Chapter One
First Samantha asks me to find her shoe. When I locate it in the sink, she asks me to a party.
âYou might as well come, seeing as you donât have anyplace else to go and I donât feel like babysitting.â
âIâm hardly a baby.â
âOkay. Youâre a sparrow. Either way,â she says, adjusting her silk bra as she wriggles into a green Lycra shift, âyouâve already been mugged. If youâre kidnapped by a pimp, I donât want it on my hands.â
She spins around and eyes my outfitâa navy blue gabardine jacket with matching culottes that Iâd actually considered chic a few hours ago. âIs that all youâve got?â
âI have a black cocktail dress from the 1960s.â
âWear that. And put these on.â She tosses me a pair of gold aviator sunglasses. âTheyâll make you look normal.â
I donât ask what normal is as I follow behind her, clattering down the five flights of stairs to the street.
âRule number one,â she declares, stepping into traffic. âAlways look like you know where youâre going, even if you donât.â
She holds up her hand, causing a car to screech to a halt. âMove fast.â She bangs on the hood of the car and gives the driver the finger. âAnd always wear shoes you can run in.â
I skittle behind her through the obstacle course of Seventh Avenue and arrive on the other side like a castaway discovering land.
âAnd for Godâs sake, those wedge sandals. Out,â Samantha decries, giving my feet a disparaging glance.
âDid you know that the first wedge sandal was invented by Ferragamo for the young Judy Garland?â
âHow on earth do you know that?â
âIâm a font of useless information.â
âThen you should do just fine at this party.â
âWhose party is it again?â I shout, trying to be heard over the traffic.
âDavid Ross. The Broadway director.â
âWhy is he having a party at four oâclock on a Sunday afternoon?â I dodge a hot dog cart, a supermarket basket filled with blankets, and a child attached to a leash.
âItâs a tea dance.â
âWill they be serving tea?â I canât tell if sheâs serious. She laughs. âWhat do you think?â
The party is in a dusky pink house at the end of a cobblestoned street. I can see the river through a crack between the buildings, turgid and brown under glints of sunlight.
âDavidâs very eccentric,â Samantha warns, as if eccentricity might be an unwelcome trait to a new arrival from the provinces. âSomeone brought a miniature horse to his last party and it crapped all over the Aubusson carpet.â
I pretend to know what an Aubusson carpet is in favor of learning more about the horse. âHowâd they get it there?â
âTaxi,â Samantha says. âIt was a very small horse.â
I hesitate. âWill your friend David mind? Your bringing me?â
âIf he doesnât mind a miniature horse, I canât imagine heâll mind you. Unless youâre a drag or a bore.â
âI might be a bore but Iâm never a drag.â
âAnd the stuff about coming from a small town? Nix it,â she says. âIn New York, you need a shtick.â
âA shtick?â
âWho you are, but better. Embellish,â she says with a flourish as we pause in front of the house. Itâs four stories high and the blue door is flung open in welcome, revealing a colorful throng, twirling and weaving like a chorus in a musical show. My insides throb with excitement. That door is my entrance to another world.
Weâre about to cross the threshold when a shiny black marble of a man comes rolling out, a bottle of champagne in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. âSamantha!â he screams.
âDavide,â Samantha shouts, giving the name a French twist.
âAnd who are you?â he asks, peering at me with friendly curiosity.
âCarrie Bradshaw, sir.â I hold out my hand.
âHow divine,â he squeals. âI havenât been called âsirâ since I was in short pants. Not that I ever was in short pants. Where have you been hiding this delightful young person?â
âI found her on my doorstep.â
âDid you arrive in a basket like Moses?â he asks.
âTrain,â I reply.
âAnd what brings you to the Emerald City?â
âOh.â I smile. And taking Samanthaâs advice to heart, I quickly blurt out, âIâm going to become a famous writer.â