Candace Bushnell - Summer and the City

“And then what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The main course is almost ready.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doesn’t have a clue.” She smiles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why is Samantha keeping you hidden back here?”

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

“Listen, Cholly-”

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

“Are you going to tell?”

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

“And?”

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

“Oh, sweetie.”

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

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

She nods. “That’s a good idea.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” I exclaim.

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

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

“Cheese.”

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

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

“Guess.” She grins.

“You went to a rally? In Washington?”

“Nope. Guess again.”

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

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

“Huh?” I stub out the cigarette.

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

“Hold on. You met a guy?”

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

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

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

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

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

“ What? ”

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

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

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