Relationship In Love

Aspen

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?”