HOME SWEET HOME

"The baby's starving and the nanny left and I'm broke," Amahta said on the phone. "Bring some pizza, won't you, sweetpea, just two or three shces with pepperoni, and I'll pay you back later."

Amahta was staying in a friend-of-a-friend's apartment on the Upper East Side. It was one of those side streets Carrie knew too well: dirty brick buildings with narrow entranceways httered with takeout menus from Chinese restaurants, and on the streets, grubby people walking scruffy dogs, and in the summer, obese women sitting out on the stoops. For a long time, Carrie had thought she'd never get away from it. She bought the pizza at the same place where she always used to buy pizza, near where she'd hved for four years when she was broke. It was still the same guy with the dirty fingers making the pizza and his httle wife who never said anything working the cash register.

Amahta's apartment was at the top of four rickety flights of stairs, in the back. One of those places where someone had tried to make the best of the exposed cinderblock walls and failed. "Well," Amahta said. "It's temporary. The rent is cheap. Five hundred a month."

Her daughter, a beautiful httle girl with dark hair and huge blue eyes, sat on the floor in front of a pile of old newspapers and magazines turning the pages.

"Well!" Amalita said. "I never heard from Righty. After he wanted me to go on tour with him and after I sent him a book he wanted me to send him. These guys don't want a girl who's a great fuck. Or even a good fuck. They want a girl who's a bad fuck."

"I know," Carrie said.

"Look! Mama!" the girl said proudly. She pointed to a photo of Amalita at Ascot in a picture hat with Lord somebody or other.

"A Japanese businessman wanted to set me up in an apartment," Amalita said. "You know, I detest that kind of thing, but the truth is,

I'm temporarily broke. The only reason I was considering doing it was for the baby. I'm trying to get her into a preschool, and I need money to pay for it. So I said yes. Two weeks pass and I haven't heard from him. Not a peep. So that just goes to show."

Amalita sat on the couch in her sweatpants, tearing off pieces of pizza. Carrie sat on a narrow wooden chair. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with yellow stains under the armpits. Both girls had greasy hair. "When I look back in retrospect," Amalita said, "I think, I shouldn't have slept with this guy, I shouldn't have slept with that guy. Maybe I should have done things differently."

She paused. "I know you're thinking about leaving Mr. Big. Don't. Hold on to him. Of course, you're beautiful, and you should have a million guys calling you up, wanting to be with you. But you and I, we know the truth. We know something about real life, don't we?"

"Mama!" the little girl said. She held up a magazine, pointing to a photo spread of Amalita: She was wearing a white Chanel ski suit on the slopes of St. Moritz, then getting out of a limo at a Rolling Stones concert, smiling demurely in a black suit and pearls next to a senator.

"Carrington! Not now," Amalita said, with mock severity. The little girl looked at her and giggled. She threw the magazine into the air.

It was a sunny day. The sun streamed in through the dirty windows. "Come here, sweetpea," Amalita said. "Come here and have some pizza."

"Hello, I'm home," Mr. Big said.

"Hello," Carrie said. She went to the door and kissed him. "How was the cocktail party?"

"Fine, fine."

"I'm making dinner."

"Good. I'm so glad we don't have to go out." "Me

too," she said. "Want a drink?" he asked.

"No thanks," she said. "Just maybe a glass of wine with dinner."

She lit candles, and they sat in the dining room. Carrie sat up very straight in her chair. Mr. Big talked on and on about some deal he was in the middle of doing, and Carrie stared at him and nodded and made encouraging noises. But she wasn't really paying attention.

When he was finished talking, she said: "I'm so excited. The amaryllis finally bloomed. It has four flowers."

"Four flowers," Mr. Big said. And then: "I'm so happy you've taken an interest in plants."

"Yes. Isn't it nice?" Carrie said. "It's amazing the way they grow if you just pay a bit of attention."

26. Goodbye, Mr. Big! The End of the Affair

"Is there someone else?"

"This is not about anyone else. This is about us." "That's

not answering the question." "This is about us."

"It's a yes or no question. Is. . there. . someone. . else?" "No."

"Liar. "Vbu've been coached, haven't you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Someone's been coaching you on what to say."

"This is about us. Not about anyone else."

"See? There you go again."

"Why do you have to make this harder?"

"I'm not making it harder. I have to get a cigarette."

"I have to go to sleep. Why won't you let me sleep?"

"You don't deserve to sleep."

"I haven't done anything wrong."

"You haven't done anything right, either."

"Thank you for making Mr. Big a nicer guy."

This was said to Carrie at the end of the closing dinner for the

acquisition of the $80 million golf-clothing manufacturing company. The dinner was held at "21." The statement was made by Keemi Tailon, a non— American investment banker who worked for Goldman, Sachs & Company. He held up his glass of port and made the statement as a sort of toast to Carrie. He was drunk. Mr. Big wasn't. Mr. Big "never got drunk." He said he didn't like to be "out of control." After the statement was made, Mr. Big held Carrie's hand for about twenty seconds. The conversation then moved on to the usual round of jokes.

That was in June, and by then the statement was meaningless almost to the point of being an embarrassment to the two major players.

By then, it was already over.

By then, disgust, self-loathing, and hatred had set in.

By then, the female golf pro was calling, but Mr. Big had yet to say, "I want to be with someone normal. I want to have a normal life."

Because at that point, on the surface, everything seemed status quo. Everything except the weather.

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 1108