Babes Flee Land of Wives for Night of Topless Fun

“A come-on!” Gilles said, and Miranda wondered if he was really that stupid, or if he just seemed stupid because he was French. He grabbed her hand and began pulling her up the stairs; she went along because she figured that any guy who could keep his cool after being insulted couldn’t be that bad. They ended up in the rich old guy’s bedroom, which had a red silk cover on the bed, and then, somehow, they ended up kissing. People kept coming in and out of the bedroom.

For some reason, they went into the walk-in closet. Old pine paneling, racks for jackets and trousers, shelves for cashmere sweaters and shoes. Miranda checked the labels: Savile Row—boring. Then she turned around and Gilles was standing right there. Then there was the groping. The leggings came down. Out popped the bold fellow.

“How big?” I asked her on the phone.

“Big. And French,” Miranda said. (How could she?)

And then, afterward, he said, “Hey, darling, you’d better not tell my girlfriend.” As he stuck his tongue in her mouth one final time.

It all came spilling out: the girlfriend whom he’d lived with for two years and they were engaged, sort of, but he really didn’t know if he wanted to get married, but she was living with him, so what could he do?

The next day, Gilles tracked down Miranda’s number and called her, wanting to see her again. “And this is what we have to choose from,” Miranda said.

Newbert Gets Worried

At noon, Belle’s husband, Newbert, called to see if I’d seen Belle.

“If she were dead, I’d know about it,” I said.

A Rollerblade Ingenue

Then there was Sarah, who, according to Miranda, went rollerblading in her basement at 4 A.M. Drunk. Thirty-eight years old. A grown woman clinging to the role of ingenue. Is there anything less attractive? I don’t think so.

But what is Sarah supposed to do? She is 38, and she’s not married, and she’d like to be with someone. And men, as we know from this column, are attracted to youth. Even the women at the bridal shower, older than Sarah now, were younger than she is when they got married. It may not be an option for her anymore. So she rollerblades with a 25-year-old in her basement. Instead of having sex with him. He wants to; she is afraid he’ll think her body’s too old.

“Oh hi-i-i,” Sarah says, when I call her in the afternoon. She’s laid up on the couch in her tiny but perfect one-bedroom apartment in a high rise just west of Second Avenue. “Oh I’m fi-i-i-ne. Can you believe it?” She sounds unnaturally cheerful. “Just a little broken ankle. And the cutest doctors in the emergency room. And Luke with me the whole time.”

Luke?

“Lucas really. The cutest guy. My little friend.” She’s giggling. A horrifying sound.

“Where did you get the rollerblades?”

“Oh he came on them. To the party. Isn’t that cute?”

The cast comes off in six weeks. In the meantime, Sarah will have to hobble around, running her P.R. business as best she can. She has no disability insurance. The business runs on a shoestring.

Is this better or worse than being married and living in the suburbs? Better or worse?

I can’t tell.