“You’re already a bitch.”
MEETING MR. BIG
As part of her research, Carrie went to see The Last Seduction at three in the afternoon. She had heard that the movie portrayed a woman who, in pursuit of money and hot sex and absolute control, uses and abuses every man she meets—and never has a regret or one of those expected “Oh my God, what have I done?” epiphanies.
Carrie never goes to movies—she had a WASPy mother who told her that only poor people with sick kids send their kids to the movie theater—so it was a big deal for her. She got to the theater late, and when the ticket taker told her the movie had already started, she said, “Fuck you. I’m here for research—you don’t think I’d actually go see this movie, do you?”
When she came out, she kept thinking about the scene where Linda Fiorentino picks up the man in the bar and has sex with him in the parking lot, gripping a chain-link fence. Was that what it was all about?
Carrie bought two pairs of strappy sandals and got her hair cut off.
On a Sunday evening, Carrie went to a cocktail party thrown by the designer Joop—one of those parties that should be in a movie, with everyone crowded in and the gay boys so lively, and even though Carrie had to work the next day, she knew she’d eventually have too many drinks and go home too late. Carrie doesn’t like to go home at night and she doesn’t like to go to sleep.
Mr. Joop cleverly ran out of champagne halfway though the party, and people were banging on the kitchen door and begging the waiters for a glass of wine. A man walked by with a cigar in his mouth, and one of the men Carrie was talking to said, “Oooooh. Who is that again? He looks like a younger, better-looking Ron Perelman.”
“I know who it is,” Carrie said.
“Who?”
“Mr. Big.”
“I knew that. I always get Mr. Big and Perelman mixed up.”
“How much will you give me,” Carrie asked. “How much will you give me if I go over and talk to him?” She does this new thing she’s doing now with her short hair. She fluffs it up while the boys look at her and laugh. “You’re crazy,” they say.
Carrie had seen Mr. Big once before, but she didn’t think he’d remember her. She was in this office where she works sometimes, and Inside Edition was interviewing her about something she wrote about Chihuahuas. Mr. Big came in and started talking to the cameraman about how Chihuahuas were all over Paris, and Carrie leaned over and tightened the lace on her boot.
At the party, Mr. Big was sitting on the radiator in the living room. “Hi,” Carrie said. “Remember me?” She could tell by his eyes that he had no idea who she was, and she wondered if he was going to panic.
He twirled the cigar around the inside of his lips and took it out of his mouth. He looked away to flick his ash, then looked back at her. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”
ANOTHER MR. BIG (AT ELAINE’S)
Carrie didn’t run into Mr. Big again for several days. In the meantime, something was definitely happening. She bumped into a writer friend she hadn’t seen for two months, and he said, “What’s going on with you? You look completely different.”
“I do?”
“You look like Heather Locklear. Did you get your teeth fixed?”
Then she was at Elaine’s, and a big writer, a big one, someone she’d never met, gave her the finger and then sat down next to her and said, “You’re not as tough as you think you are.”
“Excuse me?”
“You walk around like you’re so fucking great in bed.”
She wanted to say, “I do?”—but instead she laughed and said, “Well, maybe I am.”
He lit her cigarette. “If I wanted to have an affair with you, it would have to last a long time. I wouldn’t want a one-night stand.”
“Well, baby,” she said, “you’ve got the wrong girl.”
Then she went to a party after one of those Peggy Siegal movie openings and ran into a big movie producer, another big one, and he gave her a ride in his car to Bowery Bar. But Mr. Big was there.
Mr. Big slid into the banquette next to her. Their sides were touching.
Mr. Big said, “So. What have you been doing lately?”
“Besides going out every night?”