“The next morning, I started in. ‘Don’t you think you should work out? Gain a little weight?’
“After that, everything about him began to drive me crazy. His silly, flashy clothing. The way he acted like everyone was his best friend. The three long blond hairs on his Adam’s apple. His smell.
“Each day, I tried to get him to the gym. I would stand there and force him to do reps with five-pound barbells, which was all he could handle. He actually did gain ten pounds, but then he lost it all again. One night, we went to dinner at his parents’ apartment on Fifth Avenue. The cook was making lamb chops. Dudley insisted that he couldn’t eat meat, screamed at his parents for not being considerate about his eating habits, and made the cook run out to the store to buy brown rice and broccoli. The dinner was two hours late, and still Dudley only picked at his food. I was mortified. Afterward, his father said to me, ‘You come to dinner again anytime you like, but leave Dudley behind.’
“I should have ended it right there, but Christmas was two weeks away. On Christmas Eve, Dudley officially asked me to marry him, with an eight-carat ring, in front of my whole family. There was always something a little bit nasty about him, and in typical Dudley fashion, he squished the ring into a Godiva chocolate and then handed me the box. ‘Here’s your Christmas present,’ he said. ‘Better start eating.’
“‘I don’t want chocolates now,’ I said, giving him the sort of dirty look that usually shut him up.
“‘I think you do,’ he said, somewhat menacingly, so I began eating. My family watched, in horror. I could have chipped a tooth, or worse, choked. Still, I said yes.
“I don’t know if you’ve ever been engaged to the wrong person, but, once it happens, it’s like being on a freight train you can’t stop. There were the rounds of Park Avenue parties, little dinners at Mortimers and Bilboquet. Women I hardly knew had heard about the ring and begged to see it. ‘He’s such a great guy,’ everyone said.
“‘Yes, he is,’ I’d reply. And inside, I felt like a shitheel.
“And then the day came when I was supposed to move into our newly bought, perfectly furnished classic-six apartment on East 72nd Street. My boxes were packed, and the movers were downstairs when I called Dudley.
“‘I can’t do this,’ I said.
“‘Can’t do what?’ he asked.
“I hung up.
“He called back. He came over. He left. His friends called. I went out and went on a bender. Dudley’s Upper East Side friends sharpened their knives. They made stuff up: I was spotted at someone’s house at four in the morning wearing only cowboy boots. I’d given another guy a blow job at a club. I was trying to pawn the engagement ring. I was a gold digger. I’d taken Dudley for a ride.
“There is no good way to end these things. I moved into a tiny studio apartment in a dirty walkup on York Avenue, which I could actually afford myself, and started working on my career. Things got worse for Dudley. The real estate market crashed, and he couldn’t sell the apartment. It was all my fault. Dudley left town. Moved to London. Also, my fault. Even though I kept hearing about what a great time he was having. Dating some duke’s homely daughter.
“Everyone forgets that the three years after that were hell for me. Pure hell. Even though I had no money and had to eat hot dogs on the street and was suicidal half the time—I once actually called the suicide hot line, but then someone beeped in inviting me to a party—I vowed I’d never get into that situation again. Never take another penny from any man. It’s terrible to hurt someone like that.”
“But do you really think it was because of the way he looked?” Carrie asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that. And the one thing I forgot to mention is that every time I got into the car with him, I fell asleep. I literally couldn’t keep my eyes open. The truth is, he bored me.”
Maybe it was all the champagne, but Bunny laughed a little uncertainly. “Isn’t that just awful?” she said.
24
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 a 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.”
Stanford 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 her a ski suit, gloves, hat, long underwear. Also a tiny thermometer that clipp
ed to her ski gloves—the one thing she had begged him to buy her. He had resisted until she pouted; 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 be so 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.