Sex and the City - Page 27

And then, afterward, he said, “Hey, darling, you’d better not tell my girlfriend.” As he stuck his tongue in her mouth one final time.

It all came spilling out: the girlfriend whom he’d lived with for two years, and they were engaged, sort of, but he really didn’t know if he wanted to get married, but she was living with him, so what could he do?

And then it was Glenn Close without the rabbit.

The next day, Guy tracked down Miranda’s number and called her, wanting to see her again. “And this is what we have to choose from,” Miranda said.

NEWBERT GETS WORRIED

At noon, Belle’s husband, Newbert, called Carrie to see if she’d seen Belle.

“If she were dead, I’d know about it,” Carrie said.

A ROLLERBLADE INGENUE

Then there was Sarah, who, according to Miranda, went rollerblading in her basement at four A.M. Drunk. Thirty-eight years old. A grown woman clinging to the role of ingenue. Is there anything less attractive? I don’t think so.

But what is Sarah supposed to do? She is 38, and she’s not married, and she’d like to be with someone. And men, as we know from this column, are attracted to youth. Even the women at the bridal shower, older than Sarah now, were younger than she is when they got married. It may not be an option for her anymore. So she rollerblades with a twenty-five year old in her basement. Instead of having sex with him. He wants to; she is afraid he’ll think her body’s too old.

“Oh hi-i-i,” Sarah says, when Carrie calls her in the afternoon. She’s laid up on the couch in her tiny but perfect one-bedroom apartment in a high-rise just west of Second Avenue. “Oh I’m fi-i-i-ne. Can you believe it?” she sounds unnaturally cheerful. “Just a little broken ankle. And the cutest doctors in the emergency room. And Luke with me the whole time.”

“Luke?”

“Lucas really. The cutest guy. My little friend.” She’s giggling. A horrifying sound.

“Where did you get the rollerblades?”

“Oh, he came on them. To the party. Isn’t that cute?”

The cast comes off in six weeks. In the meantime, Sarah will have to hobble around, running her PR business as best she can. She has no disability insurance. The business runs on a shoestring.

Is this better or worse than being married and living in the suburbs? Better or worse?

Who can tell.

BELLE AT THE CARLYLE

Belle calls from the Carlyle. Mentions something about a wide receiver from the Miami Dolphins. At Frederick’s. Mentions something about her husband, Newbert, and some spaghetti sauce. “I make great spaghetti sauce,” she says. “I’m a great wife.” Carrie agrees.

Anyway, after she got home from the bridal shower, she and Newbert had a fight. Belle ran away, went to Frederick’s, the nightclub. The wide receiver was at Frederick’s. He kept telling her that her husband didn’t love her enough. “He does. You don’t understand,” she said. “I’d love you more,” he said. She laughed, ran away again, booked herself a suite in the Carlyle. She says, “Cocktails are being served. Now.”

She says she thinks maybe Newbert is upset because he’s just sent out his novel. She thinks maybe Newbert is upset because she doesn’t want to have kids. Not until he sells his novel. When she gets pregnant, it will all be over. So better to have a good time now.

ALL ROADS LEAD TO BABY DOLL

After the bridal shower, and after checking in on the phone with her new boyfriend, Mr. Big, Carrie went to Bowery Bar. Samantha Jones, the fortyish movie producer was there. Carrie’s best friend. Sometimes.

Barkley, the twenty-five-year-old up-and-coming artist and model chaser, had inserted himself at Samantha’s table.

“I’d love it if you’d stop by my loft sometime,” Barkley said, flipping his blond hair out of his eyes.

Samantha was smoking a Cuban cigar. She took a drag and blew the thick smoke in Barkley’s face. “I’ll bet you would. But what makes you think I’d like your little paintings.”

“Well, you don’t have to like my paintings,” Barkley said. “You could just like me.”

Samantha grinned evilly. “I don’t bother with men under thirty-five. They’re not experienced enough for my tastes.”

“Try me,” Barkley said. “If not, at least buy me a drink.”

Tags: Candace Bushnell Fiction
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