“Cholly?”
“Cholly Hammond. You met him at the same party where you met Bernard.”
“The seersucker guy.”
“He runs a literary magazine. You’ll like him.”
I wave the aluminum foil in her face. “I won’t get to see him, remember? I’ll be in here, cooking.”
“If cooking makes you this neurotic, you really shouldn’t do it,” Samantha says.
“Thanks, sweetie. But I believe this was your idea, remember?”
“Oh, I know,” she says airily. “C’mon. I need you to help me pick out something to wear. Charlie’s friends are very conservative.”
I follow her down a carpeted hallway and into a large suite with a walk-in closet and his-and-her bathrooms. I gawk at the splendor of it all. Imagine having this much space in Manhattan. No wonder Samantha’s so eager to get hitched.
When we enter the closet, I nearly fall over in a dead faint. The closet alone is the size of Samantha’s entire apartment. On one side are racks and racks of Charlie’s clothing, arranged by type and color. His jeans are ironed and folded over hangers. Stacks of cashmere sweaters in every color are piled neatly on the shelves.
At the other end is Samantha’s section, made obvious not only by her work suits and high-heeled pumps and the slinky dresses she loves to wear, but by its relative meagerness. “Hey, sister, looks like you’ve got some catching up to do,” I point out.
“I’m working on it,” she laughs.
“What’s this?” I ask, indicating a bouclé suit with white piping. “Chanel?” I look at the price tag, which is still on the sleeve, and gasp. “Twelve hundred dollars?”
“Thank you.” She removes the hanger from my hands.
“Can you afford that?”
“I can’t not afford it. If you want the life, you have to look the part.” She frowns. “I would think you of all people would understand. Aren’t you obsessed with fashion?”
“Not at these prices. This lovely garment I’m wearing cost two bucks.”
“It looks it,” she says, taking off the French maid’s outfit and dropping it onto the floor.
She slides into the Chanel suit and considers her image in the full-length mirror. “What do you think?”
“Isn’t that what all those ladies wear? The ones who lunch? I know it’s Chanel, but it’s not really you.”
“Which makes it perfect for an up-and-coming Upper East Side lady.”
“But you’re not one,” I object, thinking about all those crazy nights we’ve spent together.
She puts her finger to her lips. “I am now. And I will be, for as long as I need to be.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll be independently wealthy. Maybe I’ll live in Paris.”
“You’re planning to divorce Charlie before you’ve even married him? What if you have kids?”
“What do you think, Sparrow?” She kicks the French maid’s uniform into the closet and looks at me pointedly. “I believe someone has some cooking to do.”
Four hours later, despite the fact that the oven is going and two burners are lit, I’m shivering with cold. Charlie keeps the apartment cooled to the temperature of a refrigerated truck. It’s probably ninety degrees outside, but I sure could use one of his cashmere sweaters right now.
How can Samantha take it? I wonder, stirring the pan. But I suppose she’s used to it. If you marry one of these mogul types, you kind of have to do what they want.
“Carrie?” Samantha asks, coming into the kitchen. “How’s it going?”