I wave the aluminum foil in her face. “I won’t get to see him, remember? I’ll be in here, cooking.”
“If cooking makes you this neurotic, you really shouldn’t do it,” Samantha says.
“Thanks, sweetie. But I believe this was your idea, remember?”
“Oh, I know,” she says airily. “C’mon. I need you to help me pick out something to wear. Charlie’s friends are very conservative.”
I follow her down a carpeted hallway and into a large suite with a walk-in closet and his-and-her bathrooms. I gawk at the splendor of it all. Imagine having this much space in Manhattan. No wonder Samantha’s so eager to get hitched.
When we enter the closet, I nearly fall over in a dead faint. The closet alone is the size of Samantha’s entire apartment. On one side are racks and racks of Charlie’s clothing, arranged by type and color. His jeans are ironed and folded over hangers. Stacks of cashmere sweaters in every color are piled neatly on the shelves.
At the other end is Samantha’s section, made obvious not only by her work suits and high-heeled pumps and the slinky dresses she loves to wear, but by its relative meagerness. “Hey, sister, looks like you’ve got some catching up to do,” I point out.
“I’m working on it,” she laughs.
“What’s this?” I ask, indicating a boucle suit with white piping. “Chanel?” I look at the price tag, which is still on the sleeve, and gasp. “Twelve hundred dollars?”
“Thank you.” She removes the hanger from my hands.
“Can you afford that?”
“I can’t not afford it. If you want the life, you have to look the part.” She frowns. “I would think you of all people would understand. Aren’t you obsessed with fashion?”
“Not at these prices. This lovely garment I’m wearing cost two bucks.”
“It looks it,” she says, taking off the French maid’s outfit and dropping it onto the floor.
She slides into the Chanel suit and considers her image in the full-length mirror. “What do you think?”
“Isn’t that what all those ladies wear? The ones who lunch? I know it’s Chanel, but it’s not really you.”
“Which makes it perfect for an up-and-coming Upper East Side lady.”
“But you’re not one,” I object, thinking about all those crazy nights we’ve spent together.
She puts her finger to her lips. “I am now. And I will be, for as long as I need to be.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll be independently wealthy. Maybe I’ll live in Paris.”
“You’re planning to divorce Charlie before you’ve even married him? What if you have kids?”
“What do you think, Sparrow?” She kicks the French maid’s uniform into the closet and looks at me pointedly. “I believe someone has some cooking to do.”
Four hours later, despite the fact that the oven is going and two burners are lit, I’m shivering with cold. Charlie keeps the apartment cooled to the temperature of a refrigerated truck. It’s probably ninety degrees outside, but I sure could use one of his cashmere sweaters right now.
How can Samantha take it? I wonder, stirring the pan. But I suppose she’s used to it. If you marry one of these mogul types, you kind of have to do what they want.
“Carrie?” Samantha asks, coming into the kitchen. “How’s it going?”
“The main course is almost ready.”
“Thank God,” she says, taking a gulp of red wine from a large goblet. “I’m going insane out there.”
“What do you think I’m doing in here?”
“At least you don’t have to talk about window treatments.”
“How do you ‘treat’ a window? Do you send it to a doctor?”
“Decorator,” she sighs. “Twenty thousand dollars. For curtains. I don’t think I can do it.”
“You’d better do it. I’m freezing my butt off in here so you can look good. I still don’t understand why you didn’t hire a caterer.”
“Because Superwoman doesn’t hire a caterer. She does everything herself.”
“Here,” I say, handing her two finished plates. “And don’t forget your cape.”
“What are we having, anyway?” She looks at the plates in consternation.
“Lamp chops with a mushroom cream sauce. The green stuff is asparagus. And those brown things are potatoes,” I say sardonically. “Has Charlie figured out I’m back here cooking?”
“Doesn’t have a clue.” She smiles.
“Good. Then just tell him it’s French.”
“Thanks, Sparrow.” She wheels out. Through the open door, I hear her exclaim, “Voila.”
Unfortunately, I can’t see the guests, because the dining room is around the corner. I caught a glimpse of it though. The table was also Plexiglas. Apparently Charlie has a love of plastic.
I get to work on the mini chocolate souffles. I’m about to put them into the oven when a voice exclaims, “Aha! I knew it was too good to be true.”
I jump a mile, nearly dropping the muffin pan. “Cholly?” I hiss.
“Carrie Bradshaw, I presume,” he says, strolling purposefully into the kitchen and opening the freezer. “I was wondering what became of you. Now I know.”
“Actually, you don’t,” I say, gently closing the oven door.
“Why is Samantha keeping you hidden back here?”
I open my mouth to explain, then catch myself. Cholly seems like the gossipy type-he’ll probably run out and spill the beans that it’s me doing the cooking. I’m just like Cyrano, except I don’t think I’m going to get the guy at the end.
“Listen, Cholly-”
“I get it,” he says with a wink. “I’ve known Samantha for years. I doubt she can boil an egg.”
“Are you going to tell?”
“And spoil the fun? No, little one,” he says, kindly. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
He goes out, and two minutes later, Samantha comes running back in. “What happened?” she asks in a panic. “Did Cholly see you? That meddling old man. I knew I shouldn’t have invited him. And it was going so well. You could practically see the steam coming out of the other women’s ears, they were so jealous.” She grits her teeth in frustration and puts her hands over her face. It’s the first time I’ve seen her genuinely distraught, and I wonder if her fabulous relationship with Charlie is everything she says it is.
“Hey,” I say, touching her shoulder. “It’s okay. Cholly promised he wouldn’t tell.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And I think he’ll keep his word. He seems like a pretty nice old guy.”
“He is,” she says in relief. “And those women out there, they’re like snakes. During cocktails, one of them kept asking me when we were planning to have children. When I said I didn’t know, she got all superior and told me I’d better get on it right away before Charlie changed his mind about marrying me. And then she asked me when I was planning to quit my job.”
“What’d you say?” I ask, in indignation.
“I said, ‘Never. Because I don’t consider my work a job. I consider it a career. And you don’t quit a career.’ That shut her up for a minute. Then she asked where I went to college.”
“And?”
Samantha straightens. “I lied. Said I went to a little school in Boston.”
“Oh, sweetie.”
“What difference does it make? I’m not going to risk losing Charlie because some uptight society matron doesn’t approve of where I went to school. I’ve gotten this far, and I don’t plan to go back.”
“Of course not,” I say, touching her shoulder. I pause. “Maybe I should go. Before anyone else wanders in.”
She nods. “That’s a good idea.”
“The souffles are in the oven. All you have to do is take them out in twenty minutes, turn them over onto a plate, and put a scoop of ice cream on top.”
She looks at me gratefully, and envelops me in a hug. “Thanks, Sparrow. I couldn’t have pulled this off without you.”
She takes a step back and smoothes her hair. “Oh, and Sparrow?” she adds carefully. “Would you mind going
