention.

L’il races out of class. I catch up with her at the elevator, pressing the “close” button before anyone else can get on. “I’m sorry. I thought your poem was wonderful. I truly did,” I say profusely, trying to make up for Viktor’s critique.

L’il clutches her book bag to her chest. “He was right. The poem sucked. And I do need to work harder.”

“You already work harder than anyone in the class, L’il. You work a hell of a lot harder than I do. I’m the one who’s lazy.”

She gives a little shake of her head. “You’re not lazy, Carrie. You’re unafraid.”

Now I’m confused, given our discussion about my fears as a writer. “I wouldn’t say that .”

“It’s true. You’re not afraid of this city. Not afraid to try new things.”

“You’re not either,” I say kindly.

We get out of the elevator and step outside. The sun is blazing and the heat is like a slap in the face. L’il squints and puts on a pair of cheap sunglasses, the kind the street vendors sell at every other corner. “Enjoy it, Carrie,” she insists. “And don’t worry about me. Are you going to tell Bernard?”

“About what?”

“Your play. You should show it to him. I’m sure he’ll love it.”

I peer at her closely, wondering if she’s being cynical, but I can’t see any trace of malice. Besides, L’il isn’t like that. She’s never been jealous of anyone. “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe I will.”

Bernard. I should show him my play. But after last night, is he even speaking to me anymore?

Nothing I can do about it, though. Because now I have to meet Samantha to help her with her crazy dinner party.

Chapter Seventeen

“What do we do first?” Samantha asks, clapping her hands in an attempt at enthusiasm.

I look at her like she has to be kidding. “Well, first we buy the food,” I say, as if I’m talking to a kindergartner.

“Where do we do that?”

My jaw drops in disbelief. “At a supermarket?” When Samantha said she knew nothing about cooking, I never assumed she meant absolutely nothing, including the fact that “food” is usually made from “ingredients” purchased at a “supermarket.”

“And where’s the supermarket?”

I want to scream. Instead, I stare at her blankly.

She’s sitting behind her desk in her office, wearing a low-cut sweater with linebacker shoulders, pearls, and a short skirt. She looks sexy, cool, and collected. I, on the other hand, look ragged and out of place, especially as I’m wearing what is basically some old lady’s slip that I’ve cinched with a cowboy belt. Another great find at the vintage store. “Have you considered takeout?” I ask smartly.

She emits her tinkling laugh. “Charlie thinks I can cook. I don’t want to disabuse him of the fact.”

“And why, pray tell, does he think that?”

“Because I told him, Sparrow,” she says, becoming slightly irked. She stands up and puts her hands on her hips. “Haven’t you heard the expression ‘Fake it till you make it’? I’m the original fake-it girl.”

“Okay.” I throw up my hands in defeat. “I’ll need to see Charlie’s kitchen first. See what kind of pans he has.”

“No problem. His apartment is spectacular. I’ll take you there now.” She picks up a giant Kelly bag, which I’ve never seen before.

“Is that new?” I ask, half in admiration and half in envy.

She strokes the soft leather before she slings it over her shoulder. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Charlie bought it for me.”

“Some people have quite the life.”

“Play your cards right, and you’ll have quite the life too, Sparrow.”

“How’s this grand scheme of yours going to go down?” I ask. “What if Charlie finds out-”

She waves this away. “He won’t. The only time Charlie’s been in the kitchen is when we have sex on the counter.”

I make a face. “And you honestly expect me to prepare food on it?”

“It’s clean, Carrie. Haven’t you ever heard of maids?”

“Not in my universe.”

We’re interrupted by the entry of a short man with sandy brown hair who looks exactly like a tiny Ken doll. “Are you leaving?” he says sharply to Samantha.

A flash of annoyance crosses her face before she quickly composes herself. “Family emergency,” she says.

“What about the Smirnoff account?” he demands.

“Vodka has been around for over two hundred years, Harry. I daresay it will still be here tomorrow. My sister, on the other hand,” she says, indicating me, “may not.”

As if on cue, my entire body floods in embarrassment, rendering me bright red.

Harry, however, isn’t buying it. He scrutinizes me closely-apparently, he needs glasses but is too vain to wear them. “Your sister?” he asks. “When did you get a sister?”

“Really, Harry.” Samantha shakes her head.

Harry stands aside to let us pass, then follows us down the hall. “Will you be back later?”

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 Forty-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.”

“Cholly?”

“Cholly Hammond. You met him at the same party where you met Bernard.”

“The seersucker guy.”

“He runs a literary magazine. You’ll like him.”

I wave the aluminum foil in her face. “I won’t get to see him, remember? I’ll be in here, cooking.”

“If cooking makes you this neurotic, you really shouldn’t do it,” Samantha says.

“Thanks, sweetie. But I believe this was your idea, remember?”

“Oh, I know,” she says airily. “C’mon. I need you to help me pick out something to wear. Charlie’s friends are very conservative.”

I follow her down a carpeted hallway and into a large suite with a walk-in closet and his-and-her bathrooms. I gawk at the splendor of it all. Imagine having this much space in Manhattan. No wonder Samantha’s so eager to get hitched.

When we enter the closet, I nearly fall over in a dead faint. The closet alone is the size of Samantha’s entire apartment. On one side are racks and racks of Charlie’s clothing, arranged by type and color. His jeans are ironed and folded over hangers. Stacks of cashmere sweaters in every color are piled neatly on the shelves.

At the other end is Samantha’s section, made obvious not only by her work suits and high-heeled pumps and the slinky dresses she loves to wear, but by its relative meagerness. “Hey, sister, looks like you’ve got some catching up to do,” I point out.

“I’m working on it,” she laughs.

“What’s this?” I ask, indicating a bouclé suit with white piping. “Chanel?” I look at the price tag, which is still on the sleeve, and gasp. “Twelve hundred dollars?”

“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 either. 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 shake 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.

“Could you turn that thing off?” Maggie shouts at Miranda. “It’s hurting my ears.”

“Sorry,” I say, to both Maggie and Miranda, as I scurry across the room to lower the volume on the stereo.

“What’s her problem?” Miranda asks. She sounds put out, which I know she doesn’t intend. She’s just a bit soused.

“Ryan ran out of the coffee shop while she was in the bathroom.”

“Ah,” Miranda says with a smile.

“Mags?” I ask, making a cautious approach. “There’s nothing Miranda likes more than guy troubles. Mostly because she hates all men.” I hope this introduction will make Maggie and Miranda appreciate each other. After all, guy troubles, along with clothing and body parts, are a major source of bonding among women.

But Maggie isn’t having it. “Why didn’t you tell me he was a dick?” she demands.

This isn’t fair. “I thought I did. You knew he was engaged.”

“You’re dating a guy who’s engaged?” Miranda asks, not liking the sound of this.

“He isn’t really engaged. He says he’s engaged. She made him get engaged so she could string him along.” Maggie takes another swig of vodka. “That’s what I think, anyway.”

“It’s a good thing he left,” I say. “Now at least you know his true nature.”

“Here, here,” Miranda adds.

“Hey. Miranda just got a new boyfriend,” I tell Maggie.

“Lucky you.” Maggie scowls, unimpressed.

“Maggie has two boyfriends,” I say to Miranda, as if this is something to be admired.

“That’s something I’ve never understood. How do you handle it? I mean, they’re always saying you should date two or three guys at once, but I’ve never seen the point,” Miranda says.

“It’s fun,” Maggie retorts.

“But it goes both ways, right?” Miranda counters. “We hate guys who date more than one woman at a time. I’ve always believed that what’s unacceptable in one sex should, by definition, be unacceptable in the other.”

“Excuse me.” Maggie sounds a warning note. “I hope you’re not calling me a slut.”

“Of course not!” I jump in. “Miranda’s only talking about feminism.”

“Then you shouldn’t have any problem with women having sex with as many men as they want,” Maggie says pointedly. “To me, that’s feminism.”

“You can do anything you want, sweetie,” I reassure her. “No one’s judging you.”

“All I’m saying is that men and women are the same. They should be held to the same standards,” Miranda insists.

“I totally disagree. Men and women are completely different,” Maggie replies obstinately.

“I kind of hate when people say men and women are different,” I interject. “It sounds like an excuse. Like when people say, ‘Boys will be boys.’ It makes me want to scream.”

“It makes me want to sock someone,” Miranda agrees.

Maggie stands up. “All I can say is that you two deserve each other.” And while Miranda and I look at her in bewilderment, Maggie runs into the bathroom and slams the door.

“Was it something I said?” Miranda asks.

“It’s not you. It’s me. She’s mad at me. About something. Even though I should be mad at her.”

I knock on the bathroom door. “Mags? Are you okay? We were just having a conversation. We weren’t saying anything bad about you.”

“I’m taking a shower,” she shouts.

Miranda gathers her things. “I’d better go.”

“Okay,” I demur, dreading being left alone with Maggie. Once she gets angry, she can carry a grudge for days.

“Marty’s coming over anyway. After he finishes studying.” She waves and hurries down the stairs.

Lucky her.

The shower is still going full blast. I straighten up my desk, hoping the worst is not to come.

Eventually Maggie comes out of the bathroom toweling her hair. She begins picking up her things, stuffing clothing into her duffel bag.

“You’re not leaving, are you?”

“I think I should,” she grumbles.

“C’mon, sweetie. I’m sorry. Miranda is just very adamant about her views. She doesn’t have anything against you. She doesn’t even know you.”

“You can say that again.”

“Since you’re not seeing Ryan, maybe we could go to a movie?” I ask hopefully.

“There’s nothing I want to see.” She looks around. “Where’s the phone?”

It’s under the chair. I grab it and hand it over reluctantly. “Listen, Mags,” I say, trying not to be confrontational. “If you don’t mind, could you not call South Carolina? I have to pay for the long distance calls, and I don’t have that much money.”

“Is that all you’re about now? Money?”

“No-”

“As a matter of fact, I’m calling the bus.”

“You don’t have to go,” I say, desperate to make up. I don’t want her visit to end in a fight.

Maggie ignores me, looking at her watch as she nods into the receiver. “Thanks.” She hangs up. “There’s a bus that leaves for Philadelphia in forty-five minutes. Do you think I can make it?”

“Yes. But, Maggie-” I break off. I really don’t know what to say.

“You’ve changed, Carrie,” she says, zipping up her bag with a snap.

“I still don’t know why you’re so angry. Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry.”

“You’re a different person. I don’t know who you are anymore.” She punctuates this with a shake of her head.

I sigh. This confrontation has likely been brewing since the moment Maggie turned up at the apartment and declared it a slum. “The only thing that’s different about me is that I’m in New York.”

“I know. You haven’t stopped reminding me of the fact for two days.”

“I do live here-”

“You know what?” She picks up her bag. “Everyone here is crazy. Your roommate Samantha is crazy. Bernard is a creep, and your friend Miranda is a freak. And Ryan is an asshole.” She pauses while I cringe, imagining what’s coming next. “And now you’re just like them. You’re crazy too.”

I’m stunned. “Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome.” She starts for the door. “And don’t worry about taking me to the bus station. I can get there myself.”

“Fine.” I shrug.

She exits the apartment, banging the door behind her. For a moment, I’m too shaken to move. How dare she attack me? And why is it always about her? The whole time she was here, she barely had the decency to ask me how I was doing. She could have tried to understand my situation instead of criticizing everything about it.

I take a deep breath. I yank open the door and run after her. “Maggie!”

She’s already outside, standing on the curb, her arm raised to hail a taxi. I hurry toward her as a taxi pulls up and she opens the door.

“Maggie!”

She spins around, her hand on the handle. “What?”

“Come on. Don’t leave this way. I’m sorry .”

Her face has turned to stone. “Good.” She crawls into the backseat and shuts the door.

My body sags as I watch the taxi weave into traffic. I tilt my head back, letting the rain’s drizzle soothe my hurt feelings. “Why?” I ask aloud.

I stomp back into the building. Damn Ryan. He is an asshole. If he hadn’t stood Maggie up, we wouldn’t have had this fight. We’d still be friends. Sure, I’d be a little pissed off with her for sleeping with Ryan, but I would have ignored it. For the sake of our friendship.

Why can’t she extend the same courtesy to me?

I bang around in the apartment a while, all churned up about Maggie’s disastrous visit. I hesitate, then pick up the phone and call Walt.

While it rings, I remember how I’ve neglected Walt all summer and how he’s probably pissed at me too. I shudder, thinking about what a bad friend I’ve been. I’m not even sure Walt is still living at home. When his mother picks up, I say, “It’s Carrie,” in the sweetest voice possible. “Is Walt there?”

“Hello, Carrie,” Walt’s mother says. “Are you still in New York?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m sure Walt will be very happy to hear from you,” she adds, sticking another knife into the wound. “Walt!” she calls out. “It’s Carrie.”

I hear Walt coming into the kitchen. I picture the red Formica table crowded with chairs. The dog’s bowl slopped over with water. The toaster oven where Walt’s mother keeps the sugar so ants won’t get it. And, no doubt, the look of confusion on Walt’s face. Wondering why I’ve decided to call him now, when I’ve forgotten him for weeks.

“Hello?” he asks.

“Walt!” I exclaim.

“Is this the Carrie Bradshaw?”

“I guess so.”

“What a surprise. I thought you were dead.”

“Oh, Walt.” I giggle nervously, knowing I deserve a hard time.

Walt seems ready to forgive, because the next thing he asks is, “Well, qué pasa ? How’s Nuevo?”

“ Bueno. Muy bueno ,” I reply. “How are you?” I lower my voice. “Are you still seeing Randy?”

“ Mais oui! ” he exclaims. “In fact, my father has decided to look the other way. Thanks to Randy’s interest in football.”

“That’s great. You’re having a real relationship.”

“It appears so, yes. Much to my surprise.”

“You’re lucky, Walt.”

“What about you? Anyone special?” he asks, putting a sarcastic spin on “special.”

“I don’t know. I’ve been seeing this guy. But he’s older. Maggie met him,” I say, getting to my underlying reason for the call. “She hated him.”

Walt laughs. “I’m not surprised. Maggie hates everyone these days.”

“Why?”

“Because she has no idea what to do with her life. And she can’t stand anyone who does.”

Thirty minutes later, I’ve told Walt the whole story about Maggie’s visit, which he finds immensely entertaining. “Why don’t you come to visit me?” I ask, feeling better. “You and Randy. You could sleep in the bed.”

“A bed’s too good for Randy,” Walt says jokingly. “He can sleep on the floor. In fact, he can sleep anywhere. If you take him to a store, he’ll fall asleep standing up.”

I smile. “Seriously, though.”

“When are you coming home?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

“You know about your father, of course,” he says smoothly.

“No.”

“Oops.”

“Why?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

“Hasn’t anyone told you? Your father has a girlfriend.”

I clutch the phone in disbelief. But it makes sense. No wonder he’s been acting so strange lately.

“I’m sorry. I figured you knew,” Walt continues. “I only know because my mother told me. She’s going to be the new librarian at the high school. She’s like twenty-five or something.”

“My father is dating a twenty-five-year-old?” I shriek.

“I thought you’d want to know.”

“Damn right,” I say, furious. “I guess I’ll be coming home this weekend after all.”

“Great,” Walt says. “We could use some excitement around here.”

Chapter Twenty

“This will never do,” Samantha says, shaking her head.

“It’s luggage.” I, too, glare at the offending suitcase. It’s ugly, but still, the sight of that suitcase makes me insanely jealous. I’m going back to boring old Castlebury while Samantha is headed for Los Angeles.

Los Angeles! It’s a very big deal and she only found out yesterday. She’s going to shoot a commercial and stay at the Beverly Hills Hotel, which is where all the movie stars hang out. She bought enormous sunglasses and a big straw hat and a Norma Kamali bathing suit that you wear with a white T-shirt underneath. In honor of the occasion, I tried to find a palm tree at the party store, but all they had were some green paper leafy things that I’ve wrapped around my head.

There are clothes and shoes everywhere. Samantha’s enormous green plastic Samsonite suitcase lies open on the living room floor.

“It’s not luggage, it’s baggage,” she complains.

“Who’s going to notice?”

“Everyone. We’re flying first-class. There’ll be porters. And bellhops. What are the bellhops going to think when they discover Samantha Jones travels with Samsonite?”

I love it when Samantha does that funny thing and talks about herself in the third person. I tried it once myself, but there was no way I could pull it off. “Do you honestly think the bellhops are going to be more interested in Samsonite than Samantha Jones?”

“That’s just it. They’ll expect my luggage to be glamorous as well.”

“I bet that jerky Harry Mills carries American Tourister. Hey,” I say, swinging my legs off the back of the couch. “Did you ever think that someday you’d be traveling with a man you hardly knew? It’s kind of weird, isn’t it? What if your suitcase opens by accident and he sees your Skivvies?”

“I’m not worried about my lingerie. I’m worried about my image. I never thought I’d have this life when I bought that.” She frowns at the suitcase.

“What did you think?” I hardly know anything about Samantha’s past, besides the fact that she comes from New Jersey and seems to hate her mother. She never mentions her father, so these tidbits about her early life are always fascinating.

“Only about getting away. Far, far away.”

“But New Jersey’s just across the river.”

“Physically, yes. Metaphorically, no. And New York wasn’t my first stop.”

“It wasn’t?” Now I’m really intrigued. I can’t imagine Samantha living anywhere but New York.

“I traveled all around the world when I was eighteen.”

I nearly fall off the couch. “How?”

She smiles. “I was a groupie. To a very famous rock ’n’ roll guy. I was at a concert and he picked me out of the crowd. He asked me to travel with him and I was stupid enough to think I was his girlfriend. Then I found out he had a wife stashed away in the English countryside. That suitcase has been all around the world.”

I wonder if Samantha’s hatred of her luggage is actually due to a bad association with the past. “And then what happened?”

She shrugs, picking out lingerie from the pile and folding the pieces into little squares. “He dumped me. In Moscow. His wife suddenly decided to join him. He woke up that afternoon and said, ‘Darling, I’m afraid it’s over. You’re binned.’”

“Just like that?”

“He was English,” she says, laying the squares into the bottom of the suitcase. “That’s what Englishmen do. When it’s over, it’s over. No phone calls, no letters, and especially no crying.”

“Did you? Cry?” I can’t picture it.

“What do you think? I was all alone in Moscow with nothing but this stupid suitcase. And a plane ticket to New York. I was jumping up and down for joy.”

I can’t tell if she’s kidding or not.

“In other words, it’s your runaway suitcase,” I point out. “And now that you don’t need to run anymore, you need something better. Something permanent.”

“Hmmm,” she says cryptically.

“What’s it like?” I ask. “When you pass a record store and see the rock ’n’ roll guy’s face on a poster? Does it make you feel weird to think you spent all that time with him?”

“I’m grateful.” She grabs a shoe and looks around for its partner. “Sometimes I think if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have made it to New York at all.”

“Didn’t you always want to come here?”

She shrugs. “I was a wild child. I didn’t know what I wanted. I only knew I didn’t want to end up a waitress and pregnant at nineteen. Like Shirley.”

“Oh.”

“My mother,” she clarifies.

I’m not surprised. There’s an underlying pulse of determination in Samantha that has to come from somewhere.

“You’re lucky.” She finds the matching shoe and pushes it into the corner of the suitcase. “At least you have parents who will pay for college.”

“Yeah,” I say vaguely. Despite her confessions about her past, I’m not ready to tell her about my own. “But I thought you went to college.”

“Oh, Sparrow.” She sighs. “I took a couple of night courses when I arrived in New York. I got a job through a temp agency. The first place they sent me was Slovey, Dinall. I was a secretary. They didn’t even call them ‘assistants’ back then. Anyway, it’s boring.”

Not to me. But the fact that she’s come so far from nothing puts my own struggles to shame. “It must have been hard.”

“It was.” She presses down on the top of the suitcase. There’s practically her whole closet in there, so naturally, it won’t shut. I kneel on the cover as she clicks the locks into place.

The phone rings as we’re dragging the suitcase to the door. Samantha ignores the insistent ringing, so I make a move to grab it. “Don’t answer,” she warns. But I’ve already picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Is Samantha still there?”

Samantha frantically shakes her head. “Charlie?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t sound terribly friendly. I wonder if he found out it was me doing the cooking after all.

I hold out the receiver. Samantha rolls her eyes as she takes it. “Hello, darling. I’m about to walk out the door.” There’s an edge of annoyance in her tone.

“Yes, I know,” she continues. “But I can’t make it.” She pauses and lowers her voice. “I told you. I have to go. I don’t have a choice,” she adds, sounding resigned. “Well, life’s inconvenient, Charlie.” And she hangs up the phone.

She briefly closes her eyes, inhales, and forces a smile. “Men.”

“Charlie?” I ask, perplexed. “I thought you guys were so happy.”

“Too happy. When I told him I suddenly had to go to LA, he freaked out. Said he’d made plans for us to have dinner with his mother tonight. Which he somehow neglected to tell me. As if I don’t have a life of my own.”

“Maybe you can’t have it both ways. His life and your life. How do you put two lives together, anyway?”

She gives me a look as she picks up her suitcase. “Wish me luck in Hollywood, Sparrow. Maybe I’ll be discovered.”

“What about Charlie?” I hold open the door as she bangs the suitcase down the stairs. It’s a good thing it is a Samsonite. Most suitcases probably couldn’t take the abuse.

“What about him?” she calls out.

Boy. She must really be angry.

I run to the window and lean out over the parapet to catch a glimpse of the street below. An enormous limousine is idling at the curb. A uniformed driver stands next to the passenger door. Samantha emerges from the building as the driver hurries forward to take her suitcase.

The passenger door opens, and Harry Mills gets out. He and Samantha have a brief exchange as he lights up a cigar. Samantha slides past him and gets into the car. Harry takes a big puff on the cigar, looks up and down the street, and follows. The door closes and the limo pulls away, a puff of cigar smoke drifting from the open window.

Behind me, the phone rings. I approach it cautiously, but curiosity gets the better of me and I pick it up. “Is Samantha there?” It’s Charlie. Again.

“She just left,” I say politely.

“Damn,” he shouts, and hangs up.

Damn you, too, I think, quietly replacing the receiver.

I retrieve my own Hartmann suitcase from under Samantha’s bed. The phone rings some more, but I know better than to answer it.

After a while, the caller gives up. Then the buzzer goes off. “Yes?” I ask brusquely, into the intercom.

“It’s Ryan,” comes back the garbled reply.

I click open the door. Ryan. I’m working myself up to give him what-for about Maggie, when he appears at the top of the stairs holding a lone rose. The stem is limp and I briefly wonder if he picked it up off the street.

“You’re too late,” I say accusingly. “Maggie left last night.”

“Rats. I knew I fucked up.”

I should probably tell him to go away, but I’m not finished. “Who runs out of a diner while their date is in the bathroom?”

“I was tired,” he says helplessly, as if this is a legitimate excuse.

“You’re kidding. Right?”

He gives me a hangdog look. “I couldn’t figure out how to say good-bye. I was exhausted. And I’m not Superman. I try to be, but somewhere along the line I seem to have encountered kryptonite.”

I smile in spite of myself. Ryan is one of those guys who can always joke himself out of the bad books. I know he knows it, and I know it’s disloyal, but I can’t stay mad at him. After all, he didn’t stand me up.

“Maggie was really, really hurt,” I scold.

“I figured she would be. That’s why I came by. To make it up to her.”

“With that rose?”

“It is pretty sad, isn’t it?”

“It’s pathetic. Especially since she took her anger out on me.”

“On you?” He’s surprised. “Why would she take it out on you? It wasn’t your fault.”

“No. But somehow I got lumped in with your bad behavior. We got into a fight.”

“Was there hair pulling?”

“No, there was not,” I say, indignant. “Jesus, Ryan.”

“I’m sorry.” He grins. “Guys love girl fights. What can I say?”

“Why don’t you just admit you’re an asshole?”

“Because that would be too easy. Capote’s an asshole. I’m just a jerk.”

“Nice way to talk about your best friend.”

“Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean I have to lie about his personality,” he says.

“I suppose that’s true,” I unwillingly agree, wondering why women are so judgmental of each other. Why can’t we say, “Hey, she’s kind of messed up, but I love her anyway?”

“I came by to ask Maggie to Rainbow’s father’s art opening. It’s tonight. There’s a dinner afterward. It’s going to be really cool.”

“I’ll go,” I volunteer, wondering why no one invites me to these glamorous parties.

“You?” Ryan asks, unsure.

“Why not? Am I chopped liver or something?”

“Not at all,” he says, backpedaling. “But Maggie said you were obsessed with Bernard Singer.”

“I don’t have to see Bernard every night.” I fudge, unwilling to admit that Bernard and I are probably over.

“Okay, then,” he gives in. “I’ll meet you at the gallery at eight.”

Yippee, I think, when he’s gone. I’ve been hearing about this art opening for weeks, wondering if Rainbow would ask me, and if not, how I could wrangle an invitation. I kept telling myself it was only a stupid party, while secretly knowing it was an event I didn’t want to miss.

And since Bernard hasn’t called, why not? I’m certainly not going to put my life on hold for him.

Chapter Twenty-One

The gallery is in SoHo, a deserted patch of run-down blocks with cobblestoned streets and enormous buildings that were once factories. It’s hard to imagine Manhattan as a center of industrialism, but apparently they used to make everything here, from clothing to lightbulbs to tools. A metal ramp leads to the gallery’s entrance, the railing decorated with all manner of chic, downtown types, smoking cigarettes and discussing what they did the night before.

I push my way through the crowd. It’s packed inside, a mass of patrons forming a bottleneck by the entrance as everyone seems to have run into someone they know. The air is filled with smoke and the damp smell of sweat, but there’s the familiar buzz of excitement that indicates this is the place to be.

I take refuge along a wall, avoiding the circle of well-wishers gathered around a portly man with a goatee and hooded eyes. He’s dressed in a black smock and embroidered slippers, so I assume this is the great Barry Jessen himself, the most important artist in New York and Rainbow’s father. Indeed, Rainbow is standing behind him, looking, for the first time, lost and rather insignificant, despite the fact that she’s wearing a bright green fringed dress. Next to Barry, and towering over him by at least a head, is the model Pican.

She has the deliberately unself-conscious look of a woman who’s aware she’s exceptionally beautiful and knows you know it too, but is determined not to make her beauty the main attraction. She holds her head cocked slightly to the side and leaning toward her husband, as if to say, “Yes, I know I’m beautiful, but this night is all about him.” It is, I suppose, the ultimate indication of true love.

Either that, or it’s very good acting.

I don’t see Ryan or Capote yet, so I pretend to be extremely interested in the art. You’d think other people would be curious as well, but the spaces in front of the paintings are mostly empty, as if socializing is what an opening is really about.

And maybe for good reason. I can’t decide what I think about the paintings. They’re black and gray, with stick figures that appear to be victims of terrible violence or purveyors of injury. Hellish drops of blood drip from every angle. The stick figures are pierced with knives and needles while claws rip their ankles. It’s all very disturbing and quite unforgettable, which may be the point.

“What do you think?” asks Rainbow, coming up behind me. I’m surprised she’s lowered herself to solicit my opinion, but so far I’m the only person here who’s remotely close to her age.

“Powerful,” I say.

“I think they’re creepy.”

“You do?” I’m surprised she’s so honest.

“Don’t tell my father.”

“I won’t.”

“Ryan said he’s bringing you to the dinner,” she says, twirling a piece of fringe. “I’m glad. I would have invited you myself, but I didn’t have your number.”

“That’s okay. I’m happy to be here.”

She smiles and drifts away. I go back to staring at the paintings. Maybe New York isn’t so complicated after all. Perhaps belonging is simply a matter of showing up. If people see you enough, they assume you’re part of their group.

Eventually, Ryan and Capote appear, already in their cups. Ryan is weaving slightly and Capote is jovial, greeting everyone he sees like they’re an old friend.

“Carrie!” he says, kissing me on both cheeks as if he couldn’t be more pleased to see me.

A secret signal pulses through the crowd, and several people glide to the exit. These, apparently, are the chosen ones-chosen to attend the dinner, anyway.

“C’mon,” Ryan says, jerking his head toward the door. We follow the select group onto the street as Ryan runs his hands through his hair.

“Man, that was terrible,” he exclaims. “You’ve got to wonder what the world is coming to when we call that ‘art.’”

“You’re a philistine,” Capote says.

“You can’t tell me you actually liked that shit.”

“I did,” I say. “I thought it was disturbing.”

“Disturbing, but not in a good way,” Ryan says.

Capote laughs. “You can take the boy out of the suburbs but you can’t take the suburbs out of the boy.”

“I take serious offense to that comment,” Ryan cracks.

“ I’m from the suburbs,” I say.

“Of course you are,” Capote says, with a certain amount of disdain.

“And you’re from someplace better?” I challenge him.

“Capote’s from an old Southern family, darlin’,” Ryan says, imitating Capote’s accent. “His grandmother fought off the Yankees. Which would make her about a hundred and fifty years old.”

“I never said my grandmother fought the Yankees. I said she told me never to marry one.”

“I guess that lets me out,” I comment, while Ryan snickers in appreciation.

The dinner is being held at the Jessens’ loft. It seems like ten years ago when L’il laughed at me for thinking the Jessens lived in a building without running water, but my early assessment isn’t far off. The building is a little scary. The freight elevator has a door that slides open manually, followed by one of those clanging wire gates. Inside is a crank to move the elevator up and down.

The operation of said elevator is a source of consternation. When we get in, five people are discussing the alternate possibility of finding the stairs.

“It’s terrible when people live in these places,” says a man with yellow hair.

“It’s cheap,” Ryan points out.

“Cheap shouldn’t mean dangerous.”

“What’s a little danger when you’re the most important artist in New York?” Capote says, with his usual arrogance.

“Oh my. You’re so macho,” the man replies. The lighting in the elevator is dim and when I turn around to take a closer look, I discover the speaker is none other than Bobby. The Bobby from the fashion show. Who promised me a reading in his space.

“Bobby,” I nearly shout.

He doesn’t recognize me at first. “Hello, yes, great to see you again,” he replies automatically.

“It’s me,” I insist. “Carrie Bradshaw?”

He suddenly remembers. “Of course! Carrie Bradshaw. The playwright.”

Capote snorts and, since no one else seems either capable or interested, takes over the operation of the crank. The elevator lurches upward with a sickening jolt that throws several of the occupants against the wall.

“I’m so happy I didn’t eat anything today,” remarks a woman in a long silver coat.

Capote manages to get the elevator reasonably close to the third story, meaning the doors open a couple of feet above the floor. Ever the gentleman, he hops out and extends his hand to the lady in the silver coat. Ryan gets out on his own, followed by Bobby, who jumps and falls to his knees. When it’s my turn, Capote hesitates, his arm poised midair.

“I’m fine,” I say, rejecting his offer.

“Come on, Carrie. Don’t be a jerk.”

“In other words, try being a lady,” I murmur, taking his hand.

“For once in your life.”

I’m about to continue this argument, when Bobby inserts himself and links his arm through mine. “Let’s get a drink and you can tell me all about your new play,” he gushes.

The huge open space has been hastily remodeled into something resembling an apartment by the addition of Sheetrock walls. The area near the windows is as big as a skating rink; along one side is a table, covered with a white cloth, that probably seats sixty. In front of the ceiling-high windows is a grouping of couches and armchairs draped with sailcloth. The wooden floor is worn, scuffed by the feet of hundreds of factory workers. In a few places, it’s actually black, as if someone set a small fire, thought better of it, and extinguished the flames.

“Here you go,” Bobby says, handing me a plastic cup filled with what turns out to be cheap champagne. He takes my hand. “Who do you want to meet? I know everyone.”

I want to extract my hand, but it seems rude. And besides, I’m sure Bobby is only being friendly. “Barry Jessen?” I ask boldly.

“Don’t you know him?” Bobby asks, with such genuine surprise it makes me laugh. I can’t imagine why Bobby would think I knew the great Barry Jessen, but apparently he assumes I get around quite a bit. Which only reinforces my theory: if people see you enough, they think you’re one of them.

Bobby marches me straight up to Barry Jessen himself, who is engaged in conversation with several people at once, and pulls me into the circle. My sense of belonging dissipates like a mist but Bobby seems immune to the hostile glances. “This is Carrie Bradshaw,” he announces to Barry. “She’s dying to meet you. You’re her favorite artist.”

Not one word of this is true, but I don’t dare contradict him. Especially as Barry Jessen’s expression changes from irritation to mild interest. He isn’t immune to flattery-just the opposite. He expects it.

“Is that so?” His black eyes lock on mine and I suddenly have the eerie sensation of staring into the face of the devil.

“I loved your show,” I say awkwardly.

“Do you think others will love it as well?” he demands.

His intensity unnerves me. “It’s so powerful, how can anyone not love it?” I blurt out, hoping he won’t question me further.

He doesn’t. Having received his kudos, he abruptly turns away, addressing himself to the lady in the silver coat.

Unfortunately, Bobby doesn’t get the message. “Now, Barry,” he begins insistently. “We have to talk about Basil,” at which point I seize the opportunity to escape. The thing about famous people, I realize, is that just because you can meet them doesn’t make you a famous person yourself.

I skitter down a little hallway and past a closed door, from which I hear laughter and hushed whisperings, then past another door that’s probably the bathroom because several people are lined up beside it, and right on through to an open door at the end of the corridor.

I pull up short, startled by the decor. The room is completely different from the rest of the loft. Oriental rugs are strewn across the floor and an ornate antique Indian bed covered with silk pillows sits in the center.

I figure I’ve wandered in the Jessens’ bedroom by accident, but it’s Rainbow who’s resting on the bed, talking to a guy wearing a knit Jamaican cap perched over dreadlocks.

“Sorry,” I murmur quickly, as the guy looks up in surprise. He’s shockingly handsome, with chiseled features and beautiful black eyes.

Rainbow whips around, startled, worried she’s been caught out, but when she sees me, she relaxes. “It’s only Carrie,” she says. “She’s cool.”

“Only Carrie” ventures a step closer. “What are you guys doing?”

“This is my brother, Colin,” Rainbow says, indicating the guy with the dreadlocks.

“You get high?” Colin asks, holding up a small marijuana pipe.

“Sure.” Somehow, I don’t think being a little stoned at this party is going to be a problem. Half the people here already seem like they’re on something.

Rainbow makes space for me on the bed. “I love your room,” I say, admiring the luxurious furnishings.

“You do?” She takes the pipe from Colin, leaning forward as he flicks the bowl with a gold lighter.

“It’s very anti-Barry,” Colin says, in a clipped accent. “That’s what’s so great about it.”

I take a hit from the pipe and pass it to Colin. “Are you English?” I ask, wondering how he can be English while Rainbow seems so American.

Rainbow giggles. “He’s Amhara. Like my mother.”

“So Barry isn’t your father?”

“Lord, no!” Colin exclaims. He and Rainbow exchange a secretive look.

“Does anyone actually like their father?” Rainbow asks.

“I do,” I murmur. Maybe it’s the dope, but I’m suddenly feeling sentimental about my old man. “He’s a really good guy.”

“You’re lucky,” Colin says. “I haven’t seen my real father since I was ten.”

I nod as though I understand, but honestly, I don’t. My father might not be perfect, but I know he loves me. If something bad happened, he’d be there for me-or would try to be, anyway.

“Which reminds me,” Colin says, reaching into his pocket and extracting a small aspirin bottle that he shakes in Rainbow’s face. “I found these in Barry’s stash.”

“Oh, Colin. You didn’t,” Rainbow squeals.

Colin pops open the top and shakes out three large round pills. “I did.”

“What if he notices they’re gone?”

“He won’t. By the end of the night, he’ll be too high to notice anything.”

Rainbow plucks one of the pills out of Colin’s hand and washes it down with a gulp of champagne.

“You want one, Carrie?” Colin offers me a pill.

I don’t ask what it is. I don’t want to know. I already feel like I’ve found out more than I should. I shake my head.

“They’re really fun,” Colin urges, popping the pill into his mouth.

“I’m good,” I say.

“If you change your mind, you know where to find me. Just ask for an aspirin,” he says as he and Rainbow fall onto the cushions, laughing.

Back in the main room, there’s the usual frenetic energy of people jabbering and shouting into one another’s faces to be heard above the din. Cigarette and marijuana smoke waft through the air, while Pican and some of her model friends lounge indolently on the couches with half-closed eyes. I walk past them to the open window for some fresh air.

I remind myself that I’m having a good time.

Bobby spots me and begins waving frantically. He’s talking to a middle-aged woman in a skin-tight white dress that looks like it’s made of bandages. I wave back and hold up my cup, indicating I’m on my way to the bar, but he won’t be deterred. “Carrie,” he shouts. “Come meet Teensie Dyer.”

I put on my best game face and saunter over.

Teensie looks like someone who eats small children for breakfast. “This is Carrie Bradshaw,” Bobby crows. “You should be her agent. Did you know she’s written a play?”

“Hello,” she says, giving me a narrow smile.

Bobby puts his arm around my shoulder, trying to press me closer as I stiffly resist. “We’re going to perform Carrie’s new play in my space. You must come.”

Teensie flicks her cigarette ash on the floor. “What’s it about?”

Damn Bobby, I think, as I wriggle out of his grasp. I’m not about to talk about my play to a complete stranger. Especially as I hardly know what it’s about myself.

“Carrie won’t say.” Bobby pats my arm. And leaning into my ear, adds in a stage whisper, “Teensie’s the biggest agent in town. She represents everyone. Including Bernard Singer.”

The smile freezes on my face. “That’s nice.”

There must be something in my expression that sets off a warning bell because Teensie deigns to finally look me in the eye.

I glance away, hoping to steer the conversation in another direction. Something tells me this Teensie person will be none too pleased to discover her biggest client is dating little ol’ me. Or was dating little ol’ me, anyway.

The music stops.

“Dinner is served!” shouts Barry Jessen from the top of a ladder.

Chapter Twenty-Two

As if the night couldn’t get any weirder, I find myself seated next to Capote.

“You again?” I ask, squeezing past him onto my folding chair.

“What’s your problem?” he says.

I roll my eyes. Where to begin? With the fact that I miss Bernard and wish he were here? Or that I’d prefer to be sitting next to someone else? I settle on: “I just met Teensie Dyer.”

He looks impressed. “She’s a big agent.”

Figures he’d say that. “She seemed like a bitch to me.”

“That’s stupid, Carrie.”

“Why? It’s the truth.”

“Or your perspective.”

“Which is?”

“This is a hard city, Carrie. You know that.”

“So?” I say.

“You want to end up hard too? Like most of these people?”

I look at him in disbelief. Doesn’t he realize he’s one of them? “I’m not worried,” I retort.

A bowl of pasta comes our way. Capote grabs it and politely serves me, then himself. “Tell me you’re not really going to do your play at Bobby’s.”

“Why not?”

“Because Bobby is a joke.”

I give him a nasty smile. “Or is it because he hasn’t asked you to perform your great work?”

“I wouldn’t do it even if he did. It’s not the way to do things, Carrie. You’ll see.”

I shrug. “I guess that’s the difference between you and me. I don’t mind taking chances.”

“Do you want me to lie to you? Like everyone else in your life?”

I shake my head, mystified. “How do you know people lie to me? More likely they lie to you. But the biggest liar in your life? Yourself .” I take a gulp of wine, hardly believing what I just said.

“Fine,” he says, as if I’m hopeless.

He turns to the woman on his other side. I follow his cue and smile at the man on my left.

I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s Cholly. “Hello,” I say brightly, determined to forget about my encounter with Teensie and my hatred of Capote.

“Little one!” he exclaims. “My goodness. You certainly do get around. Is New York turning out to be everything you hoped?”

I glance around the table. Rainbow is slumped in her chair, eyes half closed, while Capote is pontificating about his favorite topic again-Proust. I spot Ryan, who has had the good luck to be seated next to Teensie. He’s making eyes at her, no doubt hoping she’ll take him on as a client. Meanwhile, Bobby is standing behind Barry Jessen, desperately trying to engage him while Barry, now sweating profusely, angrily wipes his face with a napkin.

I experience one of those bizarre moments where the universe telescopes and everything is magnified: the movement of Pican’s lipsticked mouth, the stream of red wine Bobby pours into his glass, the gold signet ring on Teensie’s right finger as she raises her hand to her temple.

I wonder if Maggie was right. Maybe we are all crazy.

And suddenly, everything goes back to normal. Teensie gets up. Barry makes room for Bobby next to him. Ryan leans over to Rainbow and whispers something in her ear.

I turn back to Cholly. “I think it’s fantastic.”

He seems interested, so I start telling him about my adventures. How I got kicked out of Peggy’s. And how I named Viktor Greene’s mustache Waldo. And how Bobby wants me to do a reading of my play when I haven’t even finished it yet. When I’m done, I have Cholly in stitches. There’s nothing better than a man who’s a good audience.

“You should come to a soiree at my house sometime,” he says. “I have this wonderful little publication called The New Review . We like to pretend it’s literary, but every so often it requires a party.”

I’m writing my phone number on a napkin for him when Teensie approaches. At first I think I’m her target, but it’s Cholly she’s after.

“Darling,” she says, aggressively inserting a chair between Cholly and me, therefore effectively cutting me off. “I’ve just met the most charming young writer. Ryan somebody. You ought to meet him.”

“Love to,” Cholly says. And with a wink, he leans around Teensie. “Have you met Carrie Bradshaw? She’s a writer too. She was just telling me-”

Teensie abruptly changes the subject. “Have you seen Bernard, lately?”

“Last week,” Cholly says dismissively, indicating he has no interest in talking about Bernard.

“I’m worried about him,” Teensie says.

“Why?” Cholly asks. Men are never concerned about each other the way women are.

“I heard he’s dating some young girl.”

My stomach clenches.

“Margie says Bernard’s a mess,” Teensie continues, with a sidelong glance my way. I try to keep my face disinterested, as if I hardly know who she’s talking about. “Margie said she met her. And frankly, she’s concerned. She thinks it’s a very bad sign that Bernard is seeing someone so young.”

I pour myself more wine while pretending to be fascinated by something at the other end of the table. But my hand is shaking.

“Why would Margie Shephard care? She’s the one who left him,” Cholly says.

“Is that what he told you?” Teensie asks slyly.

Cholly shrugs. “Everyone knows she cheated on him. With an actor in his play.”

Teensie snickers. “Sadly, the reverse is true. Bernard cheated on her.”

A wire wraps around my heart and squeezes tight.

“In fact, Bernard cheated on Margie several times. He’s a wonderful playwright, but a lousy husband.”

“Really, Teensie. What does it matter?” Cholly remarks.

Teensie puts a hand on his arm. “This party is giving me an awful headache. Could you ask Barry for some aspirin?”

I glare at her. Why can’t she ask Barry herself? Damn her and what she said about Bernard and me. “Colin has aspirin,” I interject helpfully. “Pican’s son?”

Teensie’s eyebrows rise in suspicion, but I give her an innocent smile.

“Well, thank you.” She gives me a sharp look and goes off to find Colin.

I hold my napkin to my face and laugh.

Cholly laughs along with me. “Teensie’s a very silly woman, isn’t she?”

I nod, speechless. The thought of the evil Teensie on one of Colin’s pills is just too funny.

Of course, I don’t really expect Teensie to take the pill. Even I, who know nothing about drugs, was smart enough to realize Colin’s big white pill wasn’t an aspirin. I don’t give it much thought until an hour later, when I’m dancing with Ryan.

Swaying precariously on bended knees, Teensie appears in the middle of the floor, clutching Bobby’s shoulder for support. She’s giggling madly while attempting to remain upright. Her legs are like rubber. “Bobby!” she screams. “Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

“What the hell?” Ryan asks.

I’m overcome by hysteria. Apparently, Teensie took the pill after all, because she’s lying on her back on the floor, laughing. This goes on for several seconds until Cholly swoops in, pulls Teensie to her feet, and leads her away.

I keep on dancing.

Indeed, everyone keeps dancing until we’re interrupted by a loud scream followed by several shouts for help.

A crowd gathers by the elevator. The door is open, but the shaft appears to be empty.

Cries of “What happened?” “Someone fell!” “Call 911,” echo through the loft. I rush forward, fearing it’s Rainbow and that she’s dead. But out of the corner of my eye I see Rainbow hurrying to her room, followed by Colin. I push in closer. Two men have jumped into the shaft, so the elevator must be a mere foot or two below. A limp woman’s hand reaches out and Barry Jessen grabs it, hauling a disheveled and dazed Teensie out of the hole.

Before I can react, Capote elbows me. “Let’s go.”

“Huh?” I’m too startled to move.

He jerks my arm. “We need to get out of here. Now .”

“What about Teensie?”

“She’s fine. And Ryan can take care of himself.”

“I don’t understand,” I protest as Capote propels me to the exit.

“Don’t ask questions.” He flings open the door and starts down the stairs. I pause on the landing, baffled. “Carrie!” He turns around to make sure I’m following him. When he sees I’m not, he hops up the stairs and practically pushes me down in front of him. “Move!”

I do as he says, hearing the urgent thump of his feet after me. When we get to the lobby, he bangs through the door and yanks me out after him. “Run!” he shouts.

He races to the corner as I struggle to keep up in the Fiorucci boots Samantha gave me. Seconds later, two police cars, lights flashing and sirens wailing, pull up to the Jessens’ building. Capote slings his arm around my shoulders. “Act normal. Like we’re on a date or something.”

We cross the street, my heart exploding in my chest. We walk like this for another block until we get to West Broadway and Prince Street. “I think there’s a cool bar around here,” Capote says.

“A ‘cool’ bar? Teensie just fell down the elevator shaft, and all you can think about is a ‘cool’ bar?”

He releases me from his grasp. “It’s not my fault, is it?”

No, but it is mine. “We should go back. Aren’t you worried about Teensie?”

“Look, Carrie,” he says, exasperated. “I just saved your life. You should be grateful.”

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be grateful for.”

“You want to end up in the papers? Because that’s what would have happened. Half the people there were on drugs. You think the police aren’t going to notice? And the next day it’s all over Page Six. Maybe you don’t care about your reputation. But I happen to care about mine.”

“Why?” I ask, unimpressed by his self-importance.

“Because.”

“Because why?” I taunt.

“I have a lot of people counting on me.”

“Like who?”

“Like my family. They’re very upright, good people. I would never want them to be embarrassed. On account of my actions.”

“You mean like if you married a Yankee.”

“Exactly.”

“What do all these Yankee girls you date think? Or do you just not tell them?”

“I figure most women know what they’re getting into when they date me. I never lie about my intentions.”

I look down at the sidewalk, wondering what I’m doing standing on a corner in the middle of nowhere, arguing with Capote Duncan. “I guess I should tell you the truth too. I’m the one who’s responsible for Teensie’s accident.”

“You?”

“I knew Colin had pills. He said they were aspirin. So I told Teensie to get an aspirin from him.”

It takes a moment for Capote to process this information. He rubs his eyes while I worry he’s going to turn me in. But then he tips back his head and laughs, his long curls falling over his shoulders.

“Pretty funny, huh?” I boast, preening in his approval. “I never thought she’d actually take the damn thing-”

Without warning, he cuts me off with a kiss.

I’m so surprised, I don’t respond at first as his mouth presses on mine, pushing eagerly at my lips. Then my brain catches up. I’m confounded by how nice and natural it feels, like we’ve been kissing forever. Then I get it: this is how he gets all those women. He’s a pouncer. He kisses a woman when she least expects it and once he’s got her off-balance, he maneuvers her into bed.

Not going to happen this time, though. Although a terrible part of me wishes it would.

“No.” I push him away.

“Carrie,” he says.

“I can’t.” Have I just cheated on Bernard?

Am I even with Bernard?

A lone taxi snakes down the street, light on. It’s available. I’m not. I flag it down.

Capote opens the door for me.

“Thanks,” I say.

“See ya,” he replies, as if nothing at all just happened.

I sag into the backseat, shaking my head.

What a night. Maybe it’s a good time to get out of Dodge after all.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Oh,” my youngest sister, Dorrit, says, looking up from a magazine. “You’re home.”

“Yes, I am,” I say, stating the obvious. I drop my bag and open the refrigerator, more out of habit than hunger. There’s an almost-empty container of milk and a package of moldy cheese. I take out the bottle of milk and hold it up. “Doesn’t anyone bother to shop around here?”

“No,” Dorrit says sullenly. Her eyes go to my father, but he seems oblivious to her displeasure.

“I’ve got all my girls home!” he exclaims, overcome with emotion.

That’s one thing that hasn’t changed about my father: his excessive sentimentality. I’m glad there’s still a remnant of my old father left. Because otherwise, he appears to have been taken over by an alien.

First off, he’s wearing jeans. My father has never worn jeans in his life. My mother wouldn’t allow it. And he’s sporting Ray-Ban sunglasses. But most bewildering of all is his jacket. It’s by Members Only and it’s orange. When I stepped off the train, I barely recognized him.

He must be going through a midlife crisis.

“Where’s Missy?” I ask now, trying to ignore his strange getup.

“She’s at the conservatory. She learned to play the violin,” my father says proudly. “She’s composing a symphony for an entire orchestra.”

“She learned to play the violin in one month?” I ask, astounded.

“She’s very talented,” my father says.

What about me?

“Yeah, right, Dad,” Dorrit says.

“You’re okay too,” my father replies.

“C’mon, Dorrit,” I say, picking up my suitcase. “You can help me unpack.”

“I’m busy.”

“Dorrit!” I insist meaningfully, with a glance at my father.

She sighs, closes her magazine, and follows me upstairs.

My room is exactly how I left it. For a moment, I’m filled with memories, going to the shelves and touching the old books my mom gave me as a kid. I open my closet door and peek inside. I could be mistaken, but it looks like half my clothes are missing. I spin around and glare at Dorrit accusingly. “Where are my clothes?”

She shrugs. “I took some. And Missy. We figured that since you were in New York, you wouldn’t be needing them.”

“What if I do?”

She shrugs again.

I let it go. It’s too early in my visit to get into a fight with Dorrit-although given her sulky attitude, there’s sure to be an altercation by the time I leave on Monday. In the meantime, I need to probe her for information about my father and this supposed girlfriend of his.

“What’s up with Dad?” I ask, sitting cross-legged on the bed. It’s only a single and suddenly feels tiny. I can’t believe I slept in it for so many years.

“He’s gone crazy. Obviously,” Dorrit says.

“Why is he wearing jeans? And a Members Only jacket? It’s hideous. Mom would never let him dress like that.”

“Wendy gave it to him.”

“Wendy?”

“His girlfriend.”

“So this girlfriend thing is true?”

“I guess so.”

I sigh. Dorrit is so blasé. There’s no getting through to her. I only hope she’s given up the shoplifting. “Have you met her?”

“Yeah,” Dorrit says, noncommittally.

“And?” I nearly scream.

“Eh.”

“Do you hate her?” This is a stupid question. Dorrit hates everyone.

“I try to pretend she doesn’t exist.”

“What does Dad think?”

“He doesn’t notice,” she says. “It’s disgusting. When she’s around, he only pays attention to her.”

“Is she pretty?”

“ I don’t think so,” Dorrit replies. “Anyway, you can see for yourself. Dad’s making us go to dinner with her tonight.”

“Ugh.”

“And he has a motorcycle.”

“What?” This time I really do scream.

“Didn’t he tell you? He bought a motorcycle.”

“He hasn’t told me anything. He hasn’t even told me about this Wendy person.”

“He’s probably afraid,” Dorrit says. “Ever since he met her, he’s become totally whipped.”

Great, I think, unpacking my suitcase. This is going to be a terrific weekend.

A little bit later, I find my father in the garage, rearranging his tools. I immediately suspect that Dorrit is right-my father is avoiding me. I’ve been home for less than an hour, but already I’m wondering why I came back at all. No one seems the least bit interested in me or my life. Dorrit ran off to a girlfriend’s house, my father has a motorcycle, and Missy is all caught up with her composing. I should have stayed in New York.

I spent the entire train ride mulling over last night. The kiss with Capote was a terrible mistake and I’m horrified I went along with it, if only for a few seconds. But what does it mean? Is it possible I secretly like Capote? No. He’s probably one of those “love the one you’re with” guys-meaning he automatically goes after whatever woman happens to be around when he’s feeling horny. But there were plenty of other women at the party, including Rainbow. So why’d he pick me?

Feeling lousy and hungover, I bought some aspirin and drank a Coke. I kept torturing myself with all the unfinished business I was leaving behind, including Bernard. I even considered getting off the train in New Haven and taking the next train back to New York, but when I thought about how disappointed my family would be, I couldn’t do it.

Now I wish I had.

“Dad!” I intone in annoyance.

He turns, startled, a wrench in his hand. “I was just cleaning out my workbench.”

“I can see that.” I peer around for this notorious motorcycle and spot it next to the wall, partly hidden behind my father’s car. “Dorrit said you bought a motorcycle,” I say craftily.

“Yes, Carrie, I did.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to.”

“But why?” I sound like a woeful girl who’s just been dumped. And my father’s acting like a jerky boy who doesn’t have any answers.

“Do you want to see it?” he asks finally, unable to keep his obvious enthusiasm in check.

He wheels it out from behind the car. It’s a motorcycle, all right. And not just any old motorcycle. It’s a Harley. With enormous handlebars and a black body decaled with flames. The kind of motorcycle favored by members of the Hells Angels.

My father rides a Harley?

On the other hand, I’m impressed. It’s no wussie motorcycle, that’s for sure.

“What do you think?” he asks proudly.

“I like it.”

He seems pleased. “I bought it off this kid in town. He was desperate for money. I only paid a thousand dollars.”

“Wow.” I shake my head. Everything about this is so unlike my father-from his sentence construction to the motorcycle itself-that for a moment I don’t know what to say. “How’d you find this kid?” I ask.

“He’s Wendy’s cousin’s son.”

My eyes bug out of my head. I can’t believe how casually he’s mentioned her. I go along with the game. “Who’s Wendy?”

He brushes the seat of the motorcycle with his hand. “She’s my new friend.”

So that’s how he’s going to play it. “What kind of friend?”

“She’s very nice,” he says, refusing to catch my eye.

“How come you didn’t tell me about her?”

“Oh, Carrie.” He sighs.

“Everyone says she’s your girlfriend. Dorrit and Missy and even Walt.”

“Walt knows?” he asks, surprised.

“Everyone knows, Dad,” I say sharply. “Why didn’t you tell me ?”

He slides onto the seat of the motorcycle, playing with the levers. “Do you think you could cut me some slack?”

“Dad!”

“This is all very new for me.”

I bite my lip. For a moment, my heart goes out to him. In the past five years, he hasn’t shown an ounce of interest in any woman. Now he’s apparently met someone he likes, which is a sign that he’s moving forward. I should be happy for him. Unfortunately, all I can think about is my mother. And how he’s betraying her. I wonder if my mother is up in heaven, looking down at what he’s become. If she is, she’d be horrified.

“Did Mom know her? This Wendy friend of yours?”

He shakes his head, pretending to study the instrument panel. “No.” He pauses. “I don’t think so, anyway. She’s a little bit younger.”

“How young?” I demand.

I’ve suddenly pushed too hard, because he looks at me defiantly. “I don’t know, Carrie. She’s in her late twenties. I’ve been told it’s rude to ask a woman her age.”

I nod knowingly. “And how old does she think you are?”

“She knows I have a daughter who’s going to Brown in the fall.”

There’s a sharpness in his tone I haven’t heard since I was a kid. It means, I’m in charge. Back off.

“Fine.” I turn to go.

“And Carrie?” he adds. “We’re having dinner with her tonight. I’m going to be very disappointed if you’re rude to her.”

“We’ll see,” I mutter under my breath. I head back to the house, convinced my worst fears have been confirmed. I already hate this Wendy woman. She has a relative who’s a Hells Angel. And she lies about her age. I figure if a woman is willing to lie about her own birth date, she’s willing to lie about pretty much anything.

I start to clean out the refrigerator, tossing out one scientific experiment after another. That’s when I remember that I’ve lied about my age as well. To Bernard. I pour the last of the sour milk down the drain, wondering what my family is coming to.

“Don’t you look special?” Walt quips. “Though a mite overdressed for Castlebury.”

“What does one wear to a restaurant in Castlebury?”

“Surely not an evening gown.”

“Walt,” I scold. “It’s not an evening gown. It’s a hostess gown. From the sixties.” I found it at my vintage store and I’ve been wearing it practically nonstop for days. It’s perfect for sweaty weather, leaving my arms and legs unencumbered, and so far, no one has commented on my unusual garb except to say they liked it. Odd clothing is expected in New York. Here, not so much.

“I’m not going to change my style for Wendy. Did you know she has a cousin who’s a Hells Angel?”

Walt and I are sitting on the porch, sipping cocktails while we wait for the notorious Wendy to arrive. I begged Walt to join us for dinner, but he declined, claiming a previous engagement with Randy. He did, however, agree to come by for a drink, so he could see the Wendy person in the flesh.

“Maybe that’s the point,” he says now. “She’s completely different.”

“But if he’s interested in someone like Wendy, it calls into question his whole marriage to my mother.”

“I think you’re taking the analogy too far,” Walt responds, acting as the voice of reason. “Maybe the guy’s just having fun.”

“He’s my father.” I scowl. “He shouldn’t be allowed to have fun.”

“That’s mean, Carrie.”

“I know.” I stare out the screen at the neglected garden. “Did you talk to Maggie?”

“Yup,” Walt says, enigmatically.

“What did she say? About New York?”

“She had a great time.”

“What did she say about me ?”

“Nothing. All she talked about was some guy you introduced her to.”

“Ryan. Whom she immediately bonked.”

“That’s our Maggie,” Walt says with a shrug.

“She’s turned into a sex fiend.”

“Oh, let her,” he says. “She’s young. She’ll grow out of it. Anyway, why do you care?”

“I care about my friends .” I swing my Fiorucci boots off the table for emphasis. “I just wish my friends cared about me.”

Walt stares at me blankly.

“I mean, even my family hasn’t asked me about my life in New York. And frankly, my life is so much more interesting than anything that’s happening to them. I’m going to have a play produced. And I went to a party last night at Barry Jessen’s loft in SoHo-”

“Who’s Barry Jessen?”

“Come on, Walt. He’s like the most important artist in America right now.”

“As I said, ‘Aren’t you special?’” Walt teases.

I fold my arms, knowing I sound like a jerk. “Doesn’t anyone care?”

“With your big head?” Walts jokes. “Careful, it might explode.”

“Walt!” I give him a hurt look. Then my frustration gets the better of me. “I’m going to be a famous writer someday. I’m going to live in a big, two-bedroom apartment on Sutton Place. And I’m going to write Broadway plays. And then everyone will have to come and visit me .”

“Ha-ha-ha,” Walt says.

I stare down at the ice cubes in my glass.

“Look, Carrie,” Walt says. “You’re spending one summer in New York. Which is great. But it’s hardly your life. And in September, you’re going to Brown.”

“Maybe I’m not,” I say suddenly.

Walt smiles, sure I can’t be serious. “Does your father know? About this change of plans?”

“I just decided. This minute.” Which is true. The thought has been fluttering around the edges of my consciousness for weeks now, but the reality of being back in Castlebury has made it clear that being at Brown will only be more of the same. The same kinds of people with exactly the same attitudes, just in a different location.

Walt smiles. “Don’t forget I’ll be there too. At RISD.”

“I know.” I sigh. I sound as arrogant as Capote. “It’ll be fun,” I add, hopefully.

“Walt!” my father says, joining us on the porch.

“Mr. Bradshaw.” Walt stands up, and my father embraces him in a hug, which makes me feel left out again.

“How you doin’, kid?” my father asks. “Your hair’s longer. I barely recognized you.”

“Walt’s always changing his hair, Dad.” I turn to Walt. “What my father means is that you probably didn’t recognize him. He’s trying to look younger ,” I add, with enough bantering in my voice to prevent this statement from coming across as nasty.

“What’s wrong with looking younger?” my father declares in high spirits.

He goes into the kitchen to make cocktails, but takes his time about it, going to the window every second or so like a sixteen-year-old girl waiting for her crush to arrive. It’s ridiculous. When Wendy does turn up, a mere five minutes later, he runs out of the house to greet her.

“Can you believe this?” I ask Walt, horrified by my father’s silly behavior.

“He’s a man. What can I say?”

“He’s my father ,” I protest.

“He’s still a man.”

I’m about to say, “Yeah, but my father isn’t supposed to act like other men,” when he and Wendy come strolling up the walk, holding hands.

I want to gack. This relationship is obviously more serious than I’d thought.

Wendy is kind of pretty, if you like women with dyed blond mall hair and blue eye shadow rimmed around their eyes like a raccoon.

“Be nice,” Walt says warningly.

“Oh, I’ll be perfectly nice. I’ll be nice if it kills me.” I smile.

“Shall I call the ambulance now or later?”

My father opens the screen door and urges Wendy onto the porch. Her smile is wide and patently fake. “You must be Carrie!” she says, enveloping me in a hug as if we’re already best friends.

“How could you tell?” I ask, gently extracting myself.

She glances at my father, her face full of delight. “Your dad has told me all about you. He talks about you constantly. He’s so proud of you.”

There’s something about this assumed intimacy that immediately rubs me the wrong way. “This is Walt,” I say, trying to get her off the topic of myself. What can she possibly know about me anyway?

“Hello, Walt,” Wendy says too eagerly. “Are you and Carrie-”

“Dating?” Walt interjects. “Hardly.” We both laugh.

She tilts her head to the side, as if unsure how to proceed. “It’s wonderful the way men and women can be friends these days. Don’t you think?”

“I guess it depends on what you call ‘friends,’” I murmur, reminding myself to be pleasant.

“Are we ready?” my father asks.

“We’re going to this great new restaurant. Boyles. Have you heard of it?” Wendy asks.

“No.” And unable to stop myself, I grumble, “I didn’t even know there were restaurants in Castlebury. The only place we ever went was the Hamburger Shack.”

“Oh, your father and I go out at least twice a week,” Wendy chirps on, unperturbed.

My father nods in agreement. “We went to a Japanese restaurant. In Hartford.”

“That so,” I say, unimpressed. “There are tons of Japanese restaurants in New York.”

“Bet they’re not as good as the one in Hartford, though,” Walt jokes.

My father gives him a grateful look. “This restaurant really is very special.”

“Well,” I say, just for the hell of it.

We troop down the driveway. Walt gets into his car with a wave of his hand. “Ta-ta, folks. Have fun.”

I watch him go, envious of his freedom.

“So!” Wendy says brightly when we’re in the car. “When do you start at Brown?”

I shrug.

“I’ll bet you can’t wait to get away from New York,” she enthuses. “It’s so dirty. And loud.” She puts her hand on my father’s arm and smiles.

Boyles is a tiny restaurant located in a damp patch off Main Street where our renowned Roaring Brook runs under the road. It’s highfalutin for Castlebury: the main courses are called pasta instead of spaghetti, and there are cloth napkins and a bud vase on each table containing a single rose.

“Very romantic,” my father says approvingly as he escorts Wendy to her chair.

“Your father is such a gentleman,” Wendy says.

“He is?” I can’t help it. He and Wendy are totally creeping me out. I wonder if they have sex. I certainly hope not. My father’s too old for all that groping around.

My father ignores my comment and picks up the menu. “They have the fish again,” he says to Wendy. And to me: “Wendy loves fish.”

“I lived in Los Angeles for five years. They’re much more health-conscious there,” Wendy explains.

“My roommate is in Los Angeles right now,” I say, partly to get the conversation away from Wendy. “She’s staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

“I had lunch there once,” Wendy says, with her unflappable cheeriness. “It was so exciting. We sat next to Tom Selleck.”

“You don’t say,” my father replies, as if Wendy’s momentary proximity to a television actor raises her even further in his eyes.

“I met Margie Shephard,” I interject.

“Who’s Margie Shephard?” My father frowns.

Wendy winks at me, as if she and I possess a secret intimacy regarding my father’s lack of knowledge regarding popular culture. “She’s an actress. Up-and-coming. Everyone says she’s beautiful, but I don’t see it. I think she’s very plain.”

“She’s beautiful in person,” I counter. “She sparkles. From within.”

“Like you, Carrie,” Wendy says suddenly.

I’m so surprised by her compliment, I’m temporarily disabled in my subtle attack. “Well,” I say, picking up the menu. “What were you doing in Los Angeles?”

“Wendy was a member of an-” My father looks to Wendy for help.

“Improv group. We did improvisational theater.”

“Wendy’s very creative.” My father beams.

“Isn’t that one of those things where you do mime, like Marcel Marceau?” I ask innocently, even though I know better. “Did you wear white greasepaint and gloves?”

Wendy chuckles, amused by my ignorance. “I studied mime. But mostly we did comedy.”

Now I’m completely baffled. Wendy was an actress-and a comedic one at that? She doesn’t seem the least bit funny.

“Wendy was in a potato chip commercial,” my father says.

“You shouldn’t tell people that,” Wendy gently scolds. “It was only a local commercial. For State Line potato chips. And it was seven years ago. My big break.” She rolls her eyes with appropriate irony.

Apparently Wendy doesn’t take herself too seriously after all. It’s another check in her “pluses” column. On the other hand, it might only be a show for my benefit. “It must be a drag to be in Castlebury. After Los Angeles.”

She shakes her head. “I’m a small-town girl. I grew up in Scarborough,” she says, naming the town next door. “And I love my new job.”

“But that’s not all.” My father nudges her. “Wendy’s going to be teaching drama, too.”

I wince as Wendy’s life story becomes clear to me: local girl tries to make it big, fails, and crawls home to teach. It’s my worst fear.

“Your father says you want to be a writer,” Wendy continues blithely. “Maybe you should write for the Castlebury Citizen .”

I freeze. The Castlebury Citizen is our small-town newspaper, consisting mostly of the minutes from zoning board meetings and photographs of Pee Wee baseball teams. Steam rises from behind my eyes. “You think I’m not good enough to make it in New York?”

Wendy frowns in confusion. “It’s just so difficult in New York, isn’t it? I mean, don’t you have to do your laundry in the basement? A friend of mine lived in New York and she said-”

“My building doesn’t have a laundry.” I look away, trying to contain my frustration. How dare Wendy or her friend presume anything about New York? “I take my dirty clothes to a Laundromat.” Which isn’t exactly true. Mostly I let them pile up in a corner of the bedroom.

“Now, Carrie. No one is making any assumptions about your abilities-” my father begins, but I’ve had enough.

“No, they’re not,” I say spitefully. “Because no one seems to be interested in me at all.” And with that, I get up, my face burning, and zigzag around the restaurant in search of the restroom.

I’m furious. At my father and Wendy for putting me in this position, but mostly at myself, for losing my temper. Now Wendy will come across as kind and reasonable, while I’ll appear jealous and immature. This only inflames my anger, causing me to recall everything I’ve always hated about my life and my family but refused to admit.

I go into the stall and sit on the toilet to think. What really galls me is the way my father has never taken my writing seriously. He’s never given me a word of encouragement, never said I was talented, has never even given me a compliment, for Christ’s sake. I might have lived my entire life without noticing, if it weren’t for the other kids at The New School. It’s pretty obvious that Ryan and Capote and L’il and even Rainbow have grown up praised and encouraged and applauded. Not that I want to be like them, but it wouldn’t hurt to have some belief from my own parent that I had something special.

I dab at my eyes with a piece of toilet paper, reminding myself that I have to go back out there and sit with them. I need to come up with a strategy, pronto, to explain my pathetic behavior.

There’s only one choice: I’m going to have to pretend my outburst never happened. It’s what Samantha would do.

I raise my chin and stride out.

Back at the table, Missy and Dorrit have arrived, along with a bottle of Chianti set in a woven straw basket. It’s the kind of wine I’d be embarrassed to drink in New York.

And with an ugly pang, I realize how average it all is. My father, the middle-aged widower, inappropriately dressed and going through a midlife crisis by taking up with a somewhat desperate younger woman, who, against the plain backdrop of Castlebury, probably appears interesting and different and exciting. And my two sisters, a punk and a nerd. It’s like some lousy sitcom.

If they’re so ordinary, does it mean I am too? Can I ever escape my past?

I wish I could change the channel.

“Carrie!” Missy cries out. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” I ask with feigned surprise. “Of course.” I take my place next to Wendy. “My father says you helped him find his Harley. I think it’s so interesting that you like motorcycles.”

“My father is a state trooper,” she responds, no doubt relieved that I’ve managed to get ahold of myself.

I turn to Dorrit. “You hear that, Dorrit? Wendy’s father is a state trooper. You’d better be careful-”

“Carrie.” My father looks momentarily distraught. “We don’t need to air our dirty laundry.”

“No, but we do need to wash it.”

No one gets my little joke. I pick up my wine glass and sigh. I’d planned to go back to New York on Monday, but there’s no way I can possibly last that long. Come tomorrow, I’m taking the first train out of here.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“I do love you, Carrie. Just because I’m with Wendy-”

“I know, Dad. I like Wendy. I’m only leaving because I have this play to write. And if I can get it done, it’s going to be performed.”

“Where?” my father asks. He’s clutching the wheel of the car, absorbed in changing lanes on our little highway. I’m convinced he doesn’t really care, but I try to explain anyway.

“At this space. That’s what they call it-‘a space.’ It’s really a kind of loft thing at this guy’s apartment. It used to be a bank-”

I can tell by his glance into the rearview mirror that I’ve lost him.

“I admire your tenacity,” he says. “You don’t give up. That’s good.”

Now he’s lost me . “Tenacity” isn’t the word I was hoping for. It makes me sound like someone clinging to a rock face.

I slump down in the seat. Why can’t he ever say something along the lines of “You’re really talented, Carrie, of course you’re going to succeed.” Am I going to spend the rest of my life trying to get some kind of approval from him that he’s never going to give?

“I wanted to tell you about Wendy before,” he says, swerving into the exit lane that leads to the train station. Now’s my opportunity to tell him about my struggles in New York, but he keeps changing the subject back to Wendy.

“Why didn’t you?” I ask hopelessly.

“I wasn’t sure about her feelings.”

“And you are now?”

He pulls into a parking spot and kills the engine. With great seriousness, he says, “She loves me, Carrie.”

A cynical puff of air escapes my lips.

“I mean it. She really loves me.”

“Everyone loves you, Dad.”

“You know what I mean.” He nervously rubs the corner of his eye.

“Oh, Dad.” I pat his arm, trying to understand. The last few years must have been terrible for him. On the other hand, they’ve been terrible for me, too. And Missy. And Dorrit.

“I’m happy for you, Dad, I really am,” I say, although the thought of my father in a serious relationship with another woman makes me shaky. What if he marries her?

“She’s a lovely person. She-” He hesitates. “She reminds me of Mom.”

This is the cherry on the crap sundae. “She’s not anything like Mom,” I say softly, my anger building.

“She is. When Mom was younger. You wouldn’t remember because you were just a baby.”

“Dad.” I pause deliberately, hoping the obvious falseness of his statement will sink in. “Wendy likes motorcycles.”

“Your mother was very adventurous when she was young too. Before she had you girls-”

“Just another reason why I’ll never get married,” I say, getting out of the car.

“Oh, Carrie.” He sighs. “I feel sorry for you, then. I worry that you’ll never find true love.”

His comment stops me. I stand rigid on the sidewalk, about to explode, but something prevents me. I think of Miranda and how she’d interpret this situation. She’d say it was my father who was worried about never finding true love again, but because he’s too scared to admit it, he pins his fears on me.

I grab my suitcase from the backseat.

“Let me help you,” he says.

I watch as my father lugs my suitcase through the wooden door that leads into the ancient terminal. I remind myself that my father isn’t a bad guy. Compared to most men, he’s pretty great.

He sets down my suitcase and opens his arms. “Can I have a hug?”

“Sure, Dad.” I hug him tightly, inhaling a whiff of lime. Must be a new cologne Wendy gave him.

A yawning emptiness opens up inside me.

“I want the best for you, Carrie. I really do.”

“I know, Dad.” Feeling like I’m a million years old, I pick up my suitcase and head to the platform. “Don’t worry, Dad,” I say, as if to convince myself as well. “Everything is going to be fine .”

The moment the train pulls out of the station, I start to feel better. Nearly two hours later, when we’re passing the projects in the Bronx, I’m positively giddy. There’s the brief, magical view of the skyline-the Emerald City!-before we plunge into the tunnel. No matter where I might travel-Paris, London, Rome-I’ll always be thrilled to get back to New York.

Riding the elevator in Penn Station, I make an impromptu decision. I won’t go straight to Samantha’s apartment. Instead, I’ll surprise Bernard.

I have to find out what’s going on with him before I can proceed with my life.

It takes two separate subway trains to get near his place. With each stop, I become more and more excited about the prospect of seeing him. I arrive at the Fifty-ninth Street station under Bloomingdale’s, the heat coursing through my blood threatening to scald me from the inside.

He has to be home.

“Mr. Singer’s out, miss,” the doorman says, with, I suspect, a certain amount of relish. None of the doormen in this building particularly like me. I always catch them looking at me sideways as if they don’t approve.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“I’m not his secretary, miss.”

“Fine.”

I scan the lobby. Two leather-clad armchairs are stationed in front of a faux fireplace, but I don’t want to sit there with the doorman’s eyes on me. I spin out the door and park myself on a pretty bench across the street. I rest my feet on my suitcase, as if I have all the time in the world.

I wait.

I tell myself I’ll only wait for half an hour, and then I’ll go. Half an hour becomes forty-five minutes, then an hour. After nearly two hours, I begin to wonder if I’ve fallen into a love trap. Have I become the girl who waits by the phone, hoping it will ring, who asks a friend to dial her number to make sure the phone is working? Who eventually picks up a man’s dry cleaning, scrubs his bathroom, and shops for furniture she’ll never own?

Yup. And I don’t care. I can be that girl, and someday, when I’ve got it all figured out, I won’t be.

Finally, at two hours and twenty-two minutes, Bernard comes strolling up Sutton Place.

“Bernard!” I say, rushing toward him with unbridled enthusiasm. Maybe my father was right: I am tenacious. I don’t give up that easily on anything.

Bernard squints. “Carrie?”

“I just got back,” I say, as if I haven’t been waiting for nearly three hours.

“From where?”

“Castlebury. Where I grew up.”

“And here you are.” He slings his arm comfortably around my shoulders.

It’s like the dinner with Maggie never happened. Nor my series of desperate phone calls. Nor his not calling me the way he promised. But maybe, because he’s a writer, he lives in a slightly different reality, where the things that seem earth-shattering to me are nothing to him.

“My suitcase,” I murmur, glancing back.

“You moving in?” he laughs.

“Maybe.”

“Just in time, too,” he teases. “My furniture finally arrived.”

I spend the night at Bernard’s. We sleep in the crisp new sheets on the enormous king-size bed. It’s so very, very comfortable.

I sleep like a baby and when I wake up, darling Bernard is next to me, his face buried in his pillow. I lie back and close my eyes, enjoying the luxurious quiet while I mentally review the events of the evening.

We started by fooling around on the new couch. Then we moved into the bedroom and fooled around while we watched TV. Then we ordered Chinese food (why does sex always seem to make people hungry?) and fooled around some more. We finished off with a bubble bath. Bernard was very gentle and sweet, and he didn’t even try to put in the old weenie. Or at least I’m pretty sure he didn’t. Miranda says the guy really has to jam it in there, so I doubt I could have missed it.

I wonder if Bernard secretly knows I’m a virgin. If there’s something about me that flashes “undefiled.”

“Hiya, butterfly,” he says now, stretching his arms toward the ceiling. He rolls over and smiles, and moves in for a kiss, morning breath and all.

“Have you gotten the pill yet?” Bernard asks, making coffee in the spiffy new machine that gurgles like a baby’s belly.

I casually light a cigarette and hand him one. “Not yet.”

“Why not?”

Good question. “I forgot?”

“Pumpkin, you can’t neglect these kinds of things,” he chastises gently.

“I know. But it’s just that-with my father and his new girlfriend-I’ll take care of it this week, I promise.”

“If you did, you could spend the night more often.” Bernard sets two cups of coffee on the sleek dining room table. “And you could get a small valise for your things.”

“Like my toothbrush?” I giggle.

“Like whatever you need,” he says.

A valise, huh? The word makes spending the night sound planned and glamorous, as opposed to last-minute and smutty. I laugh. A valise sounds very expensive. “I don’t think I can afford a valise .”

“Oh well then.” He shrugs. “Something nice. So the doormen won’t be suspicious.”

“They’ll be suspicious if I’m carrying a plastic grocery bag but not if I’m carrying a valise?”

“You know what I mean.”

I nod. With a valise, I wouldn’t look so much like a troubled teenager he’d picked up at Penn Station. Which reminds me of Teensie.

“I met your agent. At a party,” I say easily, not wanting to ruin the mood.

“Did you?” He smiles, clearly unconcerned about the incident. “Was she a dragon lady?”

“She practically ripped me to shreds with her claws,” I say jokingly. “Is she always like that?”

“Pretty much.” He rubs the top of my head. “Maybe we should have dinner with her. So the two of you can get to know each other.”

“Whatever you want, Mr. Singer,” I purr, climbing into his lap. If he wants me to have dinner with his agent, it means our relationship is not only back on track, but speeding forward like a European train. I kiss him on the mouth, imagining I’m a Katharine Hepburn character in a romantic black-and-white movie.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Later, on my way downtown, I pass a store for medical supplies. In the window are three mannequins. Not the pretty kind you see in Saks or Bergdorf’s, where they make the mannequins from molds of actual women, but the scary cheap ones that look like oversized dolls from the 1950s. The dolls are wearing surgical scrubs, and it suddenly hits me that scrubs would make the perfect New York uniform. They’re cheap, washable, and totally cool.

And they come neatly packaged in cellophane. I buy three pairs in different colors, and remember what Bernard said about a valise.

The only good thing about going to my father’s this weekend was that I found an old binoculars case that belonged to my mother, which I purloined to use as a handbag. Perhaps other items can be similarly repurposed as well. When I trip by a fancy hardware store, I spot the perfect carryall.

It’s a carpenter’s tool bag, made of canvas with a real leather bottom, big enough for a pair of shoes, a manuscript, and a change of scrubs. And it’s only six dollars. A steal.

I buy the tool bag and stick my purse and scrubs into it, grab my suitcase, and head to the train.

It’s been humid the past few days, and when I enter Samantha’s apartment there’s a closed-in smell, as if every odor has been trapped. I breathe deeply, partly due to relief at being back, and partly because this particular smell will always remind me of New York and Samantha. It’s a mixture of old perfume and scented candles, cigarette smoke and something else I can’t quite identify: a sort of comforting musk.

I put on the blue scrubs, make a cup of tea, and sit down at the typewriter. All summer I’ve been terrified about facing the blank page. But maybe because I went home and realized I have worse things to worry about-like not making it and ending up like Wendy-that I’m actually excited. I have hours and hours stretching before me in which to write. Tenacity, I remind myself. I’m going work until I finish this play. And I will not answer the phone. In an effort to make good on my promise, I even unplug it.

I write for four hours straight, until hunger forces me out in search of food. I wander dazedly into the deli, the characters still in my head, yapping away as I buy a can of soup, heat it up, and place it next to my typewriter so I can eat and work. I beetle on for quite a while, and when I finally feel finished for the day, I decide to visit my favorite street.

It’s a tiny, brick-paved path called Commerce Street-one of those rare places in the West Village that you can never find if you’re actually looking for it. You have to sneak up on it by using certain landmarks: the junk store on Hudson Street. The sex shop on Barrow. Somewhere near the pet store is a small gate. And there it is, just on the other side.

I stroll slowly down the sidewalk, wanting to memorize each detail. The tiny, charming town houses, the cherry trees, the little neighborhood bar where, I imagine, all the patrons know one another. I take several turns up and down the street, pausing in front of each house, picturing how it would feel to live there. As I gaze up at the tiny windows on the top floor of a red-brick carriage house, it dawns on me that I’ve changed. I used to worry that my dream of becoming a writer was just that-a dream. I had no idea how to do it, where to begin and how to continue. But lately, I’m beginning to feel that I am a writer. This is me. Writing and wandering the Village in my scrubs.

And tomorrow, if I skip class, I’ll have another day like this one, all to myself. I’m suddenly overcome with joy. I run all the way back to the apartment, and when I spot my pile of plays on the table, I’m can’t believe how happy I am.

I settle in to read, making notes with a pencil and underlining especially poignant bits of dialogue. I can do this. Who cares what my father thinks? For that matter, who cares what anyone thinks? Everything I need is in my head, and no one can take that away.

At eight o’clock, I fall into one of those rare, deep sleeps where your body is so exhausted, you wonder if you’ll ever wake up. When I finally wrench myself out of bed, it’s ten a.m.

I count the hours I slept-fourteen. I must have been really tired. So tired, I didn’t even know how shattered I was. At first, I’m groggy from all the sleep, but when the grogginess dissipates, I feel terrific. I put on my scrubs from the day before, and without bothering to brush my teeth, go straight to the typewriter.

My powers of concentration are remarkable. I write without stopping, without noticing the time, until I type the words “THE END.” Elated and a little woozy, I check the clock. It’s just after four. If I hurry, I can get the play photocopied and into Viktor Greene’s office by five.

I leap into the shower, my heart pounding in triumph. I slide into a clean pair of scrubs, grab my manuscript, and run out the door.

The copy place is on Sixth Avenue, just around the corner from the school. For once, it’s my lucky day-there’s no line. My play is forty pages long and copying is expensive, but I can’t risk losing it. Fifteen minutes later, one copy of my play tucked neatly into a manila envelope, I gallop to The New School.

Viktor is in his office, slumped over his desk. At first I think he’s asleep, and when he doesn’t move, I wonder if he actually is dead. I knock on the door. No response. “Viktor?” I ask in alarm.

Slowly, he lifts his head, as if he has a cement block on the back of his neck. His eyes are puffy, the lower lids turned out, defiantly exposing their red-rimmed interior. His mustache is ragged as if rent by despairing fingers. He props up his cheeks with his hands. His mouth falls open. “Yes?”

Normally, I would ask what’s wrong. But I don’t know Viktor well enough, and I’m not sure I want to know anyway. I take a step closer, holding the manila envelope aloft. “I finished my play.”

“Were you in class today?” he asks mournfully.

“No. I was writing. I wanted to get my play finished.” I slide the envelope across his desk. “I thought maybe you could read it tonight.”

“Sure.” He stares at me as if he barely remembers who I am.

“So, uh, thanks, Mr. Greene.” I turn to go, glancing back at him in concern. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Mmmm,” he replies.

What the hell’s the matter with him? I wonder, bounding down the stairs. I walk briskly for several blocks, buy a hot dog from a vendor, and ponder what to do next.

L’il. I haven’t seen her for ages. Not properly, anyway. She’s the one person who I can really talk to about my play. Who will actually understand. And if Peggy’s there-so what? She’s already kicked me out once. What can she do to me now?

I hike up Second Avenue, enjoying the noise, the sights, the people scurrying home like cockroaches. I could live here forever. Maybe even become a real New Yorker someday.

Seeing my old building on Forty-seventh Street brings back all kinds of memories-Peggy’s nude pictures, her collection of bears, and those tiny little rooms with the awful camp beds-and I wonder how I managed to last even three days. But I didn’t know better then. Didn’t know what to expect and was willing to take anything.

I’ve come a long way.

I press impudently on the buzzer like I mean business. Eventually, a small voice answers. “Yes?” It’s not L’il or Peggy, so I assume it’s my replacement.

“Is L’il there?” I ask.

“Why?”

“It’s Carrie Bradshaw,” I say loudly.

Apparently L’il is home, because the buzzer goes off and the locks click open.

Upstairs, the door to Peggy’s apartment widens a crack, just enough for someone to peek out while keeping the chain latched. “Is L’il here?” I ask into the crack.

“Why?” asks the voice again. Perhaps “why” is the only word she knows.

“I’m a friend of hers.”

“Oh.”

“Can I come in?”

“I guess so,” the voice says nervously. The door creaks open, just enough for me to push through.

On the other side is a plain young woman with unfortunate hair and the remnants of teenage acne. “We’re not supposed to have visitors,” she whispers in fear.

“I know,” I say dismissively. “I used to live here.”

“You did?” The girl’s eyes are as big as eggs.

I stride past her. “You can’t let Peggy run your life.” I yank open the door to the tiny bedrooms. “L’il?”

“What are you doing?” the girl bleats, right on my heels. “L’il isn’t here.”

“I’ll leave her a note then.” I fling open the door to L’il’s bedroom and halt in confusion.

The room is empty. The camp bed has been stripped of its linens. Gone is the photograph of Sylvia Plath that L’il used to keep on her desk, along with her typewriter, ream of paper, and all her other belongings.

“Did she move?” I ask, perplexed. Why wouldn’t she tell me?

The girl backs out of the room and sits on her own bed, pressing her lips together. “She went home.”

“What?” This can’t be true.

The girl nods. “On Sunday. Her father drove up and got her.”

“Why?”

“How should I know?” the girl says. “Peggy was really pissed off, though. L’il only told her that morning.”

My voice rises in alarm. “Is she coming back?”

The girl shrugs.

“Did she leave an address or anything?”

“Nope. Just said she had to go home is all.”

“Yeah, well, thanks,” I say, realizing I won’t get anything more out of her.

I leave the apartment and walk blindly downtown, trying to make sense of L’il’s departure. I rack my brain for everything she told me about herself and where she was from. Her real name is Elizabeth Reynolds Waters, so that’s a start. But what town is she from specifically? All I know is that she’s from North Carolina. And she and Capote knew each other before, because as L’il said once, “people from the South all know each other.” If L’il left on Sunday, she must have reached home by now, even if she was driving.

I narrow my eyes, determined to find her.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Without knowing exactly where I’m going, I realize I’m on Capote’s street. I recognize his building right away. His apartment is on the second floor, and the yellow old-lady curtains are clearly visible through the window.

I hesitate. If I ring his bell and he’s home, no doubt he’ll think I’ve come back for more. He might even presume that his kiss was so wonderful, I’ve fallen head over heels for him. Or maybe he’ll be annoyed, assuming I’ve come to yell at him for his inappropriate behavior.

What the hell? I can’t live my life worrying about what stupid Capote thinks. I press hard on his buzzer.

After a few seconds, the window flies open and Capote sticks his head out. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me.” I wave.

“Oh. Carrie.” He doesn’t look particularly happy to see me. “What do you want?”

I open my arms in a gesture of exasperation. “Can I come up?”

“I’ve only got a minute.”

“I’ve only got a minute too.” Jeez. What a jerk.

He disappears for a moment, and reappears, jangling some keys in his hand. “The buzzer isn’t working,” he says, tossing the set down to me.

The buzzer is probably worn out from all his female guests, I think, as I trudge upstairs.

He’s waiting in the entry in a ruffled white shirt and black tuxedo pants, fumbling with a shiny bow tie. “Where are you off to?” I ask, snickering at his getup.

“Where do you think?” He steps back so I can pass. If he has any memory of our kiss, he certainly isn’t acting like it.

“I wasn’t expecting to find you in a monkey suit. I never figured you for the type.”

“Why’s that?” he asks, somewhat offended.

“The right end goes under the left,” I say, indicating his bow tie. “Why don’t you use one of those clip-on things?”

As expected, my question rattles him. “It isn’t proper. A gentleman never wears a clip-on bow tie.”

“Right.” I insolently run my finger over the pile of books on his coffee table as I make myself comfortable on the squishy couch. “Where are you headed?”

“To a gala.” He frowns disapprovingly at my actions.

“For what?” I idly pick up one of the books and flip through it.

“Ethiopia. It’s a very important cause.”

“How big of you.”

“They don’t have any food, Carrie. They’re starving.”

“And you’re going to a fancy dinner. For starving people. Why don’t you just send them the food instead?”

That’s it. Capote jerks on the ends of his bow tie, nearly choking himself. “Why are you here?”

I lean back against the cushions. “What’s the name of the town L’il comes from?”

“Why?”

I roll my eyes and sigh. “I need to know. I want to get in touch with her. She left New York, in case you don’t know.”

“As a matter of fact, I do know. Which you would have known as well if you bothered to come to class today.”

I sit up, eager for information. “What happened?”

“Viktor made an announcement that she’d left. To pursue other interests.”

“Don’t you find that strange?”

“Why?”

“Because L’il’s only interest is writing. She’d never give up class.”

“Maybe she had family issues.”

“You’re not even curious?”

“Look, Carrie,” he snaps. “Right now my only concern is not being late. I’ve got to pick up Rainbow-”

“All I want is the name of L’il’s hometown,” I say, becoming officious.

“I’m not sure. It’s either Montgomery or Macon.”

“I thought you knew her,” I say accusingly, although I suspect my disdain might actually be about Rainbow. I guess he’s seeing her after all. I know I shouldn’t care, but I do.

I rise. “Have fun at the gala,” I add, with a dismissive smile.

Suddenly, I hate New York. No, scratch that. I don’t hate New York. I only hate some of the people in it.

There are listings for three Waterses in Montgomery County and two in Macon. I start with Macon, and get L’il’s aunt on the first try. She’s nice as can be, and gives me L’il’s number.

L’il is shocked to hear my voice, and not, I suspect, altogether pleased, although her lack of enthusiasm could be due to embarrassment at having abandoned New York. “I went by your apartment,” I say, my voice filled with concern. “The girl there said you moved back home.”

“I had to get away.”

“Why? Because of Peggy? You could have moved in with me.” No response. “You’re not sick, are you?” I ask, my voice pitched with worry.

She sighs. “Not in the traditional sense, no.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispers.

“But L’il,” I insist. “What about writing? You can’t just quit New York.”

There’s a pause. Then she says stiffly, “New York is not for me.” I hear a muffled sob as if she’s put her hand over the receiver. “I have to go, Carrie.”

And suddenly, I put two and two together. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. It was so obvious. I simply never imagined that anyone could be attracted to him.

I feel sick. “Is it Viktor?”

“No!” she cries.

“It is Viktor. Why didn’t you tell me? What happened? Were you seeing him?”

“He broke my heart.”

I’m stunned. I still can’t believe L’il was having an affair with Viktor Greene and his ridiculous mustache. How could anyone even kiss the guy with that big bushy Waldo in the way? And on top of it, to have him break your heart?

“Oh, L’il. How awful. You can’t let him force you out of class. Plenty of women have affairs with their professors. It’s never a good idea. But sometimes the best thing to do is to pretend it didn’t happen,” I add in a rush, thinking briefly about Capote and how we’re both behaving as if we never kissed.

“It’s more than that, Carrie,” she says ominously.

“Of course it is. I mean, I’m sure you thought you were in love with him. But really, L’il, he’s not worth it. He’s just some weird loser guy who happened to win a book award,” I ramble on. “And six months from now when you’ve published more poems in The New Yorker and won awards yourself, you won’t even remember him.”

“Unfortunately, I will.”

“Why?” I ask dumbly.

“I got pregnant,” she says.

That shuts me up.

“Are you there?” she asks.

“With Viktor?” My voice trembles.

“Who else?” she hisses.

“Oh, L’il.” I crumple in sympathy. “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

“I got rid of it,” she says harshly.

“Oh.” I hesitate. “Maybe it’s for the better.”

“I’ll never know, will I?”

“These things happen,” I say, trying to soothe her.

“He made me get rid of it.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling her agony.

“He didn’t even ask if I wanted it. There was no discussion. He just assumed. He assumed-” She breaks off, unable to continue.

“L’il,” I whisper.

“I know what you’re thinking. I’m only nineteen. I shouldn’t have a child. And I probably would have… taken care of it. But I didn’t have a choice.”

“He forced you to have an abortion?”

“Pretty much. He made the appointment at the clinic. He took me there. Paid for it. And then he sat in the waiting room while I had it done.”

“Oh my God, L’il. Why didn’t you run out of there?”

“I didn’t have the guts. I knew it was the right thing to do, but-”

“Did it hurt?” I ask.

“No,” she says simply. “That was the weirdest thing. It didn’t hurt and afterward, I felt fine. Like I was back to my old self. I was relieved . But then I started thinking. And I realized how terrible it was. Not the abortion necessarily, but the way he’d behaved. Like it was a foregone conclusion. I realized he couldn’t have loved me at all. How can a man love you if he won’t even consider having a baby with you?”

“I don’t know, L’il-”

“It’s black-and-white, Carrie,” she says, her voice rising. “You cannot even pretend anymore. And even if I could, we’d always have this thing between us. Knowing that I was pregnant with his child and he didn’t want it .”

I shudder. “But maybe after a while… you could come back?” I ask carefully.

“Oh, Carrie.” She sighs. “Don’t you get it? I’m never coming back. I don’t even want to know people like Viktor Greene. I wish I’d never come to New York in the first place.” And with a painful cry, she hangs up.

I sit there twisting the phone cord in despair. Why L’il? She’s not the type of person I’d imagine this happening to, but on the other hand, who is? There’s a terrible finality about her actions that’s frightening.

I put my head in my hands. Maybe L’il is right about New York. She came here to win and the city beat her. I’m terrified. If this could happen to L’il, it could happen to anyone. Including myself.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I sit tapping my feet in annoyance.

Ryan is at the front of the class, reading his short story. It’s good. Really good-about one of his crazy late nights at a club where some girl with a shaved head tried to have sex with him. It’s so good, I wish I’d written it myself. Unfortunately I can’t give it my full attention. I’m still reeling from my conversation with L’il and the perfidy of Viktor Greene.

Although “perfidy” isn’t a strong enough word. Heinous? Egregious? Invidious?

Sometimes there are no words to describe the treachery of men in relationships.

What is wrong with them? Why can’t they be more like women? Someday I’m going to write a book called World Without Men . There would be no Viktor Greenes. Or Capote Duncans, either.

I try to focus on Ryan, but L’il’s absence fills the room. I keep glancing over my shoulder, thinking she’ll be there, but there’s only an empty desk. Viktor has taken up residence in the back of the room, so I can’t study him without boldly turning around in my seat. I did, however, do a little reconnaissance on my own before class.

I got to school twenty minutes early and headed straight for Viktor’s office. He was standing by the window, watering one of those stupid hanging plants that are all the rage, the idea being that they will somehow provide extra oxygen in this nutrient-starved city.

“Yop?” he said, turning around.

Whatever I thought I was going to say got caught in my throat. I gaped, then smiled awkwardly.

Viktor’s mustache was gone. Waldo had been thoroughly eradicated-much like, I couldn’t help thinking, his unborn child.

I waited to see what he would do with his hands, now that Waldo was gone.

Sure enough, they went right to his upper lip, patting the skin in panic, like someone who’s lost a limb and doesn’t know it’s gone until they try to use it.

“Errrrr,” he said.

“I was wondering if you’d read my play,” I asked, regaining my equilibrium.

“Mmmm?” Having concluded Waldo was, indeed, no more, his hands dropped limply to his sides.

“I finished it,” I said, enjoying his discomfort. “I dropped it off yesterday, remember?”

“I haven’t gotten to it yet.”

“When will you get to it?” I demanded. “There’s this man who’s interested in doing a reading-”

“Sometime this weekend, I imagine.” He nodded his head briefly in confirmation.

“Thanks.” I skittled down the hallway, convinced, somehow, that he knew I was onto him. That he knew I knew what he’d done.

Capote’s laughter brings me back to the present. It’s like nails on a chalkboard, for all the wrong reasons. I actually like his laugh. It’s one of those laughs that makes you want to say something funny so you can hear it all over again.

Ryan’s story is apparently very amusing. Lucky him. Ryan is one of those guys whose talent will always outshine his flaws.

Viktor ambles to the front of the room. I stare at the bare patches of skin around his mouth and shudder.

Flowers. I need flowers for Samantha. And toilet paper. And maybe a banner. “Welcome Home.” I wander through the flower district on Seventh Avenue, dodging puddles of water on which float wanton petals. I remember reading somewhere about the society ladies on the Upper East Side who send their assistants each morning to buy fresh flowers. I wish, briefly, that I could be that kind of person, concerned with the details of fresh flowers, but the effort feels overwhelming. Will Samantha send someone for flowers when she marries Charlie? He seems like the type who would expect it. And suddenly, the whole idea of flowers is so depressingly dull I’m tempted to abort my quest.

But Samantha will appreciate them. She’s coming back tomorrow and they’ll make her feel good. Who doesn’t like flowers? But what kind? Roses? Doesn’t seem right. I duck into the smallest shop, where I try to buy a lily. It’s five dollars. “How much do you want to spend?” the salesgirl asks.

“Two dollars? Maybe three?”

“For that you’ll get baby’s breath. Try the deli down the street.”

At the deli, I settle on a hideous bunch of multicolored flowers in unnatural hues of pink, purple, and green.

Back home, I put the flowers in a tall glass and place them next to Samantha’s bed. The flowers may make Samantha happy, but I can’t shake my own feeling of dread. I keep thinking about L’il and how Viktor Greene ruined her life.

At loose ends, I look doubtfully at the bed. Although not much has happened in it recently, besides the consumption of crackers and cheese, I should wash the sheets. The Laundromat’s creepy, though. All kinds of crimes take place between the washers and dryers. Muggings and stolen clothes and fisticuffs over possession of the machines. Nevertheless, I dutifully strip the bed, stuffing the black sheets into a pillowcase that I sling over my shoulder.

The Laundromat is harshly lit but not crowded. I buy a package of soap from a vending machine and tear it open, the sharp particles of detergent making me sneeze. I stuff the sheets into the washer and sit on top, staking my claim.

What is it about the Laundromat that’s so depressing?

Is it the simple reality of literally exposing your dirty laundry to strangers as you shove it quickly in and out of the washer, hoping no one will notice your ragged underpants and polyester sheets? Or is it a sign of defeat? Like you never managed to make it into a building with its own basement laundry room.

Maybe Wendy had a point about New York, after all. No matter what you think you can be, when you’re forced to stop and look at where you actually are, it’s pretty depressing.

Sometimes there’s no escaping the truth.

Two hours later, when I’m hauling my clean laundry up the steps to the apartment, I discover Miranda on the landing, crying into a copy of the New York Post .

Oh no. Not again. What is it about the last two days? I put down my sack. “Marty?”

She nods once and lowers the newspaper in shame. On the floor next to her, the top of an open bottle of vodka juts from a small paper bag. “I couldn’t help it. I had to,” she says, explaining the alcohol.

“You don’t have to apologize to me ,” I say, unlocking the door. “Bastard.”

“I didn’t know where else to go.” She gets up and takes a brave step before her face crumples in pain. “Oh God. It hurts, Carrie. Why does it hurt so much?”

“I don’t understand. I thought everything was great,” I say, lighting a cigarette as I prepare to bring my best powers of relationship analysis to the situation.

“I thought we were having fun.” Miranda chokes back tears. “I’ve never had fun with a guy before. And then, this morning when we got up, he was acting strange. He had this kind of sick smile on his face while he was shaving. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to be one of those girls who are always asking, ‘What’s wrong?’ I was trying to do everything right , for once.”

“I’m sure you were-”

Outside, there’s a rumble of thunder.

She wipes her cheek. “Even though he wasn’t really my type, I thought I was making progress. I told myself I was breaking the pattern.”

“At least you tried,” I say soothingly. “Especially since you don’t even like guys. When I met you, you didn’t want to have anything to do with them, remember? And it was cool. Because when you really think about it, guys are kind of a big waste of time.”

Miranda sniffs. “Maybe you’re right.” But in the next second, a fresh round of tears clouds her eyes. “I used to be strong. But then I was taken in by…” She struggles to find the words. “I was betrayed by… my own beliefs. I guess I thought I was tougher than I am. I thought I could spot a creep a mile away.”

A crack of lightning makes us both jump.

“Oh, sweetie.” I sigh. “When a guy wants to get you in bed, he’s always on his best behavior. On the other hand, he did want to be with you all the time. So he must have really been crazy about you.”

“Or maybe he was using me for my apartment. Because my apartment is bigger than his. And I don’t have any roommates. He had this one roommate, Tyler. Said he was always farting and calling everyone a ‘fag.’”

“But it doesn’t make sense. If he was using you for your apartment, why would he break up with you?”

“How should I know?” She pulls her knees to her chest. “Last night, when we were having sex, I should have known something was wrong. Because the sex was very… strange. Nice, but strange. He kept stroking my hair. And looking into my eyes with this sad expression. And then he said, ‘I want you to know that I care about you, Miranda Hobbes. I really do.’”

“He used your full name like that? ‘Miranda Hobbes’?”

“I thought it was romantic,” she snivels. “But this morning, after he’d finished showering, he came out holding his razor and shaving cream and asked me if I had a shopping bag.”

“What?”

“For his stuff.”

“Ouch.”

She nods dazedly. “I asked him why he wanted it. He said he realized it wasn’t going to work out between us and we shouldn’t waste each other’s time.”

My jaw drops. “Just like that?”

“He was so… clinical about it. Official. Like he was in court or something and I was being sentenced to jail. I didn’t know what to do, so I gave him the damn shopping bag. And it was from Saks. One of those big red expensive ones, too.”

I sit back on my heels. “Aw, sweetie. You can always get another shopping bag-”

“But I can’t get another Marty,” she wails. “It’s me, Carrie. There’s something wrong with me. I drive guys away.”

“Now listen. This has nothing to do with you. There’s something wrong with him . Maybe he was afraid you were going to dump him so he broke up with you first.”

She lifts her head. “Carrie. I ran down the street after him. Yelling. When he saw me coming, he started running. Into the subway. Can you believe that?”

“Yes,” I say. Given what happened to L’il, I’d believe just about anything right now.

She blows hard into a wad of toilet paper. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe he does think I’m too good for him.” And just as I’m beginning to hope I’ve gotten through to her, a stubborn, closed look comes over her face. “If I could just see him. Explain. Maybe we can get back together.”

“No!” I yelp. “He’s already run away once. Even if you do get back together, he’ll do the same thing. It’s his pattern .”

She lowers the toilet paper and gives me a doubtful look. “How do you know?”

“Trust me.”

“Maybe I can change him.” She reaches for the phone, but I yank the cord before she can grab it.

“Miranda.” I clutch the phone in my arms. “If you call Marty, I will lose all respect for you.”

She glares. “If you do not hand over that phone, I will have a very hard time considering you a friend.”

“That stinks,” I say, grudgingly passing her the phone. “Putting a guy before your friends.”

“I’m not putting Marty before you. I’m trying to find out what happened.”

“You know what happened.”

“He owes me a proper explanation.”

I give up. She picks up the phone and frowns into the receiver. She presses down on the hook a few times, and looks at me accusingly. “You did this on purpose. Your phone’s out of order.”

“Really?” I ask in surprise. I take the phone from her and try it myself. Nothing. Not even air. “I’m pretty sure I used it this morning.”

“Maybe you didn’t pay the bill.”

“Maybe Samantha didn’t pay the bill. She went to LA.”

“Shhhh.” Miranda holds up a finger as her eyes dart around the room. “What do you hear?”

“Nothing?”

“That’s right. Nothing.” She jumps up and starts flipping switches. “The air conditioner’s off. And the lights aren’t working.”

We run to the window. The traffic on Seventh Avenue is in a snarl. Horns honk as several sirens go off at once. People are getting out of their cars, waving their arms and pointing at the traffic lights.

My eyes follow their gestures. The lights swaying over Seventh Avenue are dark.

I look uptown. Smoke is billowing from somewhere near the river.

“What’s happening?” I scream.

Miranda crosses her arms and gives me a tangled, triumphant smile. “It’s a blackout,” she declares.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Okay. Let me get this straight,” I say. “The lining from the uterus migrates to other parts of the body, and when you get your period, it bleeds?”

“And sometimes, you can’t get pregnant. Or if you do, the fetus can actually develop outside the uterus,” Miranda says, proudly displaying her knowledge.

“Like in your stomach?” I ask in horror.

She nods. “Or in your butt. My aunt had a friend who couldn’t poop. Turns out there was a baby growing in her lower intestine.”

“No!” I exclaim, and light another cigarette. I puff on it thoughtfully. The conversation is getting out of hand, but I’m enjoying the perversity. I figure it’s a special day-a day that’s outside of all other days and is therefore exempt from the normal rules.

The entire city is without power. The subways aren’t running and the streets are a mess. Our stairwell has been plunged into darkness. And there’s a hurricane outside. Which means Samantha, Miranda, and I are stuck. For the next few hours, anyway.

Samantha arrived unexpectedly minutes after the blackout began. There was a lot of shouting in the stairwell, and people coming out of their apartments to compare notes. Someone said the ancient telephone building was struck by lightning, while another resident claimed the storm knocked down the phone lines and all the air conditioners caused a power outage. Either way, there are no lights and no phone service. Enormous black clouds rolled over the city, turning the sky an eerie grayish green. The wind picked up and the sky flashed with lightning.

“It’s like Armageddon,” Miranda declared. “Someone is trying to tell us something.”

“Who?” Samantha asked with her usual sarcasm.

Miranda shrugged. “The Universe?”

“My uterus my Universe,” Samantha said, and that’s how the whole conversation began.

Turns out Samantha has endometriosis, which is why she’s always in so much pain when she gets her period. But it wasn’t until she got to LA that the pain became unbearable and she started throwing up, right in the middle of a photography shoot. When the photographer’s assistant found her nearly passed out on the bathroom floor, they insisted on calling an ambulance. She had to have her insides scraped out, and then they sent her back to New York, to rest.

“I’m going to be scarred for life,” Samantha moans now. She pulls down the top of her jeans to reveal two large Band-Aids on either side of her ridiculously flat stomach, and peels away the adhesive. Underneath is a large red welt with four stitches. “Look,” she commands.

“That’s awful,” Miranda concurs, her eyes shining with strange admiration. I was worried that Miranda and Samantha would hate each other, but instead, Miranda appears to have accepted Samantha’s position as top dog. She’s not only impressed with Samantha’s worldliness, but is doing her level best to get Samantha to like her. Which consists of agreeing with everything Samantha says.

Putting me in the position of being the disagreer. “I don’t care about scars. I think they add character.” I can never understand why women get so worked up about these tiny imperfections.

“Carrie,” Miranda scolds, shaking her head in accordance with Samantha’s distress.

“As long as Charlie never finds out,” Samantha says, leaning back against the cushions.

“Why should he care?” I ask.

“Because I don’t want him to know I’m not perfect, Sparrow. And if he calls, I need you to pretend I’m still in LA.”

“Fine.” It seems weird to me, but then again, the whole situation is weird, with the blackout and all. Perhaps it’s even Shakespearean. Like in As You Like It when everyone takes on different personas.

“Sparrow?” Miranda asks, jokingly.

I give her a dirty look as Samantha starts talking about my sex life with Bernard. “You have to admit, it’s odd,” she says, propping her feet on the pillows.

“He must be gay,” Miranda says from the floor.

“He’s not gay. He was married .” I get up and pace around in the flickering candlelight.

“All the more reason to be horny,” Samantha laughs.

“No guy dates a girl for a whole month without trying to have sex with her,” Miranda insists.

“We’ve had sex. We just haven’t had intercourse.”

“Honey, that ain’t sex. That’s what you do in sixth grade.” Samantha.

“Have you even seen it?” Miranda asks, giggling.

“As a matter of fact, I have.” I point my cigarette at her.

“It’s not one of those bendy ones, is it?” Miranda asks as she and Samantha chortle.

“No, it’s not. And I’m insulted,” I say, in faux outrage.

“Candles. And sexy lingerie. That’s what you need,” Samantha coos.

“I’ve never understood sexy lingerie. I mean, what’s the point? The guy’s only going to take it off,” I object.

Samantha flicks her eyes in Miranda’s direction. “That’s the trick. You don’t take it off right away.”

“You mean you run around his apartment in your underwear?” Me.

“You wear a fur coat. With sexy lingerie underneath.”

“I can’t afford a fur.” Miranda.

“Then wear a trench coat. Do I have to teach you guys everything about sex?”

“Yes, please,” I say.

“Especially since Carrie’s still a virgin,” Miranda screams.

“Honey, I knew that. I knew it the moment she walked in.”

“Is it that obvious?” I ask.

“What I can’t understand is why you’re still one,” Samantha says. “I got rid of mine when I was fourteen.”

“How?” Miranda hiccups.

“The usual way. Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill and the back of a van.”

“I did it on my parents’ bed. They were away at a conference.”

“That is sick,” I say, pouring myself another drink.

“I know. I’m a very sick puppy,” Miranda says.

When is this blackout going to end?

1:45 a.m.

“Babies! That’s all it’s about. Who ever knew the world would be all about babies?” Samantha shouts.

“Every time I see a baby, I swear, I want to throw up,” Miranda says.

“I did throw up once.” I nod eagerly. “I saw a filthy bib, and that was it.”

“Why don’t these people just get cats and a litter box?” Samantha asks.

2:15 a.m.

“I will never call a guy. Never ever.” Samantha.

“What if you can’t help it?” Me.

“You have to help it.”

“It’s all about low self-esteem.” Miranda.

“You really should tell Charlie. About the procedure,” I say, feeling wobbly.

“Why should I?” Samantha asks.

“Because it’s what real people do.”

“I didn’t come to New York to be real.”

“Didja come here to be fake?” I slur.

“I came here to be new,” she says.

“I came here to be myself,” Miranda adds. “I couldn’t be, back home.”

“Me neither.” The room is spinning. “My mother died,” I murmur, just before I pass out.

When I come to, light is streaming into the apartment.

I’m lying on the floor under the coffee table. Miranda is curled up on the couch, snoring, which immediately makes me wonder if this was secretly the reason Marty broke up with her. I try to sit up, but my head feels like it weighs a million pounds. “Ow,” I say, putting it back down again.

Eventually I’m able to roll onto my stomach and crawl to the bathroom, where I take two aspirin and wash them down with the last of the bottled water. I stumble into Samantha’s bedroom and crumple up on the floor.

“Carrie?” she says, awoken by my banging.

“Yer?”

“What happened last night?”

“Blackout.”

“Damn.”

“And endometriosis.”

“Double damn.”

“And Charlie.”

“I didn’t call him last night, did I?”

“Couldn’t. Phones don’t work.”

“Are the lights still off?”

“Mmmm.”

Pause.

“Did your mother really die?”

“Yep.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.”

I hear her rustling around in those black silk sheets. She pats the side of the bed. “There’s plenty of room here.”

I heave myself onto the mattress and promptly fall into a greasy sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Hey, I found some food,” Miranda exclaims. She places a box of Ritz crackers on the bed and we dive in.

“I think we should walk up to Charlie’s.” I brush my cracker crumbs off the sheet. “He’s got the biggest apartment.” And we’ve been stuck here for hours. I don’t know how much longer I can last.

“No,” Samantha says adamantly. “I’d rather starve then let him see me like this. My hair’s dirty.”

“Everyone’s hair is dirty. Including Charlie’s,” I point out.

“Listen. What we talked about last night, we don’t ever tell anyone, right?” Miranda says.

“I still can’t believe Marty only has one testicle.” I take another cracker. “That should have been a tip-off.”

“I think it’s a plus,” Samantha says. “It made him work harder as a lover.”

I feel around in the box for another cracker. It’s empty. “We need supplies.”

“I’m not moving.” Samantha yawns luxuriously. “No power, no work. No Harry Mills trying to look up my skirt.”

I sigh and change into my last clean pair of scrubs.

“Have you decided to become a doctor now?” Samantha asks.

“Where’s your stethoscope?” Miranda hoots.

“They’re very chic,” I insist.

“Since when?”

“Since now.” Hrmph. Apparently neither my sexual experiences nor my sartorial choices are much appreciated around here.

Miranda leans toward Samantha, and with an excited squeal demands, “Okay, what’s the worst sex you’ve ever had?”

I throw up my hands. When I slip out of the apartment, the two of them are howling with laughter about something they’ve dubbed “The Pencil Problem.”

I wander aimlessly around the Village, and when I spot the open door of the White Horse Tavern, I go inside.

In the dim light, I discover a few people sitting at the bar. My first reaction is one of relief that I’ve found someplace that’s open. My second is dismay when I realize who’s sitting there: Capote and Ryan.

I blink. It can’t be. But it is. Capote’s head is thrown back and he’s laughing loudly. Ryan is hanging on to his bar stool. Clearly, they’re both severely inebriated.

What the hell are they doing here? Capote’s apartment is only a couple of blocks away, and it’s possible he and Ryan got stuck at Capote’s place when the power went out. But I’m surprised to see them, considering Capote’s extensive alcohol collection. Judging from the looks of them, I guess they ran out.

I shake my head in disapproval, gearing up for the inevitable encounter. But secretly, I’m awfully glad to see them.

“Is this bar stool taken?” I ask, sliding in next to Ryan.

“Huh?” His eyes uncross as he stares at me in surprise. Then he falls upon me, embracing me in a bear hug. “Carrie Bradshaw!” He looks to Capote. “Speak of the devil. We were just talking about you.”

“You were?”

“Weren’t we?” Ryan asks, confused.

“I think that was about twelve hours ago,” Capote says. He’s soused, but not nearly as plastered as Ryan. Probably because he thinks it’s “ungentlemanly” to appear drunk. “We’ve moved on from there.”

“Hemingway?” Ryan asks.

“Dostoyevsky,” Capote replies.

“I can never keep those damn Russians straight, can you?” Ryan asks me.

“Only when I’m sober,” I quip.

“Are you sober? Oh no.” Ryan takes a step backward and nearly lands in Capote’s lap. He slaps his hand on the bar. “Can’t be sober in a blackout. Not allowed. Barkeep, get this lady a drink!” he demands.

“Why are you here?” Capote asks.

“I’m foraging for supplies.” I look at the two of them doubtfully.

“We were too.” Ryan slaps his forehead. “And then something happened and we got trapped here. We tried to leave, but the cops kept accusing Capote of being a looter, so we were driven back to this lair.” He breaks up with laughter, and suddenly, I do too. Apparently, we’ve got a serious case of cabin fever because we fall all over each other, holding our stomachs and pointing at Capote and laughing even harder. Capote shakes his head, as if he can’t understand how he ended up with the two of us.

“Seriously, though,” I hiccup. “I need supplies. My two girlfriends-”

“You’re with women?” Ryan asks eagerly. “Well, let’s go.” He stumbles out of the bar with Capote and me running after him.

I’m not exactly sure how it happened, but an hour later, Capote, Ryan, and I are bumbling up the stairs to Samantha’s apartment. Ryan is clutching the handrail while Capote encourages him forward. I look at the two of them and sigh. Samantha is going to kill me. Or not. Maybe nothing really matters after twenty-four hours without electricity.

In any case, I’m not returning empty-handed. Besides Ryan and Capote, I have a bottle of vodka and two six-packs of beer, which Capote managed to cadge from the bartender. Then I found a church basement where they were handing out jugs of water and ham-and-cheese sandwiches. Then Ryan decided to take a leak in an empty doorway. Then we got chased by a cop on a motorcycle, who yelled at us and told us to go home.

This, too, was extremely funny, although I suspect it shouldn’t have been.

Inside the apartment, we discover Samantha bent over the coffee table, writing out a list. Miranda is next to her, battling several expressions, from consternation to admiration to out-and-out horror. Finally, admiration wins. “That’s twenty-two,” she exclaims. “And who’s Ethan? I hate that name.”

“He had orange hair. That’s basically all I can remember.”

Oh dear. It seems they’ve resorted to the vodka bottle as well.

“We’re home,” I call out.

“We?” Samantha’s head snaps around.

“I brought my friend Ryan. And his friend Capote.”

“Well,” Samantha purrs, rising to her feet as she takes in my stray cats with approval. “Are you here to rescue us?”

“More like we’re rescuing them,” I say belligerently.

“Welcome.” Miranda waves from the couch.

I look at her in despair, wondering what I’ve done. Maybe what they say about danger is true. It heightens the senses. And apparently makes everyone seem much more attractive than they are under normal circumstances. Probably has something to do with the survival of the species. But if that’s true, Mother Nature couldn’t have chosen a more unreliable bunch.

I head into the kitchen with my sack of supplies and start unwrapping the sandwiches.

“I’ll help you,” Capote says.

“There’s nothing to do,” I say sharply, cutting the sandwiches in half to save the rest for later.

“You shouldn’t be so rigid, you know?” Capote flips open a can of beer and pushes it toward me.

“I’m not. But someone needs to keep a level head.”

“You worry too much. You always act like you’re going to get into trouble.”

I’m flabbergasted. “Me?”

“You get this sour, disapproving look on your face.” He opens a can of beer for himself.

“And what about the arrogant, disapproving look on yours?”

“I’m not arrogant, Carrie.”

“And I’m Marilyn Monroe.”

“What do you have to worry about, anyway?” he asks. “Aren’t you going to Brown in the fall?”

Brown. I’m paralyzed. Despite the blackout and our paltry supplies and the presence of Capote Duncan, it’s the last place I think I’ll ever want to be. The whole idea of college suddenly feels irrelevant. “Why?” I ask, defensively. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

He shrugs and takes a sip of beer. “Nah. I’d probably miss you.”

He goes back to join the others while I stand there in shock, holding the plate of sandwiches in my hands.

7:00 p.m.

Strip poker.

9:00 p.m.

More strip poker.

10:30 p.m.

Wearing Samantha’s bra on my head.

2:00 a.m.

Have constructed tent from old blanket and chairs. Capote and I under tent.

Discussing Emma Bovary.

Discussing L’il and Viktor Greene.

Discussing Capote’s views on women: “I want a woman who has the same goals as I do. Who wants to do something with her life.”

I’m suddenly shy.

Capote and I lie down under the tent. It’s nice but tense. What would it be like to do it with him , I wonder. I shouldn’t even think about it though, not with Miranda and Samantha and Ryan out there, still playing cards.

I stare up at the blanket. “Why did you kiss me that night?” I whisper.

He reaches out, finds my hand, and curls his fingers around mine. We stay like that, silently holding hands for what feels like an eternity.

“I’m not a good boyfriend, Carrie,” he says finally.

“I know.” I untangle my hand from his. “We should try to get some sleep.”

I close my eyes, knowing sleep is impossible. Not when every nerve ending is jumping with electricity, like my electrons are determined to communicate with Capote’s across the barren space between us.

Too bad we can’t use it to turn on the lights.

Then I must fall asleep, because the next thing I know, we’re being woken by a terrific jangling, which turns out to be the phone.

I climb out of the tent as Samantha runs out of her bedroom with a sleeping mask on her head.

“What the-” Ryan sits up and bangs his head on the coffee table.

“ Could someone please answer that phone ,” Miranda shrieks.

Samantha makes a frantic slicing motion across her neck.

“If no one’s going to answer it, I will,” Ryan says, crawling toward the offending instrument.

“No!” Samantha and I shout at once.

I rip the receiver from Ryan’s hand. “Hello?” I ask cautiously, expecting Charlie.

“Carrie?” asks a concerned male voice.

It’s Bernard. The blackout’s over.