Carrie did not go to the bathroom. Nor was she as drunk as she appeared to be. Instead, she tiptoed up the stairs, carpeted with an oriental runner, and thought that if she were Jolie, she would probably know what kind of oriental rug it was because that was the kind of stuff you were supposed to know if you were married to a rich banker and making him a home in the suburbs.
She went into Jolie’s bedroom. There was a thick white carpet on the floor and photographs everywhere in silver frames, some professional-looking shots of Jolie in a bathing suit, her long blond hair swinging over her shoulders.
Carrie stared at those photographs for a long time. What was it like to be Jolie? How did it happen? How did you find someone who fell in love with you and gave you all this? She was thirty-four and she’d never even come close, and there was a good chance she never would.
And this was the kind of life she’d grown up believing she could have, simply because she wanted it. But the men you wanted didn’t want it, or you; and the men who did want it were too boring. She went into the bathroom. Floor-to-ceiling black marble. A bidet. Maybe suburban husbands wouldn’t play ball unless their wives were just-washed, unlike guys in the city. Then she almost screamed.
There was a fourteen-by-seventeen color photograph of Jolie, Demi Moore–style, naked save for a skimpy negligee that was open in the front to reveal humongous tits and a huge belly. Jolie was staring proudly into the camera, her hand resting just above her belly button, which had been pushed straight out like a little stem. Carrie flushed the toilet and ran breathless down the stairs.
“We’re opening presents,” Brigid scolded.
Carrie sat down in a chair next to Miranda. “What’s your problem?” Miranda asked.
“Photograph. In the master bathroom. Check it out,” Carrie said.
“Excuse me,” Miranda said, leaving the room.
“What are you two doing?” Jolie asked.
“Nothing,” Carrie said. She looked at the bride-to-be, who was holding up a pair of red silk, crotchless panties bordered in black lace. Everyone was laughing. Which is what you do at showers.
“I’M SHAKING”
“Could you believe the photograph?” Miranda asked. They were rocking gently on the train back to the city.
“If I ever get pregnant,” Belle said, “I’m going to stay inside for nine months. I will see no one.”
“I think I could get into it,” Sarah said moodily, staring out the window. “They’ve got houses and cars and nannies. Their lives look so manageable. I’m jealous.”
“What do they do all day? That’s what I want to know,” Miranda said.
“They don’t even have sex,” Carrie said. She was thinking about her new boyfriend, Mr. Big. Right now, things were great, but after a year, or two years—if it even lasted that long—then what happened?
“You wouldn’t believe the story I heard about Brigid,” Belle said. “While you guys were upstairs, Jolie pulled me into the kitchen. ‘Be nice to Brigid,’ she said. ‘She just found her husband, Tad, in flagrante with another woman.’”
The other woman was Brigid’s next door neighbor, Susan. Susan and Tad both worked in the city and for the last year had carpooled to and from the train each day. When Brigid found them, it was ten in the evening and they were both drunk in the car, parked at the cul-de-sac at the end of the street. Brigid had been out walking the dog.
She yanked open the car door and tapped Tad on his naked bum. “Wheaton has the flu and wants to say good night to his daddy,” she said, then went back inside.
For the next week, she continued to ignore the situation, while Tad became more and more agitated, sometimes calling her ten times a day from his office. Every time he tried to bring it up, she brought up something about their two children. Finally, on Saturday night, when Tad was getting stoned and mixing up margaritas on the deck, she told him. “I’m pregnant again. Three months. So we shouldn’t have to worry about a miscarriage this time. Aren’t you happy, dear?” Then she took the pitcher of margaritas and poured it over his head.
“Typical,” Carrie said, cleaning under her fingernails with the edge of a matchbook.
“I’m just so happy I can trust my husband,” Belle said.
“I’m shaking,” Miranda said. They saw the city, dusky and brown, looming up as the train went over a bridge. “I need a drink. Anyone coming?”
After three cocktails at Ici, Carrie called Mr. Big.
“Yo, yo,” he said. “What up.”
“It was awful,” she giggled. “You know how much I hate those kinds of things. All they talked about was babies and private schools and how this friend of theirs got blackballed from the country club and how one of their nannies crashed a new Mercedes.”
She could hear Mr. Big puffing away on his cigar. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll get used to it,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
She turned and looked back to their table. Miranda had shanghaied two guys from another table, one of whom was already in deep conversation with Sarah.