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“It’s really good.” He smiles.
“Yippee!” I shout.
“Can I go to my casting now?” he asks, extracting the manuscript from his briefcase and holding it out to me.
I suddenly realize I’ve been clutching his arm in fear. “Cast away,” I say gallantly. “Castaways. Ha-ha. Get it?”
“Sure, kiddo.” He leans over to give me a quick kiss.
But I hold on to him. I put my hands around his face and kiss him hard. “That’s for liking my play.”
“I guess I’ll have to like your plays more often,” he jokes, getting out of the cab.
“Oh, you will,” I say from the open window.
Bernard goes into the theater as I throw back my head in relief. I wonder what I was so worked up about. And then it hits me: If Bernard didn’t like my play, if he didn’t like my writing, would I still be able to like him?
Luckily, that’s one question I don’t have to answer.
Chapter Thirty-One
“And she has the nerve to tell Samantha I’ve got a big head.”
“Well—” Miranda says cautiously.
“A big fat swollen head. Like a basketball,” I say, leaning into the mirror to apply more lipstick. “And meanwhile, she’s marrying this stupid jock—”
“Why do you care so much?” Miranda asks. “It’s not like you have to see them again.”
“I know. But couldn’t they have been a little impressed? I’m doing so much more with my life than they ever will.”
I’m talking, of course, about Donna LaDonna and her mother. After her no-show at Kleinfeld, Samantha took the LaDonnas to Benihana as a consolation prize. When I asked Samantha if Donna mentioned me, she said Donna told her I’d become completely full of myself and obnoxious. Which really pissed me off.
“Did Samantha find a dress?” Miranda asks, fluffing her hair.
“She never showed up. She had an important meeting she couldn’t get out of. But that’s not the point. What bugs me is that this girl, who thought she was such a big deal in high school—” I break off, wondering if I have become a monster. “You don’t think I have a big head, do you?”
“Oh, Carrie. I don’t know.”
Which means yes. “Even if I do, I don’t care,” I insist, trying to justify my attitude. “Maybe I do have a bit of an ego. So what? Do you know how long it’s taken me to even get an ego? And I’m still not sure it’s fully developed. It’s more of an ‘egg’ than an ‘ego.’”
“Uh-huh.” Miranda looks dubious.
“Besides, men have egos all the time and no one says they’re full of themselves. And now that I have this tiny little bit of self-esteem, I don’t intend to let it go.”
“Good,” she says. “Don’t.”
I march past her into the bedroom, where I snake my legs into a pair of fishnet stockings and slip the white plastic dress with the clear plastic cut-outs over my head. I pull on the bright blue Fiorucci boots and check my appearance in the full-length mirror.
“Who are these people again?” Miranda
eyes me with a worried expression.
“Bernard’s agent—Teensie Dyer. And her husband.”
“Is that what you’re supposed to wear to the Hamptons?”
“It’s what I wear to the Hamptons.”
