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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hel lo ,” I say in a singsong voice.

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

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

“Why would you? Ryan invited me.”

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

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

Capote looks at me accusingly. “Nice job.”

“What’d I do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you come to the reading?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

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

I frown. “I might have. But-”

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

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

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

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

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

“But your feet are bigger than mine.”

“You can put tissue in the toes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maggie!” I yip.

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

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

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

“You are ?”

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

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

“Maggie?” someone asks in the background.

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

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

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

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

Surely she has to be impressed.

Chapter Thirteen

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

“Isn’t it great?”

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

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

She exhales. “It’s so small.”

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

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

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

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

“It’s only a joke.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You look great!”

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