The Carrie Diaries and Summer in the City. Candace Bushnell
amount of turmoil, which is in itself suspicious. Now she’s lying on her bed, talking on the phone. On the wall above her is a poster of a cat, swinging from a tree branch. Hang in there, reads the caption.
Dorrit puts her hand over the receiver. “Yes?”
“Have you seen my bag?”
She looks away, which makes me guess she is, indeed, guilty. “What handbag? Your leather saddlebag? I think I saw it in the kitchen.”
“Mom’s bag.”
“I haven’t seen it,” she says, with exaggerated innocence. “Don’t you keep it locked up in your closet?”
“It’s not there.”
Dorrit shrugs and tries to go back to her conversation.
“Mind if I search your room?” I ask casually.
“Go ahead,” she says. She’s crafty. If she were guilty, she’d say, yes, she did mind.
I search her closets, her drawers, and under the bed. Nothing. “See?” Dorrit says in an I-told-you-so tone. But in her second of triumph, her eyes go to the giant stuffed panda bear seated on the rocking chair in the corner of her room. The panda bear that I supposedly gave her as a present when she was born.
“Oh no, Dorrit,” I say, shaking my head. “Not Mr. Panda.”
“Don’t touch him!” she screams, leaping off the bed and dropping the phone. I grab Mr. Panda and run out.
Dorrit follows me. Mr. Panda is suspiciously heavy, I note, as I bear him away to my room.
“Leave him alone,” Dorrit demands.
“Why?” I ask. “Has Mr. Panda been up to something naughty?”
“No!”
“I think he has.” I feel around the back of the stuffed bear and find a large opening that’s been carefully fastened closed with safety pins.
“What’s going on?” Missy comes running in, her legs dripping with foam.
“This,” I say, unfastening the safety pins.
“Carrie, don’t,” Dorrit cries as I slip my hand into the opening. The first thing I pull out is a silver bracelet I haven’t seen for months. The bracelet is followed by a small pipe, the type used to smoke marijuana. “It’s not mine. I swear. It’s my friend Cheryl’s,” Dorrit insists. “She asked me to hide it for her.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, handing Missy the pipe. And then my hand closes around the soft nubby surface of my mother’s bag. “Aha!” I exclaim, yanking it out. I place it on the bed, where the three of us stare at it aghast.
It’s ruined. The entire front side with the chic little flap where my mother used to keep her checkbook and credit cards is speckled with what looks like pink paint. Which just happens to be exactly the same color as the nail polish on Dorrit’s hands.
I’m too shocked to speak.
“Dorrit, how could you?” Missy screams. “That was Mom’s bag. Why did you have to ruin Mom’s bag? Couldn’t you ruin your own bag for a change?”
“Why does Carrie have to have everything of Mom’s?” Dorrit screams back.
“I don’t,” I say, surprising myself with how calm and reasonable I sound.
“Mom left that bag to Carrie. Because she’s the oldest,” Missy says.
“No she didn’t,” Dorrit wails. “She left it to her because she liked her the best.”
“Dorrit, that isn’t true—”
“Yes it is. Mom wanted Carrie to be just like her. Except that now Mom is dead and Carrie is still alive.” It’s the kind of scream that makes your throat hurt.
Dorrit runs out of the room. And suddenly, I burst into tears.
I’m not a good crier. Some women can supposedly cry prettily, like the girls in Gone with the Wind. But I’ve never seen it in real life. When I cry, my face swells up and my nose runs and I can’t breathe.
“What would Mom say?” I ask Missy between sobs.
“Well, I guess she can’t say anything now,” Missy says.
Ha. Gallows humor. I don’t know what we’d do without it.
“I mean, yeah,” I giggle, between hiccups. “It’s only a handbag, right? It’s not like it’s a person or anything.”
“I think we should paint Mr. Panda pink,” Missy says. “Teach Dorrit a lesson. She left a bottle of pink polish open under the sink. I almost knocked it over when I went to get the Nair.”
I race into the bathroom.
“What are you doing?” Missy squeals as I start my handiwork. When I’m finished, I hold up the bag for inspection.
“It’s cool,” Missy says, nodding appreciatively.
I turn it over, pleased. It really is kind of cool. “If it’s deliberate,” I tell her, with a sudden realization, “it’s fashion.”
“Ohmigod. I love your bag,” the hostess gushes. She’s wearing a black Lycra dress and the top of her hair is teased into spiky meringue waves. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Is that your name on it? Carrie?”
I nod.
“My name’s Eileen,” she says. “I’d love to have a bag like that with my name on it.”
She picks up two menus and holds them aloft as she leads us to a table for two in front of the fireplace. “Most romantic table in the house,” she whispers as she hands over the menus. “Have fun, kids.”
“Oh, we will,” Sebastian says, unfolding his napkin with a snap.
I hold up the bag. “You like?”
“It’s a purse, Carrie,” he says.
“This, Sebastian, is no mere purse. And you shouldn’t call a handbag a purse. A purse was what people used to carry coins in the sixteen hundreds. They used to hide their purse inside their clothes to foil robbers. A bag, on the other hand, is meant to be seen. And this isn’t any old bag. It was my mother’s…” I trail off. He’s clearly not interested in the provenance of my bag. Hmph. Men, I think, opening my menu.
“I like who’s carrying it, though,” he says.
“Thank you.” I’m still a little annoyed with him.
“What would you like?”
I guess we’re supposed to be all formal, now that we’re at a fancy restaurant.
“Haven’t decided.”
“Waiter?” he says. “Can we have two martinis please? With olives instead of a twist.” He leans toward me. “They have the best martinis here.”
“I’d like a Singapore Sling.”
“Carrie,” he says. “You can’t have a Singapore Sling.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a martini place. And a Singapore Sling is juvenile.” He glances at me over the top of the menu. “And speaking of juvenile, what’s wrong with you tonight?”
“Nothing.”
“Good. Then try to act normal.”
I open my menu and frown.
“The lamb chops are excellent. And so is the French onion soup. It was my favorite thing to eat in France.” He looks up and smiles. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“Thanks,”