“Is there someone else?”
“This is not about anyone else. This is about us.”
“That’s not answering the question.”
“This is about us.”
“It’s a yes or no question. Is… there… someone… else?”
“No.”
“Liar. You’ve been coached, haven’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Someone’s been coaching you on what to say.”
“This is about us. Not about anyone else.”
“See? There you go again.”
“Why do you have to make this harder?”
“I’m not making it harder. I have to get a cigarette.”
“I have to go to sleep. Why won’t you let me sleep?”
“You don’t deserve to sleep.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You haven’t done anything right, either.”

“Thank you for making Mr. Big a nicer guy.”
This was said to Carrie at the end of the closing dinner for the acquisition of the $80 million golf-clothing manufacturing company. The dinner was held at “21”. The statement was made by Keemi Tailon, a non-American investment banker who worked for Goldman, Sachs & Company. He held up his glass of port and made the statement as a sort of toast to Carrie. He was drunk. Mr. Big wasn’t. Mr. Big “never got drunk.” He said he didn’t like to be “out of control.” After the statement was made, Mr. Big held Carrie’s hand for about twenty seconds. The conversation then moved on to the usual round of jokes.
That was in June, and by then the statement was meaningless almost to the point of being an embarrassment to the two major players.
By then, it was already over.
By then, disgust, self-loathing, and hatred had set in.
By then, the female golf pro was calling, but Mr. Big had yet to say, “I want to be with someone ‘normal.’ I want to have a normal life.”
Because at that point, on the surface, everything seemed status quo. Everything except the weather.

Thieves and Bitches
Nico Barone probably hadn’t meant to become a player in the drama, but she popped up unexpectedly, and she became one. That was also sometime in June. Or was it May? Or April? It must have been May, because in April there was the lengthy phone conversation in St. Barts. Topic: Nico Barone. Nico was up for a job as the anchor of a network afternoon news show. The caller was a reporter who wanted “background” from Carrie about Nico; the real background was that the reporter had met Nico and was hoping to fuck her in the guise of doing a story.
“Well, I haven’t seen Nico for years,” Carrie said. She could have ended the conversation, but Mr. Big was sitting by the pool on his cellular and instead she expounded on tiny details. Like the fact that Nico was from San Antonio, Texas.
“Most San Antonions are third- or fourth-generation Mexican,” she said. “Nico’s a WASP. That she ened up growing up there is a fluke.”
Mr. Big, came into the villa. “Get off the phone,” he said. “I want to go into town.” She hand’t particularly wanted to go into town, but she didn’t particularly want to stay at the villa. She didn’t particularly want to be there at all; or, she wanted to be there, but not with him.
It wasn’t the first time she’d been in this situation. There had been, with past boyfriends, the time at the Hotel du Cap in the south of France; the time in Sydney, Australia; and three years ago in St. Barts. On the last evening of that trip, while the “boyfriend” was sleeping, she’d sorted the shitty local cocaine (which came in a straw) and the next morning, she played “You Can Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac over and over again, until it was time to go to the plane.
The month had also been April.
That relationship hung on until just before Memorial Day. He was going away for a big weekend. “Are you coming or not?” he’d asked. Everyone recommended she not go, on principle. At the last minute, she didn’t go. He didn’t call for a couple of days after the weekend; then he did call. Then she found out that he’d brought someone else, a girl he’d met on a plane the week before. the new relationship didn’t last for more than a couple of months after that, and he was miserable—which was also a standard subplot in the drama. Then the attempt to be friends with Carrie: the twice-weekly phone calls, which were about his misery (why he couldn’t figure out how to make a relationship work); the new woman (why she wouldn’t be able to make it better); and whaqt a good idea it would be if he would see a shrink.
It was coming home from the St. Barts week that Carrie allowed herself to acknoledge the fact that the relationship with Mr. Big would probably not last the summer.
Don’t ask questions.
Don’t waste time.
Do what’s right for you.
Move past it.
Get over it.
What happened between April and the middle of July was nothing. A few incidents stand out: the explosion of T. W. A. Flight 800. the hurricane. The gights.
The fights were: She wanted to talk, he didn’t she wanted more attention; he ddin’t want to make the effort. “Now you sound like all of my ex-wives,” he’d say. “Always demanding something. Don’t ask for anything and maybe you’ll get it. Don’t’ tell me what to do.”
Why had she thougt that if they were married, she’d get the attention she wanted? Why didn’t she understand that if they did get married, she’d become more and more of an accessory? That was a pattern.
The warnings were (dropped casually by Carrie, after either one of them had made any vague reference to the future): “Well, after the summer, I’m probably not going to be around.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know.”
That was also a pattern.
One day at the begninning of July, on another lousy gray day in the house in East Hampton when Carrie had stayed out for the week, some friends dropped by.
“I’d break up with him tomorrow if I could. I’m dying to get out of here,” she said, slamming cupboard doors. She’d just hung up from yet another remote conversation on the phone, all about logistics.
Why not end it then?
That would be inconvenient.
Instead, she was doing laundry (why? They had a maid), she was making sure the kitchen was stocked with food (with things they would never eat, like packages of yellow rice), and she was watering the vegetable garden. The relationsihp was over before they actually had any vegetables, but the garden was useful because it gave her something to talk about with him and his friends. Everything was growing but nothing was ripening. No sun.
In the evenings on the weekends in the Hamptons, they’d have dinners, or go to dinners. Everyone got drunk, very fast and very early, and went to bed by eleven.
Carrie found herself coplaining about how the guy at the Red Horse Market never sliced the smoked salmon thin enough. Then Mr. Big would tell a story about how he’d refused to buy a six-dollar pound of butter at Thieves and Bitches.
Occasionally, she stopped herself from calling him “Dad.” As in, “Yes, Dad, I will take out the garbage. Yes, Dad, I will drive carefully.”

Frantic Messages
There was a story circulating about how Nico Barone once went to breakfast at the Candy Kitchen in pajamas and flipflops, which Carrie never told the reporter. Why should she? He would feel compelled to point the finger. Because a girl who would wear pajamas to the Candy Kitchen wouldn’t be the kind of girl who would go to breakfast with him. He’d get revenge in print.
So it wasn’t strange when Nico Barone called Carrie sometime in the beginning of May. Ostensibly for advice on what to do about the reporter.
“I’ll take care of it,” Carrie said.
She called the reporter. “The story’s premature,” she said. “Right now, there is no story.”
So it wasn’t strange that shortly after that she and Nico began talking on the phone again. Even though they hadn’t been in touch for eight years. Even though they’d both been in New York all along.
And it also made sense that when one of the telltale incidents took place, Nico Barone was there.
It must have been early June, in Manhattan. According to their usual morning routine, Carrie and Mr. Big discussed what they were doing that evening.
“I have something. I don’t know what,” he said.
“OK,” Carrie said. By then, she’d been beaten down enough to have learned to be cautious when he didn’t want to divulge information. Even though he had his daily schedule in his hand, a schedule that his secretary printed out every evening detailing the next day’s activities. Even though he was in the middle of the golf deal.
Don’t ask questions. Thank you for making M. Big a nicer guy.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Seeing Nico.”
“OK,” he said. “So, either way, we’ll meet back here around eleven.”
That afternoon, when they spoke, he said he was having dinner with Keemi Tailon, the banker from Goldman.
At eight, Carrie walked into La Goulue and saw Keemi Tailon having dinner with his girlfriend. Nice Barone was sitting outside. There was a man with her, holding her hand. It was the good-looking, formerly drug-addicted son of a US Ambassador, who now worked as a lawyer for one of the telecommunications moguls.
“I know who you are,” he said to Carrie.
“He wanted to meet you,” Nico said.
“I know who you are,” he said, and he put his elbow on the table. “I’ve read your stuff.”
“That’s great,” Carrie said.
“She’s probably told you about me,” he said, indicting Nico.
“No,” Carrie said. “Not a word.”
“I thought you wanted to keep it a secret,” Nico said. According to him, the telecommunications mogul was in love with Nico. And jealous. According to him, the telecommunications mogul might or might not be having her followed.
According to Nico, they were both crazy.
There was an uncomfortable moment when Keemi Tailon came to the table to say hello after the formerly drug-addicted son of the US. Ambassador had left. He stood next to the table and put his shoe on the rng of a chair. “I just wanted to tell you,” he said. “I just remembered. Mr. Big is having dinner downtown. With some people from the golf company. ”
“Thank you,” Carrie said.
“It doesn’t matter. It is not important. It is a setup,” Nico said when he had left.
Later, when Carrie arrived at Mr. Big’s apartment, there was a message on the machine. She played it, although she hadn’t played his messages for a long time, because the last time she had, he’d gotten angry. “OK, OK,” she’d said. “I won’t play your damn messages. I won’t answer the phone when you are not here.”
“You can answer the phone, but people have told me that they’ve left messages and I didn’t get them.”
She just gave him a look.
The message was, as she’d known it would be, from Keemi for Mr. Big. Frantic. “I just wanted to let you know that Carrie saw me tonight…” She saved it. When Mr. Big arrived at 12:43, she played it for him. “Oh, that’s nothing,” he said. He was in a very good mood. “Keemi doesn’t know what’s going on.”
Carrie didn’t remind him abut their conversation that afternoon. Two days later, she ran into someone who claimed to be n the restaurant where Mr. Big was having dinner, who claimed that it was obviously business, though there was some girl there, but she was obviously part of the business, too.
By then, Carrie wasn’t paying attention. She didn’t care. By then, she was disassociating, moving into her own space.
She still can’t remember who the person was who claimed to be n the restaurant.
On Fourth of July weekend, Mr. Big kept disappearing with Mr. Marvelous in Mr. Marvelous’s Hummer. They claimed they were going to the store. They claimed they were going to the store six times in two days. they came back with pickles. Then they claimed they were going rollerblading. Carrie wasn’t paying attention.
As soon as Mr. Big left, she’d turn the stereo all the way up and dance around the house. K.C. and the Sunshine Band.

“You’re Out of Control”
“What are you going to do with your life?” he’d ask.
“I’m going to become famous.”
“That is so sad. You won’t like it when you get there.”
“Get off our planet.”
Then he’d go and smoke a cigar and sulk, or go to the store again with Mr. Marvelous. In the middle of July:
“Is there someone else?”
“This is not about anyone else. This is about us.”
“That’s not answering the question.”
“This is about us.”
“It is a yes or no question. Is there somebody else?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“You’ve been coached, haven’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Someone’s been coaching you on what to say.”
“This is about us. Not about anyone else.”
“See? There you go again.”
“Why do you have to make this harder?”
“I’m not making it harder. I have to get a cigarette.”
“I have to go to sleep. Why won’t you let me sleep?”
“You don’t deserve to sleep.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You haven’t done anything right, either. I want to get to the bottom of this coaching business.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Someone’s been telling you what to say. It is an old shrink trick. When you’re in a difficult situation, you keep repeating the same phrase over and over again. That way, you can’t have a conversation.”
One hour later:
“What are you doing? Who are you seeing? What time are you getting home?”
“Early. I’m getting home early.”
“You are out of control.”
“I’m not. I’m home at eleven.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I could have you followed. How do you know that I’m not already having you followed? I’m rich enough to have you followed.”
This was several weeks after Carrie had begged to be taken to a mental institution.

2. Don’t rush it
You’ve heard the saying, ‘The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.’ But women aren’t great at having casual sex, due to the bonding chemicals they produce and having sex too soon can delay your ability to see the rebound man with 20/20 vision. You’ll see everything through the lens of your libido.

3. Spot transference
When you’re rebounding, your new relationship is actually about the old one. So when you’re on the verge of saying. “I love you” or get irrationally angry with him, think about who you really want to love or rant at. You are often not ready for a serious relationship until a year after a big split.

Before ‘the date’
It wasn’t a mutual decision to catch up, he asked you out for ‘drinks’. In a man’s mind this means, ‘we are going to drink, but if you laugh at enough of m jokes then I’m going to make a tragic lunge come closing time.’ Men want to look after women they fancy, so he will have booked a table or hunted for a decent new bar. Before the drink, he ends each text with a new question to keep the banter going. And if you’re newly single, this is definitely a date.

During ‘the date’
He listens too intently he nods over-enthusiastically, even when you’re describing the pashmina you bought your mother yesterday. “Brilliant! Amazing.” If he took the piss out of you in the office, he isn’t now. he has sat you in a booth and makes a show of leaning in when you speak, even though there is no need. He buys lots of drinks and always fills your glass. His laugh seems odd, self-conscious, as if executed by a model in a Gillette ad.

After ‘the date’
He insisted on ‘putting you’ into a taxi to showcase his gentlemanly skills. His goodnight kiss was a little too close to your mouth and you get an unnecessary, perky text the next afternoon.

The upshot
Men don’t go out for drinks with women for friendship. They already have mates.

“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,” 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 like a newscaster.”
“Thank you,” Carrie said. “It’s my new look. Early Stepford wife.” She was wearing a power 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, hre 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 have’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—,” she said, naming a well0known Hollywood director. “I know you’re not supposed to be starstuck, 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 aobut 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.
“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 had been after. He was handsome, came from a wealthy, 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 siad. “But I was scared of you.”
“Scared? Of me?” Sam laughed.
“You were smart. And tough. I thought you’d rip me to shreds.”
“You’re saying you thought I was a bitch.”
“Not a bitch. Just that I thougt 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 so famous now.”
“I’m not famous,” Sam said. “I don’t even watnt 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.
“No,” Sam said. “He said he wanted to go home. Then he called the next day. He wants to have a relationship. Can you believe that? It’s just so silly.”

The Talking Parakeet
Carrie and Mr. Big went to Carrie’s parents’ house for the weekend. In her house, everybody cooked. Mr. Big was making a beautiful effort to get along. “I’ll make the gravy,” he said.
“Don’t’ screw it up,” Carrie whispered as she walked by him.
“What’s wrong with my gravy? I make great gravy,” Mr. Big said.
“The last time you made it, you put whiskey or something in it, and it was terrible.”
“That was me,” her father said.
“Oh. So sorry,” Carrie said meanly. “I forgot.”
Mr. Big didn’t say anything. The next day, they went back to the city and had dinner with some of his friends. They were all couples who’d been married for years. Somebody started talking about parrots. How they’d had a parrot that talked.
“I went into a Woolworth’s once and bought a parakeet for ten bucks and taught it how to talk,” Mr. Big said.
“Parakeets can’t talk,” Carrie said.
“It talked,” Mr. Big said. “It said, ‘Hello Snippy.’ That was the name of my dog.”
In the car on the way home, Carrie said, “It couldn’t have been a parakeet. It must have been a mynah bird.”
“If I say it was a parakeet, it was a parakeet.”
Carrie snorted. “That’s stupid. Everyone knows that parakeets can’t talk.”
“It talked,” Mr. Big said. He lit up a cigar. They didn’t say anything the rest of the way home.

Don’t Go There
Carrie and Mr. Big went to the Hamptons for a weekend. It wasn’t quite spring yet, and it was depressing. They lit a fire. They read their books. They rented movies. Mr. Big would watch only action movies. Carrie used to watch them with him, but now she didn’t want them anymore. “It’s a waste of time for me,” she said.
“So read,” Mr. Big said.
“I’m bored with reading. I’m going to take a walk.”
“I’ll take a walk with you,” Mr. Big said. “As soon as this movie is over.”
So she sat next to him and watched the movie and sulked.
They went to the Palm for dinner. She said something, and he said, “Oh, that’s stupid.”
“Really? How interesting. That you should call me stupid. Expecially since I’m smarter than you,” Carrie said.
Mr. Big laughed. “If you think that, you’re really stupid.”
“Don’t fuck with me,” Carrie said. She leaned across the table, suddenly so angry she didn’t even know who she was anymore. “If you fuck with me, I’ll make it my personal business to destroy you. And don’t think for a second that I won’t take a great deal of pleasure in doing it.”
“You don’t get up early enough to fuck with me,” Mr. Big said.
“I don’t need to. Haven’t you figured that out yet?” She wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin. Don’t go there, she thought. Just don’t go there. Aloud she said, “I’m sorry. I’m just a little tense.”
The next morning, when they were back in the city, Mr. Big said, “Well, I’ll talk to you later.”
“Talk?” Carrie said. “You mean we’re not going to see each other this evening?”
“I don’t know,” Mr. Big said. “I think maybe we should take a little break, spend a couple of days apart until you get over this mood.”
“But I’m over it,” Carrie said.
She called him at work. he said. “I don’t know about things,” and she laughed and said, “Oh, come on, silly. Isn’t a person allowed to be in a bad mood? It’s not the end of the world. Relationship are like that sometimes. I said I was sorry.”
“I don’t want any hassles.”
“I promise I’ll be sweet. Aren’t I being sweet now? See? No more bad mood.”
“I guess so,” he said.

While Big’s Away
Time passed. Mr. Big went away on business for weeks. Carrie stayed in Mr. Big’s apartment. Stanford Blatch came over sometimes, and he and Carrie would act like they were two high schoolers whose parents had gone out of town: They smoked pot and drank whiskey sours and made brownies and watched stupid movies. They made a mess, and in the morning the maid would come in and clean it all up, getting down on her hands and knees to scrub the juice stains out of the white carpet.
Samantha Jones called a couple of times. She started telling Carrie about all these interesting, famous men she was meeting and all these great parties and dinners she was going to. “What are you doing?” she’d ask, and Carrie would say, “Working, just working.”
“We should go out. While Big’s away…” Sam said. But she never made concrete plans and after a couple of times, Carrie didn’t feel like talking to her. Then Carrie felt bad, so she called Samantha up and went to lunch with her. At first it was a good lunch. Then Sam started talking about all these movie projects and all these big cheeses she knew whom she was going to do business with. Carrie had her own project going, and Sam said, “It’s cute, you know. It’s a cute idea.”
Carrie said, “What’s so cute about it?”
“It’s cute. It’s light. You know. It’s not Tolstoy.”
“I’m not trying to be Tolstoy,” Carrie said. But of course, she was.
“So there you go,” Sam said. “Hey, I’ve known you forever. I should be able to tell you what I really think about something without you getting upset. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“Really?” Carrie said. “I wonder.”
“Besides,” Sam said. “You’re probably going to marry Mr. Big and have kids. Come on. That’s what everybody wants.”
“Aren’t I lucky?” she said, and she picked up the check.

“I Want The Truth”
Mr. Big came back from his trip, and he and Carrie went to St. Barts for a long weekend.
The first night, she had a dream that Mr. Big was having an affair with a dark-haired girl. Carrie went to a restaurant and Mr. Big was with the girl, and the girl was sitting in Carrie’s chair and she and Mr. Big were kissing. “What is going on?” Carrie demanded.
“Nothing,” Mr. Big said.
“I want the truth.”
“I’m in love with her. We want to be together,” Mr. Big said.
Carrie had that old familiar feeling of hurt and disbelief. “Okay,” she said.
She went outside and into a field. Giant horses with golden bridles came out of the sky and down the mountain. When she saw the horses, she realized that Mr. Big and his feelings about her were not important.
She woke up.
“You had a bad dream?” Mr. Big said. “Come here.”
He reached out for her. “Don’t touch me!” she said. “I feel sick.”
The dream hung around for days afterward.
“What can I do?” Mr. Big said. “I can’t compete with a dream.” They were sitting on the edge of the pool with their feet in the water. The light from the sun was almost white.
“Do you think we talk enough?” Carrie asked.
“No,” Mr. Big said. “No, we probably don’t.”
They drove around and went to the beach and to lunch and talked about how beautiful it was and how relaxed they were. They exclaimed over a hen crossing the road with two nely hatched chicks, over a tiny eel caught in a tidal pool, over the dead rats that lay squished on the sides of the roads.
“Are we friends?” Carrie asked.
“There was a time when we really were friends. When I felt like you understood my soul,” Mr. Big said. They were driving on the narrow, curving, cement roads.
“A person can only make so much effort until they get tired or lose interest,” Carrie said.
They didn’t say anything for a while, then Carrie said: “How come you never say ‘I love you’?”
“Because I’m afraid,” Mr. Big said. “I’m afraid that if I say ‘I love you,’ you’re going to think that we’re going to get married.” Mr. Big slowed the car down. They went over a speed bump and passed a cemetery filled with brightly colored plastic flowers. A group of bare-chested young men were standing on the side of the road, smoking. “I don’t know,” Mr. Big said. “What’s wrong with the way things are right now?”
Later, when they were packing to go home, Mr. Big said, “Have you seen my shoes? Can you be sure to pack my shampoo?”
“No, of course, darling,” Carrie said lightly. She went into the bathroom. In the mirrow, she looked good. Tan and slim and blond. She began packing up her cosmetics. Toothbrush. Face cream. His shampoo was still in the shower, and she decided to ignore it. “What if I got pregnant?” she thought. She wouldn’t tell him and she’d secretly have an abortion and never talk to him again. Or she would tell him and have the kid and raise it up on her own, but that could be tricky. What if she hated him so much for not wanting to be with her that she ended up hating the kid?
She went into the bedroom and put on her high heels and straw hat. It was custom made and it cost over five hundred dollars. “Oh darling…,” she said.
“Yes?” he asked. His back was turned. He was putting things in his suitcase.
She wanted to say, “That’s it, dear. It’s over. We’ve had a great time together. But I always feel it’s better to end things on a high note. You do understand…?”
Mr. Big looked up. “What?” he said. “Did you want something, baby?”
“Oh, nothing,” Carrie said. “I just forgot your shampoo, that’s all.”

“He’s Just A Creep”
Carrie drank five bloddy mary’s on the plane, and they fought all the way home. In the airport. In the limo. Carrie didn’t shut up until he said, “Do you want me to drop you off at your place? Is that what you want?” When they got to his apartment, she called her parents. “We got into a big fight,” she said. “He’s just a creep. Like al men.”
“Are you all right?” her father asked.
“Oh, I’m great,” she said.
Then Mr. Big was nice. He made her get into pyjamas and sat with her on the couch. “When I first met you, I liked you,” he said. “Then I liked you a lot. Now I… I’ve grown to love you.”
“Don’t make me vomit,” Carrie said.
“Why me, baby?” he asked. “With all the guys you’ve gone out with, why do you want to pick me?”
“Who said I did?”
“What is this, a pattern?” Mr. Big said. “Now that I’m more involved, you want to bail. You want to run away. Well, I can’t do anything about that.”
“Yes, you can,” Carrie said. “That’s the whole point.”
“I don’t get it,” Mr. Big said. “How is our relationship different from all the otehrs you’ve had?”
“It’s not. It’s just the same,” Carrie said. “So far, it’s just sufficient.”
The next morning, Mr. Big was his usual cheery self and it was annoying. “Help me pick out a tie, baby,” he said, the way he always did. He brought five ties over to where Carrie was still trying to sleep, turned on the light, and handed her her glasses. He held the ties up to his suit.
Carrie glanced at them briefly. “That one,” she said. She threw off the glasses and lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes.
“But you hardly even looked at them,” Mr. Big said.
“That’s my final decision,” she said. Besides, in the end, isn’t one tie very much like another?
“Oh. You’re still mad,” Mr. Big said. “I don’t get it. You should be happy . after last night , I think things are a lot better.”

Home Sweet Home
“The baby’s starving and the nanny left and I’m broke,” Amalita said on the phone. “Bring some pizza, won’t you, sweetpea, just two or three slices with pepperoni, and I’ll pay you back later.”
Amalita was staying in a friend-of-a-friend’s apartment on the Upper East Side. It was one of those side streets Carrie knew too well: dirty brick buildings with narrow entranceways littered with takeout menus from Chinese restaurants, and on the streets, grubby people walking scruffy dogs, and in the summer, obese women sitting out on the stoops. For a long time, Carrie had thought she’d never get away from it. She bought the pizza at the same place wehre she always used to buy pizza, near wehre she’d lived for four years when she was broke. It was still the same guy with the dirty fingers making the pizza and his little wife who never said anything working the cash register.
Amalita’s apartment was at the top of four rickety flights of stairs, in the back. One of those places where someone had tried to make the best of the exposed cinderblock walls and failed. “Well,” Amalita said. “It’s temporary. The rent is cheap. Five hundred a month.”
Her daughter, a beautiful little girl with dark hair and huge blue eyes, sat on the floor in front of a pile of old newspapers and magazines turning the pages.
“Well!” Amalita said. “I never heard from Righty. After he wanted me to go on tour with him and after I sent him a book he wanted me to send him. These guys don’t want a girl who’s a great fuck. Or even a good fuck. They want a girl who’s a bad luck.”
“I know,” Carrie said.
“Look! Mama!” the girl said proudly. She pointed to a photo of Amalita at Ascot in a picture hat with Lord somebody or other.
“A Japanese businessman wanted to set me up in an apartment,” Amalita said. “You know, I detest that kind of thing, but the truth is, I’m temporarily broke. The only reason I was considering doing it was for the baby. I’m trying to get her into a preschool, and I need money to pay for it. So I said yes. Two weeks pass and I haven’t heard from him. Not a peep. So that just goes to show.”
Amalita sat on the couch in her sweatpants, tearing off pieces of pizza. Carrie sat on a narrow wodden chair. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with yellow stains under the armpits. Both girls had greasy hair. “When I look back in retrospect,” Amalita said, “I think, I shouldn’t have slept with this guy, I shouldn’t have slept with that guy. Maybe I should have done things differently.”
She paused. “I know you’re thingking about leaving Mr. Big. Don’t. hold on to him. Of course, you’re beautiful, and you should have a million guys calling you up, wanting to be something about real life, don’t we?”
“Mama!” the little girl said. She held up a magazine, pointing to a photo spread of Amalita: She was wearing a white Chanel ski suit on the slopes of St. Moritz, then getting out of a limo at a Rolling Stones concert, smiling demurely in a black suit and pearls next to a senator.
“Carrington! Not now,” Amalita said, with mock severity. The little girl looked at her and giggled. She threw the magazine into the air.
It was a sunny day. The sun streamed in through the dirty windows. “Come here, sweetpea,” Amalita said. “Come here and have some pizza.”

*
“Hello, I’m home,” Mr. Big said.
“Hello,” Carrie said. She went to the door and kissed him. “How was the cocktail party?”
“Fine, fine.”
“I’m making dinner.”
“Good. I’m so glad we don’t have to go out.”
“Me too,” she said.
“Want a drink?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” she said. “Just maybe a glass of wine with dinner.”
She lit candles, and they sat in the dining room. Carrie sat up very straight in her chair. Mr. Big talked on and on about some deal he was in the middle of doing, and Carrie stared at him and nodded and made encouraging noises. But she wasn’t really paying attention.
When he was finished talking, she said: “I’m so excited. The amaryllis finally bloomed. It has four flowers.”
“Four flowers,” Mr. Big said. And then: “I’m so happy you’ve taken an interest in plants.”
“Yes. Isn’t it nice?” Carrie said. “It’s amazing the way they grow if you just pay a bit of attention.”

Carrie went to Aspen by Lear jet. She wore the white mink coat, a short dress, and white patent leather boots. It seemed like the thing to wear on Lear jet, but it wasn’t. the other people she was traveling with, the ones who owned the jet, were wearing jeans and pretty embroidered sweaters and sensible boots for snow. Carrie was very hung over. When the jet stopped for refueling in Lincoln, Nebraska, she had to be helped down the steps by the pilot. It was slightly warm, and she wandered around in her big mink and sunglasses, smoking cigarettes and staring out at the endless, flat, yellow-dry fields.
Mr. Big was waiting at the airport in Aspen. He was sitting outside, too perfectly dressed in a brown suede coat and a brown suede hat, smoking a cigar. He walked across the tarmac and the first thing he said was, “The plane is late. I’m freezing.”
“Why didn’t you wait inside?” Carrie asked. They drove through the tiny town, which was like a toy town lovingly placed by a child at the base of a Christmas tree. Carrie pressed her fingers over her eyes and sighed. “I’m going to relax. Get healthy,” she said. “Cook.”
Stnford Blatch also arrived by private jet. He was staying with his childhood friend Suzannah Martin. After River Wilde’s party, he had told Suzannah, “I want to turn over a new leaf. We’re such good friends, we should really think about getting married. That way, I can get my inheritance, and with your money and my money combined, we can live the way we’ve always wanted.”
Suzannah was a forty-year-old sculptress who wore dramatic makeup and large pieces of jewelry. She had never seen herself in a traditional marriage anyway. “Separate bedrooms?” she asked.
“Naturally,” Stanford said.
Skipper Johnson flew in commercial, upgrading his ticket to first class using mileage. He was vacationing with his parents and his two younger sisters. I have to find a girlfriend, he thought. This is ridiculous. He envisioned the lucky woman as older, somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, smart, beautiful, and lots of fun. Someone who could keep his interest. In the last year, he’d realized that girls his age were boring. They looked up to him too much, and it was scary.
Mr. Big taught Carrie to ski. He had bought he a ski suit, gloves, hat, long underwear. Also a tiny thermometer that clipped to her ski gloves—the one thing she had begged him to buy her. He had resisted until she poputed; then he agreed to buy it in exchange for a blow job even though it only cost four dollars. In the house they rented, he zipped up her ski suit, and she held out her hands and he put on her gloves. He clipped on the mini thermometer and she said, “You’re going to beso glad we have this. It’s cold out there.” He laughed and they kissed.
Mr. Big smoked cigars on the gondola and talked on his cellular phone. Then he would ski behind Carrie on the slopes, watching to make sure no one ran into her. “You can handle it,” he’d say, as she made turn after turn, curving slowly down the mountain. Then she’d stand at the bottom of the slope, shielding her eyes with her hand as she watched Mr. Big bounce over the moguls.
In the evenings, they would get massages and go in the hot tub. At night, when they were lying in bed together, Mr. Big said, “We’re close now, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” Carrie said.
“Remember how you always used to say we had to be closer? You don’t say that anymore.”
Carrie thought, Things can’t get any better.

“I’m looking for Tail”
Stanford Blatch was strolling along the top of Aspen mountain in a pair of pony-skin apres ski boots and swinging a pair of binoculars, on his way to meet Suzannah at the lodge for lunch, when he heard a familiar voice scream out, “Stanford!” followed by “Watch out!” He turned just as Skipper Johnson was about to ski into him and deftly jumped back into a snow bank to avoid being hit. “Dear, dear Skipper,” he said.
“Don’t you love running into your friends on vacation?” Skipper asked. He was dressed in a ski suit that resembled what a Boy Scout might wear for inclement weather: Floppy yellow ski jacket and a hat with earflaps that stuck out at right angles.
“That depends on the friends and how one runs into them,” Stanford said.
“I didn’t know you were a bird watcher,” Skipper said.
“I’m not looking for birds, I’m looking for tail,” Stanford said. “I’m checking out the private jets so I’ll know what kind to buy.”
“You’re getting a jet?” Skipper asked.
“Soon,” Stanford said. “I’m thinking about getting married and I want to be sure my wife gets around properly.”
“Your wife?”
“Yes, Skipper,” Stanford said patiently. “In fact, I’m on my way to have lunch with her right now. would you like to meet her?”
“I can’t believe this,” Skipper said. “Well,” he said, snapping off his skis, “I’ve already hooked up with three different girls. Why not you?”
Stanford looked at him pityingly. “Dear, dear Skipper,” he said. “When are you going to stop pretending you’re straight?”
Carrie and Mr. Big went for a romantic dinner at the Pine Creek Cookhouse. They drove through the mountains, and then they took a horse-drawn sleigh to the restaurant. The sky was black and clear, and Mr. Big talked all about the stars, and how he was poor as a kid and had to leave school at thirteen and work and then go into the air force.
They brought a Polaroid camera and took pictures of each other in the restaurant. They drank wine and held hands and Carrie got a little drunk. “Listen,” she said. “I have to ask you something.”
“Shoot,” said Mr. Big.
“You know at the beginning of the summer? When we’d been seeing each other for two months and then you said you wanted to date other people?”
“Yeah?” Mr. Big said cautiously.
“And then you dated that model for a week? And when I ran into you, you were horrible and I screamed at you and we had that big fight in front of Bowery Bar?”
“I was afraid you were never going to talk to me again.”
“I just want to know,” Carrie said. “If you were me, what would you have done?”
“I guess I never would have talked to you again.”
“Is that what you wanted?” Carrie asked. “Did you want me to go away?”
“No,” Mr. Big said. “I wanted you to stick around. I was confused.”
“But you would have left.”
“I didn’t want you to go. It was like, I don’t know. It was a test,” he said.
“A test?”
“To see if you really liked me. Enough to stick around.”
“But you really hurt me,” Carrie said. “How could you hurt me like that? I can never gorget that—you know?”
“I know, baby. I’m sorry,” he said.
When they got back to their house, there was a message on the answering machine from their friend Rock Gibralter, the TV actor. “I’m here,” he said. “Staying with Tyler Kydd. You guys will love him.”
“Is that Tyler Kydd, the actor?” Mr. Big asked.
“Sounds like it,” Carrie said, aware that she was trying to sound as if she couldn’t have cared less.

Prometheus Bound
“That was just wonderful,” Stanford said. He and Suzannah were sitting on the couch in front of the fire. Suzannah was smoking a cigarette. Her fingers were slim and elegant, ending in long, perfectly manicured red nails. She was wrapped in a black silk Chinese robe. “Thank you, darling,” she said.
“You really are the perfect wife, you know,” Stanford said. “I can’t imagine why you’re not already married.”
“Straight men bore me,” Suzannah said. “Eventually anyway. It always starts off fine, and then they becomre incredibly demanding. Before you know it, you’re doing everything they want, and you have no life left.”
“We won’t be like that,” Stanford said. “This is perfect.”
Suzannah stood up. “I’m off to bed,” she said. “But you must promise me one thing. That we have an evening exactly like this one tomorrow night.”
“Certainly.”
“You really are the most wonderful cook. Where did you learn to cook like that?”
“Paris.”
Stanford stood up. “Good night, my dear.”
“Good night,” she said. Stanford leaned forward and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Until tomorrow,” he said, giving her a little wave as she walked to her room.
A few minutes later, Stanford went to his room. But he did not go to sleep. Instead, he turned on his computer and checked his e-mail. As he had hoped, there was a message for him. He picked up the phone and called a taxi. Then he waited by the window.
When the taxi pulled up, he slipped out of the house. “Caribou Club,” he said to the driver.
And then it was like a bad dream. The taxi took him to a cobblestoned street in the center of town. Stanford walked through a narrow alley lined with tiny shops, then went in a door and down some stairs. A blond woman, who was probably forty but through the miracles of facial plastic surgery and breast implants looked five years younger, was standing behind a wooden podium.
“I’m meeting someone here,” Stanford said. “But I don’t know what his name is.”
The woman looked at him suspiciously.
“I’m Stanford Blatch. The screnplay writer?” he said.
“Yes?” she said.
Stanford smiled. “Did you ever see the movie Fashion Victims?”
“Oh!” the woman said. “I loved that movie. Did you write that?”
“Yes I did.”
“What are you working on now?” she asked.
“I’m thinking about doing a movie about people who have too much plastic surgery,” he said.
“Omigod,” she said. “My best friend…”
“I think I see my friends now,” Stanford said.
In one corner, two men and a woman were drinking and laughing. Stanford approached. They guy in the middle looked up. He was about forty, tanned, with bleached hair. Stanford could see that he’d had his nose and cheeks done, and probably had hair plugs. “Herules?” Stanford asked.
“Yeah,” the guy said.
“I’m Prometheus,” Stanford said.
The girl looked from the guy back to Stanford. “Hercules? Prometheus?” she asked. She had an obnoxious, nasally boice, and she was wearing a cheap, fuzzy, pink sweater. Not good enough to clean my grandmother’s attic, Stanford thought, and decided to ignore her.
“You don’t look like much of a Prometheus to me,” Hercules said, taking in Stanford’s long hair and fancy clothes.
“Are you going to invite me to sit down and have a drink, or are you just going to insult you,” said the other guy. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Another loser I met on the Internet,” said Hercules. He took a sip of his drink.
“Takes one to know one,” Stanford said.
“Man. I don’t even know how to turn on a computer,” the girl said.
“I check out every guy who comes through Aspen. Then I take my pick,” said Hercules. “And you don’t… make the cut.”
“Well, at least I know how to pick my plastic surgeon,” Stanford said calmly. “It’s such a shame when people remember your plastic surgery and not you.” He smiled. “Have a pleasant evening. Gentlemen.”

Can You Keep A Secret
Carrie and Mr. Big were having lunch outside at the Little Nell when they ran into Rock Gibralter. And Tyler Kydd.
Tyler Kydd saw them first. He wasn’t handsome like Mr. Big. But he was cool. Craggy face. Longish blond hair. Lanky body. He caught Carrie’s eye. “Uh oh.” She thought.
Then Mr. Big said. “Rocko. Baby.” And stuck his cigar in his mouth and slapped Rock on the back and pumped his hand.
“I’ve been looking for you guys,” Rock said. And then: “Do you know Tyler Kydd?”
“No, man,” Mr. Big said. “But I know your movies. When are you gonna get the girl.” They all laughed and sat down.
“But just got accosted by a mountie,” Carrie said. “For smoking his cigar on the gondola.”
“Oh, man,” Mr. Big said. “Every day, I’m smoking my cigar on the gondola and the girl keeps telling me there’s no smoking. I just say it’s not lit,” he said to Tyler.
“Cuban?” Tyler asked.
“Yeah, man.”
“Something like that happened to me once in Gstaad,” Tyler said to Carrie. She thought to herself, He would perfect for Samantha Jones.
“Hey baby, can you pass the salt?” Mr. Big said, patting her leg.
She leaned over and they kissed briefly on the lips. “Excuse me,” she said.
She got up. She went into the ladies’ room. She was a little nervous. If I wasn’t with Mr. Big…, she thought. And then she thought that it wasn’t even a good idea to think that way.
When she came out, Tyler was smoking a cigar with Mr. Big.
“Hey baby, guess what?” Mr. Big said. “Tyler’s invited us to go snowmobiling. Then we’re going to go to his house and race go-carts.”
“Go-carts?” Carrie said.
“I’ve got a frozen lake on my property.”
“Isn’t that great?” Mr. Big said.
“Yeah,” Carrie said. “Great.”
That night, Carrie and Mr. Big had dinner with Stanford and Suzannah. All through the dinner, whenever Suzannah said anything, Stanford would lean over and say, “Isn’t she just terrific?” he held her hand, and she said, “Oh Stanford. You’re such a dope,” and laughed and removed her hand to lift her wineglass.
“I’m so glad you’ve finally come over to the other side,” Mr. Big said.
“Who said anything about that?” Suzannah said.
“I’ll always be a queen, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Stanford said.
Carrie went outside to smoke a cigarette. A woman came up to her. “Can I have a light?” she said. And it turned out the woman was Brigid. The obnoxious woman from the bridal shower last summer.
“Carrie?” she said. “Is that you?”
“Brigid!” Carrie said. “What are you doing here?”
“Skiing,” Brigid said. And then, glancing around as if she were afraid of being overheard, she said, “With my husband. And no kids. We left the kids at my mother’s house.”
“Weren’t you, um, pregnant?” Carrie asked.
“Miscarriage,” Brigid said. She glanced around again. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have an extra cigarette in addition to that match, would you?”
“Sure,” Carrie said.
“I haven’t smoked for years. Years. But I need this. ” She inhaled deeply. “When I used to smoke, I only smoked Marlboro Reds.”
Carrie gave her an evil smile. “Of course you did.” She dropped her cigarette on the sidewalk and mashed it with her boot.
“Can you keep a secret?” Brigid asked.
“Yeah…,” Carrie said.
“Well.” Brigid took another deep drag and blew the smoke out her nose. “I didn’t go home last night.”
“Uh huh,” Carrie said, thinking, Why are you telling me this?
“No. I mean, I didn’t go home.”
“Oh,” Carrie said.
“That’s right. Ididn’t spend the night with my husband. I stayed out all night. I slept, I actually spent the night, in Snowmass.”
“I see,” Carrie said, nodding. “Were you, uh, you know. Doing drugs?”
“Noooooo,” Brigid said. “I was with a guy. Not my husband.”
“You mean, you…”
“Yes. I slept with another guy.”
“That’s amazing,” Carrie said. She lit another cigarette.
“I haven’t slept with another man for fifteen years. Well, okay, maybe seven,” Brigid said. “But I’m thinking about leaving my husband, and I had this incredibly amazing ski instructor, and I just decided, what am I doing with my life? So I told my hasband I was going out, and I went to meet him, Justin, the ski instructor, at this bar in Snowmass, and then I went back to his little apartment with him and we had sex all night.”
“Does your, uh, husband know about this?” Carrie asked.
“I told him this morning when I got in. but what could he do? I’d already done it.”
“Jeez,” Carrie said.
“He’s inside the restaurant now,” Brigid said. “Freaking out. And I told Justin I would meet him later.” Brigid took a final drag on the cigarette. “You know, I knew you were the one person who would understand,” she said. “I want to call you. When we get back. We should go out and have a girl’s night.”
“Great,” Carrie said. Thinking, That’s just what I need.

“My Feet Are Cold”
They went snowmobiling with Tyler and Rock. Tyler and Mr. Big drove too fast and some people yelled at them. Then Mr. Big made Carrie ride on the back of his snowmobile and she kept screaming at him to let her off because she was afraid theywere going to tip over.
A couple of days later, they went to Tyler’s house. It was a fort in the woods that had once belonged to a porno star. There were bearskin rugs and animal heads mounted on the walls. They drank shots of tequila and shot bows an arrows. They raced the go-carts, and Carrie won every race. Then they went for a walk in the woods.
“I want to go in. my feet are cold,” Mr. Big said.
“Why didn’t you wear sensible shoes?” Carrie said. She stood at the edge of the stream, pushing snow in with the toe of her boot. “Don’t,” Mr. Big said. “You’ll fall in.”
“No I won’t,” Carrie said. She kicked more snow into the stream, watching it melt in the water. “I always unsed to do this when I was a kid.”
Tyler was standing behind them. “Always pushing the limits,” he said. Carrie turned, and they stared at each other for the briefest second.

On their last night, they all went to a party at the home of Bob Milo, a famous Hollywood movie star. His house was up on the other side of the mountain, and to get there, they had to park the car and ride on snowmobiles. The house and grounds were decorated with Japanese lanterns, even though it was February and snowy. Inside the house, there was a sort of grotto with koi swimming in it and a bridge you had to walk over to get to the living room.
Bob Milo was holding forth in front of the fireplace. His girlfriend and his soon-to-be-ex-wife were there, looking almost like twins except the wife was about five years older than the girlfriend. Bob Milo was dressed in a sweater and the bottom half of his long underwear. He was about five feet tall and was wearing felt slippers with pointy toes, so that he resembled an elf.
“I work out six hours a day,” he was saying, when Stanford interrupted him. “Excuse me,” he said, “but who decorated the interior of your jet?”
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 little cats, whispering jokes about the party and laughing, being more and more obnoxious. Mr. Big wsa 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 like 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 smile. “Hello Ray,” she said. “What did you do? Give him one of your famous blow jobs in the corner?”
There were 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.”
“You shouldn’t have said that,” Mr. Big said. He got up and walked away.
“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 bringme a drink so I can throw it is 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 widly 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’t touch 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 plane that could take him home.

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 liked that guy.”
Carrie took a sip of her drink. “Mmmmmmmmm,” 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 liked him as a friend.”
“I was there. I saw everything. it would be better if you didn’t lie,” he said.
“O-kay,” Carrie said. “I was attracted to him. A little bit,” and as soon as she said it she realized 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 bit,” 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 I’m mad,” she said.

They’d been back in New York two days when Carrie got a call from Samantha Jones. “Soooo,” she said.
“So what?” Carrie asked.
“Anything big happened 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?”

Don’t give out your full name, phone numbers or any other contact information or form of identification until you have met the person and are comfortable about them.

Do talk before meeting him. Call from a private line so your number doesn’t show. His voice will tell you a lot.

Don’t assume that what he told you online is the truth. In one study, 81% of online daters admitted to lying in their profiles.

Do let someone know where you are going and who you are meeting and arrange to call them when you have returned safely.

Don’t decide to sleep with a guy before you’ve met, no matter how close you’ve become online. If you’re not 100% keen, say, “I’ve enjoyed meeting online but I want to take this part slow.”

Carrie was walking out of Bergdorf’s when she ran into Bunny Entwistle.
“Sweetie!” Buunny said. “I haven’t seen you for years. You look great!”
“You, too,” Carrie said.
“You must have lunch with me. Immediately. Amalita Amalfi—yes, she’s in town too, and we’re still friens—stood me up.”
“Probably waiting for a phone call from Jake.”
“Oh, is she still seeing him?” Bunny tossed her white-blond hair over the shoulder of her sable coat. “I have a table at ’21.’ Please have lunch with me. I haven’t been in New York for a year, and I’m dying to dish.”
Bunny was fortyish, still beautiful, L.A. –tanned, a sometime TV actress, but before that, she’d been around New York for years. She was the quintessential party girl, a girl so wild no man would consider marrying her, but plenty tried to get in her pants.
“I want a table in the back. Where I can smoke and no one will bother us,” Bunny said. They sat down and she lit up a Cuban cigar. “The absolutely first thing I want to talk about is that wedding announcement.” She was referring to a notice about the marriage of Chloe—thirty-six, still considered a classic beauty—to a homely fellow named Jason Jingsley in a ceremony on the Galapagos Islands.
“Well, he is rich, smart, and sweet,” Carrie said. “He was always friendly to me.”
“Please, darling,” Bunny said. “Men like Jingles, and there’s a whole group of them in New York, are not the type of guys you marry. They make great friends—attentive, always there when you’re in a tight spot—and late at night when you’re lonely and desperate as hell, you whisper to yourself, ‘Well, I could always marry a guy like Jingles. At least that way I wouldn’t have to worry about paying the rent.’ But you wake up and really think about it, and realize that you’d have to share a bed with him, watch him brush his teeth, that stuff.”
“Sandra said he tried to kiss her once,” Carrie said. “She said, ‘If I wanted a fur ball in my bed, I’d get a cat.’”
Bunny snapped open a compact, pretending to check her eyelashes but really, Carrie thought, checking to see if anyone in the restaurant wsa looking at her. “I’d love to call Chloe and ask her about it directly, but I can’t, because she hasn’t exactly been talking to me for years,” she said. “Strangely enough, I did get one of those invitations to one of those Upper East Side museum benefits, and sure enough, Chloe is once again a cochair. I haven’t gone to that benefit for years, but I actually thougt about paying the $350 and going by myself. Just so I could see what she looked like.”
Bunny laughed her famous laugh, and several heads swiveled around to look at her. “A few years back, when I was kind of fucked up and sometimes even had dried coke residue around my nostrils, my father used to call me up and say, ‘Come home.’ ‘Why?’ I’d ask. ‘So I can seeee you,’ he’d say. ‘If I seeeeee you I’ll know whether or not you’re all right.’”
“It’s the same thing with Chloe. If I can just see her, I’ll know everything. Is she filled with self-loathing? Is she on Prozac?”
“I don’t think so,” Carrie started to say.
“Or do you think she’s had some kind of remarkable religious experience?” Bunny contined. “People do these days. It’s very chic.”
“Anyway, I have my reasons for wanting to know. A few years ago, I almost married a guy like Jingles,” Bunny said, slowly. “The situation is still not resolved and probably never will be.”
“Let’s have champagne. Waiter!” Bunny snapped her fingers. She took a breath. “Well. It all started after a nasty breakup with a man I’ll call Dominique. He was an Italian banker, Euro-trashy and proud of it, with a personality like a scorpion. Just like hismother. Of course he treated me like shit and I put up with it, and strangely enough, I didn’t mind that much. At least, not until the end when I drank too much psychedelic mushroom tea in Jamaica and realized he didn’t love me after all. But I was a different person back then. I still had my beauty—you know, strangers stopped me on the street, that kind of thing—and a good-girl upbringing that comes from growing up in a small town in Maine. But on the inside, I was not nice. I had absolutely no feelings at all, emotionally or physically. I’d never been in love.”
“The only reason I lived with Dominique for three years was, one, he asked me to on our first date, and two, he had a gorgeous two-bedroom apartment in a prewar overlooking the East River and a big house in East Hampton. I had no money, no job—I did some voice-overs and sang some jingless for TV commercials.”
“So when Dominique and I broke up—he found out I was having affairs and made me give back jewelry he’d bought for me—I decided that what I needed to do ws get married. Quickly.”

The Trilby Hat
“I moved into a friend’s apartment,” said Bunny, “and about two weeks later I met Dudley at Chester’s—that East Side bar for young swells. Within five minutes of meeting him, I was annoyed. He was wearing spectator shoes, a trilby hat, and a Ralph Lauren suit. His lips were damp. He was tall and skinny, with no chin to speak of, eyes like boiled egges, and a large, bobbing Adam’s apple. He sits down, uninvited, at our table, and he insists on ordering martinis for everyone. He tells bad jokes, makes fun of my pony-skin designer shoes. ‘I’m a cow, moo, wear me,’ he said. ‘Excuse me, but I believe you’re the big beef,’ I said. I was embarrassed to be seen talking to him.”
“The next day, sure enough, he called. ‘Shelby gaveme your number,’ he said. Shelby’s a friend of mine and somehow related to George Washington. I can be rude, but only up to a point. ‘I didn’t know you knew Shelby,’ I said. ‘Su-u-re,’ he said. ‘Since kindergarten. Even back then he was a goofy kid.’”
“‘He was? What about you?’ I said.”
“My mistake. I should never have gotten started with him. Before I knew it, I was telling him all about my breakup with Dominique, and the next day, he sent flowers ‘because a beautiful girl shouldn’t be depressed about being dumped.’ Shelby called. ‘Dudley’s a great guy,’ he said.”
“‘Year?’ I said. ‘What’s so great about him?’
“‘His family owns half of Nantucket.’”
“Dudley was persistent. He sent gifts—stuffed bears and, one time, a Vermont cheese basket. He called three or four times a day. At first, he set my teeth on edge. But after a while, I got used to his bad sense of humor and almost looked forward to his calls. He listened with fascination to any spoiled, mundane detail of my day: you know, like how I was pissed because Yvonne had bought a new Chanel suit and I couldn’t afford one; how a taxi driver kicked me out of the cab for smoking: how I cut my ankle again shaving. He was setting a trap for me and I knew it—but I still thought that I, of all people, could get out of it.”
“And then came the weekend invitation, via Shelby, who called me and said, ‘Dudley wants us to go to his house in Nantucket with him.’”
“‘Not on your life,’ I said.”
“‘His house is beautiful. Antique. Main Street.’”
“‘Which one?’ I asked.”
“‘You think?’”
“‘I’m pretty sure. But every time I was there, I was fucked up. So I don’t really remember.’”
“‘If it’s one of the brick houses, I’ll think about it,’ I said.”
“Ten minutes later, Dudley himself called. ‘I already bought your plane tickets,’ he said. ‘And yeah, it’s one of the brick houses.’”

Dudley Dances
“I still have no explanation for what happened that weekend. Maybe it was the alcohol, the marijuana. Or maybe it was just the house itself. As a kid, my family had spent summers on Nantucket. I say that, but the reality is, we spent two weeks at a rooming house. I shared a room with my brothers, and my parents boiled lobsters for dinner on a hot plate.”
“I slept with Dudley that weekend. I didn’t want to. We were on the landing of the staircase, saying good night, when he sort of swooped down and started to kiss me. I didn’t refuse. We went to his bed, and as he lay on top of me, I remember at first feeling that I was being suffocated, which probabl wasn’t in my imagination since Dudley is six feet, two inches, and then feeling like I was sleeping with a little boy, since he couldn’t have weighed more than 160 pounds and he had no hair on his body whatsoever.”
“But for the first time in my life, the sex was great. I had a sort of epiphany: Maybe if I was with a guy because he was nice and adored me, I would be happy. But still I was afraid to look at Dudley when we woke up, afraid that I’d be repulsed.”
“Two weeks after we got back to the city, we attended an Upper East Side museum benefit. It was our first official event together as a couple. And, in what would become typical of our relationship, it was a series of mishaps. He was an hour late, then we couldn’t find a cab because it was 105 degrees. We had to walk, and Dudley—as usual—hadn’t eaten anything that day and nearly passed out, and someone had to get him glasses of ice water. Then he insisted on dancing, which basically consisted of flinging me into other couples. Then he smoked a cigar and threw up. Meanwhile, everyone kept telling me what a great guy he was.”
“Except my friends. Amalita said, ‘You can do better. This is ridiculous.’”
“I said, ‘But he’s great in bed.’”
“She said, ‘Please don’t make me puke.’”
“A month later, Dudley unofficially asked me to marry him, and I said yes. I had this feeling of shame about Dudley, but I kept thinking I would get over it. Plus, he kept me busy. We were always shopping. For apartments. Engagement rings. Antiques. Oriental rugs. Silver. Wine. And then there were weekend trips to Nantucket, and trips to Maine to visit my parents, but Dudley was perniciously late and always unorganized, so that we were always missing trains and ferries.”
“The turning point came the night we missed a ferry to Nantucket for the fourth time. We had to spend the night at a motel. I was starving and wanted Dudley to go out and get Chinese food, but instead he came back with a head of iceberg lettuce and a pitiful looking tomato. While I lay in bed, trying to block out the noise of a couple screwing in the next room, Dudley sat at a Formica table in his boxers, cutting away the rotten parts of the tomato with his silver Tiffany Swiss Army knife. He was only thirty, but he had the persnickety habits of a seventy-five years old.”
“The next morning, I started in. ‘Don’t you think you should work out? Gain a little weight?’”
“After that, everything about him began to drive me crazy. His silly, flashy clothing. The way he acted like everyone was his best friend. The three long blond hairs on his Adam’s apple. His smell.”
“Each day, I tried to get him to the gym. I would stand there and force him to do reps with five-pound barbells, which was all he could handle. He actually did gain ten pounds, but then he lost it all again. One night, we went to dinner at his parents’ apartment on Fifth Avenue. The cook was making lamb chops. Dudley insisted that he couldn’t eat meat, screamed at his parents for not being considerated about his eating habits, and made the cook run out to the store to buy brown rice and broccoli. The dinner was two hours late, and still Dudley only picked at his food. I was mortified. Afterward, his father said to me, ‘You come to dinner again anytime you like, but leave Dudley behind.’”
“I should have ended it right there, but Christmas was two weeks away. On Christmas Eve, Dudley officially asked me to marry him, with an eight-carat ring, in front of my whole family. There was always something a little bit nasty about him, and in typical Dudley fashion, he squished the ring into a Godiva chocolate and then handed me the box. ‘Here’s your Christmas present,’ he said. ‘Better start eating.’”
“‘I don’t want chocolates now,’ I said, giving him the sort of dirty look that usually shut him up.”
“‘I think you do,’ he said, somewhat menacingly, so I began eating. My family watched, in horror. I could have chipped a tooth, or worse, choked. Still, I said yes.”
“I don’t know if you’ve ever been engaged to the wrong person, but, once it happens, it’s like being on a freight train you can’t stop. There were the rounds of Park Avenue parties, little dinners at Mortimers and Bilboquet. Women I hardly knew had heard about the ring and begged to see it. ‘He’s such a great guy,’ everyone said.”
“‘Yes, he is,’ I’d reply. And inside, I felt like a shitheel.”
“and then the day came when I was supposed to move into our newly bought, perfectly furnished classic-six apartment on East 72nd Street. My boxes were packed, and the movers were downstairs when I called Dudley.”
“‘I can’t do this,’ I said.”
“‘Can’t do what?’ he asked.”
“I hung up.”
“He called back. He came over. He left. His friends called. I went out and went on a bender. Dudley’s Upper East Side friends sharpened their knives. They made stuff up: I was spotted at someone’s house at four in the morning wearing only cowboy boots. I’d given another guy a blow job at a club. I was trying to pawn the engagement ring. I was a gold digger. I’d taken Dudley for a ride.”
“There is no good way to end these things. I moved into a tiny studio apartment in a dirty walkup on York Avenue, which I could actually afford myself, and started working on my career. Things got worse for Dudley. The real estate market crashed, and he couldn’t sell the apartment. It was all my fault. Dudley left town. Moved to London. Also, my fault. Even though I kept hearing about what a great time he was having. Dating some duke’s homely daughter.”
“Everyone forgets that the three years after that were hell for me. Pure hell. Even though I had no money and had to eat hot dogs on the street and was suicidal half the time—I once actually called the suicide hot line, but then someone beeped in inviting me to a party—I vowed I’d never get into that situation again. Never take another penny from any man. It’s terrible to hurt someone like that.”
“But do you really think it was because of the way he looked?” Carrie asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that. And the one thing I forgot to mention is that every time I got into the car with him, I fell asleep. I literally couldn’t keep my eyes open. The truth is, he bored me.”
Maybe it was all the champagne, but Bunny laughed a little uncertainly. “Isn’t that just awful?” she said.

0-5 mins: First impression
Of the 2100 couples, I’ve studied over a third believed they’d fallen in love at first sight. It takes someone just two seconds to decide if you or not, and they’ll view everything you say from then on in a favourable or unfavourable light.
Before approaching the object of your affection, make sure you’re standing tall, subconsciously, the most important attribute a man looks for is good health, so slouching gives off all the wrong signals.
Next, remember a moment you felt fab, and your internal positivity will show on your face and in your posture. Keeping your head slightly lowered will make you seem approachable, and make lots of eye contact. It might sound like a cliché, but it is a cliché for a good reason: it works.
And while we all know making eyes at him is a great way to flirt, we often do the opposite and shy away. Sexual excitement is all about tension and release so, to tantalise him, make eye contact, drop your gaze, then lock eyes again. It also tells him he can trust you. Used properly, eye contact can create intimacy with someone you barely even know.

5-10 mins: The approach
Fist introductions at social events are easy. You know the host, he knows the host, how hard could it be? But making the first move on a stranger is a different story. The braver among you can try the ‘instant rapport’ technique. Simply get close and start talking as if you know him, but keep it fun and flirty. So, if it’s raining and you’ve just got on the bus, saying, “Look at my hair, it just can’t cope in this weather!” is a lot more interesting than, “I hate rain.” If he responds, great. If not, you haven’t lost anything.
If you’re not ready to plunge into a conversation, break the ice by asking advice. “Use ‘talk-show host’ questions, a statement followed by an open-ended question, if he’s clutching a bottle of wine in the supermarket, say, ‘I’m hopeless at choosing wine, which red would you recommend?’”
So you’ve got chatting, now how do you land a date? While nodding slightly, say, “I was wondering how you’d feel about grabbing a coffee?” by using words like ‘wonder’ and ‘feel’, you’re asking his opinion, not a question he can easily say no to and this, along with the nodding, make him more likely to say yes. Sneaky, us? Never.

10-30 mins: The set-up
While you’re racking your brain for the perfect anecdote, he’s busy taking in the visual cues you’re giving him. 55% of how we respond to people is based on what we see, so keep your body language ‘open’ and relax. Uncross your arms and legs, lean slightly towards him, keep your shoulders relaxed and your movements slow. We’re also wired to respond to other people’s emotions, so if you smile and laugh, he’ll smile and laugh too.
At the same time, drop his name into the conversation, which is a great way to flatter his ego, and use the ‘me too’ trick. People like people who are similar to themselves, so the best way to show your similarities is to say ‘me too’ as much as possible, as long as you mean it. He loves art-house films? You too! He prefers white wine to red? You too! And if you can’t agree, give verbal feedback instead, using phrases like, “You’re kidding!” being animated is more attractive than staying stony-faced.

30-60 mins: Make Chemistry
When we feel connected to someone, we synchronize our body language, so one of the quickest ways to make him feel closer to you is to mimic him. Done right, it can send sparks flying, as long as you stick to subtle movements. He won’t be impressed if you scratch your nose whenever he does.
So ‘match and mirror’ him, when he moves his left hand, you move your right. When he leans forward, you do too, and when he crosses his legs, cross yours. “Try breaking synchronization for 30 seconds, then renewing it. It is a bit like playing hard to get with body language, and he’ll feel relief when you synchronize again.”
It is not just his obvious movements you should notice mimicking his rate of speech, breathing, head tilts, expressions, and tone and volume of voice will also make sure you get closer quiker.
You can even throw in some flirty moves. Licking your lips, playing with your hair and tracing your collarbone with your fingers and top tricks. As he talks, flick your gaze from his eyes to his mouth and back again, then linger on his lips for a second or two. And try not to laugh when he blushed…

60-70 mins: Get flirty
When the Jimmy Choo for H&M ranges his stores in November, women queued for hours. Make something exclusive and we want it, a rule that works in relationships too. “If you give the impression you’re in demand, he’ll want you more.”
If he suggests a date on Thursday, tell him your diary’s full, but if you change things around, you can meet him on Friday. If you want to snag him in 90 minutes, you need to be sexy, not cute, and confidence and mystery are two of the most tantalizing qualities you can offer.

70-90 mins: Create intimacy
He should be under your spell by now. So now you can create intimacy by taking him into your confidence. “We find someone attractive based on how they look, but we fall in love by talking.”
The key is to tread very carefully. Low-risk disclosure includes your likes and dislikes, and facts like where you’re from Medium-risk, where you should aim-involves sharing opinions and dreams. And high-risk sharing is telling him your deepest feelings, insecurities and fears. Going this far can lead to getting super-close super-quickly, but there is such a thing as too much information. Avoid talking about past relationships and move cautiously, gauge his reactions and pace yourself, like an emotional striptease. And don’t spill all your secrets at once, confide in him, then wait for him to give something back.

Days of Summer
Their Ikea dates where they pretend to be a married couple in bed/in their kitchen. Genius.

Dirty Dancing
When they go to the lake to practice the lift. So. Damn. Hot. And all the sexy dancing. We miss you, Patrick.