Candace Bushnell - Summer and the City

The second book in the Carrie Diaries series, 2011

First Samantha asks me to find her shoe. When I locate it in the sink, she asks me to a party.

You might as well come, seeing as you dont have anyplace else to go and I dont feel like babysitting.

Im hardly a baby.

Okay. Youre a sparrow. Either way, she says, adjusting her silk bra as she wriggles into a green Lycra shift, youve already been mugged. If youre kidnapped by a pimp, I dont want it on my hands.

She spins around and eyes my outfit-a navy blue gabardine jacket with matching culottes that Id actually considered chic a few hours ago. Is that all youve got?

I have a black cocktail dress from the 1960s.

Wear that. And put these on. She tosses me a pair of gold aviator sunglasses. Theyll make you look normal.

I dont ask what normal is as I follow behind her, clattering down the five flights of stairs to the street.

Rule number one, she declares, stepping into traffic. Always look like you know where youre going, even if you dont.

She holds up her hand, causing a car to screech to a halt. Move fast. She bangs on the hood of the car and gives the driver the finger. And always wear shoes you can run in.

I skittle behind her through the obstacle course of Seventh Avenue and arrive on the other side like a castaway discovering land.

And for Gods sake, those wedge sandals. Out, Samantha decries, giving my feet a disparaging glance.

Did you know that the first wedge sandal was invented by Ferragamo for the young Judy Garland?

How on earth do you know that?

Im a font of useless information.

Then you should do just fine at this party.

Whose party is it again? I shout, trying to be heard over the traffic.

David Ross. The Broadway director.

Why is he having a party at four oclock on a Sunday afternoon? I dodge a hot dog cart, a supermarket basket filled with blankets, and a child attached to a leash.

Its a tea dance.

Will they be serving tea? I cant tell if shes serious.

She laughs. What do youthink?

The party is in a dusky pink house at the end of a cobblestoned street. I can see the river through a crack between the buildings, turgid and brown under glints of sunlight.

Davids very eccentric, Samantha warns, as if eccentricity might be an unwelcome trait to a new arrival from the provinces. Someone brought a miniature horse to his last party and it crapped all over the Aubusson carpet.

I pretend to know what an Aubusson carpet is in favor of learning more about the horse. Howd they get it there?

Taxi, Samantha says. It was a very small horse.

I hesitate. Will your friend David mind? Your bringing me?

If he doesnt mind a miniature horse, I cant imagine hell mind you. Unless youre a drag or a bore.

I might be a bore but Im never a drag.

And the stuff about coming from a small town? Nix it, she says. In New York, you need a shtick.

A shtick?

Who you are, but better. Embellish, she says with a flourish as we pause in front of the house. Its four stories high and the blue door is flung open in welcome, revealing a colorful throng, twirling and weaving like a chorus in a musical show. My insides throb with excitement. That door is my entrance to another world.

Were about to cross the threshold when a shiny black marble of a man comes rolling out, a bottle of champagne in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. Samantha! he screams.

Davide, Samantha shouts, giving the name a French twist.

And who are you? he asks, peering at me with friendly curiosity.

Carrie Bradshaw, sir. I hold out my hand.

How divine, he squeals. I havent been called sir since I was in short pants. Not that I ever was in short pants. Where have you been hiding this delightful young person?

I found her on my doorstep.

Did you arrive in a basket like Moses? he asks.

Train, I reply.

And what brings you to the Emerald City?

Oh. I smile. And taking Samanthas advice to heart, I quickly blurt out, Im going to become a famous writer.

Like Kenton! he exclaims.

Kenton James? I ask breathlessly.

Is there any other? He should be here somewhere. If you trip across a very small man with a voice like a miniature poodle, youll know youve found him.

In the next second, David Ross is halfway across the room and Samantha is sitting on a strange mans lap.

Over here. She waves from the couch.

I push past a woman in a white jumpsuit. I think I just saw my first Halston!

Is Halston here? Samantha asks.

If Im at the same party with Halston and Kenton James, Im going to die. I meant the jumpsuit.

Oh, the jumpsuit, she says with exaggerated interest to the man beneath her. From what I can see of him, hes tan and sporty, sleeves rolled up over his forearms.

Youre killing me, he says.

This is Carrie Bradshaw. Shes going to be a famous writer, Samantha says, taking up my moniker as if its suddenly fact.

Hello, famous writer. He holds out his hand, the fingers narrow and burnished like bronze.

This is Bernard. The idiot I didnt sleep with last year, she jokes.

Didnt want to be another notch in your belt, Bernard drawls.

Im not notching anymore. Dont you know? She holds out her left hand for inspection. An enormous diamond glitters from her ring finger. Im engaged.

She kisses the top of Bernards dark head and looks around the room. Who do I have to spank to get a drink around here?

Ill go, Bernard volunteers. He stands up and for one inexplicable moment, its like watching my future unfold.

Cmon, famous writer. Better come with me. Im the only sane person here. He puts his hands on my shoulders and steers me through the crowd.

I look back at Samantha, but she only smiles and waves, that giant sparkler catching the last rays of sunlight. How did I not notice that ring before?

Guess I was too busy noticing everything else.

Like Bernard. Hes tall and has straight dark hair. A large, crooked nose. Hazel-green eyes and a face that changes from mournful to delighted every other second, as if he has two personalities pulling him in opposite directions.

I cant fathom why hes paying me so much attention, but Im mesmerized. People keep coming up and congratulating him, while snippets of conversation waft around my head like dandelion fluff.

You never give up, do you-

Crispin knows him and hes terrified-

I said, Why dont you try diagramming a sentence-

Dreadful. Even her diamonds looked dirty-

Bernard gives me a wink. And suddenly his full name comes back to me from some old copy of Timemagazine or Newsweek. Bernard Singer? The playwright?

He cant be, I panic, knowing instinctively he is.

How the hell did this happen? Ive been in New York for exactly two hours, and already Im with the beautiful people?

Whats your name again? he asks.

Carrie Bradshaw. The name of his play, the one that won the Pulitzer Prize, enters my brain like a shard of glass: Cutting Water.

Id better get you back to Samantha before I take you home myself, he purrs.

I wouldnt go, I say tartly. Blood pounds in my ears. My glass of champagne is sweating.

Where do you live? He squeezes my shoulder.

I dont know.

This makes him roar with laughter. Youre an orphan. Are you Annie?

Id rather be Candide. Were edged up against a wall near French doors that lead to a garden. He slides down so were eye-level.