When she’s in the shower, Dane comes in and pees. “I’m not showering,” he says. “I’m going as is.”
“Fine,” she says.
She gets out of the shower. Wraps a towel around her. Walks into the bedroom she can hear Dane laughing with Perdita in the kitchen. “You’re losing weight, Perdita,” he says, and Perdita giggles. “Pretty soon, you’ll have men chasing after you. I’m going to have to warn your husband.”
Maria puts baggy black pants, white silk shirt, pearls and an oversized black jacket. She applies lipstick. When she walks out to the kitchen, Sting is clinging to Dane’s leg, and Perdita is leaning over, wiping something off Sting’s face with her hand. “Oh yes, he’s a very good boy. Going to be a famous artist like his father.”
“You should see his finger painting,” Dane says. Sting hides his face in his father’s pant leg.
“Boo!” Perdita says.
“Boo everybody,” Maria says.
“There’s Mommy,” Dane says.
“We’re going to see you Uncle Tyler. He has a movie opening,” Maria says.
“You remember your Uncle Tyler? Uncle Tiger?” Dane says. Sting crosses one leg over the other, swaying on one foot. Perdita grabs him.
“Perdita wants Tyler’s autograph,” Maria says. “Isn’t that silly?”
“I think it’s sweet,” Dane says.
“Well, he’s going to be here for dinner on Friday night,” Maria says. She picks up her bag. “Hear that, Perdita? Then you can get all the autographs you want.”
Evie’s Big Spill
At 23rd Street, in the cab going up Sixth Avenue, Maria says, “I have to talk to you about something.”
“Really?” Dane says.
“Deano Barry died.” Her head is turned toward him, her eyes narrowed.
He plays with the electric window button, lowering the window a quarter of an inch. “Is that my fault?” he says.
“No. But you should be grateful.”
“To me.” She looks out the window, then back at him. “He died,” she says, pausing, “of a cocaine overdoes.”
“Well, how else did you think he was going to die?”
“You should think about it,” she says.
“I have thought about it. For Chrissake, it’s all I’ve thought about. You won’t let me think about anything else.”
“I don’t want you going out with Tyler tonight.”
“I’m not going out with Tyler tonight. We’re going to a party for his movie.”
The cab pulls up in front of the Ziegfeld Theater. There’s a throng of photographers outside. “I hate these things," she says.
“I really like them,” Dane says. He walks a few feet in front of her and when he stops to let the photographers take his picture, Maria passes him and says, “Fuck you.”
Evie, Winnie’s sister, is standing inside, her jacket open, full pale breasts spilling out of a green silk shirt unbuttoned below her bra.
“Hello, Evie,” Dane says. “It’s always such a pleasure to see you.”
“I’m looking for Winnie. She has my ticket to the party,” Evie says.
“Come with us,” Dane says. “If she doesn’t show.”
“Absolutely," Maria says. “By the way, you might want to button up your blouse.”
They leave Evie and take the escalator to the second floor. “That was nasty,” Dane says. “Telling Evie to button up her blouse.”
“She looks like a slut.”
"You embarrassed her.”
“You embarrass me.
Winnie is standing in the aisle of the theater, arguing with some woman about her seat. “They won’t let us sit in the reserved seats,” Winnie says.
“Of course we’re sitting in the reserved seats. We’ll sit wherever we want,” Maria says.
“You can’t sit here," the woman says.
“This,” Winnie says, “is Tyler Kydd’s sister.”
“I’m sorry,” Dane says. “Where would you like us to sit?”
“In the front,” the woman says, pointing.
James is already sitting there. Dane sits next to James and puts his coat on the seat next to him. Maria and Winnie sit next to the coats.
“Is Tyler here yet?” Winnie asks.
“Is Evie here?” James says.
Candace Bushnell began Sex and the City as a column in The New York Observer in 1994; it subsequently became a book and a series on HBO. She is also the author of Four Blondes, Trading Up and Lipstick Jungle, which is being filmed as a pilot for NBC starring Brooke Shields. Ms. Bushnell is also the host of Sex, Success and Sensibility, a live weekly talk show on Sirius Satellite Radio. She lives in Manhattan with her husband, New York City Ballet principal dancer Charles Askegard.
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