Mr. Big patted her hand. “Don’t worry about it,” he said.
“Now I’m mad,” she said.
They’d been back in New York two days when Carrie got a call from Samantha Jones. “Soooooo,” she said.
“So what?” Carrie asked.
“Anything big happen in Aspen?” she asked, in this creepy, cooing voice.
“Like what?” Carrie asked.
“I was convinced you were going to come back engaged.”
“Nooooo,” Carrie said. She leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on the desk. “Why on earth would you think that?”
25
The Last Chapter
“Hey! Come to a party.” Samantha Jones; she was calling Carrie from an art gallery in SoHo. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“I don’t know,” Carrie said. “I told Mr. Big I might make him dinner. He’s out now, at a cocktail party . . .”
“He’s out and you’re waiting at home for him? Oh come on,” Samantha said. “He’s a big boy. He can get his own dinner.”
“There’s the plants too.”
“Plants?”
“Houseplants, actually,” Carrie said. “I’ve developed this strange obsession. Some houseplants are grown for their foliage, but I’m not interested in foliage, only flowers.”
“Flowers,” Sam said. “Cute.” She laughed her clear, bell-ringing laugh. “Get in a cab. You’ll be gone half an hour, forty-five minutes at most.”
When Carrie got to the party, Sam said, “Don’t you look nice. Just like a newcaster.”
“Thank you,” Carrie said. “It’s my new look. Early Stepford wife.” She was wearing a powder blue suit with a skirt that came to her knees and fifties-style satin pumps.
“Champagne?” Sam asked, as a waiter slid by with a tray.
“No thanks. I’m trying not to drink,” Carrie said.
“Good. I’ll take yours then.” Sam picked up two glasses off the tray. She nodded across the room at a tall, tanned woman with short blond hair. “See that girl?” she asked. “She’s one of those girls who has a perfect life. Married at twenty-five to Roger, the guy next to her. The screenplay writer. His last three movies have been hits. She was just a girl, like us, not a model but beautiful—she met Roger, who I think is adorable, smart, sexy, nice, and really funny, she’s never had to work, they have two kids and a nanny and a great apartment in the city and the perfect house in the Hamptons, and she’s never had to worry about anything.”
“So?”
“So, I hate her,” Sam said. “Except, of course, she’s really nice.”
“What’s not to be nice about?”
They watched the girl. The way she moved around the room, makin
g small bits of conversation, leaning forward to giggle in someone’s ear. Her clothes were right, her makeup was right, her hair was right, and she had about her the sort of ease that comes with a sense of unchallenged entitlement. She looked up, saw Sam and waved.
“How are you?” she asked Sam enthusiastically, coming over. “I haven’t seen you since . . . the last party.”
“Your husband’s really big time now, isn’t he?” Sam said.
“Oh yes,” she said. “Last night we had dinner with ——,” she said, naming a well-known Hollywood director. “I know you’re not supposed to be starstruck, but it was really exciting,” she said, looking at Carrie.