Summer and the City

Chapter Thirty

My birthday’s coming!

It’s nearly here. I can’t stop reminding everyone. My birthday! In less than two weeks, I’ll be eighteen.

I’m one of those people who loves her birthday. I don’t know why, but I do. I love the date: August 13. I was actually born on Friday the thirteenth, so even though it’s bad luck for everyone else, it’s good luck for me.

And this year, it’s going to be huge. I’m turning eighteen, I’m going to lose my virginity, and I’m having my reading at Bobby’s that night. I keep reminding Miranda that it’s going to be a doubleheader: my first play and my first lay.

“Play and lay-get it?” I say, tickled by the rhyme. Miranda is, understandably, quite sick of my little joke, and every time I say it, she puts her hands over her ears and claims she wishes she’d never met me.

I’ve also become incredibly neurotic about my birth control pills. I keep looking into the little plastic container, checking to make sure I’ve taken the pill and haven’t accidentally lost any. When I went to the clinic, I considered getting a diaphragm, too, but after the doctor showed it to me, I decided it was too complicated. I kept thinking about cutting two holes in the top and making it into a hat for a cat. I wonder if anyone’s done that yet.

Naturally, the clinic reminded me of L’il. I still feel guilty about what happened to her. I sometimes wonder if I feel bad because it didn’t happen to me, and I’m still in New York and have a play reading and a smart, successful boyfriend who hasn’t ruined my life-yet. If it weren’t for Viktor Greene, L’il would still be here, strolling the gritty streets in her Laura Ashley dresses and finding flowers in the asphalt. But then I wonder if it’s all Viktor’s fault. Perhaps L’il was right: New York simply isn’t for her. And if Viktor hadn’t driven her out, maybe something else would have.

Which reminds me of what Capote said to me during the blackout. About not having to worry because I was going to Brown in the fall. That makes me nervous as well, because with each passing day, I want to go to Brown less and less. I’d miss all my friends here. Besides, I already know what I want to do with my life. Why can’t I just continue?

Plus, if I go to Brown, I won’t, for instance, get free clothes.

A couple of days ago a little voice in the back of my head told me to look up that designer, Jinx, at her shop on Eighth Street. The store was empty when I walked in, so I figured Jinx was in the back, polishing her brass knuckles. Sure enough, when she heard the sound of moving hangers, she emerged from behind a curtain, looked me up and down, and said, “Oh. You. From Bobby’s.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Have you seen him?”

“Bobby? I’m doing a play reading in his space.” I said it casually, like I was having play readings all the time.

“Bobby is weird,” she said, twisting her mouth. “He is really one effed up mother-effer.”

“Mmm,” I agreed. “He certainly does seem a little… randy.”

This cracked her up. “Harharhar. That’s a good word for him. Randy. That’s exactly what he is. Randy with no candy.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what she was talking about, but I went along with it.

In the light of day, Jinx looked less sinister and more, dare I say, normal. I could see she was one of those women who wore lots of makeup not because she was trying to frighten anyone, but because she had bad skin. And her hair was very dry, due to the black henna. And I imagined she didn’t come from a very nice home and maybe had a father who was a drunk and a mother who yelled all the time. I knew Jinx had talent though, and I suddenly appreciated the efforts it must have taken her to get here.

“So you need something to wear. For Bobby’s,” she said.

“Yes.” I hadn’t actually gotten around to thinking about what to wear to the reading, but once she said it, I realized it was all I should have been worrying about.

“I’ve got just the thing.” She went into the back and came out holding a white vinyl jumpsuit with black piping along the sleeves. “I didn’t have enough money for fabric, so I had to make it really small. If it fits, it’s yours.”

I wasn’t expecting such generosity. Especially when I ended up walking out with an armload of clothes. Apparently I’m one of the few people in New York who is actually willing to wear a white vinyl jumpsuit or a plastic dress or red rubber pants.

It was like Cinderella and that damn slipper.

And just in time, too. I’ve gotten awfully sick of my ratty blue silk robe and my hostess dress and my surgical scrubs. It’s like Samantha always says: If people keep seeing you in the same old outfits, they start to think you haven’t any prospects.

Samantha, meanwhile, has gone back to chez Charlie. She says they’re bickering about china patterns and crystal decanters and the pluses and minuses of a raw bar at their reception. She can’t believe her life has been reduced to this, but I keep reminding her that come October, the wedding will be over and she won’t have to worry about her life ever again. This caused her to make one of her notorious deals with me: She would help with the guest list for the play reading if I agreed to go shopping with her for a wedding dress.

That’s the problem with weddings. They’re contagious.

In fact, they’re so contagious Donna LaDonna and her mother are coming to New York to participate in the ritual. When Samantha mentioned they were coming, I realized I’d become so caught up in my New York life, I’d actually forgotten that Donna is Samantha’s cousin.

The idea of seeing Donna again made me a little uneasy, but not as jumpy as giving Bernard my play.

Last night I screwed up my courage and finally presented Bernard with the manuscript. I literally delivered it to him on a silver platter. We were in his apartment and I found a silver platter that Margie had overlooked, and I tied a big red ribbon around it, and I served it to him while he was watching MTV. All the while, of course, thinking I should have been on that silver platter myself.

Now I wish I hadn’t given it to him at all. The thought of Bernard reading my play and not liking it has made me frantic with worry. I’ve been pacing the apartment all morning, waiting for him to call, praying he will call before I have to meet Samantha and Donna LaDonna at Kleinfeld.

I haven’t heard from Bernard, but I’ve had plenty of contact with Samantha. She keeps calling to remind me of the appointment. “It’s at noon sharp. If we’re not there on the dot of twelve, we lose the room.”

“What are you? Cinderella? Will your taxi turn into a pumpkin as well?”

“Don’t be funny, Carrie. This is my wedding.”

And now it’s almost time to meet Samantha, and Bernard still hasn’t called to tell me whether he likes my play or not.

My whole life is hanging by one tulle thread.

The phone rings. Must be Bernard. Samantha has to have run out of dimes by now.

“Carrie?” Samantha practically shrieks into the phone. “Why are you still at home? You should be on your way to Kleinfeld.”

“I’m just leaving.” I glare at the phone, jump into my new jumpsuit, and careen down the stairs.

Kleinfeld is miles away, in Brooklyn. It takes about five subways to get there, and when I change trains, I give in to my trembling paranoia and call Bernard. He’s not home. He’s not at the theater. At the next station, I try him again. Where the hell is he? When I get off the train in Brooklyn, I rush right to a phone booth on the corner. The phone rings and rings. I hang up, destroyed. I’m sure Bernard is avoiding my calls on purpose. He must have read my play and hated it and he doesn’t want to tell me.

I arrive at the temple of holy matrimony disheveled and disturbingly sweaty. Vinyl is not the thing to wear on a humid August day in New York, even if it is white.

Kleinfeld is nothing to look at from the outside, being one of those enormous soot-stained buildings with windows like sad, streaky eyes, but inside, it’s another story. The decor is pink, plush, and hushed like the petals of a flower. Ageless saleswomen with put-on faces and soft demeanors glide through the waiting room. The Jones party has its own suite, complete with dressing room, raised platform, and 360-degree mirrors. It also contains a pitcher of water, a pot of tea, and a plate of cookies. And, thank heavens, a phone.

Samantha isn’t there, though. Instead, I find a pretty, middle-aged woman sitting stiffly on a velvet settee, legs crossed demurely at the ankles, hair smoothed into a perfect helmet. This must be Charlie’s mother, Glenn.

Seated next to her is another woman, who could be Glenn’s polar opposite. She’s in her midtwenties, dressed in a lumpy navy suit without a lick of makeup. She’s not inherently unattractive, but given her messy hair and an expression that indicates she’s used to making the best of things, I suspect she tries to deliberately make herself homely.

“I’m Glenn,” the first woman says, holding out a long, bony hand with a discreet platinum watch clasped around her thin wrist. She must be left-handed, because left-handed people always wear their watches on their right wrist so everyone will know they’re left-handed and, therefore, possibly more interesting and special. She indicates the young woman next to her. “This is my daughter, Erica.”

Erica gives me a firm, no-nonsense handshake. There’s something refreshing about her, like she knows how ridiculous her mother is and how this whole scene is kind of silly.

“Hi,” I say, warmly, and take a seat on the edge of a small, decorative chair.

Samantha told me Glenn had a face-lift, so while Glenn smoothes her hair and Erica eats a cookie, I surreptitiously study Glenn’s face, looking for signs of the surgery. On closer inspection, they’re not hard to find. Glenn’s mouth is stretched and tucked up like the grin of the Joker, although she’s not smiling. Her eyebrows are dangerously close to her hairline. I’m peering at her so hard she can’t help but sense my staring. She turns to me and, with a little flutter of her hand, says, “That’s quite an interesting outfit you’re wearing.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I got it for free.”

“I should hope so.”

I can’t tell if she’s being deliberately rude or if this is simply her usual demeanor. I take a cookie, and feel a little sad. I can’t fathom why Samantha has insisted on my presence. Surely she isn’t planning to include me on her journey into the future. I can’t imagine where I would fit in.

Glenn shakes her arm and peers at her watch. “Where’s Samantha?” she asks, with a quiet sigh of annoyance.

“Maybe she’s caught in traffic,” I suggest.

“It’s terribly rude, being late for your own dress fitting,” Glenn murmurs, in a low, warm voice intended to take the sting out of the insult. There’s a knock on the door and I jump up to open it.

“Here she is,” I chirp, expecting Samantha but finding Donna LaDonna and her mother, instead.

There’s no sign of Samantha. Nevertheless, I’m so relieved not to be alone with Glenn and her daughter, I go too far. “Donna!” I shout.

Donna is all sexed up in a slouchy top with shoulder pads and leggings. Her mother is wearing a sad imitation of Glenn’s real Chanel suit. What will Glenn think of Donna and her mother? I can already tell she’s none too impressed by me. And suddenly, I’m a tad embarrassed for Castlebury.

Donna, of course, doesn’t notice. “Hi, Carrie,” she says, like she just saw me yesterday.

She and her mother go to Glenn, who shakes hands nicely and pretends to be thrilled to meet them.

While Donna and her mother coo over the room, Glenn’s suit, and the future wedding plans, I sit back and observe. I always thought Donna was one of the most sophisticated girls in our school, but seeing her in New York, on my turf, I wonder what I ever found so intriguing about her. Sure, she’s pretty, but not as pretty as Samantha. And she’s not the least bit stylish in that Flashdance getup. She’s not even very interesting, babbling to me about how she and her mother got their nails done and bragging about how they shopped at Macy’s. Jeez. Even I know only tourists shop at Macy’s.

And then Donna blurts out her own very exciting news. She, too, is getting married. She holds out her hand, revealing a solitaire diamond chip.

I lean over to admire it, although you practically need a magnifying glass to see the damn thing. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

She gives me a brief smile as if she’s surprised I haven’t heard. “Tommy.”

“Tommy? Tommy Brewster ?” The Tommy Brewster who basically made my life hell merely because I had the bad luck to sit next to him in assembly for four years of high school? The big dumb jock who was Cynthia Viande’s serious boyfriend?

The question is apparently written all over my face, because Donna immediately explains that Cynthia broke up with him. “She’s going to BU and she didn’t want to take Tommy with her. She actually thought she could do better,” Donna smirks.

No kidding, I want to say.

“Tommy’s going into the military. He’s going to be a pilot,” Donna adds boastfully. “He’ll be traveling a lot and it’ll be easier if we’re married.”

“Wow.” Donna LaDonna engaged to Tommy Brewster? How could this happen? If I’d had to place bets in high school, I would have wagered that Donna LaDonna was the one who was on her way to bigger and better things. She was the last person I imagined would be the first to become a housewife.

Having dispatched this information, Donna veers the conversation onto the topic of babies.

“I was always a hands-on mom,” Glenn says, nodding. “I breast-fed Charlie for nearly a year. Of course, it meant I could barely leave the apartment. But it was worth every minute. The scent of his little head…”

“The smell of his poopy diaper,” Erica mutters under her breath. I give her a grateful look. She’s been so quiet, I’d forgotten she was there.

“I think it’s one of the reasons Charlie turned out so well,” Glenn continues, ignoring her daughter as she directs her comments to Donna. “I know breast-feeding isn’t very popular, but I think it’s terribly rewarding.”

“I’ve heard it can make the kid smarter,” Donna says.

I stare at the plate of cookies, wondering what Samantha would think of this discussion. Does she know Glenn is planning to turn her into a baby-making machine? The thought gives me the willies. What if what Miranda said about endometriosis is true, and Samantha can’t get pregnant right away-or at all? And what if she does, and the baby is born in her intestine?

Where the hell is Samantha, anyway?

Boy, this is really making me uncomfortable. I’ve got to get out of here. “Can I use the phone?” I ask, and without waiting for permission, pick up the receiver and dial Bernard’s number. He’s still not there. I hang up, fuming, and decide to call him every thirty minutes until I reach him.

When I turn back to the room, the conversation has flagged. So much so that Donna actually asks how my summer is going.

Now it’s my turn to brag.

“I’m having a play reading next week.”

“Oh,” Donna says, clearly unimpressed. “What’s a play reading?”

“Well, I wrote this play, and my professor really loved it and then I met this guy, Bobby, who has a sort of performance space in his apartment, and I have a boyfriend who actually is a playwright-Bernard Singer, maybe you’ve heard of him-not that I’m not an actual writer but…” My voice gets smaller and smaller until it trails off into a painful little nothingness.

And where is Samantha in all this?

Glenn taps her watch impatiently.

“Oh, she’ll show up,” Mrs. LaDonna gushes. “We LaDonnas are always late,” she says proudly, as if this is a plus. I look at her and shake my head. She’s no help at all.

“I think your play sounds very exciting,” Erica says, tactfully changing the subject.

“It is,” I agree, praying Samantha will arrive at any moment. “It’s kind of a big deal. Being my first play and all.”

“I always told Erica she should become a writer,” Glenn says, giving her daughter a disapproving look. “If you’re a writer, you can stay at home with your children. If you actually decide to have children.”

“Mother, please,” Erica says, as if she’s had to tolerate this discussion many times before.

“Instead Erica’s decided to become a public defender!” Glenn exclaims grimly.

“A public defender,” Mrs. LaDonna says, attempting to look impressed.

“What’s that?” Donna asks, examining her manicure.

“It’s a special kind of lawyer,” I answer, wondering how Donna cannot know this.

“It’s all about choice, Mother,” Erica says firmly. “And I choose not to be chosen.”

Glenn gives her a stiff little smile. She probably can’t move her muscles too much due to the face-lift. “It all sounds so terribly sad.”

“But it isn’t sad at all,” Erica replies evenly. “It’s freeing.”

“I don’t believe in choice,” Glenn announces, addressing the room. “I believe in destiny. And the sooner you accept your destiny, the better. It seems to me you young girls waste a terrible amount of time trying to choose. And all you end up with is nothing.”

Erica smiles. And turning to me, she explains, “Mother’s been trying to marry Charlie off for years. She’s pushed every debutante in the Blue Book in his direction, but of course, he never liked any of them. Charlie’s not that dumb.”

There’s an audible gasp from Mrs. LaDonna as I peer around in shock. Donna and her mother look like they’ve had face-lifts as well. Their expressions are as frozen as Glenn’s.

The phone rings and I automatically reach for it, wondering if it’s Bernard, having somehow managed to track me down at Kleinfeld.

I’m such a dummy sometimes. It’s Samantha.

“Where are you?” I whisper urgently. “Everyone’s here. Glenn and Erica-”

“Carrie.” She cuts me off. “I’m not going to be able to make it.”

“What?”

“Something came up. A meeting I can’t get out of. So if you wouldn’t mind telling Glenn…”

Actually, I would mind. I’m suddenly tired of doing her dirty work. “I think you should tell her yourself.” I hand Glenn the phone.

While Glenn speaks to Samantha, a saleswoman peeks into the room, beaming with excitement, pulling an enormous rack of wedding dresses behind her. The atmosphere explodes as Donna and her mother rush toward the dresses, pawing and fondling the garments like they’re sugary confections.

I’ve had enough. I dive into the rack of wedding dresses and fight my way through to the other side.

Weddings are like a train. Once you get on, you can’t get off.

Sort of like the subway.

The train is stopped, again, somewhere in the dark catacombs between Forty-second and Fifty-ninth streets. It’s been stuck for twenty minutes now, and the natives are getting restless.

Including myself. I yank open the door between the cars and step out onto the tiny platform, leaning over the edge in an attempt to discover the cause of the holdup. It’s useless, of course. It always is. I can just make out the walls of the tunnel until they disappear into darkness.

The train lurches unexpectedly and I nearly tip off the platform. I grab the handle of the door just in time, reminding myself that I need to be more careful. It’s hard to be careful, though, when you feel indestructible.

My heart does that jackhammer thing that happens whenever I get all anticipatory about the future.

Bernard read my play.

The minute I escaped from Kleinfeld, I ran to a phone booth and finally reached him. He said he was in the middle of casting. I could tell by his voice that he didn’t want me to come by, but I kept insisting and finally he relented. He could probably tell by my voice that I was in one of those nothing-is-going-to-stop-me moods.

Not even the subway.

The train screeches to a halt just inside the platform at Fifty-ninth Street.

I bang though the cars until I reach the head compartment, then I do the dangerous thing again and leap from the train onto the concrete. I run up the escalator, zoom through Bloomingdale’s, and race up to Sutton Place, sweating like a mad thing in the white vinyl.

I catch Bernard in front of his building, hailing a cab. I spring up behind him.

“You’re late,” he says, jangling his keys. “And now I’m late too.”

“I’ll ride with you to the theater. Then you can tell me how much you loved my play.”

“It’s not the best time, Carrie. My mind’s not focused.” He’s being all business. I hate it when he’s like this.

“I’ve been waiting all day,” I plead. “I’m going crazy. You have to tell me what you thought.”

I don’t know why I’m in such a frenzy. Maybe it’s because I just came from Kleinfeld. Maybe it’s because Samantha didn’t show up. Or maybe it’s because I don’t ever want to have to marry a man like Charlie and have a mother-in-law like Glenn. Which means I have to succeed at something else.

Bernard grimaces.

“Oh my God. You didn’t like it.” I can feel my knees buckling beneath me.

“Take it easy, kid,” he says, hustling me into the cab.

I perch on the seat next to him like a bird about to take flight. I swear I see a look of pity cross his face, but it’s immediately gone and I tell myself I must have imagined it.

He smiles and pats my leg. “It’s good, Carrie. Really.”

“Good? Or really good?”

He shifts in his seat. “Really good.”

“Honestly? Do you mean it? You’re not just humoring me?”

“I said it was really good, didn’t I?”

“Say it again. Please .”

“It’s really good.” He smiles.

“Yippee!” I shout.

“Can I go to my casting now?” he asks, extracting the manuscript from his briefcase and holding it out to me.

I suddenly realize I’ve been clutching his arm in fear. “Cast away,” I say gallantly. “Castaways. Ha-ha. Get it?”

“Sure, kiddo.” He leans over to give me a quick kiss.

But I hold on to him. I put my hands around his face and kiss him hard. “That’s for liking my play.”

“I guess I’ll have to like your plays more often,” he jokes, getting out of the cab.

“Oh, you will,” I say from the open window.

Bernard goes into the theater as I throw back my head in relief. I wonder what I was so worked up about. And then it hits me: If Bernard didn’t like my play, if he didn’t like my writing, would I still be able to like him ?

Luckily, that’s one question I don’t have to answer.

Chapter Thirty-One

“And she has the nerve to tell Samantha I’ve got a big head.”

“Well-” Miranda says cautiously.

“A big fat swollen head. Like a basketball,” I say, leaning into the mirror to apply more lipstick. “And meanwhile, she’s marrying this stupid jock-”

“Why do you care so much?” Miranda asks. “It’s not like you have to see them again.”

“I know. But couldn’t they have been a little impressed? I’m doing so much more with my life than they ever will.”

I’m talking, of course, about Donna LaDonna and her mother. After her no-show at Kleinfeld, Samantha took the LaDonnas to Benihana as a consolation prize. When I asked Samantha if Donna mentioned me, she said Donna told her I’d become completely full of myself and obnoxious. Which really pissed me off.

“Did Samantha find a dress?” Miranda asks, fluffing her hair.

“She never showed up. She had an important meeting she couldn’t get out of. But that’s not the point. What bugs me is that this girl, who thought she was such a big deal in high school-” I break off, wondering if I have become a monster. “You don’t think I have a big head, do you?”

“Oh, Carrie. I don’t know.”

Which means yes. “Even if I do, I don’t care,” I insist, trying to justify my attitude. “Maybe I do have a bit of an ego. So what? Do you know how long it’s taken me to even get an ego? And I’m still not sure it’s fully developed. It’s more of an ‘egg’ than an ‘ego.’”

“Uh-huh.” Miranda looks dubious.

“Besides, men have egos all the time and no one says they’re full of themselves. And now that I have this tiny little bit of self-esteem, I don’t intend to let it go.”

“Good,” she says. “Don’t.”

I march past her into the bedroom, where I snake my legs into a pair of fishnet stockings and slip the white plastic dress with the clear plastic cut-outs over my head. I pull on the bright blue Fiorucci boots and check my appearance in the full-length mirror.

“Who are these people again?” Miranda eyes me with a worried expression.

“Bernard’s agent-Teensie Dyer. And her husband.”

“Is that what you’re supposed to wear to the Hamptons?”

“It’s what I wear to the Hamptons.”

True to his word, Bernard has actually come through on his promise to introduce me to Teensie. In fact, he’s gone above and beyond his call to duty and invited me to the Hamptons to stay with Teensie and her husband. It’s only for Saturday night, but who cares? It’s the Hamptons! All summer, I’ve been dying to go. Not just to find out why they’re such a big deal, but to be able to say, “I went to the Hamptons,” to people like Capote.

“Do you really think you should be wearing plastic?” Miranda asks. “What if they think you’re wearing a garbage bag?”

“Then they’re stupid.”

Yep, I’m full of myself all right.

I toss a bathing suit, the Chinese robe, my new red rubber pants, and the hostess gown into my carpenter’s bag. The bag reminds me of how Bernard said I needed a valise. Which leads me to wonder if Bernard is finally going to demand I have sex with him. I’ve been taking the pill, so I suppose there’s no reason not to, but I’m pretty adamant about waiting for my eighteenth birthday. I want the event to be special and memorable, something I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

Of course, the thought of finally doing it also makes me queasy.

Miranda must pick up on my mood, because she looks at me curiously. “Have you slept with him yet?”

“No.”

“How can you go away with him and not sleep with him?”

“He respects me.”

“No offense, but it sounds weird. Are you sure he’s not gay?”

“Bernard is not gay!” I nearly shout.

I go out into the living room and pick up my play, wondering if I should bring it with me in case I have a chance to slip it to Teensie. But that might be too obvious. Instead, I have another idea.

“Hey,” I say, holding up the manuscript. “ You should read my play.”

“Me?” Miranda asks, taken aback.

“Why not?”

“Didn’t Bernard read it? I thought he liked it. He’s the expert.”

“But you’re the audience. And you’re smart. If you like it, it means other people will too.”

“Oh, Carrie,” she says, pulling at her lip. “I don’t know anything about plays.”

“Don’t you want to read it?”

“I’m going to hear you read it on Thursday. At Bobby’s.”

“But I want you to read it, first.”

“Why?” She looks hard at me, but then relents. Perhaps she can see how, underneath the bravado, I’m a nervous wreck. She holds out her hand for the manuscript. “If you really want me to-”

“I do,” I say firmly. “You can read it this weekend and give it back to me on Monday. And sweetie? If you don’t like it, can you please pretend you do?”

Bernard went out to the Hamptons on Friday, so I take the Jitney by myself.

I don’t mind. From the sound of it, I kept picturing the Jitney as some kind of old-fashioned cable car, but it turns out to be a regular bus.

It chugs along a crowded highway until eventually we turn off and start going through little beach towns. At first they’re tacky, with bars and clam shacks and car dealerships, but then everything becomes more green and marshy, and when we cross a bridge and drive past a log cabin with totem poles on the front and a sign reading CIGARETTES $2 CARTON, the landscape changes completely. Old oaks and manicured hedges line the street, behind which I glimpse enormous shingled mansions.

The bus snakes into a picture-perfect town. Neatly painted white shops with green awnings populate the streets. There’s a bookstore, a tobacconist, Lilly Pulitzer, a jewelry store, and an old-fashioned movie theater where the bus pulls over.

“Southampton,” the driver announces. I pick up my carpenter’s bag and get out.

Bernard is waiting for me, leaning against the hood of a small bronze Mercedes, his smooth bare feet pushed into Gucci loafers. Miranda was right: the plastic dress and Fiorucci boots that were perfect for the city feel out of place in this quaint little town. But Bernard doesn’t care. He takes my bag, pausing for a kiss. His mouth is sublimely familiar. I love the way I can feel one of his incisors under his top lip.

“How was the trip?” he asks, smoothing my hair.

“Great,” I say breathlessly, thinking about how much fun we’re going to have.

He holds open the door and I slide onto the front seat. The car is old, from the 1960s, with a polished wooden steering wheel and shiny nickel dials. “This your car?” I ask, teasingly.

“It’s Peter’s.”

“Peter?”

“Teensie’s husband.” He starts the engine, puts the car into gear, and pulls away from the curb with a jolt.

“Sorry,” he laughs. “I’m a tad distracted. Don’t take this the wrong way, but Teensie’s insisted on giving you your own room.”

“Why?” I frown in annoyance, but secretly, I’m relieved.

“She kept asking me how old you were. I told her it was none of her damn business, and that’s when she got suspicious. You are over eighteen, aren’t you?” he asks, half jokingly.

I sigh, as if the question is beyond ridiculous. “I told you. I’m a sophomore in college.”

“Just checking, kitten,” he says, giving me a wink. “And don’t be afraid to stand up to Teensie, okay? She can be a bully, but she’s got an enormous heart.”

In other words, she’s an absolute bitch.

We swing into a long gravel drive and park in front of a shingled house. It’s not quite as large as I imagined, given the enormity of the houses I saw along the way, but it’s still big. What was once a regular-sized house is attached to a soaring barnlike structure.

“Nice, huh?” Bernard says, gazing up at the house from behind the windshield. “I wrote my first play here.”

“Really?” I ask, getting out of the car.

“Rewrote it, actually. I’d written the first draft during the day when I was working the night shift at the bottling plant.”

“That’s so romantic.”

“It wasn’t at the time. But in hindsight, yeah, it does sound romantic.”

“With a touch of cliché?” I ask, razzing him.

“I went to Manhattan one night with my buddies,” he continues, opening the trunk. “Stumbled across Teensie at a club. She insisted I send her my play, said she was an agent. I didn’t even know what an agent was back then. But I sent her my play anyway, and the next thing I know, she opened her house to me for the summer. So I could write. Undisturbed.”

“And were you?” I ask, trying to keep the apprehension out of my voice. “Undisturbed?”

He laughs. “When I was disturbed, it wasn’t unpleasant.”

Crap. Does that mean he slept with Teensie? And if he did, why didn’t he tell me? He could have warned me, at least. I hope I won’t discover any other unpleasant facts this weekend.

“Don’t know where I’d be without Teensie,” he says, slinging his arm across my shoulders.

We’re almost at the house when Teensie herself appears, strolling briskly up a flagstone path. She’s wearing tennis whites, and while I can’t speak for her heart, there’s no mistaking the fact that her breasts are enormous. They strain against the cloth of her polo shirt like two boulders struggling to erupt from a volcano. “There you are!” she exclaims pleasantly, shielding her eyes from the sun.

She plants herself in front of me, and in a rush, says, “I’d shake hands but I’m sweaty. Peter’s inside somewhere, but if you want a drink, ask Alice.” She turns around and trots back to the courts, waggling her fingers in the air.

“She seems nice,” I say, in an effort to like her. “And she has really big breasts,” I add, wondering if Bernard has seen them in the flesh.

Bernard hoots. “They’re fake.”

“ Fake? ”

“Silicone.”

So he has seen them. How else would he know all about them? “What else is plastic?”

“Her nose, of course. She likes to think of herself as Brenda. In Goodbye, Columbus . I always tell her she’s more Mrs. Robinson than Miss Patimkin.”

“What does her husband think?”

Bernard grins. “Pretty much whatever she tells him to, I imagine.”

“I mean about the silicone .”

“Oh,” he says. “I don’t know. He spends a lot of his time hopping.”

“Like a bunny?”

“More like the White Rabbit. All he’s missing is the pocket watch.” Bernard opens the front door and calls out, “Alice,” like he owns the place.

Which, given his history with Teensie, I suppose he does.

We’ve entered the barn part of the house, which has been fashioned into a gigantic living room filled with couches and stuffed chairs. There’s a stone fireplace and several doors that lead to unseen corridors. One of the doors flies open and out pops a small man with longish hair and what was likely once a girlishly pretty face. He’s on his way to another door when he spots us and beetles over.

“Anyone seen my wife?” he inquires, in an English accent.

“She’s playing tennis,” I say.

“Ah, right .” He smacks his forehead. “Very observant of you. Yes, very observant. That infernal game.” He tumbles on without pause: “Well, make yourselves at home. You know the drill, Bernard, all very casual, mi casa es su casa and all that-we’ve got the president of Bolivia for dinner tonight, so I thought I might brush up on my Español. ”

“ Gracias ,” I say.

“Oh, you speak Spanish,” he exclaims. “Excellent. I’ll tell Teensie to put you next to el presidente at dinner.” And before I can demur, he scurries out of the room as Teensie herself reappears.

“Bernard, darling, will you be a gentleman and carry Cathy’s suitcase to her room?”

“Cathy?” Bernard asks. He looks around. “Who’s Cathy?”

Teensie’s face twists in annoyance. “I thought you said her name was Cathy.”

I shake my head. “It’s Carrie. Carrie Bradshaw.”

“Who can keep track?” she says helplessly, implying that Bernard has had such an endless parade of girlfriends, she can’t keep their names straight.

She leads us up the stairs and down a short hallway in the original part of the house. “Bathroom here,” she says, opening a door to reveal a powder-blue sink and narrow glassed-in shower. “And Carrie’s in here.” She opens another door to reveal a small room with a single bed, a patchwork quilt, and a shelf of trophies.

“My daughter’s room,” Teensie says smugly. “It’s above the kitchen, but Chinita loves it because it’s private.”

“Where is your daughter?” I ask, wondering if Teensie has decided to kick her own daughter out of her room for the sake of propriety.

“Tennis camp. She’s graduating from high school next year and we’re hoping she’ll get into Harvard. We’re all so terribly proud of her.”

Meaning this Chinita is practically my age.

“Where do you go to school?” Teensie asks.

“Brown.” I glance at Bernard. “I’m a sophomore.”

“How interesting,” Teensie replies, in a tone that makes me wonder if she’s seen through my lie. “I should put Chinita in touch with you. I’m sure she’d love to hear all about Brown. It’s her safety school.”

I ignore the insult and lob one of my own. “I’d love to, Mrs. Dyer.”

“Call me Teensie,” she says, with a flash of resentment. She turns to Bernard and, determined not to let me get the better of her, says, “Why don’t we let your friend unpack.”

A short while later, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, wondering where the phone is and if I should call Samantha to ask for advice on how to deal with Teensie, when I remember Teensie on the floor of the Jessens’ and smile. Who cares if she hates me? I’m in the Hamptons! I jump up, hang my clothes, and slip into a bikini. The room is a bit stuffy, so I open the window and take in the view. The bright green lawn ends at a manicured hedge, and beyond are miles of fields fuzzy with short leafy plants-potato fields, Bernard explained on the way over. I inhale the sweet, humid air, which means the ocean can’t be far away.

Above the gentle sound of the surf, I hear voices. I lean out the window and discover Teensie and another woman seated at a metal table on a small patio, sipping what appear to be Bloody Marys. I can hear their conversation as clearly as if I were sitting across from them.

“She’s barely older than Chinita,” Teensie exclaims. “It’s outrageous.”

“How young is she?”

“Who knows? She looks like she’s barely out of high school.”

“Poor Bernard,” says the second woman.

“It’s just so pathetically textbook,” Teensie adds.

“Well, after that horrible summer with Margie-didn’t they get married here?”

“Yes.” Teensie sighs. “You’d think he’d have the sense not to bring this young twit-”

I gasp, then quickly shut my mouth in the perverse desire not to miss a word.

“It’s obviously subconscious,” the second woman says. “He wants to make sure he’ll never get hurt again. So he chooses someone young and wide-eyed, who worships him and will never leave him. He controls the relationship. As opposed to Margie.”

“But how long can it possibly last?” Teensie moans. “What can they have in common? What do they talk about?”

“Maybe they don’t. Talk ,” the second woman says.

“Doesn’t this girl have parents? What kind of parent lets their daughter go away with a man who’s clearly ten or fifteen years older?”

“It is the eighties,” the second woman sighs, trying to be conciliatory. “The girls are different now. They’re so bold.”

Teensie gets up to go into the kitchen. I practically crawl out the window, hoping to hear the rest of their conversation, but I can’t.

Numb with shame, I flop back on the bed. If what they said is true, it means I’m merely a pawn in Bernard’s play. The one he’s acting out in his real life to help him get over Margie.

Margie. Her name gives me the willies.

Why did I think I could compete with her for Bernard’s affections? Apparently, I can’t. Not according to Teensie.

I throw the pillow against the wall in rage. Why did I come here? Why would Bernard subject me to this? Teensie must be right. He is using me. He might not be aware of it, but it’s no secret to everyone else.

There’s only one way to save face. I have to leave. I’ll ask Bernard to drive me to the bus stop. I’ll say good-bye and never see him again. And then, after I have my reading and I’m the toast of the town, he’ll realize what a mistake he made.

I’m tossing clothes into my carpenter’s bag, when I catch the sound of his voice. “Teensie?” he calls. I peer over the windowsill.

He’s striding across the lawn, looking concerned and a bit peeved. “Teensie?” he calls again as Teensie appears on the patio.

“Yes, darling?”

“Have you seen Carrie?” he asks.

I detect a slight drop of disappointment in her shoulders. “No, I haven’t.”

“Where is she?” Bernard demands, looking around.

Teensie throws up her hands. “I’m not her keeper.”

They both disappear into the house as I bite my lip in triumph. Teensie was wrong. Bernard does care about me. She knows it too, and it’s driving her mad with jealousy.

Poor Bernard, I think. It’s my duty to save him from the Teensies of the world.

I quickly pick up a book and arrange myself on the bed. Sure enough, a minute later Bernard knocks on my door.

“Come in!”

“Carrie?” He pushes open the door. “What are you doing? I’ve been waiting for you at the pool. We’re having lunch.”

I put down my book and smile. “I’m sorry. No one told me.”

“Silly goose,” he says, coming toward me and kissing the top of my head. He lies down next to me. “Love the bikini,” he murmurs.

We fool around frantically until we hear Teensie calling our names. This cracks me up and causes Bernard to guffaw as well. And that’s when I decide to break my own rule. I will have Bernard. Tonight. I’ll sneak into his room and we’ll finally do it. Right under Teensie’s little bobbed nose.

Chapter Thirty-Two

At dinner, Teensie’s husband, Peter, makes good on his threat and I’m seated next to the Bolivian president. He’s a pockmarked thug of a man, with a heavy, self-important demeanor that frightens me. Knowing nothing about Bolivia or its politics, I’m determined not to say the wrong thing. I have a feeling if I do, I may possibly be eliminated.

Luckily, el presidente , as Peter keeps calling him, has absolutely no interest in me. We’ve barely unfolded our napkins and placed them on our laps when he takes one look at me, sums me up as being of no importance, and immediately turns to the woman on his left. At the other end of the table, Teensie has placed Bernard to her right. I’m too far away to hear their conversation, but Teensie, who is laughing and gesturing, appears to be keeping her little group engaged. Ever since the first guests began to arrive, Teensie’s become a different person. There’s no trace of the subtle, calculated nastiness she displayed this afternoon.

I take a bite of my fish, determined not to betray the fact that I’m becoming mortifyingly bored. The only thing that’s keeping me going is the thought of Bernard, and how we can be together, later.

I idly wonder if Teensie’s husband, Peter, knows about Teensie and Bernard. I take a sip of my wine and sigh quietly. I cut another piece of fish and stare at my fork, wondering if it’s worth hazarding another mouthful. The fish is dry and plain, as if someone decided food should be a punishment instead of a pleasure.

“Don’t like the fish?” Peter’s voice comes from my left.

“Actually, I don’t.” I smile, relieved someone is talking to me.

“That bad, eh?” He pushes the fish to the side of his plate. “It’s this newfangled diet my wife has going. No butter, no salt, no skin, no fat, and no spices. All part of a misguided attempt to live forever.”

I giggle. “I’m not sure living forever is a good idea.”

“Not sure?” Peter declares. “It’s a bloody awful idea. How’d you get thrown in with this lot anyway?”

“I met Bernard, and-”

“I mean, what do you do in New York?”

“Oh. I’m a writer,” I say simply. I sit up a little straighter, and add, “I’m studying at The New School, but I’m having my first play reading next week.”

“Well done,” he says, sounding impressed. “Have you talked to my wife?”

I look down at my plate. “I don’t think your wife is interested in me or my writing.” I glance across the table at Teensie. She’s been drinking red wine, and her lips are a ghastly shade of purple. “On the other hand, I don’t need your wife’s good opinion in order to succeed.”

That’s the egg part of my ego rising to the surface.

“You’re quite a confident young lady,” Peter remarks. And then, as if to emphasize the fact that I’ve gone too far, he gives me one of those devastatingly polite smiles that could probably put the queen of England in her place.

I sit frozen in disgrace. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? Peter was only trying to be friendly, and now I’ve insulted his wife. In addition to committing the supposed sin of arrogance. It’s acceptable in a man, but not in a woman. Or not in this crowd, anyway.

I tap Peter on the arm.

“Yes?” He turns. There’s no sharpness in his tone, merely a deadening disinterest.

I’m about to ask him if I were a man, would I be judged so harshly, but his expression stops me. “Could you pass the salt?” I ask, adding quietly, “Please?”

I manage to make it through the rest of the dinner by pretending to be interested in a long story about golfing in Scotland, with which Peter regales our end of the table. When the plates are cleared, I hope Bernard and I can escape, but instead we’re ushered onto the terrace for coffee and dessert. This is followed by chess in the living room. Bernard plays with Peter, while I perch on the edge of Bernard’s chair, pretending to play dumb. The truth is, anyone who’s halfway good at math can play chess, and after enduring several bad moves by Bernard, I begin quietly giving him advice. Bernard starts winning and a small crowd gathers to witness the spectacle.

Bernard gives me all the credit, and at last, I can see my esteem rising slightly in their eyes. Maybe I’m a contender after all.

“Where’d you learn to play chess?” he asks, fixing us another round of drinks from a wicker cart in the corner.

“I’ve always played. My father taught me.”

Bernard regards me, bemused. “You’ve just made me realize I don’t know a thing about you.”

“That’s because you forgot to ask,” I say playfully, my equilibrium restored. I look around the room. “Don’t any of these people ever go to bed?”

“Are you tired?”

“I was thinking-”

“Plenty of time for that later,” he says, brushing the back of my hair with his lips.

“You two lovebirds.” Teensie waves from the couch. “Come over here and join the discussion.”

I sigh. Bernard may be willing to call it an evening, but Teensie is determined to keep us downstairs.

I endure another hour of political discussions. Finally, Peter’s eyes close, and when he falls asleep in his chair, Teensie murmurs that perhaps we should all go to bed.

I give Bernard a meaningful look and scurry to my room. Now that the moment has arrived, I’m shaking with fear. My body trembles in anticipation. What will it be like? Will I scream? And what if there’s blood?

I slip on my negligee and brush my hair a hundred times. When thirty minutes have passed and the house is quiet, I slip out, creep across the living room, and up the other set of stairs, which leads to Bernard’s room. It’s at the end of a long hall, located conveniently next to Teensie and Peter, but, like all the rooms in the new wing, it has its own en suite bathroom.

En suite . My, what a lot of things I’ve learned this weekend. I giggle as I turn the knob on Bernard’s door.

He’s in bed, reading. Under the soft light of the lamp, he looks sleek and mysterious, like something out of a Victorian novel. He puts his finger to his lips as he slides back the covers. I fall silently into his arms, close my eyes, and hope for the best.

He turns off the light and rearranges himself under the sheets. “Good night, kitten.”

I sit up, perplexed. “Good night?”

I lean over and turn on the light.

He grabs my hand. “What are you doing?”

“You want to sleep ?”

“Don’t you?”

I pout. “I thought we could-”

He smiles. “Here?”

“Why not?”

He turns off the light. “It’s rude.”

I turn it back on. “Rude?”

“Teensie and Peter are in the next room.” He turns off the light again.

“So?” I say in the dark.

“I don’t want them to hear us. It might make them… uncomfortable.”

I frown in the darkness, my arms crossed over my chest. “Don’t you think it’s time Teensie got over the fact that you’ve moved on? From her and Margie?”

“Oh, Carrie.” He sighs.

“I’m serious. Teensie needs to accept that you’re seeing other people now. That you’re seeing me-”

“Yes, she does,” he says softly. “But we don’t need to rub it in her face.”

“I think we do,” I reply.

“Let’s go to sleep. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

This is my cue to flounce out of the room in anger. But I figure I’ve done enough flouncing for the evening. Instead, I lie silently, mulling over every scene, every conversation, fighting back tears and the gnawing realization that somehow, I haven’t necessarily managed to come out on top this weekend, after all.

Chapter Thirty-Three

“I’m so glad you came to see me,” Bobby proclaims as he opens the door. “This is a very nice surprise. Yes, a very nice surprise,” he patters on, taking my arm.

I shift my bag from one side to the other. “It’s really not a surprise, Bobby. I called you, remember?”

“Oh, but it’s always a surprise to see a friend, don’t you think? Especially when the friend is so attractive.”

“Well,” I say, frowning, wondering what this has to do with my play.

Bernard and I returned to the city late Sunday afternoon, hitching a ride with Teensie and Peter in the old Mercedes. Teensie drove, while Bernard and Peter talked about sports and I sat quietly, determined to be on my best behavior. Which wasn’t difficult, as I didn’t have much to say anyway. I kept wondering if Bernard and I stayed together, if this was what our life would be. Weekends with Teensie and Peter. I didn’t think I could take it. I wanted Bernard, but not his friends.

I went back to Samantha’s, vowing to get my life in order, which included calling Bobby and scheduling an appointment to discuss the reading. Unfortunately, Bobby doesn’t seem to be taking it as seriously as I am.

“Let me show you around the space,” he says now, with irritating insistence, especially as I saw the space when I was at his party. That night feels like ages ago, an uncomfortable reminder that while time is racing on, my own time may be running out.

The reading may be my last chance to establish a toehold in New York. A firm grip on the rock of Manhattan from which I cannot be removed.

“We’ll set up chairs here.” Bobby indicates the gallery space. “And we’ll serve cocktails. Get the audience liquored up. Should we have white wine or vodka or both?”

“Oh, both,” I murmur.

“And are you planning on having real actors? Or will it just be a reading?”

“I think maybe just a reading. For now,” I say, envisioning the bright lights of Broadway. “I’m planning to read the whole play myself.” After the class reading with Capote, it seemed easier not to get anyone else involved.

“Better that way, yes?” Bobby nods. His nodding-his unbridled enthusiasm-is starting to get to me. “We should have some champagne. To celebrate.”

“It’s barely noon,” I object.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those time Nazis,” he intones, urging me down a short hallway that leads to his living quarters. I follow him uncertainly, a warning bell chiming in my head. “Artists can’t live like other people. Schedules and all that-kills the creativity, don’t you think?” he asks.

“I guess so.” I sigh, wishing I could escape. But Bobby’s doing me an enormous favor, staging a reading of my play in his space. And with this thought I accept a glass of champagne.

“Let me show you around the rest of the place.”

“Honestly, Bobby,” I say in frustration. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to! I’ve cleared my whole afternoon for you.”

“But why?”

“I thought we might want to get to know each other better.”

Oh for goodness’ sake. He can’t possibly be trying to seduce me. It’s too ridiculous. For one thing, he’s shorter than I am. And he has jowls, meaning he must be over fifty years old. And he’s gay. Isn’t he?

“This is my bedroom,” he says, with a flourish. The decor is minimalist and the room is spotless, so I imagine he has a maid to pick up after him.

He plunks himself on the edge of the neatly made bed and takes a sip of champagne, patting the spot next to him.

“Bobby,” I say firmly. “I really should go.” In demonstration of my intentions, I place my glass on the windowsill.

“Oh, don’t put it there,” he cries. “It will leave a ring.”

I pick up the glass. “I’ll put it back in the kitchen, then.”

“But you can’t go,” he clucks. “We haven’t finished talking about your play.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t want to completely offend him. I figure I’ll sit next to him for a moment and then leave.

I perch gingerly on the side of the bed, as far away from him as possible. “About the play-”

“Yes, about the play,” he agrees. “What made you want to write it?”

“Well, I…” I fumble for the words but I take too long and Bobby becomes impatient.

“Hand me that photograph, will you?” And before I can protest, he’s scooted next to me and is pointing at the picture with a manicured finger. “My wife,” he says, followed by a giggle. “Or should I say my ex-wife?”

“You were married?” I ask as politely as possible, given those alarm bells are now clanging away like a bell tower.

“For two years. Annalise was her name. She’s French, you see?”

“Uh-huh.” I peer more closely at the image. Annalise is one of those beauties who looks absolutely insane, with a ridiculous pouty mouth and wild, scorching black eyes.

“You remind me of her.” Bobby puts his hand on my leg.

I unceremoniously remove it. “I don’t look a thing like her.”

“Oh, but you do. To me,” he murmurs. And then, in hideous slow motion, he purses his lips and pushes his face toward mine for a kiss.

I quickly turn away and wrestle free from his grasping fingers. Ugh. What kind of man gets manicures anyway?

“Bobby!” I pick up my glass from the floor and start out of the room.

He follows me into the kitchen, wagging his tail like a chastened puppy. “Don’t go,” he pleads. “There’s nearly a whole bottle of champagne left. You can’t expect me to drink it myself. Besides, it doesn’t keep.”

The kitchen is tiny, and Bobby has stationed himself in the doorway, blocking my exit.

“I have a boyfriend,” I say fiercely.

“He doesn’t have to know.”

I’m about to flee, when he changes his tack from sly to hurt. “Really, Carrie. It’s going to be very hard to work together if I think you don’t like me.”

He has to be kidding. But maybe Samantha was right. Doing business with men is tricky. If I reject Bobby, is he going to cancel my play reading? I swallow and try to summon a smile. “I do like you, Bobby. But I have a boyfriend,” I repeat, figuring the emphasis of this fact is probably my best tactic.

“Who?” he demands.

“Bernard Singer.”

Bobby breaks into a glass-shattering peal. “Him?” He moves closer and tries to take my hand. “He’s too old for you.”

I shake my head in wonder.

The momentary lull gives Bobby another chance to attack. He wraps his arms around my neck and attempts to mouth me again.

There’s a kind of tussle, with me trying to maneuver around him and him trying to push me against the sink. Luckily, Bobby not only looks like a butter ball, but has the consistency of one as well. Besides, I’m more desperate. I duck under his outstretched arms and hightail it for the door.

“Carrie! Carrie,” he cries, clapping his hands as he skitters down the hall after me.

I reach the door, and pause, breathless. I’m about to tell him what a scumball he is and how I don’t appreciate being taken in under false pretenses-all the while seeing my future crumble before me-when I catch his pained expression.

“I’m sorry.” He hangs his head like a child. “I hope-”

“Yes?” I ask, rearranging my hair.

“I hope this doesn’t mean you hate me. We can still do your reading, yes?”

I do my best to look down my nose at him. “How can I trust you? After this.”

“Oh, forget about it,” he says, waving his hands in front of his face as though encased in a swarm of flies. “I didn’t mean it. I’m too forward. Friends?” he asks sheepishly, holding out his hand.

I straighten my shoulders and take it. Quick as a wink, he’s clutched my hand and is lifting it to his mouth.

I allow him to kiss it before I jerk it back.

“What about your play?” he pronounces. “You have to allow me to read it before Thursday. Since you won’t let me kiss you, I need to know what I’m getting into.”

“I don’t have it. I’ll drop it off tomorrow,” I say hastily. Miranda has it, but I’ll get it from her later.

“And invite some of your friends to the reading. The pretty ones,” he adds.

I shake my head and walk out the door. Some men never give up.

Nor some women. I fan myself in relief as I ride down the elevator. At least I still have my reading. I’ll probably be fighting Bobby off all night, but it seems like a small price to pay for impending fame.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Who is this creep, exactly?” Samantha asks, tearing the top off a pink package of Sweet’N Low and pouring the powdered chemicals into her coffee.

“He’s some kind of art dealer. He’s the guy with the space. I went to the fashion show there?” I gather the tiny strips of pink paper from the middle of the table, fold them neatly, and wrap them in my napkin. I can’t help it. Those damn leavings from fake sugar packages drive me crazy. Mostly because you can’t go two feet without finding one.

“The space guy,” Samantha says, musingly.

“Bobby. Do you know him?” I ask, thinking she must. She knows everyone.

We’re at the Pink Tea Cup, this very famous restaurant in the West Village. It’s pink all right, with twee wrought-iron chairs and ancient tablecloths printed with cabbage roses. They’re open twenty-four hours, but they only serve breakfast, so if you time it right, you get to see Joey Ramone eating pancakes at five in the afternoon.

Samantha has left work early, claiming she’s still in pain from the operation. But it can’t be too bad, since she’s managed to make it out of the apartment. “Is he short?” she asks.

“He had to stand on his tippy-toes when he tried to kiss me.” The memory of Bobby’s attempted assault causes a fresh round of irritation, and I pour way too much sugar into my cup.

“Bobby Nevil.” She nods. “Everyone knows him. He’s infamous.”

“For jumping young girls?”

Samantha makes a face. “That would garner him no notoriety at all.” She lifts her cup and tastes her coffee. “He tried to attack Michelangelo’s David .”

“The sculpture?” Oh, great. Just my luck. “He’s a criminal?”

“More like an art revolutionary. He was trying to make a statement about art.”

“Meaning what? Art sucks?”

“Who sucks?” Miranda demands, arriving at the table with her knapsack and a black Saks shopping bag slung over her shoulder. She grabs a handful of napkins from the dispenser and mops her brow. “It’s ninety degrees out there.” She waves at the waitress and asks for a glass of ice.

“Are we talking about sex again?” She looks at Samantha accusingly. “I hope I didn’t come all the way down here for another conversation about Kegel exercises. Which I tried, by the way. They made me feel like a monkey.”

“Monkeys do Kegel exercises?” I ask, surprised.

Samantha shakes her head. “You two are hopeless.”

I sigh. I’d walked away from Bobby’s thinking I could handle his underhanded behavior, but the more I thought about it, the more incensed I became. Was it wrong to assume that when I finally got a break, it would be based on my own merits, as opposed to the random horniness of some old coot? “Bobby tried to jump me,” I inform Miranda.

“That little thing?” She’s not impressed. “I thought he was gay.”

“He’s one of those guys no one wants on their team. Gay or straight,” Samantha says.

“Is that an actual thing?” Miranda asks.

“They’re called the lost boys of sexual orientation. Come on, guys,” I say. “This is serious.”

“There was a professor at my school,” Miranda says. “Everyone knew if you slept with him he’d give you an A.”

I glare at her. “Not helping.”

“Well, come on, Carrie. This is nothing new. Every bar I’ve worked in has an unspoken rule that if you have sex with the manager, you’ll get the best shifts,” Samantha says. “And every office I’ve worked in-same thing. There’s always some guy coming on to you. And most of them are married.”

I groan. “And do you-?”

“Have sex with them? What do you think, Sparrow?” she asks sharply. “I don’t need to have sex with some guy to get ahead. On the other hand, I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done. Shame is a useless emotion.”

Miranda’s face contorts into an expression that signifies she’s about to say something inappropriate. “If that’s true, why won’t you tell Charlie about the endometriosis? If you’re not ashamed, why can’t you be honest?”

Samantha’s lips curl into a patronizing smile. “My relationship with Charlie is none of your business.”

“Why do you talk about it all the time, then?” Miranda asks, refusing to back down.

I put my head in my hands, wondering why we’re all so worked up. It must be the heat. It curdles the brain.

“So should I have my play reading at Bobby’s or not?” I ask.

“Of course,” Samantha says. “You can’t let Bobby’s stupid little pass make you question your talents. Then he’ll have won.”

Miranda has no choice but to agree. “Why should you let that squat little toad define who you are or what you can do?”

I know they’re right, but for a moment, I feel defeated. By life and the never-ending struggle to make something of it. Why can’t things just be easy?

“Did you read my play?” I ask Miranda.

She reddens. And in a voice that’s too high, says, “I meant to. But I was so busy. I promise I’ll read it tonight, okay?”

“Can’t,” I say sharply. “I need it back. I have to give it to Bobby first thing tomorrow.”

“Don’t get testy-”

“I’m not.”

“It’s right here,” she says, opening her knapsack and riffling through it. She looks inside in confusion, then picks up the shopping bag and dumps the contents onto the table. “It must have gotten mixed up with my flyers.”

“You took my play to Saks?” I ask, incredulous, as Miranda paws frantically through her papers.

“I was going to read it when things got slow. Here it is,” she says in relief, holding up a few pages.

I quickly flip through them. “Where’s the rest? This is only the first third.”

“Has to be here,” she mutters as I join her in going through each piece of paper one by one. “Oh my God.” She sits back in her chair. “Carrie, I’m sorry. This guy got in my face yesterday. Grabbed a bunch of flyers and ran. The rest of your play must have been mixed up with them-”

I stop breathing. I have one of those terrible premonitions that my life is about to fall apart.

“You must have another copy,” Samantha says soothingly.

“My professor has one.”

“Well, then,” Miranda chirps, as if everything’s all right.

I grab my bag. “I’ve got to go,” I squeak, just before my mouth goes completely dry.

Damn. Crap! And every other expletive I can think of.

If I don’t have my play, I don’t have anything. No reading, no life.

But surely Viktor has a copy. I specifically remember the day I gave it to him. And what kind of teacher throws out their students’ work?

I run through the Village, barging through traffic and nearly knocking over several passersby on my route to The New School. I arrive heaving, take the stairs two at a time, and throw myself on Viktor’s door.

It’s locked.

I wheel around in a frenzy, trip down the stairs, and run all the way back to Samantha’s place.

She’s lying in bed with a pile of magazines. “Carrie? Can you believe what Miranda said to me? About Charlie? I thought it was very uncalled for-”

“Yeah,” I say as I search the kitchen for the white pages.

“Did you find your play?”

“No!” I scream, flipping through the phone book.

I pat my heart, trying to get a grip. There it is: Viktor Greene. With an address in the Mews.

“Carrie?” Samantha asks, on my way back out. “Could you pick me up something to eat? Maybe Chinese? Or pizza. With pepperoni. And not too much cheese. Be sure to tell them no extra cheese-”

Argh!!!!!!

I haul myself back to the Mews, every muscle in my body screaming with pain from the exertion. I walk up and down the cobblestoned street twice before I find Viktor’s place, tucked behind a portcullis and hidden by ivy. I bang on the door several times, and when I can’t rouse him, plop down on the stoop.

Where the hell is he? Viktor’s always around. He has no life, apart from the school and his occasional affair with one of his students. The bastard. I get up and kick the door, and when there’s still no answer, I peek in the window.

The tiny carriage house is dark. I sniff the air, convinced I can catch a whiff of decay.

It’s not surprising. Viktor is a pig.

Then I notice three days’ worth of newspapers strewn next to the door. What if he’s gone away? But where would he go? I snuffle around the window again, wondering if the smell is an indication that he’s dead. Maybe he had a heart attack and, since he doesn’t have any friends, no one’s thought to look for him.

I bang on the window, which is totally useless. I look around for something to break it with, loosening a brick from the edge of the cobblestones. I raise it above my head, ready to attack.

“Looking for Viktor?” comes a voice from behind me.

I lower the brick and turn around.

The speaker is an elderly lady with a cat on a leash. She walks cautiously forward and bends down painstakingly to scoop up the papers. “Viktor’s gone,” she informs me. “I told him I’d save his newspapers. Lots of crooks around here.”

I surreptitiously drop the brick. “When is he coming back?”

She squints. “Friday? His mother died, poor thing. He’s gone to the Midwest to bury her.”

“Friday?” I take a step and nearly trip on the brick. I grab a vine of ivy to steady myself.

“That’s what he said. Friday.” The old woman bobs her head.

The reality of my situation hits me like a truckload of cement. “That’s too late!” I cry, as I let go of the vine and collapse to the ground in despair.

“Sparrow?” Samantha asks, coming into the living room. “What are you doing?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been sitting there for over an hour with your mouth hanging open. It’s not very attractive,” she scolds. When I don’t respond, she stands over me and knocks on my head. “Hello? Anyone home?”

I unhinge my eyes from a blank spot on the wall and swivel my head around to look at her.

She shakes a sheaf of newspaper pages in my face. “I thought we could have some fun. Work on my engagement announcement for The New York Times . You’re a writer. This should be a snap for you.”

“I’m not a writer. Not anymore,” I respond dully.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve had one small setback.” She settles in next to me with the pile of papers on her lap. “I’ve been collecting these since May. The wedding and engagement announcements in The New York Times . Also known as the ‘women’s sports pages.’”

“Who cares?” I lift my head.

“Everyone who’s anyone in New York, Sparrow,” she explains, as if talking to a child. “And it’s especially important because the Times won’t take just any old announcement. The man has to be Ivy League. And both parties need to come from the right sort of families. Old money is best, but new money will do. Or fame. If, for instance, the bride has a famous father, like an actor or a sculptor or a composer, she’ll definitely get in.”

“Why can’t you just get married?” I rub my cheeks. My skin is cold, as if I’ve lost all circulation.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Samantha asks. “Why get married in New York if you’re going to be a nobody? You might as well have stayed home. A wedding in New York is all about taking your proper place in society. It’s why we’re getting married at the Century Club. If you get married there, it’s a statement.”

“Meaning?”

She pats my leg. “You belong, Sparrow.”

“But what if you don’t? Belong.”

“For God’s sake, Sparrow. You act like you do. What is wrong with you? Have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you?”

And before I can protest, she goes to the typewriter, rolls a piece of paper into the carriage, and points at the chair. “You write. I’ll dictate.”

My shoulders slump, but I follow her order and place my hands on the keys, more out of rote than of conscious action.

Samantha plucks a page from her pile and scans the announcements. “Here’s a good one. ‘Miss Barbara Halters from Newport, Rhode Island, known to her friends as Horsie…’”

If she’s joking, it’s completely lost on me. “I thought you were from Weehawken.”

“Who wants to be from there? Put down ‘Short Hills.’ Short Hills is acceptable.”

“But what if someone checks-”

“They won’t. Can we please continue? Miss Samantha Jones-”

“What about ‘Ms.’?”

“Okay. Ms. Samantha Jones, of Short Hills, New Jersey, attended…” She pauses. “What college is near Short Hills?”

“I don’t know.”

“Just say ‘Princeton’ then. It’s close enough. Princeton,” she continues, satisfied with her choice. “And I graduated with a degree in… English literature.”

“No one’s going to believe that,” I protest, beginning to come to life. “I’ve never seen you read anything other than a self-help book.”

“Okay. Skip the part about my degree. It doesn’t matter anyway,” she says with a wave. “The tricky part is my parents. We’ll say my mother was a homemaker-that’s neutral-and my father was an international businessman. That way I can explain why he was never around.”

I take my hands off the keys and fold them in my lap. “I can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t lie to The New York Times .”

“You’re not the one who’s lying. I am.”

“Why do you have to lie?”

“Carrie,” she says, becoming frustrated. “Everyone lies.”

“No, they don’t.”

“You lie. Didn’t you lie to Bernard about your age?”

“That’s different. I’m not marrying Bernard.”

She gives me a cold smile, as if she can’t believe I’m challenging her. “Fine. I’ll write it myself.”

“Be my guest.” I get up as she sits down in front of the typewriter.

She bangs away for several minutes while I watch. Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “Why can’t you tell the truth?”

“Because the truth isn’t good enough.”

“That’s like saying you’re not good enough.”

She stops typing. She sits back and folds her arms. “I am good enough. I’ve never had any doubt in my mind-”

“Why don’t you be yourself, then?”

“Why don’t you ?” She jumps up. “You’re worried about me ? Look at you. Sniveling around the apartment because you lost half your play. If you’re such a great writer, why don’t you write another one?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” I scream, my throat raw. “It took me a whole month to write that play. You don’t just sit down and write a whole play in three days. You have to think about it. You have to-”

“Fine. If you want to give up, that’s your problem.” She starts toward her room, pauses, and spins around. “But if you want to act like a loser, don’t you dare criticize me,” she shouts, banging the door behind her.

I put my head in my hands. She’s right. I’m sick of myself and my failure. I might as well pack my bags and go home.

Like L’il. And all the millions of other young people who came to New York to make it and failed.

And suddenly, I’m furious. I run to Samantha’s room and pound on the door.

“What?” she yells as I open it.

“Why don’t you start over?” I shout, for no rational reason.

“Why don’t you?”

“I will.”

“Good . ”

I slam the door.

As if in a trance, I go to my typewriter and sit down. I rip out Samantha’s phony announcement, crumple it into a ball, and throw it across the room. I roll a fresh piece of paper into the carriage. I look at my watch. I have seventy-four hours and twenty-three minutes until my reading on Thursday. And I’m going to make it. I’m going to write another play if it kills me.

My typewriter ribbon breaks on Thursday morning. I look around at the empty candy wrappers, the dried tea bags, and the greasy pizza crusts.

It’s my birthday. I’m finally eighteen.

Chapter Thirty-Five

My hands shake as I step into the shower.

The bottle of shampoo slips from my fingers, and I manage to catch it just before it breaks on the tiles. I take a deep breath, tilting my head back against the spray.

I did it. I actually did it.

But the water can’t erase how I really feel: red-eyed, weak, and rattled.

I’ll never know what would have happened if Miranda hadn’t lost my play and I hadn’t had to rewrite it. I don’t know if it’s good or bad. I don’t know if I’ll be celebrated or disdained. But I did it, I remind myself. I tried .

I get out of the shower and towel off. I peer into the mirror. My face looks drawn and hollow, as I’ve barely slept for three days. This is not how I was expecting to make my debut, but I’ll take it. I don’t have a choice.

I put on the red rubber pants, my Chinese robe, and Samantha’s old Fiorucci boots. Maybe someday I’ll be like Samantha, able to afford my own shoes.

Samantha. She went back to work on Tuesday morning and I haven’t heard from her since. Ditto for Miranda, who hasn’t called either. Probably too scared I’ll never forgive her.

But I will. And I hope Samantha can forgive me as well.

“Here you are,” Bobby says gaily. “And right on time.”

“If you only knew,” I mumble.

“Excited?” He bounces on his toes.

“Nervous.” I smile weakly. “Is it true you attacked David ?”

He frowns. “Who told you that?”

I shrug.

“It’s never a good idea to dwell on the past. Let’s have some champagne.”

I follow him to the kitchen, keeping my carpenter’s bag between us so he can’t try any of his funny business. If he does, I swear, I really will hit him this time.

I needn’t have worried though, because the guests start arriving and Bobby scurries to the door to greet them.

I remain in the kitchen, sipping my champagne. The hell with it, I think, and drain the whole glass. I pour myself another.

Tonight’s the night, I think grimly. My reading and Bernard.

I narrow my eyes. He’d better be prepared to do it this time. Tonight he’d better not have any excuses.

I shake my head. What kind of attitude is that to take about losing your virginity? Not good.

I’m about to pour myself more champagne when I hear, “Carrie?” I nearly drop the bottle as I turn around and find Miranda.

“Please don’t be mad,” she implores.

My body sags in relief. Now that Miranda’s here, maybe everything really will be okay.

After Miranda’s arrival, I can’t exactly describe the party because I’m everywhere at once: greeting guests at the door, worrying about when to set up the chairs, fending off Bobby, and trying to come up with something impressive to say to Charlie, who has shown up, unexpectedly, with Samantha.

If Samantha is mad at me from the other night, she’s doing her best not to show it, complimenting me on my pants while holding on to Charlie’s arm as if she owns him. He’s a large man, almost handsome, and slightly gawky, as if he doesn’t know what to do with his limbs. He immediately starts talking about baseball, and when some other people chime in, I slip away to find Bernard.

He’s in the corner with Teensie. I can’t believe he brought her after that disastrous weekend, but apparently, either he doesn’t care or Teensie never bothered to give him an earful about me. Maybe because it’s my night, Teensie is all smiles, at least on the surface.

“When Bernard told me about this event, I couldn’t believe it,” she says, leaning forward to whisper loudly in my ear. “I said I simply had to see it for myself.”

“Well, thank you,” I reply modestly, smiling at Bernard. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

Capote and Ryan wander over with Rainbow in tow. We talk about class and how Viktor disappeared and how we can hardly believe the summer is nearly over. There’s more drinking and schmoozing, and I feel like a jewel, whirling in the center of all the attention, remembering my first night in New York with Samantha, and how far I’ve come since then.

“Hello, little one.” It’s Cholly Hammond in his usual seersucker uniform. “Have you met Winnie Dieke?” he asks, gesturing toward a young woman with a sharp face. “She’s from the New York Post . If you’re very nice to her, she might write about the event.”

“Then I’ll be very nice. Hello, Winnie,” I say smoothly, holding out my hand.

By ten thirty, the party is packed. Bobby’s space is a regular stop for revelers out on the town. It’s got free booze, shirtless bartenders, and a hodgepodge of crazy characters to shake things up. Like the old lady on roller skates, and the homeless man named Norman, who sometimes lives in Bobby’s closet. Or the Austrian count and the twins who claim to be du Ponts. The model who slept with everyone. The young socialite with the silver spoon around her neck. And in the middle of this great spinning carnival is little old me, standing on my tiptoes in an effort to be heard.

When another half hour passes, I remind Bobby that there is, indeed, entertainment, and Bobby tries to shuffle people into the seats. He stands on a chair, which collapses underneath him. Capote turns down the music as Bobby manages to right himself, and straddling two chairs instead of one, Bobby calls for everyone’s attention.

“Tonight we have the world premiere of a play by this very charming young writer, Carrie Bradshaw. The name of the play is… uh… I don’t really know but it doesn’t matter-”

“ Ungrateful Bastards ,” Miranda calls out the title.

“Yes, ungrateful bastards-the world is full of them,” Bobby squawks. “And now, without further ado-”

I take a deep breath. My heart seems to have migrated to my stomach. There’s a grudging round of applause as I take my place at the front of the room.

I remind myself that this is really no different from reading in front of the class, and I begin.

They say that people in stressful situations can lose their perception of time, and that’s what happens to me. In fact, I seem to lose all my senses, because at first I have no awareness of sight or sound. Then I become conscious of a few chuckles from the front row, which consists of Bernard, Miranda, Samantha and Charlie, Rainbow, Capote, and Ryan. Then I notice people getting up and leaving their seats. Then I realize the laughter is not due to my play, but to something funny someone said in the back of the room. Then someone turns up the music.

I try to ignore it, but my face flames with heat and my voice cracks. I’m dying up here. In the back of the room, people are dancing. I’m reduced to a mumble, a murmur, an afterthought.

Will this ever end?

Miraculously, it does. Bernard jumps to his feet, clapping. Miranda and Samantha yell their approval. But that’s all. Not even Bobby is paying attention. He’s by the bar, fawning over Teensie.

That’s it? I think wildly. It’s over ? What was that? What just happened?

I thought there’d be cheering.

I thought there’d be applause.

I did all this work for nothing?

The truth begins to dawn on me, although “dawn” isn’t the most accurate word. “Dawn” implies something pleasant. Hope. A better day. A new beginning. This is no beginning. This is an end. A disgrace. An embarrassment.

I suck.

Capote and my father and everyone else were right: I have no talent. I’ve been chasing a dream I made up in my head. And now it’s over.

I’m shaking. What should I do? I look around the room, imagining the people turning to leaves, red and then brown and then crumbling to pieces onto the ground. How can I… what can I…?

“I thought it was really good.” Bernard moves toward me, his grin like the smile of the clown in a jack-in-the-box. “Quite refreshing.”

“It was great,” Miranda says, giving me a hug. “I don’t know how you stood up in front of all those people. I would have been so frightened.”

I look to Samantha, who nods. “It was fun, Sparrow.”

This is one of those situations where no one can help you. Your need is so great, it’s like a black hole sucking the life out of everyone around you. I stumble forward, blindly.

“Let’s get a drink,” Bernard says, taking my hand.

“Yes, let’s all have a drink,” Samantha agrees. This is too much. Even Samantha, who’s my biggest cheerleader, knows my play is a disaster.

I’m like Typhoid Mary. No one wants to be around me.

Bernard hurries to the bar, and, as if shedding a virus, deposits me next to Teensie, of all people, who is now talking to Capote.

I smile awkwardly.

“Well,” Teensie says, with a dramatic sigh.

“You must have worked on it,” Capote says. “Since class. I thought it was better than what you read in class.”

“I had to completely rewrite it. In three days.” And suddenly, I realize Capote was right. About what he said at the Jessens’ dinner. Bobby is a joke. And a reading in his space wasn’t the right way to get my work noticed. Why didn’t I listen? The summer’s over and the only thing I’ve managed to achieve is making a complete and utter fool of myself.

The blood drains from my face.

Capote must understand my distress, because he pats my shoulder and says, “It’s good to take chances, remember?”

And as he wanders away, Teensie moves in for the kill. “I thought it was amusing. Very, very amusing,” she purrs. “But look at you , dear. You’re a mess. You look exhausted. And you’re way too thin. I’m sure your parents must be very worried about you.”

She pauses, and with a glittering smile asks, “Don’t you think it’s time to go home ?”

Chapter Thirty-Six

I am trying to get drunk and not succeeding.

I’m a total failure. I can’t even win at inebriation.

“Carrie,” Bernard cautions.

“What?” I ask, lifting a purloined bottle of champagne to my lips. I snuck it out of the party in my carpenter’s bag. I knew that bag would come in handy someday.

“You could hurt yourself.” Bernard wrenches the bottle away from me. “The cab could stop short and you could knock out your teeth.”

I pull the bottle back, clinging to it tightly. “It’s my birthday.”

“I know.”

“Aren’t you going to say happy birthday?”

“I have. Several times. Maybe you didn’t hear me.”

“Did you get me a present?”

“Yes. Now look,” he says becoming stern. “Maybe I should drop you at your apartment. There’s no reason to do this tonight.”

“But I want my present,” I wail. “And it’s my birthday. It has to be done on the day or it doesn’t count.”

“Technically, it’s not your birthday anymore. It’s after two.”

“Technically my birthday didn’t start until after two last night. So it still counts.”

“It’s going to be okay, kiddo.” He pats my leg.

“You didn’t like it, did you?” I take another swig and look out the open window, feeling the stinky summer air whooshing across my face.

“Like what?” he asks.

Jeez. What does he think I’m talking about? Is he really that thick? Is everyone this thick and I just never noticed before? “My play . You said you liked it but you didn’t.”

“You said you rewrote it.”

“Only because I had to. If Miranda-”

“Come on, kiddo,” he says, reassuringly. “These things happen.”

“To me. Only to me. Not to you or anyone else.”

It seems Bernard has had enough of my histrionics. He folds his arms.

His gesture scares some sense into me. I can’t lose him, too. Not tonight. “Please,” I say. “Let’s not fight.”

“I didn’t know we were fighting.”

“We’re not.” I put down the bottle and cling to him like a limpet.

“Awwww, kiddo.” He strokes my cheek. “I know you had a rough night. But that’s the way it is when you put something out there.”

“Really?” I sniff.

“It’s all about rewriting. You’ll rework the play, and it’ll be great. You’ll see.”

“I hate rewriting,” I grumble. “Why can’t the world come out right the first time?”

“What would be the fun in that?”

“Oh, Bernard.” I sigh. “I love you.”

“Yeah, I love you, too, kitten.”

“Honest? At two in the morning? On Madison Avenue? You love me?”

He smiles.

“What’s my present?” I coo.

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a present, now, would it?”

“I’m giving you a present,” I slur.

“You don’t have to give me a present.”

“Oh, but I do,” I say cryptically. Even if my play was a disaster, losing my virginity could salvage it.

“Here!” Bernard says, triumphantly, handing me a perfectly wrapped box in shiny black paper complete with a big black bow.

“Oh my God.” I sink to my knees on the carpet in his living room. “Is it really what I think it is?”

“I hope so,” he says nervously.

“I already love it.” I look at him with shining eyes.

“You don’t know what it is yet.”

“Oh, but I do,” I cry out in excitement, tearing away the paper and fingering the raised white lettering on the box. CHANEL.

Bernard looks slightly uncomfortable with my overwhelming demonstrance. “Teensie thought you’d like it.”

“Teensie? You asked Teensie what to get me? I thought she hated me.”

“She said you needed something nice.”

“Oh, Bernard.” I lift the cover from the box and gently open the tissue paper. And there it is: my first Chanel handbag.

I lift it out and cradle it in my arms.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“I love it,” I say solemnly. I hold it for a few seconds more, savoring the soft leather. With sweet reluctance, I slip it back into its cotton pouch and carefully replace it in the box.

“Don’t you want to use it?” Bernard asks, perplexed by my actions.

“I want to save it.”

“Why?” he says.

“Because I always want it to be… perfect .” Because nothing ever is. “Thank you, Bernard.” I wonder if I’m going to cry.

“Hey, puddy tat. It’s only a purse.”

“I know, but-” I get up and curl next to him on the couch, stroking the back of his neck.

“Eager little beaver, aren’t you?” He kisses me and I kiss him back and as we’re starting to get into it, he takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom.

This is it. And suddenly, I’m not so sure I’m ready.

I remind myself that this should not be a big deal. We’ve done everything but. We’ve spent the entire night together a dozen times. But knowing what’s to come makes it feel different. Even kissing is awkward. Like we barely know each other.

“I need a drink,” I say.

“Haven’t you had enough?” Bernard looks worried.

“No-I mean a drink of water,” I lie. I grab one of his shirts to cover myself and race into the kitchen. There’s a bottle of vodka on the counter. I close my eyes, brace myself, and take a gulp. I quickly rinse my mouth with water.

“Okay. I’m ready,” I announce, standing in the doorway.

I feel all jumbly again. I’m trying to be sexy, but I don’t know how. Everything feels so false and artificial, including myself. Maybe you have to learn how to be sexy in the bedroom. Or maybe it’s something you have to be born with. Like Samantha. Sexiness comes naturally to her. With me, it would be easier to be a plumber right now.

“Come here,” Bernard laughs, patting the bed. “And don’t get any ideas about stealing that shirt. Margie used to take my shirts.”

“Margie?”

“Let’s not talk about her, okay?”

We start making out again, but now it feels like Margie is in the room. I try to banish her, telling myself that Bernard is mine now. But it only makes me feel more diminished in comparison. Maybe after we get it over with, it’ll be better. “Let’s just do it, okay?” I say.

He raises his head. “Don’t you like this?”

“No. I love it. But I just want to do it.”

“I can’t just-”

“Bernard. Please .”

Miranda was right. This is terrible. Why didn’t I get this over with a long time ago? At least I’d know what to expect.

“Okay,” he murmurs. He lies on top of me. He wriggles around a bit. Then he wriggles some more.

“Has it happened?” I’m confused. Boy, Miranda wasn’t kidding. It really is nothing.

“No. I-” He breaks off. “Look. I’m going to need you to help me a little.”

Help him? What is he talking about? No one told me “help” was part of the program.

Why can’t he just do it?

And there we are, naked. Naked in our skins. But naked mostly in our emotions. I wasn’t prepared for this . The raw, unfortunate intimacy.

“Could you just-?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say.

I do my best, but it isn’t enough. Then he tries. Then it seems he’s finally ready. He gets on top of me. Okay, let’s go, buddy, I think. He makes a few thrusting motions. He puts his hand down there to help himself.

“Is it supposed to be like this?” I ask.

“What do you think?” he says.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I’ve never done it before.”

“What!” He draws back in shock.

“Don’t be mad at me,” I plead, clinging to his leg as he leaps off the bed. “I never met the right guy before. There has to be a first time for everyone, right?”

“Not with me.” He darts around the room, snatching up my things.

“What are you doing?”

“You need to get dressed.”

“Why?”

He pulls at his hair. “Carrie, you cannot stay here. We cannot do this. I’m not that guy.”

“Why not ?” I ask, my obstinance turning to panic.

“Because I’m not . ” He stops, takes a breath, gets ahold of himself. “I’m an adult. And you’re a kid-”

“I’m not a kid. I’m eighteen.”

“I thought you were a sophomore in college.” More horror.

“Oops,” I say, trying to make a joke of it.

His jaw drops. “Are you insane?”

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, the last time I checked I seemed to be fairly normal-” Then I lose it. “It’s me, isn’t it? You don’t want me. That’s why you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t get it up. Because-” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize this is just about the worst thing you can say to a guy. Ever. Because I can promise you, he’s none too happy about it himself.

“I can’t do this,” he wails, more to himself than to me. “I cannot do this. What am I doing? What’s happened to my life?”

I try to remember everything I’ve read about impotence. “Maybe I can help you,” I falter. “Maybe we can work on it-”

“I don’t want to have to work on my sex life,” he roars. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to have to work on my marriage. I don’t want to have to work on my relationships. I want them to just happen, without effort. And if you weren’t such an asshole all the time, maybe you’d understand.”

What? For a moment, I’m too stung to react. Then I draw back in hurt and indignation. I’m an asshole? Can women even be assholes? I must really be terrible if a man calls me an asshole.

I shut my mouth. I pick up my pants from where he’s dropped them on the bed.

“Carrie,” he says.

“What?”

“It’s probably best if you go.”

“No kidding.”

“And we… probably shouldn’t see each other anymore.”

“Right.”

“I still want you to have the purse,” he says, trying to make nice.

“I don’t want it.” This, however, is very much a lie. I do want it. Badly. I want to get something out of this debacle of a birthday.

“Take it, please,” he says.

“Give it to Teensie. She’s just like you.” I want to slap him. It’s like one of those dreams where you try to hit a guy and keep missing.

“Don’t be a jerk,” he says. We’re dressed and at the door. “Take it, for Christ’s sake. You know you want it.”

“That’s just gross, Bernard.”

“Here.” He tries to shove the bag into my hands but I yank open the door, hit the elevator button, and cross my arms.

Bernard rides down in the lift with me. “Carrie,” he says, trying not to make a scene in front of the elevator man.

“No.” I shake my head.

He follows me outside and raises his hand to hail a cab. Why is it that whenever you don’t want a taxi, there’s one right there? Because half of me is still hoping this isn’t actually happening, and a miracle will occur and everything will go back to normal. But then Bernard is giving the driver my address and ten dollars to get me home.

I get into the backseat, fuming.

“Here,” he says, offering me the bag again.

“I told you. I don’t want it,” I scream.

And as the cab pulls away from the curb, he yanks open the door and tosses it inside.

The bag lands at my feet. For a moment, I think about throwing it out the window. But I don’t. Because now I’m crying hysterically. Great, heaving sobs that feel like they’re going to rip me apart.

“Hey,” the taxi driver says. “Are you cryin’? You’re cryin’ in my cab? You want sumpin to cry about, lady, I’ll give you sumpin. How about them Yankees then? How about that goddamned baseball strike?”

Huh?

The cab pulls up in front of Samantha’s building. I stare at it helplessly, unable to move for my tears.

“Hey, lady,” the driver growls. “You gonna get out? I don’t have all night.”

I wipe my eyes as I make one of those rash and ill-advised decisions everyone tells you not to. “Take me to Greenwich Street.”

“But-”

“Greenwich Street.”

I get out at the phone booth on the corner. My fingers are trembling as I search for a dime and drop it into the slot. The phone rings several times. A sleepy voice says, “Yeah?”

“Capote?”

“Yeah?” He yawns.

“It’s me. Carrie Bradshaw.”

“Yeah, Carrie. I know your last name.”

“Can I come up?”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“Please?”

“All right.” The light goes on in his window. His shadow moves back and forth, back and forth. The window opens and he throws down the keys.

I catch them neatly in the palm of my hand.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

I open one eye and close it. Open it again. Where the hell am I? This must be one of those bad dreams when you think you’re awake but you’re still actually asleep.

I don’t feel asleep, though.

Besides, I’m naked. And it kind of hurts down there.

But that’s because… I smile. It happened. I am officially no longer a virgin.

I’m in Capote Duncan’s apartment. I’m in his bed. The bed with the plaid sheets his mother bought him. And the two foam pillows (why are guys so chintzy about pillows?), and the scratchy army blanket that belonged to his grandfather. Who got it from his father, who fought in the Civil War. Capote is very sentimental. I can hear Patsy Cline still crooning softly on the stereo. “I Fall to Pieces.” From now on, every time I hear that song, I’ll think of Capote and the night we spent together. The night he kindly took my virginity.

I guess I’m lucky, because it was pretty much the way I’d always hoped it would be. And while we were doing it, I honestly felt like I was in love with him. He kept telling me how beautiful I was. And how I shouldn’t be afraid. And how happy he was to be with me. And how he’d wanted to be with me from the beginning, but he thought I couldn’t stand him. And then, when I started dating Bernard, how he figured he’d lost his chance. And when I actually managed to write a play, he decided I’d think he wasn’t “good enough.” Because he hadn’t managed to write much of anything.

Yow. Guys can be so insecure.

Naturally, I told him he’d gotten me all wrong, although it is true-which I didn’t tell him-that I didn’t find him terribly attractive at the beginning.

Now, of course, I think he’s the most gorgeous creature on earth.

I peek at him. He’s still asleep, lying on his back, his face so peaceful and relaxed, I actually think I can detect a slight smile on his lips. Without his glasses, he looks shockingly vulnerable. Last night, after we kissed for a bit and he did the sexy librarian thing and took off his specs, we stared and stared into each other’s eyes. I felt like I could see his entire history in his pupils.

I could know everything about him in a way I’d never known anyone before.

It was a little eerie, but also kind of profound.

I guess that’s what I found most surprising about sex: the knowing. How you can understand a person completely and vice versa.

I lean over the edge of the bed, searching for my Skivvies. I want to get out while Capote’s still asleep. A deal’s a deal, and I said I’d leave first thing in the morning.

I raise myself slowly, sliding carefully off the bed so as not to jiggle the mattress. The mattress itself is about a hundred years old, left here by the original owners. I wonder how many people have had sex on this bed. I hope a lot. And I hope it was as good for them as it was for me.

I find my clothes splayed around the couch. The Chanel bag is by the door, where I dropped it when Capote grabbed my face and backed me up against the wall, kissing me like crazy. I practically tore his clothes off.

But I’m never going to see him again, so it doesn’t matter. And now I have to face the future: Brown.

Maybe, after four years of college, I’ll try again. I’ll storm the gates of the Emerald City, and this time, I’ll succeed.

But for now, I’m too tired. Who knew eighteen could be so exhausting?

I sigh and wriggle my feet into my shoes. I had a good run. Sure, I messed up a few times, but I managed to survive.

I tiptoe back to the bedroom for one last look at Capote. “Good-bye, lover,” I murmur quietly.

His mouth pops open and he wakes, pounding his pillow in confusion. He sits up and squints at me. “Huh?”

“Sorry,” I whisper, picking up my watch. “I was just-” I indicate the door.

“Why?” He rubs his eyes. “Didn’t you like it?”

“I loved it. But-”

“Why are you leaving then?”

I shrug.

He feels for his glasses and puts them on, blinking behind the thick lenses. “Aren’t you going to at least allow me the pleasure of giving you breakfast? A gentleman never lets a lady leave without feeding her, first.”

I laugh. “I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself. Besides, you make me sound like a bird.”

“A bird? More like a tiger,” he chuckles. “C’mere.” He opens his arms. I crawl across the bed and fall into them.

He strokes my hair. He’s warm and snuggly and smells a little. Of man, I suppose. The scent is strangely familiar. Like toast.

He pulls back his head and smiles. “Did anyone ever tell you how pretty you look in the morning?”

At about two in the afternoon, we manage to make it to the Pink Tea Cup for breakfast. I wear one of Capote’s shirts over my rubber pants and we eat pancakes and bacon with real maple syrup and drink about a gallon of coffee and smoke cigarettes and talk shyly and eagerly about nothing. “Hey,” he says, when the check comes. “Want to go to the zoo?”

“The zoo?”

“I hear they have a new polar bear.”

And suddenly, I do want to go to the zoo with Capote. In my two months in New York, I haven’t done one touristy thing. I haven’t been to the Empire State Building. Or the Statue of Liberty. Or Wollman Rink or the Metropolitan Museum or even the Public Library.

I’ve been sorely remiss. I can’t leave New York without going on the Circle Line.

“I need to do one thing first,” I say.

I get up and head to the restroom. There’s a pay phone on the wall outside the door.

Miranda picks up after the first ring. “Hello?” she asks urgently, as if she’s expecting bad news. She always answers the phone like that. It’s one of the things I love about her.

“I did it!” I squeal triumphantly.

“Carrie? Is that you? Oh my God. What happened? How was it? Did it hurt? How was Bernard?”

“I didn’t do it with Bernard.”

“What?” She gasps. “Who did you do it with? You can’t go out there and pick up some random stranger. Oh no, Carrie. You didn’t. You didn’t pick up some guy at a bar-”

“I did it with Capote,” I say proudly.

“That guy?” I can hear her jaw drop. “I thought you hated him.”

I glance back at Capote. He casually tosses a few bills onto the table. “Not anymore.”

“But what about Bernard?” she demands. “I thought you said Bernard was The One.”

Capote stands up. “Change of plans,” I say quickly. “He couldn’t do it. I had to abort the mission and find another rocket.”

“Carrie, that’s disgusting. Did Samantha tell you to say that? You sound just like her. Oh my God. This is insane. What are you going to do now?”

“Visit the polar bear,” I say, laughing. I gently hang up before she can ask any more questions.

Have I ever been in love? Really in love? And why is it that with each new guy I think I’m more in love with him than the last? I think briefly of Sebastian and smile. What on earth was I doing with him? Or Bernard? I lean over the wall to get a better view of the polar bear. Poor Bernard. He turned out to be even more messed up than I am.

“What are you laughing about?” Capote asks, wrapping his arms around me from behind. We haven’t been able to take our hands off each other, leaning into each other on the subway, walking arm in arm as we strolled up Fifth Avenue, and kissing at the entrance to the zoo. My body has turned to butter. I can’t believe I wasted the whole summer pursuing Bernard instead of Capote.

But maybe Capote wouldn’t like me so much if I hadn’t.

“I’m always laughing,” I say.

“Why?” he asks sweetly.

“Because life is funny.”

At the zoo, we buy hot dogs and polar bear baseball caps. We run down Fifth Avenue, past the old man who sells pencils in front of Saks, which reminds me of the first time I met Miranda. We join a line of tourists inside the Empire State Building and ride the elevator to the top. We look through viewfinders and make out until we’re breathless. We take a taxi back to Capote’s.

We have sex again, and don’t stop until we both realize we’re starving. We go to Chinatown and eat Peking duck, which I’ve never had before, and we wander through SoHo and laugh about how Teensie took a pill at Barry Jessen’s opening and all the other crazy things that have happened to us during the summer. It’s pretty late by now-after midnight-so I figure I’ll spend one more night with him and go home in the morning.

But when morning comes, we still can’t manage to tear ourselves apart. We go back to my place and make love on Samantha’s bed. I change my clothes, stick my toothbrush and a change of underwear into my carpenter’s bag, and we head out to be tourists again. We do the Circle Line and the Statue of Liberty, climbing all the way to the top and laughing about how small it is once you finally get up to the crown, then we go back to Capote’s.

We eat hamburgers at the Corner Bistro and pizza at John’s. I have my first orgasm.

The hours pass in a fuzzy, dreamlike way, mingled with a thread of despair. This can’t last forever. Capote starts a job at a publishing company after Labor Day. And I have to go to Brown.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs.

“I don’t have a choice. I was hoping something would happen with my play and I’d be able to convince my father to let me go to NYU instead.”

“Why don’t you tell him you changed your mind?”

“I’d need a pretty big excuse.”

“Like you met a guy you’re crazy about and want to be with him?”

“He’d have a heart attack. I wasn’t raised to base my decisions on a guy.”

“He sounds like a tough old nut.”

“Nah. You’d like him. He’s a genius. Like you.” Three days with Capote have taught me that what I thought was Capote’s arrogance was simply due to his deep knowledge of literature. Like me, he has a searing belief that books are sacred. They might not be to other people, but when you have a passion, you hold on to it. You defend it. You don’t pretend it isn’t important at the risk of offending others.

And suddenly it’s Wednesday morning. Our last class is today. I’m so weak with sadness I can barely lift my arm to brush my teeth. I’m dreading facing the class. But like so much in life, it turns out I needn’t have worried.

No one really cares.

Ryan and Rainbow are chatting outside the building when Capote and I arrive together. I drop Capote’s hand, thinking it’s not a good idea for people to know about us, but Capote has no such compunction. He takes back my hand and drapes my arm over his shoulder.

“Ho, ho, are you guys an item now?” Ryan asks.

“I don’t know.” I look to Capote for confirmation.

He answers by kissing me on the mouth.

“Gross,” Rainbow declares.

“I was wondering how long it would take for you two to get together,” Ryan says.

“There’s a new club opening on the Bowery,” Rainbow remarks.

“And a reading at Cholly Hammond’s,” Ryan says. “I’ve heard he throws a great party.”

“Anyone want to go to Elaine’s next week?” Capote asks.

And on and on they go, with no mention of the fact that I won’t be around. Or of my play. They’ve probably forgotten it by now anyway.

Or, like me, they’re too embarrassed to mention it.

When in doubt, there’s always plan C: If something really horrible happens, ignore it.

I follow the group inside, trudging my feet. What was it all for, anyway? I made friends with people I’ll probably never see again, dated a man who turned out to be a dud, found a love that can’t be sustained, and spent all summer writing a play that no one will ever see. As my father would say, I didn’t use my time “constructively.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“What’s going to happen with you and Capote?” Miranda demands. “Do you actually think you’re going to have a long-distance relationship? Sounds like a case of the deliberate subconscious-”

“If it’s deliberate, how can it be subconscious?”

“You know what I mean. You choose the end of the summer to fall in love with this guy because secretly, you don’t want it to last .”

I fold the white vinyl jumpsuit and press it into my suitcase. “I don’t think my subconscious is capable of being that conniving.”

“Oh, but it is,” Miranda says. “Your subconscious can make you do all kinds of things. For instance, why are you still wearing his shirt?”

I glance down at the light blue shirt I took from him after our first night. “I forgot I was wearing it.”

“You see?” Miranda says victoriously. “That’s why it’s so important to have analysis.”

“How do you explain Marty, then?”

“Subconscious again.” She flicks her shoulders in dismissal. “I finally realized he wasn’t for me. Even though my conscious was trying to break the pattern, my unconscious knew it wouldn’t work. Plus, I couldn’t go to the bathroom the whole time I was with him.”

“Sounds like your intestines were the problem and not your subconscious.” I yank open a drawer and remove three pairs of socks. Which I haven’t seen since I put them there two months ago. Socks! What was I thinking? I throw them into the suitcase as well.

“Let’s face it, Carrie,” Miranda sighs. “It’s all hopeless.”

Men, or the fact that I have to leave New York? “Isn’t that what they call wish fulfillment?”

“I’m a realist. Just because you had sex once doesn’t mean you have to fall in love,” she mutters. “And I never thought you and Samantha would turn out to be those dopey types who moon over their wedding dresses and the smell of their man’s shirt.”

“First of all, Samantha didn’t even show up for her wedding dress. And secondly-” I break off. “Do you think you’ll visit me in Providence?”

“Why would I want to go there? What do they have in Providence that we don’t have in New York?”

“Me?” I ask mournfully.

“You can visit me anytime,” Miranda says firmly. “You can sleep on the couch if you don’t mind the springs.”

“You know me. I don’t mind anything.”

“Oh, Carrie,” she says sadly.

“I know.”

“Got anything to eat in this place? I’m starving,” she asks.

“Maybe some peanut butter crackers left over from the blackout.”

Miranda goes into the kitchen and returns with the last of the blackout food. “Remember that night?” she asks, tearing open the package.

“How can I forget?” If only I’d known then what I do now. I could have started seeing Capote. We could have been together for two weeks by now.

“What’s Samantha going to do with this place anyway? Now that you’re leaving and she’s getting married?”

“Dunno. Probably find someone like me to rent it.”

“Well, it’s a shame,” Miranda says. I’m not sure if she’s referring to my leaving, or the fact that Samantha wants to hang on to her apartment when she has somewhere much better to live. She munches thoughtfully on a cracker while I continue to pack. “Hey,” she says finally. “Did I tell you about this course I’m going to take? Patriarchial Rituals in Contemporary Life.”

“Sounds interesting,” I say, without much enthusiasm.

“Yeah. We study weddings and stuff like that. Did you know that everything leading up to the wedding-the showers and the registering and picking the ugly bridesmaid dresses-was solely designed to give women something to do back in the days when they didn’t have careers? And also to brainwash them into thinking that they had to get married too?”

“Actually, I didn’t. But it makes sense.”

“What are you going to do? At Brown?” Miranda asks.

“Dunno. Study to be a scientist, I guess.”

“I thought you were going to become some big writer.”

“Look how that turned out.”

“The play wasn’t that bad,” Miranda says, brushing crumbs from her lips. “Have you noticed that ever since you lost your virginity, you’ve been acting like someone died?”

“When my career died, I died along with it.”

“Bullshit,” Miranda declares.

“Why don’t you try standing in front of a room full of people while they laugh at you?”

“Why don’t you stop acting like you’re the biggest thing since sliced bread?”

I gasp.

“Fine,” Miranda says. “If you can’t take constructive criticism-”

“Me? What about you? Half the time your ‘realism’ is just another word for bitterness-”

“At least I’m not a Pollyanna.”

“No, because that would imply that something good might happen-”

“I don’t know why you think everything should be handed to you.”

“You’re just jealous,” I snap.

“Of Capote Duncan?” Her eyes narrow. “That’s be-neath even you, Carrie Bradshaw.”

The phone rings.

“You’d better get it,” Miranda says tightly. “It’s probably him . About to declare his undying love .” She goes into the bathroom and slams the door.

I take a breath. “Hello?”

“Where the hell have you been?” Samantha shrieks.

This is very unlike her. I hold the phone away from my ear. “Were you worried? You’re going to be so proud of me. I lost my virginity.”

“Well, good for you,” she says briskly, which is not the reaction I was expecting. “I’d love to celebrate, but unfortunately, I’ve got a crisis of my own on my hands. I need you to get over to Charlie’s place immediately.”

“But-”

“Just come, okay? Don’t ask questions. And bring Miranda. I need all the help I can get. And could you pick up a box of garbage bags on the way? Make sure they’re the big ones. The kind those pathetic people in the suburbs use for leaves.”

“Enjoy it,” Samantha says, gesturing to her face as she opens the door to Charlie’s apartment. “This is the only time you’re ever going to see me cry.”

“Is that a promise?” Miranda says tartly. We’re still a bit edgy from our almost-fight. If it weren’t for Samantha’s crisis call, we’d probably be at each other’s throats.

“Look,” Samantha says, dabbing her eye and holding out her finger for inspection. “That is an actual tear.”

“Could have fooled me,” I say.

Miranda looks around in awe. “Wow. This place is nice. ”

“Check out the view,” Samantha says. “It’s the last time you’ll see it, too. I’m leaving.”

“What?”

“That’s right,” she says, strolling to the sunken living room. There’s a stunning vista of Central Park. You can practically see right into the duck pond. “The wedding’s off,” she declares. “Charlie and I are over .”

I look at Miranda and roll my eyes. “Surely, this too shall pass,” I murmur, heading to the window for a better view.

“Carrie, I’m serious,” Samantha says. She goes to a glass tray on wheels, picks up a crystal decanter, and pours herself a healthy dose of whiskey. “And I have you to thank for it.” She slugs back her drink and turns on us. “Actually, I have both of you to thank.”

“Me?” Miranda asks. “I’ve hardly even met the guy.”

“But you’re the one who told me to tell him.”

“Tell him what?” Miranda says, mystified.

“About my condition.”

“Which is?”

“You know. The thing,” Samantha hisses. “The lining…”

“Endometriosis?” I ask.

Samantha holds up her hands. “I don’t want to hear that word. Ever again.”

“Endometriosis is hardly a ‘condition,’” Miranda remarks.

“Try telling that to Charlie’s mother.”

“Oh boy.” I realize I could use a drink too. And a cigarette.

“I don’t get it.” Miranda goes to the Plexiglas case that contains Charlie’s collection of sports memorabilia. She leans closer. “Is that a real baseball?”

“What do you think? And yes, that really is Joe DiMaggio’s signature,” Samantha snaps.

“I thought you were picking out China patterns,” Miranda says, as Samantha gives her a look and disappears down the hallway.

“Hey, I just figured something out. You know how Samantha always says Charlie wanted to be a baseball player and his mother wouldn’t let him?” I ask. “Maybe Charlie secretly thinks he’s Joe DiMaggio and Samantha is Marilyn Monroe.”

“That’s right. And remember how Joe DiMaggio always resented Marilyn’s sexuality and tried to turn her into a housewife? It’s practically textbook.”

Samantha returns with a pile of clothes in her arms, which she dumps onto the Ultrasuede couch as she glares at me. “And you’re as much to blame as Miranda. You were the one who told me to be a little more real.”

“I didn’t mean it though. I never thought-”

“Well, here’s what real gets you in New York.” She runs back to the bedroom and returns with another pile, which she drops at our feet. Then she grabs the box of garbage bags, rips one open, and begins frantically shoving clothes into the bag. “This is what it gets you,” she repeats, her voice rising. “A kick in the teeth and fifty cents for the subway.”

“Whoa. Are you serious?” I ask.

She pauses for a moment and thrusts out her arm. “See this?” She indicates a large gold Rolex encrusted with diamonds.

“Is that real too?” Miranda gasps.

“Hold on,” I caution. “Why would someone who’s breaking up with you give you a giant Rolex?”

“You could probably buy a small country with that,” Miranda adds.

Samantha rocks back on her heels. “Apparently, it’s a tradition. When you break off an engagement, you give your ex-fiancée a watch.”

“You should get engaged more often.”

In a fury, Samantha rips off the watch and throws it against the Plexiglas case, where it bounces off harmlessly. Some things are simply indestructible. “How did this happen to me? I had it all figured out. I had New York by the balls. Everything was working. I was so good at being someone else.”

If only we could all put our hearts in a Plexiglas case, I think, as I kneel down next to her. “You weren’t so good about showing up at Kleinfeld,” I say gently.

“That was an exception. One slipup. And I made up for it by telling Glenn I’d be happy to use her decorator to redo the apartment. Even if it meant living with chintz. What’s wrong with a few flowers here and there? I can do roses if I have to-” And suddenly, she bursts into tears. Only this time, they’re real.

“Don’t you get it?” she sobs. “I’ve been rejected. For having faulty fallopian tubes.”

In the annals of dating, being rejected for your fallopian tubes has got to be right up there with-well, you name it, I suppose. But maybe dating in New York really is like what Samantha always says: everything counts, even the things you can’t see.

And what you can see is usually bad enough.

I mentally count the number of garbage bags strewn around Charlie’s apartment. Fourteen. I had to run out and get another box. Two years in a relationship and you can really accumulate a lot of stuff.

“Baggage,” Samantha says, kicking one of the bags out of the way. “All baggage.”

“Hey!” I exclaim. “There are Gucci shoes in that one.”

“Halston, Gucci, Fiorucci? Who cares?” She throws up her hands. “What’s the difference when your entire life has been ripped away?”

“You’ll find someone else,” Miranda says nonchalantly. “You always do.”

“But not someone who will marry me. Everyone knows the only reason a man in Manhattan ever says ‘I do’ is because he wants children.”

“But you don’t know that you can’t have children,” Miranda points out. “The doctor said-”

“Who cares what he said? It’s always going to be the same old story.”

“You don’t know that,” I insist. I grab a bag and pull it toward the door. “And do you really want to spend the rest of your life pretending to be someone you’re not?” I take a breath and gesture at the Plexiglas furnishings. “Surrounded by plastic ?”

“All men are jerks. But you knew that.” Miranda retrieves the watch from under the coffee table. “I guess that’s the last of it,” she says, holding out the Rolex. “Don’t want to leave this behind.”

Samantha carefully weighs the watch in the palm of her hand. Her face scrunches in agony. She takes a deep breath. “Actually, I do.”

She places the watch on the table as Miranda and I look at each other in bewilderment.

“Where’s the bag with the Gucci shoes?” she orders.

“There?” I ask, wondering what’s come over her.

She rips open the bag and dumps out two pairs of loafers. “And the Chanel suit. Where’s that?”

“I think it’s in here,” Miranda says cautiously, pushing a bag into the center of the room.

“What are you doing?” I ask anxiously, as Samantha extracts the Chanel suit and places it on the table next to the watch.

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“I have no idea.” I look to Miranda for help, but she’s as mystified as I am.

Samantha finds a tennis dress, and holds it up, laughing. “Did I tell you Charlie wanted me to take tennis lessons? So I could play with Glenn. In Southampton. As if I would actually enjoy hitting balls with that mummy. She’s sixty-five years old and she says she’s fifty. Like anyone’s going to believe that .”

“Well-” I sneak another glance at Miranda, who shakes her head, stupefied.

“Do you want this, Sparrow?” Samantha tosses me the tennis dress.

“Sure,” I say hesitantly.

I’m wondering what to do with it, when Samantha suddenly changes her mind and rips it out of my hands. “On second thought, no ,” she shouts, hurling the dress onto the pile. “Don’t take it. Don’t make the same mistake I did.”

She continues on in this vein, tearing through the bags and removing every item of clothing from her life with Charlie. The pile gets bigger and bigger, while Miranda and I watch in concern. I bite my lip. “Are you really going to leave all this stuff?”

“What do you think, Sparrow?” she says. She pauses and takes a deep breath, hands on her hips. She tilts her head, and gives me a fierce smile.

“It’s baggage. And even if I’m not the most real person in the world, I’ll tell you one thing about Samantha Jones. She can’t be bought. At any price.”

“Remember when I first moved here and you made me pour that carton of milk down the drain because you said the smell made you sick?” I ask, rearranging myself on the futon. It’s two a.m. and we’re finally back at Samantha’s apartment. All the packing and unpacking has me beat.

“Did she really do that?” Miranda asks.

“Oh yeah.” I nod.

“Adults shouldn’t drink milk anyway.” Samantha exhales as she throws back her head in relief. “Thank God that’s over. If these fallopian tubes could talk-”

“Luckily, they can’t.” I get up and go into the bedroom. I look at my own meager belongings, and with a sigh, open my suitcase.

“Sparrow?” Samantha calls. “What are you doing?”

“Packing,” I say loudly. “I’m leaving tomorrow, remember?” I stand in the doorway. “And after this summer, I really don’t think I’m a sparrow anymore. Haven’t I graduated by now?”

“You have indeed,” Samantha agrees. “I now declare you a pigeon. The official bird of New York City.”

“The only bird in New York City,” Miranda giggles. “Hey, it’s better than being a rat. Did you know that in China, rats are good luck?”

“I love the Chinese.” Samantha smiles. “Did you know they invented pornography?”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“Stanford White,” Capote says. “He designed the original Pennsylvania Station. It was one of the most beautiful buildings in the world. But in 1963 some idiot sold the air rights and they tore it down to put up this monstrosity.”

“That is so sad,” I murmur, riding down the escalator behind him. “I wonder if it smelled as bad then as it does now.”

“What?” he asks loudly, over the hubbub.

“Nothing.”

“I always wish I could have lived in New York at the turn of the century,” he says.

“I’m glad I was able to live here at all.”

“Yeah. I don’t think I’d ever be able to leave New York,” he adds, his words causing another jolt of despair.

All morning we’ve been saying the wrong things to each other, when we’ve managed to say anything at all.

I’ve been studiously trying to bring up the future, while Capote keeps studiously avoiding it.

Hence the history lesson about Penn Station.

“Listen,” I begin.

“Look at the time,” he says quickly, nodding at the clock. “You don’t want to miss your train.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was trying to get rid of me.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” I venture, shuffling in line to buy my ticket.

“Yeah. It was great.” For a moment he yields, and I see the little boy in him.

“You could come and visit me in Providence-”

“Sure,” he says. I can tell by the way his eyes dart to the side that it’s never going to happen, though. He’ll have found another girl by then. But if I weren’t leaving, maybe I could have been The One.

He has to find her someday, right?

I purchase my ticket. Capote picks up my suitcase as I buy copies of The New York Times and the Post . I won’t be doing that for a while, I think sourly. We find the escalator to my gate. As we descend, I’m filled with a blinding emptiness. This is it, I think. The End.

“All aboard,” the conductor shouts.

I place one foot on the step and pause. If only Capote would rush forward, grab my arm, and pull me back to him. If only there was a sudden blackout. If only something would happen-anything-to prevent me from getting on that train.

I look back over my shoulder and find Capote in the crowd.

He waves.

The trip to Hartford is three hours. For the first hour, I’m a puddle of misery. I can’t believe I’ve left New York. I can’t believe I’ve left Capote. What if I never see him again?

It isn’t right. It’s not the way it’s supposed to be. Capote should have declared his undying love.

“Should,” I suddenly recall myself saying to Samantha and Miranda, “is the worst word in the English language. People always think things ‘should’ be a certain way, and when they’re not, they’re disappointed.”

“What happened to you?” Samantha asked. “You had sex and now you know everything?”

“I not only had sex, I had an orgasm,” I said proudly.

“Oh, honey, welcome to the club,” Samantha exclaimed. And then she turned to Miranda. “Don’t worry. Someday you’ll have one too.”

“How do you know I haven’t?” Miranda shrieked.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat. Maybe it’s okay about Capote. Just because something doesn’t last forever, it doesn’t mean it wasn’t meaningful while it did last. It doesn’t mean it wasn’t important.

And what’s more important than your first guy? Hey, I could have done a lot worse.

And suddenly, I feel free.

I shuffle through my newspapers and open the New York Post . And that’s when I spot my name.

I frown. It can’t be. Why is my name in Page Six? Then I look at the title of the piece: “Disaster and Plaster.”

I drop the paper like I’ve been bitten.

When the train pulls into New Haven for a twenty-minute layover, I race out of my compartment and run to the nearest phone booth. I catch Samantha in her office, and shaking and spluttering manage to ask if she’s seen the Post .

“Yes, Carrie, I did. And I thought it was terrific.”

“What?” I scream.

“Calm down. You can’t take these things so personally. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

“They said my reading was the worst thing they’ve seen since their high school Christmas pageant.”

“Who cares?” she purrs. “They’re probably jealous. You got a mention for your first play in New York City. Aren’t you excited?”

“I’m mortified .”

“That’s too bad. Because Cholly Hammond called. He’s been trying to get in touch with you for days. He wants you to call him immediately.”

“Why?”

“Oh, Sparrow,” she sighs. “How should I know? But he said it was important. I’ve got to go. I’ve got Harry Mills in my office-” And she hangs up.

I stare at the phone. Cholly Hammond? What can he want?

I count out more change. Normally, the cost of making a long-distance call from a pay phone would be a problem, but I happen to be kind of flush right now. In the spirit of Samantha, I sold my brand-new, never used Chanel bag to the nice man at the vintage shop for two hundred and fifty dollars. I knew the money wasn’t near what it was worth, but I wouldn’t need the bag at Brown. And besides, I was kind of happy to get rid of it.

Baggage.

I drop several quarters into the slot. The phone is answered by a bright young thing.

“Is Cholly there?” I ask, giving my name.

Cholly immediately gets on the line.

“Little one!” he exclaims, like I’m his long-lost friend.

“Cholly!” I reply.

“I saw your mention in the Post and found it very intriguing,” he enthuses. “Especially as I’ve been thinking about you for weeks. Ever since I sat next to you at Barry Jessen’s opening.”

My heart sinks. Here we go again. Another old geezer who wants to get into my pants.

“I kept musing about our oh-so-amusing conversation. Pun intended.”

“Is that so?” I ask, trying to recall what I might have said that could be so memorable.

“And since I’m always on the lookout for something new, I thought, wouldn’t it be interesting to try to get some younger readers to The New Review ? And who better to capture them than a young woman herself? In a sort of column, if you will. New York through the eyes of an ingenue.”

“I don’t know how good it would be. Given how badly my play went over.”

“Goodness gracious,” he exclaims. “But that’s the whole point. If it had been a swimming success, I wouldn’t be calling you. Because the whole idea behind this enterprise is that Carrie Bradshaw never wins.”

“Excuse me?” I gasp.

“Carrie never wins. That’s the fun of it, don’t you see? It’s what keeps her going.”

“But what about love? Does she ever win at love?”

“Especially not at love.”

I hesitate. “That sounds like a curse, Cholly.”

He laughs loud and long. “You know what they say: One man’s curse is another man’s opportunity. So what do you say? Can we meet in my office this afternoon at three?”

“In New York?”

“Where else?” he says.

Whoo-hooo, I think, swaying through the first-class cabin on the train headed back to the city. The seats are enormous and covered in red velvet and there’s a paper napkin on each headrest. There’s even a special compartment where you can stash your suitcase. It’s a heck of a lot nicer than coach.

“Always go first-class.” I hear Samantha’s voice in my head.

“But only if you can pay for it yourself,” Miranda counters.

Well, I am paying for it myself. Via Bernard and his lovely gift. But what the hell? I deserve it.

Maybe I’m not a failure after all.

I don’t know how long I’ll stay in New York, or what my father will do when I tell him. But I’ll worry about that later. For the moment, all I care about is one simple fact: I’m going back.

I teeter up the aisle, looking for a place to sit and someone decent to sit next to. I pass a balding man, and a lady who’s knitting. Then I spot a pretty girl with a luxurious mane of hair, flipping through a copy of Brides magazine.

Brides. She’s got to be kidding. I take the seat next to her.

“Oh hi!” she says eagerly, moving her bag. I smile. She’s just as sweet as I thought she’d be, given that gorgeous hair.

“I’m so glad to get you as a seatmate,” she whispers intimately, looking around. “The last time I took the train to New York, this creepy guy sat right next to me. He actually tried to put his hand on my leg. Can you believe it? I had to move my seat three times.”

“That’s terrible,” I say.

“I know.” She nods, wide-eyed.

I smile. “Getting married?” I ask, indicating her magazine.

She blushes. “Not exactly. I mean, not yet. But I hope to be engaged in a couple of years. My boyfriend works in New York. On Wall Street.” She ducks her head prettily. “My name’s Charlotte, by the way.”

“Carrie,” I say, holding out my hand.

“What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

I burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” she says, confused. “They say Paris is romantic, but I think New York is romantic too. And the men-”

I laugh even harder.

“Well, really,” she says primly. “If you’re going to laugh the whole way to New York… I don’t see what’s so funny about going to New York to find love.”

I howl.

“Well?” she demands.

I wipe away my tears. I sit back and cross my arms. “Do you really want to know about love in New York?”

“Yes, I do.” Her tone is curious and a little bit cautious.

The train toots its horn as I lean forward in my seat.

“Sweetie,” I say, with a smile. “Have I got a story for you .”