DUDLEY DANCES

"I still have no explanation for what happened that weekend. Maybe it was the alcohol, the marijuana. Or maybe it was just the house itself. As a kid, my family had spent summers on Nantucket. I say that, but the reality is, we spent two weeks at a rooming house. I shared a room with my brothers, and my parents boiled lobsters for dinner on a hot plate.

"I slept with Dudley that weekend. I didn't want to. We were on the landing of the staircase, saying good night, when he sort of swooped down and started to kiss me. I didn't refuse. We went to his bed, and as he lay on top of me, I remember at first feeling that I was being suffocated, which probably wasn't in my imagination

since Dudley is six feet, two inches, and then feeling hke I was sleeping with a httle boy, since he couldn't have weighed more than 160 pounds and he had no hair on his body whatsoever.

"But for the first time in my life, the sex was great. I had a sort of epiphany: Maybe if I was with a guy because he was nice and adored me, I would be happy. But still I was afraid to look at Dudley when we woke up, afraid that I'd be repulsed.

"Two weeks after we got back to the city, we attended an Upper East Side museum benefit. It was our first official event together as a couple. And, in what would become typical of our relationship, it was a series of mishaps. He was an hour late, then we couldn't find a cab because it was 105 degrees. We had to walk, and Dudley — as usual—hadn't eaten anything that day and nearly passed out, and someone had to get him glasses of ice water. Then he insisted on dancing, which basically consisted of flinging me into other couples. Then he smoked a cigar and threw up. Meanwhile, everyone kept telling me what a great guy he was.

"Except my friends. Amalita said, 'You can do better. This is ridiculous.

"I said, 'But he's great in bed.

"She said, 'Please don't make me puke.

"A month later, Dudley unofficially asked me to marry him, and I said yes. I had this feeling of shame about Dudley, but I kept thinking I would get over it. Plus, he kept me busy. We were always shopping. For apartments. Engagement rings. Antiques. Oriental rugs. Silver. Wine. And then there were weekend trips to Nantucket, and trips to Maine to visit my parents, but Dudley was perniciously late and always unorganized, so that we were always missing trains and ferries.

"The turning point came the night we missed a ferry to Nantucket for the fourth time. We had to spend the night at a motel. I was starving and wanted Dudley to go out and get Chinese food, but instead he came back with a head of iceberg lettuce and a pitiful looking tomato. While I lay in bed, trying to block out the noise of a couple screwing in the next

room, Dudley sat at a Formica table in his boxers, cutting away the rotten parts of the tomato with his silver Tiffany Swiss Army knife. He was only thirty, but he had the persnickety habits of a seventy— five year old.

"The next morning, I started in. 'Don't you think you should work out? Gain a httle weight?

"After that, everything about him began to drive me crazy. His silly, flashy clothing. The way he acted hke 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 broccoh. 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 hke, 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 httle 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.

" T don't want chocolates now, I said, giving him the sort of dirty look that usually shut him up.

" T 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.

" T 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 httle 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 hve 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 clipped 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 chpped 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.

In the evenings, they would get massages and go in the hot tub. At night, when they were lying in bed together, Mr. Big said, "We're close now, aren't we?"

"Yes," Carrie said.

"Remember how you always used to say we had to be closer? You don't say that anymore."

Carrie thought, Things can't get any better.

"I'M LOOKING FOR TAIL"

Stanford Blatch was strolling along the top of Aspen mountain in a pair of pony-skin apres ski boots and swinging a pair of binoculars, on his way to meet Suzannah at the lodge for lunch, when he heard a familiar voice scream out, "Stanford!" followed by "Watch out!" He turned just as Skipper Johnson was about to ski into him and deftly jumped back into a snow bank to avoid being hit. "Dear, dear Skipper," he said.

"Don't you love mnning into your friends on vacation?" Skipper asked. He was dressed in a ski suit that resembled what a Boy Scout might wear for inclement weather: Floppy yellow ski jacket and a hat with earflaps that stuck out at right angles.

"That depends on the friends and how one runs into them," Stanford said.

"I didn't know you were a bird watcher," Skipper said. "I'm not looking for birds, I'm looking for tail," Stanford said. "I'm checking out the private jets so I'll know what kind to buy." "You're getting a jet?" Skipper asked. "Soon," Stanford said. "I'm thinking about getting married and I want to be sure my wife gets around properly."

"Your wife?"

"Yes, Skipper," Stanford said patiently. "In fact, I'm on my way to have lunch with her right now. Would you like to meet her?"

"I can't beheve this," Skipper said. "Well," he said, snapping off his skis, "I've already hooked up with three different girls. Why not you?"

Stanford looked at him pityingly. "Dear, dear Skipper," he said. "When are you going to stop pretending you're straight?"

Carrie and Mr. Big went for a romantic dinner at the Pine Creek Cookhouse. They drove through the mountains, and then they took a horse-drawn sleigh to the restaurant. The sky was black and clear, and Mr. Big talked all about the stars, and how he was poor as a kid and had to leave school at thirteen and work and then go into the air force.

They brought a Polaroid camera and took pictures of each other in the restaurant. They drank wine and held hands and Carrie got a httle drunk. "Listen," she said. "I have to ask you something."

"Shoot," said Mr. Big.

"You know at the beginning of the summer? When we'd been seeing each other for two months and then you said you wanted to date other people?"

"Yeah?" Mr. Big said cautiously.

"And then you dated that model for a week? And when I ran into you, you were horrible and I screamed at you and we had that big fight in front of Bowery Bar?"

"I was afraid you were never going to talk to me again."

"I just want to know," Carrie said. "If you were me, what would you have done?"

"I guess I never would have talked to you again."

"Is that what you wanted?" Carrie asked. "Did you want me to go away?"

"No," Mr. Big said. "I wanted you to stick around. I was confused."

"But you would have left."

"I didn't want you to go. It was like, I don't know. It was a test," he said. "A test?"

"To see if you really liked me. Enough to stick around." "But you really hurt me," Carrie said. "How could you hurt me like that? I can never forget that—you know?" "I know, baby. I'm sorry," he said.

When they got back to their house, there was a message on the answering machine from their friend Rock Gibralter, the TV actor. "I'm here," he said. "Staying with Tyler Kydd. You guys will love him."

"Is that Tyler Kydd, the actor?" Mr. Big asked. "Sounds like it," Carrie said, aware that she was trying to sound as if she couldn't have cared less.

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 758