Then Carrie went back to the Girl’s house. The Girl lived in an expensive high-rise, two-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side. The furniture was that Danish stuff with knitted afghans. There were porcelain kittens on the side tables. They went into the kitchen and the Girl lit up a roach. She had a small, earthenware bowl filled with roaches. She had an open, half-empty bottle of wine. She poured them both some wine and handed Carrie a glass.
“I still sleep with men sometimes,” the Girl said. “They just drive me crazy.”
“Uh huh,” Carrie said. She was wondering when the Girl was going to make her move and how she would make it.
“I sleep with men and women,” the Girl said. “But I prefer women.”
“Then why sleep with men?” Carrie asked.
The girl shrugged. “They’re good for stuff.”
“In other words, it’s just the same old story,” Carrie said.
She glanced around the apartment. She lit up a cigarette and leaned back against the counter. “Okay,” she said. “What’s the deal? Really. You must be independently wealthy to be able to afford this place, or else you’ve got something else going on.”
The Girl took a sip of her wine. “I dance,” she said.
“Oh, I see,” Carrie said. “Where?”
“Stringfellows. I’m good. I can make about a thousand a night.”
“So that’s what this is about.”
“Can I have a cigarette?” the Girl asked.
“Topless dancers all sleep with each other because they hate men.”
“Yeah, well,” the Girl said, “the men are all losers.”
“The ones you know. The ones who go into the club,” Carrie said.
“Is there any other kind?” the Girl asked. In the kitchen light, Carrie saw that her skin was not so good, that it was pockmarked under a heavy coat of foundation. “I’m tired,” the Girl said. “Let’s go lie down.”
“Let’s do it,” Carrie said.
They went into the bedroom. Carrie sat on the edge of the bed, trying to keep up a patter of conversation. “I’m going to get more comfortable,” the Girl said. She went to her closet. She took off her fancy leather pants and put on sloppy gray sweatpants. She took out a T-shirt. When she undid her bra, she turned away. Without her clothes on, she was short and kind of chubby.
They lay down on top of the bed. The pot was beginning to wear off. “Do you have a boyfriend?” the Girl asked.
“Yes,” Carrie said, “I do and I’m crazy about him.”
They lay there for a few minutes. Carrie got an ache in her stomach from missing Mr. Big.
“Listen,” Carrie said, “I’ve got to go home. It was great to meet you, though.”
“Great to meet you,” the Girl said. She turned her head to the wall and closed her eyes. “Make sure the door is shut on your way out, okay? I’ll call you.”
Two days later, the phone rang and it was the Girl. Carrie thought, Why did I give you my number? The Girl said, “Hi? Carrie? It’s me. How are you?”
“Fine,” Carrie said. Pause. “Listen. Can I call you right back? What’s your number?”
She took down the Girl’s number, even though she already had it. She didn’t call back, and for the next two hours until she went out, she didn’t answer the phone. She let the machine pick up.
CATWALK
A few days later, Carrie was at the Ralph Lauren fashion show in Bryant Park. The girls, tall and slim, came out one after another, their long blond hair floating over their shoulders. For a moment, it was a beautiful world, and when the girls passed, their eyes met and they gave each other secret smiles.
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