Summer and the City

out the service entrance?”

Chapter Eighteen

Where is everybody? I think in annoyance as I bang down the phone for the millionth time.

When I got home last night, I kept wondering about Samantha and Charlie. Was that the way to a happy relationship? Turning yourself into what the man wanted?

On the other hand, it seemed to be working. For Samantha, anyway. And in comparison, my own relationship with Bernard was sorely lacking. Not only in sex, but in the simple fact that I still wasn’t sure I was ever going to see him again. I guess the best thing about living with a guy is that you know you’re going to see him again. I mean, he has to come home at some point, right?

Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of Bernard. And it’s all Maggie’s fault. If she hadn’t been so rude, if she hadn’t insisted on tracking down Ryan and seducing him… And she’s still with Ryan, having a mini affair, while I’ve got nothing. I’ve become a handmaiden to other people’s relationships. Aiding and abetting. And now I’m all alone.

Thank God for Miranda. I’ll always have her. Miranda will never have a relationship. So where the hell is she?

I pick up the phone and try her again. No answer. Strange, as it’s raining, which means she can’t be marching around in front of Saks. I try Bernard again too. No answer there either. Feeling thoroughly pissed off, I call Ryan. Jeez. Even he’s not picking up. Figures. He and Maggie are probably holed up having sex for the twentieth time.

I give up. I stare at the rain. Drip, drip, drip. It’s depressing.

At last the buzzer goes off. Two short toots, followed by a long one, like someone’s leaning on the button. Maggie . Great friend she is. She came to New York to see me, but spent all her time with stupid old Ryan. I go out into the hallway and lean over the stairs, prepared to give her a piece of my mind.

Instead I see the top of Miranda’s head. The rain has flattened her bright red hair into a neat cap.

“Hey,” I exclaim.

“It’s pissing out there. Thought I’d stop off here till it lets up.”

“C’mon in.” I hand her a towel and she rubs her hair, the damp strands standing up from her head like the crest on a rooster. Unlike me, she appears to be full of good cheer. She goes into the kitchen, opens the refrigerator, and peers in. “Got anything to eat in this place?”

“Cheese.”

“Yum. I’m starving.” She grabs a small knife and attacks the brick of cheddar. “Hey. Have you noticed how you haven’t heard from me for two days?”

Actually, I haven’t. I’ve been too busy with Maggie and Samantha and Bernard. “Yeah,” I say. “Where were you?”

“Guess.” She grins.

“You went to a rally? In Washington?”

“Nope. Guess again.”

“I give up.” I wander to the futon and flop down, gazing out the window. I light a cigarette, thinking about how I’m not in the mood for games.

She balances on the arm of the futon, munching her cheese. “Having sex.”

“Huh?” I stub out the cigarette.

“Having sex,” she repeats. She slides onto the cushion. “I met a guy and we’ve been having nonstop sex for the last two days. And the worst thing about it? I couldn’t poop. I honestly could not poop until he finally left this morning.”

“Hold on. You met a guy?”

“Yes, Carrie. I did. Believe it or not, there are some men who find me attractive.”

“I never said there weren’t. But you always say-”

“I know.” She nods. “Sex sucks. But this time, it didn’t.”

I stare at her wide-eyed and slightly jealous, not knowing where to begin.

“He’s a law student at NYU,” she says, settling into the couch. “I met him in front of Saks. At first, I didn’t want to talk to him because he was wearing a bow tie-”

“ What? ”

“And it was yellow. With black polka dots. He kept walking by and I kept trying to ignore him, but he signed the petition, so I thought I’d try to be polite. Turns out he’s been studying all these cases about free speech and pornography. He says the porn industry was the first to use the printing press. Did you know that? It wasn’t because everyone wanted to read all this great literature. It was because men wanted to look at dirty pictures!”

“Wow,” I bleat, trying to get into the spirit of things.

“We were talking and talking, and then he said why don’t we continue this discussion over dinner? I wasn’t really attracted to him, but he seemed like an interesting guy and I thought maybe we could be friends. So I said yes.”

“Fantastic.” I force a smile. “Where did you go?”

“Japonica. This Japanese restaurant on University. And it wasn’t cheap, by the way. I tried to split it with him but he wouldn’t.”

“You let a man pay for you?” This isn’t at all like Miranda.

She smiles awkwardly. “It goes against everything I believe in. But I told myself that maybe this once, I could let it go. I kept thinking about that night with you and your friend L’il. About how her mother was a lesbian. I kept wondering if maybe I was a lesbian, but if I am, how come I’m not attracted to women?”

“Maybe you haven’t met the right one,” I joke.

“Carrie!” she says, but she’s in too good a mood to be offended. “I’ve always been attracted to guys. I just wish they were more like women. But with Marty-”

“That’s his name? Marty?”

“He can’t help his name. I mean, you don’t exactly get to name yourself, do you? But I was kind of worried. Because I wasn’t sure I could even kiss him.” She lowers her voice. “He’s not the best-looking guy. But I told myself that looks aren’t everything. And he really is smart. Which can be a turn-on. I’ve always said I’d rather be with a smart, ugly guy than a good- looking dumb guy. Because what are you going to talk about with a dumb guy?”

“The weather?” I ask, wondering if Bernard thinks the same thing about me. Maybe I’m not smart enough for him and that’s why he hasn’t called.

“So then,” Miranda continues, “we’re walking through the Mews-that cute little cobblestoned street-and suddenly he pushes me up against the wall and starts making out with me!”

I shriek while Miranda bobs her head. “I couldn’t believe it myself,” she titters. “And the crazy thing about it was that it was totally sexy. We made out every five seconds on the street and when we got to my house, we ripped off our clothes and we did it!”

“Amazing,” I say, lighting another cigarette. “Absolutely amazing.”

“We did it three times that night. And the next morning, he took me to breakfast. I was worried it was a one- night stand, but he called in the afternoon and came over and we had sex again and he spent the night and we’ve seen each other practically every minute since then.”

“Hold on,” I say, waving my cigarette. “Every minute?” And another one bites the dust. Miranda is going to