"I work out six hours a day," he was saying, when Stanford interrupted him. "Excuse me," he said, "but who decorated Milo glared at him.
"No, I mean it," Stanford said. "I'm thinking of buying a private jet, and I want to be sure to get the right decorator."
Carrie was sitting at a table, eating her way through a pile of stone crab claws and shrimp. She was talking to Rock, and they were both being horrible httle cats, whispering jokes about the party and laughing, being more and more obnoxious. Mr. Big was sitting next to Carrie, talking to Tyler, who had two women draped over him. Carrie looked at Tyler and thought, I am so glad I don't have to deal with a man hke that.
She went back to her shrimp. And then there was a sort of mini commotion and a blond girl came over, waving her arms and talking in some kind of accent, and Carrie thought, Uh oh, I've heard that voice before, and decided to ignore it.
The girl came over and practically sat in Mr. Big's lap. They were both laughing about something. Carrie didn't turn around.
Then someone said to Mr. Big, "How long have you two known each other?"
"I don't know. How long?" the girl said to Mr. Big.
"Maybe two years?" Mr. Big said.
"We bonded at Le Palais. In Paris," the girl said.
Carrie turned. She smiled. "Hello Ray," she said. "What did you do? Give him one of your famous blow jobs in the corner?"
There was a moment of shocked silence, and then everyone began laughing hysterically, except Ray. "What are you talking about? What do you mean?" she went on and on in her stupid accent.
"It's a joke," Carrie said. "Don't you get it?"
"If that's your idea of humor, honey, it's
not
funny."
"Really," Carrie said. "So sorry. Everyone else seems to think it was hysterical. Now, if you don't mind removing yourself from my boyfriend's lap, I'll get back to my conversation."
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"Shit," Carrie said. She went to find him, but instead she ran into another commotion. Stanford was in the middle of the room, screaming. There was a blond man standing there, and behind him was the Bone.
"You cheap little slut," Stanford was saying to the Bone. "Did anyone ever tell you what a slut you were? How could you take up with this kind of trash?"
"Hey," the Bone said. "I just met the guy. He asked me to a party. He's a friend."
"Oh please," Stanford said. "Please. Somebody bring me a drink so I can throw it in your face."
Ray walked by with Skipper Johnson in tow. "I've always wanted my own TV show," she was saying. "By the way, did I tell you that I've had a child? I can do things with my pussy that no woman has ever done to you before."
After that, Carrie made everyone go into the bathroom and smoke marijuana, then they came out and she danced wildly with Mr. Big, and people kept coming up to them saying, "You two are the best dancers."
They left the party at one, and a bunch of people went back to their house. Carrie kept drinking and smoking pot until she could hardly walk, then she went into the bathroom and threw up and lay on the floor. She threw up again and Mr. Big came in and tried to hold her head, and she said, "Don'toush'me," and he made her get into bed and she climbed out and went back into the bathroom and threw up again. Eventually she crawled into the bedroom. She lay on the floor next to the bed for a while, and when she could lift her head, she got into bed and passed out, knowing that there were little chunks of vomit in her hair and not caring.
It was a cold, clear night. Stanford Blatch wandered in and out among the private planes in the Aspen airport. He passed the Lear jets and the Gulf Streams, the Citations and the Challengers. And as he passed each one, he touched the tail numbers, looking for a number he recognized. Looking for a
SHE STARTED CRYING
"I'm not stupid, you know," Mr. Big said. They were sitting in first class. Going back. "I know," Carrie said.
Mr. Big took a sip of his bloody mary. He took out his paperback book. "You know, I'm actually very perceptive." "Uh huh," Carrie said. "How's the book?" "Not much gets by me."
"Of course not," Carrie said. "That's why you make so much money."
"I'm aware of all kinds of things going on under the surface," Mr.
Big said. "And I know you hked that guy."
Carrie took a sip of her drink. "Mmmmm," she said. "What guy?"
"You know exactly who I mean. Tyler."
"Tyler?" Carrie said. She took out her book. Opened it. "I thought he was nice. And, you know. Interesting. But so what."
"You liked him," Mr. Big said casually. He opened his book.
Carrie pretended to read. "I hked him as a friend."
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"I was there. I saw everything. It would be better if you didn't he," he said.
"O-kay," Carrie said. "I was attracted to him. A
little
bit," and as soon as she said it she reahzed it was a mistake, she hadn't been attracted to him at all.
"I'm a grownup," Mr. Big said. He put down his book and crossed his legs. He took out a magazine from the pocket in front of him. "I can take it. It doesn't hurt me. Go back. Go back to him and live with him in his fort. You can live in a fort and shoot bows and arrows all day."
"But I don't want to live in a fort," Carrie said. She started crying. She cried into her hand with her head turned toward the window. "Why are you doing this?" she asked. "You're trying to get rid of me. You're making all this stuff up in your head so you can get rid of me."
"You
said
you were attracted to him."
"A little b i t "
Carrie hissed. "And only because you made me say it.
I knew this was going to happen. I knew it." She sobbed. "As soon as we saw him, I knew you were going to think that I liked him and I never would have even thought of liking him if you didn't act like you thought I did. So then I have to spend the whole time acting like I don't like him so you don't get upset and the stupid thing is that I don't even like him to begin with. At all."
"I don't believe you," Mr. Big said.
"It's the truth. Oh Jesus," Carrie said. She turned away and cried a little more, and then she leaned over and whispered loudly in his ear, "I'm totally crazy about you and you know it. I would never want to be with anyone else. And it isn't fair. It isn't fair, you acting like this." She opened up her book.
Mr. Big patted her hand. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Now
Vm
mad," she said.
They'd been back in New York two days when Carrie got a call from Samantha Jones. "Soooooo," she said. "So what?" Carrie asked.
"Anything big happen in Aspen?" she asked, in this creepy, cooing voice.
"Like what?" Carrie asked.
"I was convinced you were going to come back engaged."
"Nooooo," Carrie said. She leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on the desk. "Why on earth would you think that?"
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"Hey! Come to a party." Samantha Jones; she was calling Carrie from an art gallery in SoHo. "I haven't seen you in ages."
"I don't know," Carrie said. "I told Mr. Big I might make him dinner. He's out now, at a cocktail party . . . "
"He's out and you're waiting at home for him? Oh come
on/9
Samantha said. "He's a big boy. He can get his own dinner."
"There's the plants too."
"Plants?"
"Houseplants, actually," Carrie said. "I've developed this strange obsession. Some houseplants are grown for their foliage, but I'm not interested in foliage, only flowers."
"Flowers," Sam said. "Cute." She laughed her clear, bell-ringing laugh. "Get in a cab. You'll be gone half an hour, forty-five minutes at most."
When Carrie got to the party, Sam said, "Don't you look nice.
Just hke a newcaster."
"Thank you," Carrie said. "It's my new look. Early Stepford wife." She was wearing a powder blue suit with a skirt that came to her knees and fifties-style satin pumps.
"Champagne?" Sam asked, as a waiter slid by with a tray.
"No thanks. I'm trying not to drink," Carrie said.
"Good. I'll take yours then." Sam picked up two glasses off the tray. She nodded across the room at a tall, tanned woman with short blond hair. "See that girl?" she asked. "She's one of those girls who has a perfect life. Married at twenty-five to Roger, the guy next to her. The screenplay writer. His last three movies have been hits. She was just a girl, like us, not a model but beautiful—she met Roger, who I think is adorable, smart, sexy, nice, and really funny, she's never had to work, they have two kids and a nanny and a great apartment in the city and the perfect house in the Hamptons, and she's never had to worry about anything."
"So?"
"So, I hate her," Sam said. "Except, of course, she's really nice."
"What's not to be nice about?"
They watched the girl. The way she moved around the room, making small bits of conversation, leaning forward to giggle in someone's ear. Her clothes were right, her makeup was right, her hair was right, and she had about her the sort of ease that comes with a sense of unchallenged entitlement. She looked up, saw Sam and waved.
"How are you?" she asked Sam enthusiastically, coming over. "I haven't seen you since . . . the last party."
"Your husband's really big time now, isn't he?" Sam said.
"Oh yes," she said. "Last night we had dinner with-,"
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she said, naming a well-known Hollywood director. "I know you're not supposed to be starstruck, but it was really exciting," she said, looking at Carrie.
"And what about you?" Sam asked. "How are the kids?"
"Great. And I just got money to make my first documentary."
"Really?" Sam said. She hiked her bag up onto her shoulder.
"About what?"
"This year's female political candidates. I've got some Hollywood actresses who are interested in narrating. We're going to take it to one of the networks. I'm going to have to spend a lot of time in Washington, so I told Roger and the kids they were just going to have to do without me."
"How will they manage?" Sam asked.
"Well, Sam, that's what I ask myself about you," the girl said. "I mean, with this project, I couldn't do it if I wasn't married. Roger's given me so much
self-confidence.
Anytime something goes wrong, I run into his office, screaming. I couldn't handle it if I didn't have him. I'd crumple up and never take any real risks. I don't know how you girls do it, being single for years and years."
"That makes me sick," Sam said, when the girl walked away.
"Why should she get money for doing a documentary? She's never done a fucking thing in her life."
"Everybody's a rock star," Carrie said.
"I think Roger's going to need some company while she's away,"
Sam said. "I'd definitely marry a guy like that."
"You'd only marry a guy like that," Carrie said, lighting a cigarette. "A guy who was already married."
"You're full of shit," Sam said.
"Going out afterward?" Carrie asked.
"Dinner with-," Sam said, naming a well-known artist. "Going home?"
"I told Big I'd cook him dinner."
"That's so cute. Cooking dinner," Sam said.
"Yeah. Sure," Carrie said. She mashed out her cigarette and went through a revolving door onto the street.
A RELATIONSHIP? HOW SILLY
Sam was having a big week. "Did you ever have one of those weeks when, I don't know how to explain it, you walk into a room and every guy wants to be with you?" she asked Carrie.
Sam went to a party where she bumped into a guy she hadn't seen for about seven years. He was one of those guys who, seven years ago, every woman on the Upper East Side
connected family, dated models. Now, he said, he was looking for a relationship.
At the party, Sam let him back her into a corner. He'd had a few drinks. "I always thought you were so beautiful," he said. "But I was scared of you."
"Scared? Of me?" Sam laughed.
"You were smart. And tough. I thought you'd rip me to shreds."
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thought I wouldn't be able to keep up." "And now?" "I don't know."
"I like it when men think I'm smarter than they are," Sam said.
"Because it's usually true."
They went to dinner. More drinks. "God, Sam," he said. "I can't believe I'm with you."
"Why not?" Sam said, holding her cocktail glass high in the air.
"I kept reading about you in the papers. I kept wanting to get in touch with you. But I thought, She's famous now."
"I'm not famous," Sam said. "I don't even want to
be
famous,"
and they started making out.
Sam touched his unmentionable, and it was a big one. A really big one. "There's just something about those really, really big ones,"
she said later to Carrie. "They make you want to have sex."
"So did you?" Carrie asked.