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I shuffle through my newspapers and open the New York Post. And that’s when I spot my name.
I frown. It can’t be. Why is my name in Page Six? Then I look at the title of the piece: “Disaster and Plaster.”
I drop the paper like I’ve been bitten.
When the train pulls into New Haven for a twenty-minute layover, I race out of my compartment and run to the nearest phone booth. I catch Samantha in her office, and shaking and spluttering manage to ask if she’s seen the Post.
“Yes, Carrie, I did. And I thought it was terrific.”
“What?” I scream.
“Calm down. You can’t take these things so personally. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
“They said my reading was the worst thing they’ve seen since their high school Christmas pageant.”
“Who cares?” she purrs. “They’re probably jealous. You got a mention for your first play in New York City. Aren’t you excited?”
“I’m mortified.”
“That’s too bad. Because Cholly Hammond called. He’s been trying to get in touch with you for days. He wants you to call him immediately.”
“Why?”
“Oh, Sparrow,” she sighs. “How should I know? But he said it was important. I’ve got to go. I’ve got Harry Mills in my office—” And she hangs up.
I stare at the phone. Cholly Hammond? What can he want?
I count out more change. Normally, the cost of making a long-distance call from a pay phone would be a problem, but I happen to be kind of flush right now. In the spirit of Samantha, I sold my brand-new, never used Chanel bag to the nice man at the vintage shop for two hundred and fifty dollars. I knew the money wasn’t near what it was worth, but I wouldn’t need the bag at Brown. And besides, I was kind of happy to get rid of it.
Baggage.
I drop several quarters into the slot. The phone is answered by a bright young thing.
“Is Cholly there?” I ask, giving my name.
Cholly immediately gets on the line.
“Little one!” he exclaims, like I’m his long-lost friend.
“Cholly!” I reply.
“I saw your mention in the Post and found it very intriguing,” he enthuses. “Especially as I’ve been thinking about you for weeks. Ever since I sat next to you at Barry Jessen’s opening.”
My heart sinks. Here we go again. Another old geezer who wants to get into my pants.
“I kept musing about our oh-so-amusing conversation. Pun intended.”
“Is that so?” I ask, trying to recall what I might have said that could be so memorable.
“And since I’m always on the lookout for something new, I thought, wouldn’t it be interesting to try to get some younger readers to The New Review? And who better to capture them than a young woman herself? In a sort of column, if you will. New York through the eyes of an ingenue.”
“I don’t know how good it would be. Given how badly my play went over.”
“Goodness gracious,” he exclaims. “But that’s the whole point. If it had been a swimming success, I wouldn’t be calling you. Because the whole idea behind this enterprise is that Carrie Bradshaw never wins.”
“Excuse me?” I gasp.
“Carrie never wins. That’s the fun of it, don’t you see? It’s what keeps her going.”
