“Gimme shelter—in Bowery Bar,” she said, and hung up.
11
Babes Flee Land of Wives for Night of Topless Fun
Bad things can happen to city women when they come back from visiting their newly married-with-children friends in the suburbs.
The morning after Carrie, Miranda, Belle, and Sarah returned from a bridal shower in Greenwich, there were phone calls.
Sarah had broken her ankle rollerblading at four in the morning. Miranda had had sex with some guy in a closet at a party, and they didn’t use condoms. Carrie had done something so ridiculous she was sure her short relationship with Mr. Big was over. And no one could find Belle.
THE BOLD FELLOW
Miranda hadn’t meant to go nuts at the party, to go into what she calls “my Glenn Close imitation.”
“I was just going to go home and get a good night’s sleep and wake up and work on Sunday.” That was the great thing about not being married, not having kids, being alone. You could work on Sunday.
But Sarah made her go to the party. “There could be good contacts there,” Sarah had said. Sarah, with her own PR company, was constantly on the lookout for “contacts,” which could also translate to “dates.” The party was on East 64th Street. Some rich old guy’s town house. Women in their thirties wearing black dresses and all with practically the same color blond hair. That type of woman always went to parties at rich old guys’ houses, and they always brought their girlfriends, so there were squadrons of these women looking for men and pretending not to.
Sarah disappeared into the throng. Miranda was left standing by the bar. She had dark, wavy hair, and she was wearing leggings with the boot part sewn in, so she stuck out.
Two girls walked by her, and Miranda—maybe she is a little paranoid—swore that one of them said, “That’s that girl, Miranda Hobbes. She’s a total bitch.”
So Miranda said, out loud, but so no one could hear, “That’s right, I am a real bitch, honey, but thank God I’m not like you.” Then she remembered how at the end of the long afternoon in the suburbs, the low-fat carrot cake with low-fat cream cheese frosting had been served with tiny sterling forks with prongs so sharp they could break the skin.
A man came up to her. Expensively tailored suit. Okay, he wasn’t exactly a man because he was only about thirty-five. But he was trying. She was making the bartender give her a double vodka tonic, and the man said, “Thirsty, eh?”
“No. What I really want is a steak. Okay?”
“I will get you one,” the man said, and it turned out he had a French accent.
“I will let you know,” she said, and tried to walk away. She didn’t want to have anything to do with the party. She was tired of feeling like she didn’t fit in, but she didn’t want to go home, either, because she was tired of being
lonely and she was a little drunk.
“My name is Guy,” he said. “I own a gallery on 79th Street.”
She sighed and said, “Of course you do.”
“Perhaps you have heard of it.”
“Listen, Guy . . .,” she said.
“Yes?” he asked eagerly.
“Can you touch your asshole with your dick?”
Guy smiled slyly. He moved closer. Put his hand on her shoulder. “But of course.”
“Then I suggest you go fuck yourself.”
“A come-on!” Guy said, and Miranda wondered if he was really that stupid, or if he just seemed stupid because he was French. He grabbed her hand and began pulling her up the stairs; she went along because she figured that any guy who could keep his cool after being insulted couldn’t be that bad. They ended up in the rich old guy’s bedroom, which had a red silk cover on the bed, and then this Guy character had some cocaine. And then, somehow, they ended up kissing. People kept coming in and out of the bedroom.
For some reason, they went into the walk-in closet. Old pine paneling, racks for jackets and trousers, shelves for cashmere sweaters and shoes. Miranda checked the labels: Savile Row—boring. Then she turned around, and Guy was standing right there. Then there was the groping. The leggings came down. Out popped the bold fellow.
“How big?” Carrie asked her on the phone.
“Big. And French,” Miranda said. (How could she?)