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“Actually”—I give her a steely look—“I’m in the middle of writing one right now.”
“Wonderful,” Bobby cheers. “And when it’s finished, we can stage it here.”
“Really?” This Bobby must be some kind of crazy.
“Of course,” he says with a swagger, leading us farther into the room. “I’m doing all kinds of experimental productions. This is a nexus—a nexus,” he repeats, savoring the word, “of art, fashion, and photography. I haven’t done a play yet, but it seems exactly the right sort of thing. And we can get all kinds of people to come.”
Before I can begin to process the idea, Bobby is pawing his way through the crowd, with Miranda and me on his heels. “Do you know Jinx? The fashion designer? We’re showing her new collection this evening. You’ll love her,” he insists, depositing us in front of a scary-looking woman with long, blue-black hair, about a hundred coats of eyeliner, and black lipstick. She’s leaning over to light a joint when Bobby interrupts.
“Jinx, darling,” he says, which is extremely ironic, as it’s clear Jinx is nobody’s darling. “This is”—he searches for my name—“Carrie. And her friend,” he adds, indicating Miranda.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I can’t wait to see your fashion show.”
“Me too,” she responds, inhaling the smoke and holding it in her lungs. “If those friggin’ models don’t get here soon—I hate friggin’ models, don’t you?” Jinx holds up her left hand, displaying a contraption of metal through which each finger is inserted. “Brass knuckles,” she says. “Don’t even think about messing with me.”
“I won’t.” I look around, desperate to escape, and spot Capote Duncan in the corner.
“We have to go,” I say, nudging Miranda. “I just saw a friend of mine—”
“What friend?” Miranda asks. God, she really is bad at parties. No wonder she didn’t want to come.
“Someone I’m very happy to see right now.” Which is patently untrue. But as Capote Duncan is the only person I know at this party, I’ll take him.
And as we push through the crowd, I wonder if living in New York makes people crazy, or if they’re crazy to begin with and New York attracts them like flies.
Capote is leaning against an air conditioner talking to a medium-tall girl with one of those noses that turns up like a little snout. She has masses of blond hair and brown eyes, which gives her an interesting look, and since she’s with Capote, I assume she’s one of the errant models Jinx was referring to.
“I’ll give you a reading list,” Capote is saying. “Hemingway. Fitzgerald. And Balzac.” I immediately want to puke. Capote is always talking about Balzac, which reminds me of why I can’t stand him. He’s so pretentious.
“Hello,” I say in a singsong voice.
Capote’s head jerks around as if he’s anticipating someone special. When he sees me, his face falls. He appears to undergo a brief, internal struggle, as if he’d like to ignore me, but his Southern manners won’t let him. Eventually, he manages to summon a smile.
“Carrie Bradshaw,” he says, in a slow drawl. “I didn’t know you were coming to this.”
“Why would you? Ryan invited me.”
At the name “Ryan,” the modely girl pricks up her ears. Capote sighs. “This is Becky. Ryan’s fiancée.”
“Ryan’s told me so much about you,” I say, extending my hand. She takes it limply. Then her face screws up like she’s about to cry, and she runs off.
Capote looks at me accusingly. “Nice job.”
“What’d I do?”
“She just told me she’s planning to dump Ryan.”
“That so?” I snicker. “And here I thought you were trying to improve her brain. The reading list?” I point out.
Capote’s face tightens. “That wasn’t smart, Carrie,” he says, pushing past us to follow Becky.
“It’s all about being smart with you, isn’t it?” I shout after him.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Miranda calls out sarcastically.
Unfortunately, the Capote exchange has pushed Miranda over the edge, and she insists on going home. Given Capote’s rudeness, I don’t really want to stay at the party alone, either.
I’m bummed we didn’t get to see the fashion show. On the other hand, I’m glad I met that Bobby character. During the walk home under the salty yellow lights, I keep talking about my play and how it would be so cool to have it performed in Bobby’s space, until Miranda finally turns to me and says, “Will you just write the damn thing?”
