“Is there someone else?”

"This is not about anyone else. This is about us.”

“That’s not answering the question.”

“This is about us.”

“It’s a yes or no question. Is…there…someone…else?”

“No.”

“Liar. You’ve been coached, haven’t you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Someone’s been coaching you on what to say.”

“This is about us. Not about anyone else.”

"See? There you go again.”

“Why do you have to make this harder.”

“I’m not making it harder. I have to get a cigarette.”

“I have to go to sleep. Why won’t you let me sleep.”

“You don't deserve to sleep.”

"I haven't done anything wrong.”

“You haven’t done anything right, either.”

 

“Thank you for making Mr. Big a nicer guy.”

That was in June and by then, the statement was meaningless almost to the point of being an embarrassment to the two major players.

By then, it was already over.

By then, disgust, self-loathing and hatred had set in.

By then, the female golf pro was calling, but Mr. Big had yet to say, “I want to be with someone ‘normal.’ I want to have a normal life.”

Because at that point, on the surface, everything seemed status quo. Everything except the weather.

Thieves and Bitches

“Well, I haven’t seen Nico for years,” Carrie said. She could have ended the conversation, but Mr. Big was sitting by the pool on his cellular and instead she expounded on tiny details. Like the fact that Nico was from San Antonio, Tex. “Most San Antonions are third- or fourth-generation Mexican,” she said. “Nico’s a WASP. That she ended up growing up there is a fluke.”

Mr. Big came into the villa. “Get off the phone,” he said. “I want to go into town.” She hadn’t particularly wanted to go into town, but she didn’t particularly want to stay at the villa. She didn’t particularly want to be there at all; or, she wanted to be there, but not with him.

It wasn’t the first time she’d been in this situation. There had been, with past boyfriends, the time at the Hotel du Cap in the south of France; the time in Sydney, Australia; and three years ago in St. Barts. On the last evening of that trip, while the “boyfriend” was sleeping, she’d snorted the shitty local cocaine (which came in a straw) and the next morning, she played “You Can Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac over and over again, until it was time to go to the plane.

The month had also been April.

That relationship hung on until just before Memorial Day. He was going away for a big weekend. “Are you coming or not?” he’d asked. Everyone recommended she not go, on principle. At the last minute, she didn’t go. He didn’t call for a couple of days after the weekend, then he did call. Then she found out that he’d brought someone else, a girl he’d met on a plane the week before. The new relationship didn’t last for more than a couple of months after that, and he was miserable—which was also a standard subplot in the drama. Then the attempt to be friends with Carrie: the twice-weekly phone calls, which were about his misery (why he couldn’t figure out how to make a relationship work); the new woman (why she wouldn’t be able to make it better); and what a good idea it would be if he would see a shrink.

It was coming home from the St. Barts week that Carrie allowed herself to acknowledge the fact that the relationship with Mr. Big would probably not last the summer.

Don’t ask questions.

Don’t waste time.

Do what’s right for you.

Move past it.

Get over it.

What happened between April and the middle of July was nothing. A few incidents stand out: the explosion of T.W.A. Flight 800. The hurricane. The fights.

The fights were: She wanted to talk, he didn’t. She wanted more attention; he didn’t want to make the effort. “Now you sound like all of my ex-wives,” he’d say. “Always demanding something. Don’t ask for anything and maybe you’ll get it. Don’t tell me what to do.”

Why had she thought that if they were married, she’d get the attention she wanted? Why didn’t she understand that if they did get married, she’d become more and more of an accessory? That was a pattern.

The warnings were (dropped casually by Carrie, after either one of them had made any vague reference to the future): “Well, after the summer, I’m probably not going to be around.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know.”

That was also a pattern.

One day at the beginning of July, on another lousy gray day in the house in East Hampton when Carrie had stayed out for the week, some friends dropped by.

“I’d break up with him tomorrow if I could. I’m dying to get out of here,” she said, slamming cupboard doors. She’d just hung up from yet another remote conversation on the phone, all about logistics.

Why not end it then?

That would be inconvenient.

Instead, she was doing laundry (why? They had a maid), she was making sure the kitchen was stocked with food (with things they would never eat, like packages of yellow rice), and she was watering the vegetable garden. The relationship was over before they had any vegetables, but the garden was useful because it gave her something to talk about with him and his friends. Everything was growing but nothing was ripening. No sun.

In the evenings on the weekends in the Hamptons, they’d have dinners, or go to dinners. Everyone got drunk, very fast and very early, and went to bed by 11.

Carrie found herself complaining about how the guy at the Red Horse Market never sliced the smoked salmon thin enough. Then Mr. Big would tell a story about how he’d refused to buy a six-dollar pound of butter at Thieves and Bitches.

Occasionally, she stopped herself from calling him “dad.” As in, “Yes, Dad, I will take out the garbage. Yes, Dad, I will drive carefully.”

Frantic Messages

There was a story circulating about how Nico Barone once went to breakfast at the Candy Kitchen in pajamas and flip-flops, which Carrie never told the reporter. Why should she?

He wouldn’t get it. He wouldn’t be able to help himself: He would feel compelled to point the finger. Because a girl who would wear pajamas to the Candy Kitchen wouldn’t be the kind of girl who would go to breakfast with him. He’d get revenge in print.

So it wasn’t strange when Nico Barone called Carrie sometime in the beginning of May. Ostensibly for advice on what to do about the reporter.

“I'll take care of it," Carrie said.

She called the reporter. “The story’s premature,” she said. “Right now, there is no story.”

So it wasn’t strange that shortly after that she and Nico began talking on the phone again. Even though they hadn’t been in touch for eight years. Even though they’d both been in New York all along.”
And it also made sense that when one of the telltale incidents took place, Nico Barone was there.

It must have been early June, in Manhattan. According to their usual daily morning routine, Carrie and Mr. Big discussed what they were doing that evening.

“I have something. I don’t know what,” he said.

“O.K.,” Carrie said. By then she’d been beaten down enough and learned to be cautious when he didn’t want to divulge information. Even though he had his daily schedule in his hand—a schedule that his secretary printed out every evening detailing the next day’s activities. Even though he was in the middle of the golf deal.

Don’t ask questions.

Thank you for making Mr. Big a nicer guy.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Seeing Nico.”

“O.K.,” he said. “So, either way, we’ll meet back here around 11.”

That afternoon, when they spoke, he said he was having dinner with Keemi Tailon, the banker from Goldman.

At 8, Carrie walked into La Goulue and saw Keemi Tailon having dinner with his girlfriend. Nico Barone was sitting outside. There was a man with her, holding her hand. It was the good-looking, formerly drug-addicted son of a U.S. Ambassador, who now worked as a lawyer for one of the telecommunications moguls.

“I know who you are,” he said to Carrie.

“He wanted to meet you,” Nico said.

“I know who you are,” he said, and he put his elbow on the table. “I’ve read your stuff.”

“That’s great,” Carrie said.

“She probably told you about me,” he said, indicating Nico.

“No,” Carrie said. “Not a word.”

“I thought you wanted to keep it a secret,” Nico said. According to him, the telecommunications mogul was in love with Nico. And jealous. According to him, the telecommunications mogul might or might not be having her followed.

According to Nico, they were both crazy.

There was an uncomfortable moment when Keemi Tailon came to the table to say hello after the formerly drug-addicted son of the U.S. Ambassador had left. He stood next to the table and put his shoe on the rung of a chair. “I just wanted to tell you,” he said. “I just remembered Mr. Big is having dinner downtown. With some people from the golf company.”

“Thank you,” Carrie said.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not important. It’s a setup,” Nico said when he had left.

Later, when Carrie arrived at Mr. Big’s apartment, there was a message on the machine. She played it, although she hadn’t played his messages for a long time, because the last time she had, he’d gotten angry. “O.K., O.K.,” she’d said. “I won’t play your damn messages. I won’t answer the phone when you’re not here.”

“You can answer the phone, but people have told me that they’ve left messages and I didn’t get them.”

She just gave him a look.

The message was, as she’d known it would be, from Keemi for Mr. Big. Frantic. “I just wanted to let you know that Carrie saw me tonight … ” She saved it. When Mr. Big arrived at 12:43, she played it for him. “Oh, that’s nothing,” he said. He was in a very good mood. “Keemi doesn’t know what’s going on.”

Carrie did not remind him about their conversation that afternoon. Two days later, she ran into someone who claimed to be in the restaurant where Mr. Big was having dinner, who claimed that it was obviously business, although there was some girl there, but she was obviously part of the business, too.

By then, Carrie wasn’t paying attention. She didn’t care. By then, she was disassociating, moving into her own space.

She still can’t remember who the person was who claimed to be in the restaurant.

On Fourth of July weekend, Mr. Big kept disappearing in Mr. Marvelous' Hummer. They claimed they were going to the store. They claimed they were going to the store six times in two days. They came back with pickles. Then they claimed they were going rollerblading. Carrie wasn’t paying attention.

As soon as Mr. Big left, she’d turn the stereo all the way up and dance around the house. K.C. and the Sunshine Band.

'You’re Out of Control'

“What are you going to do with your life?” he’d ask.

“I’m going to become famous.”

“That is so sad. You won’t like it when you get there.”

“Get off our planet.”

Then he’d go and smoke a cigar and sulk, or go to the store again with Mr. Marvelous.

In the middle of July:

“Is there somebody else?”

“This is not about anyone else. This is about us.”

“That’s not answering the question.”

“This is about us.”

“It’s a yes or no question. Is there somebody else?”

“No.”

“Liar. You’ve been coached, haven’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Someone’s been coaching you on what to say.”

“This is about us. Not about anyone else.”

“See? There you go again.”

“Why do you have to make this harder?”

“I’m not making it harder. I have to get a cigarette.”

“I have to go to sleep. Why won’t you let me sleep?”

“You don’t deserve to sleep.”

"I haven't done anything wrong."

“You haven’t done anything right, either. I want to get to the bottom of this coaching business.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Someone’s been telling you what to say. It’s an old shrink trick. When you’re in a difficult situation, you keep repeating the same phrase over and over again. That way, you can’t have a conversation.”

One hour later:

“What are you doing? Who are you seeing? What time are you getting home?”

“Early. I’m getting home early.”

“You’re out of control.”

“I am not. I’m home at 11.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I could have you followed. How do you know that I’m not already having you followed? I’m rich enough to have you followed.”

This was several weeks after Carrie had begged to be taken to a mental institution.

To be continued…