SUBURBAN SURPRISE: BIDET
Carrie stood up and yawned. “Does anyone know where the bathroom is?”
Carrie did not go to the bathroom. Nor was she as drunk as she appeared to be. Instead, she tiptoed up the stairs, carpeted with an oriental runner, and thought that if she were Jolie, she would probably know what kind of oriental rug it was because that was the kind of stuff you were supposed to know if you were married to a rich banker and making him a home in the suburbs.
She went into Jolie’s bedroom. There was a thick white carpet on the floor and photographs everywhere in silver frames, some professional-looking shots of Jolie in a bathing suit, her long blond hair swinging over her shoulders.
Carrie stared at those photographs for a long time. What was it like to be Jolie? How did it happen? How did you find someone who fell in love with you and gave you all this? She was thirty-four and she’d never even come close, and there was a good chance she never would.
And this was the kind of life she’d grown up believing she could have, simply because she wanted it. But the men you wanted didn’t want it, or you; and the men who did want it were too boring. She went into the bathroom. Floor-to-ceiling black marble. A bidet. Maybe suburban husbands wouldn’t play ball unless their wives were just-washed, unlike guys in the city. Then she almost screamed.
There was a fourteen-by-seventeen color photograph of Jolie, Demi Moore–style, naked save for a skimpy negligee that was open in the front to reveal humongous tits and a huge belly. Jolie was staring proudly into the camera, her hand resting just above her belly button, which had been pushed straight out like a little stem. Carrie flushed the toilet and ran breathless down the stairs.
“We’re opening presents,” Brigid scolded.
Carrie sat down in a chair next to Miranda. “What’s your problem?” Miranda asked.
“Photograph. In the master bathroom. Check it out,” Carrie said.
“Excuse me,” Miranda said, leaving the room.
“What are you two doing?” Jolie asked.
“Nothing,” Carrie said. She looked at the bride-to-be, who was holding up a pair of red silk, crotchless panties bordered in black lace. Everyone was laughing. Which is what you do at showers.
“I’M SHAKING”
“Could you believe the photograph?” Miranda asked. They were rocking gently on the train back to the city.
“If I ever get pregnant,” Belle said, “I’m going to stay inside for nine months. I will see no one.”
“I think I could get into it,” Sarah said moodily, staring out the window. “They’ve got houses and cars and nannies. Their lives look so manageable. I’m jealous.”
“What do they do all day? That’s what I want to know,” Miranda said.
“They don’t even have sex,” Carrie said. She was thinking about her new boyfriend, Mr. Big. Right now, things were great, but after a year, or two years—if it even lasted that long—then what happened?
“You wouldn’t believe the story I heard about Brigid,” Belle said. “While you guys were upstairs, Jolie pulled me into the kitchen. ‘Be nice to Brigid,’ she said. ‘She just found her husband, Tad, in flagrante with another woman.’”
The other woman was Brigid’s next door neighbor, Susan. Susan and Tad both worked in the city and for the last year had carpooled to and from the train each day. When Brigid found them, it was ten in the evening and they were both drunk in the car, parked at the cul-de-sac at the end of the street. Brigid had been out walking the dog.
She yanked open the car door and tapped Tad on his naked bum. “Wheaton has the flu and wants to say good night to his daddy,” she said, then went back inside.
For the next week, she continued to ignore the situation, while Tad became more and more agitated, sometimes calling her ten times a day from his office. Every time he tried to bring it up, she brought up something about their two children. Finally, on Saturday night, when Tad was getting stoned and mixing up margaritas on the deck, she told him. “I’m pregnant again. Three months. So we shouldn’t have to worry about a miscarriage this time. Aren’t you happy, dear?” Then she took the pitcher of margaritas and poured it over his head.
“Typical,” Carrie said, cleaning under her fingernails with the edge of a matchbook.
“I’m just so happy I can trust my husband,” Belle said.
“I’m shaking,” Miranda said. They saw the city, dusky and brown, looming up as the train went over a bridge. “I need a drink. Anyone coming?”
After three cocktails at Ici, Carrie called Mr. Big.
“Yo, yo,” he said. “What up.”
“It was awful,” she giggled. “You know how much I hate those kinds of things. All they talked about was babies and private schools and how this friend of theirs got blackballed from the country club and how one of their nannies crashed a new Mercedes.”
She could hear Mr. Big puffing away on his cigar. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll get used to it,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
She turned and looked back to their table. Miranda had shanghaied two guys from another table, one of whom was already in deep conversation with Sarah.
“Gimme shelter—in Bowery Bar,” she said, and hung up.
11
Babes Flee Land of Wives for Night of Topless Fun
Bad things can happen to city women when they come back from visiting their newly married-with-children friends in the suburbs.
The morning after Carrie, Miranda, Belle, and Sarah returned from a bridal shower in Greenwich, there were phone calls.
Sarah had broken her ankle rollerblading at four in the morning. Miranda had had sex with some guy in a closet at a party, and they didn’t use condoms. Carrie had done something so ridiculous she was sure her short relationship with Mr. Big was over. And no one could find Belle.
THE BOLD FELLOW
Miranda hadn’t meant to go nuts at the party, to go into what she calls “my Glenn Close imitation.”
“I was just going to go home and get a good night’s sleep and wake up and work on Sunday.” That was the great thing about not being married, not having kids, being alone. You could work on Sunday.
But Sarah made her go to the party. “There could be good contacts there,” Sarah had said. Sarah, with her own PR company, was constantly on the lookout for “contacts,” which could also translate to “dates.” The party was on East 64th Street. Some rich old guy’s town house. Women in their thirties wearing black dresses and all with practically the same color blond hair. That type of woman always went to parties at rich old guys’ houses, and they always brought their girlfriends, so there were squadrons of these women looking for men and pretending not to.
Sarah disappeared into the throng. Miranda was left standing by the bar. She had dark, wavy hair, and she was wearing leggings with the boot part sewn in, so she stuck out.
Two girls walked by her, and Miranda—maybe she is a little paranoid—swore that one of them said, “That’s that girl, Miranda Hobbes. She’s a total bitch.”
So Miranda said, out loud, but so no one could hear, “That’s right, I am a real bitch, honey, but thank God I’m not like you.” Then she remembered how at the end of the long afternoon in the suburbs, the low-fat carrot cake with low-fat cream cheese frosting had been served with tiny sterling forks with prongs so sharp they could break the skin.
A man came up to her. Expensively tailored suit. Okay, he wasn’t exactly a man because he was only about thirty-five. But he was trying. She was making the bartender give her a double vodka tonic, and the man said, “Thirsty, eh?”
“No. What I really want is a steak. Okay?”
“I will get you one,” the man said, and it turned out he had a French accent.
“I will let you know,” she said, and tried to walk away. She didn’t want to have anything to do with the party. She was tired of feeling like she didn’t fit in, but she didn’t want to go home, either, because she was tired of being
lonely and she was a little drunk.
“My name is Guy,” he said. “I own a gallery on 79th Street.”
She sighed and said, “Of course you do.”
“Perhaps you have heard of it.”
“Listen, Guy . . .,” she said.
“Yes?” he asked eagerly.
“Can you touch your asshole with your dick?”
Guy smiled slyly. He moved closer. Put his hand on her shoulder. “But of course.”
“Then I suggest you go fuck yourself.”
“A come-on!” Guy said, and Miranda wondered if he was really that stupid, or if he just seemed stupid because he was French. He grabbed her hand and began pulling her up the stairs; she went along because she figured that any guy who could keep his cool after being insulted couldn’t be that bad. They ended up in the rich old guy’s bedroom, which had a red silk cover on the bed, and then this Guy character had some cocaine. And then, somehow, they ended up kissing. People kept coming in and out of the bedroom.
For some reason, they went into the walk-in closet. Old pine paneling, racks for jackets and trousers, shelves for cashmere sweaters and shoes. Miranda checked the labels: Savile Row—boring. Then she turned around, and Guy was standing right there. Then there was the groping. The leggings came down. Out popped the bold fellow.
“How big?” Carrie asked her on the phone.
“Big. And French,” Miranda said. (How could she?)
And then, afterward, he said, “Hey, darling, you’d better not tell my girlfriend.” As he stuck his tongue in her mouth one final time.
It all came spilling out: the girlfriend whom he’d lived with for two years, and they were engaged, sort of, but he really didn’t know if he wanted to get married, but she was living with him, so what could he do?
And then it was Glenn Close without the rabbit.
The next day, Guy tracked down Miranda’s number and called her, wanting to see her again. “And this is what we have to choose from,” Miranda said.
NEWBERT GETS WORRIED
At noon, Belle’s husband, Newbert, called Carrie to see if she’d seen Belle.
“If she were dead, I’d know about it,” Carrie said.
A ROLLERBLADE INGENUE
Then there was Sarah, who, according to Miranda, went rollerblading in her basement at four A.M. Drunk. Thirty-eight years old. A grown woman clinging to the role of ingenue. Is there anything less attractive? I don’t think so.
But what is Sarah supposed to do? She is 38, and she’s not married, and she’d like to be with someone. And men, as we know from this column, are attracted to youth. Even the women at the bridal shower, older than Sarah now, were younger than she is when they got married. It may not be an option for her anymore. So she rollerblades with a twenty-five year old in her basement. Instead of having sex with him. He wants to; she is afraid he’ll think her body’s too old.
“Oh hi-i-i,” Sarah says, when Carrie calls her in the afternoon. She’s laid up on the couch in her tiny but perfect one-bedroom apartment in a high-rise just west of Second Avenue. “Oh I’m fi-i-i-ne. Can you believe it?” she sounds unnaturally cheerful. “Just a little broken ankle. And the cutest doctors in the emergency room. And Luke with me the whole time.”
“Luke?”
“Lucas really. The cutest guy. My little friend.” She’s giggling. A horrifying sound.
“Where did you get the rollerblades?”
“Oh, he came on them. To the party. Isn’t that cute?”
The cast comes off in six weeks. In the meantime, Sarah will have to hobble around, running her PR business as best she can. She has no disability insurance. The business runs on a shoestring.
Is this better or worse than being married and living in the suburbs? Better or worse?
Who can tell.
BELLE AT THE CARLYLE
Belle calls from the Carlyle. Mentions something about a wide receiver from the Miami Dolphins. At Frederick’s. Mentions something about her husband, Newbert, and some spaghetti sauce. “I make great spaghetti sauce,” she says. “I’m a great wife.” Carrie agrees.
Anyway, after she got home from the bridal shower, she and Newbert had a fight. Belle ran away, went to Frederick’s, the nightclub. The wide receiver was at Frederick’s. He kept telling her that her husband didn’t love her enough. “He does. You don’t understand,” she said. “I’d love you more,” he said. She laughed, ran away again, booked herself a suite in the Carlyle. She says, “Cocktails are being served. Now.”
She says she thinks maybe Newbert is upset because he’s just sent out his novel. She thinks maybe Newbert is upset because she doesn’t want to have kids. Not until he sells his novel. When she gets pregnant, it will all be over. So better to have a good time now.
ALL ROADS LEAD TO BABY DOLL
After the bridal shower, and after checking in on the phone with her new boyfriend, Mr. Big, Carrie went to Bowery Bar. Samantha Jones, the fortyish movie producer was there. Carrie’s best friend. Sometimes.
Barkley, the twenty-five-year-old up-and-coming artist and model chaser, had inserted himself at Samantha’s table.
“I’d love it if you’d stop by my loft sometime,” Barkley said, flipping his blond hair out of his eyes.
Samantha was smoking a Cuban cigar. She took a drag and blew the thick smoke in Barkley’s face. “I’ll bet you would. But what makes you think I’d like your little paintings.”
“Well, you don’t have to like my paintings,” Barkley said. “You could just like me.”
Samantha grinned evilly. “I don’t bother with men under thirty-five. They’re not experienced enough for my tastes.”
“Try me,” Barkley said. “If not, at least buy me a drink.”
“We’re leaving,” Samantha said. “We have to find a new hangout.”
They found one. The Baby Doll Lounge. Strip joint in TriBeCa. They couldn’t shake Barkley, so they let him come along. It might be good to have a guy with them at a topless bar. Plus, he had smoke. They smoked in the cab, and when they got out at the Baby Doll Lounge, Sam grabbed Carrie’s arm (Sam almost never did stuff like that) and said, “I really want to know about Mr. Big. I’m not sure he’s the right man for you.”
Carrie had to think about whether she wanted to answer or not, because it was always like this between her and Sam. Just when she was happy with a man, Sam would come along and insert those doubts, like driving a crowbar between two pieces of wood. She said, “I don’t know. I think I’m crazy about him.”
Sam said, “But does he really know how great you are? How great I think you are?”
Carrie thought, “Someday, Sam and I will sleep with the same man at once, but not tonight.”
The bartender, a woman, came over and said, “It’s so nice to see women in here again,” and began pouring them free drinks. That was always a problem. Then Barkley was trying to have a discussion. About how he really wanted to be a director and how that was what all the artists were doing anyway, so why shouldn’t he just skip the boring artist part and start directing?
Two girls were dancing on the stage. They looked like real women, and they didn’t look so good—small saggy breasts and big bottoms. By now, Barkley was screaming, “But I’m better than David Salle! I’m a fucking genius!”
“Oh, yeah? Says who?” Sam screamed back.
“We’re all fucking geniuses,” Carrie said. Then she went to the bathroom.
You had to walk through a tiny slot in between the two stages, and then downstairs. The bathroom had a gray wooden door that wouldn’t shut properly, and broken tiles. She thought about Greenwich. Marriage. Kids.
“I’m not ready,” she thought.
She went upstairs, and she took her clothes off and got up on the stage and started to dance. Samantha was staring at her, laughing, but by the time the bartender came over and politely told her to get down, Sam wasn’t laughing anymore.
The next morning, Mr. Big called at eight A.M. He was going to play golf. He
sounded tense. “When did you get home?” he asked. “What did you do?”
“Not much,” she said. “Went to Bowery. And then this other place. The Baby Doll Lounge.”
“Oh yeah? Do anything special there?”
“Had too much to drink.” She laughed.
“Nothing else you want to tell me?”
“No, not really,” Carrie said in the little-girl voice she used when she wanted to soothe him. “What about you?”
“I got a phone call this morning,” he said. “Someone said they saw you dancing topless at the Baby Doll Lounge.”
“Oh. Really?” she said. “How did they know it was me?”
“They knew.”
“Are you mad?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
“Are you mad?”
“I’m mad you didn’t tell me. How can you have a relationship if you can’t be honest?”
“But how do I know I can trust you?” she asked.
“Believe me,” he said. “I’m the one person you can trust.”
And he hung up.
Carrie took all their pictures from Jamaica (how happy they looked, just discovering each other), and cut out the ones of Mr. Big smoking his cigar. She thought about what it was like sleeping with him, how she would sleep curled around his back.
She wanted to take the pictures and glue them to a piece of construction paper and write “Portrait of Mr. Big with His Cigar,” across the top and then, “I miss you,” with lots of kisses at the bottom.
She stared at the pictures for a long time. And then she did nothing.
12
Skipper and Mr. Marvelous Seek Hot Sex in Southampton Hedges
Maybe it’s just the indisputable fact that most people really do look better with a tan. Or maybe it’s proof that the sex drive is stronger than ambition, even for New Yorkers. In any case, there is something about the Hamptons that lends itself to meaningless sexual encounters, the kind of embarrassingly brief couplings that most people don’t necessarily want to acknowledge in the morning.
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