“Forget about Zack,” Capote said. “I’m the best you’re going to do tonight. Zack’s a weirdo. Really a weirdo. I’ve spent time with him in London. I know girls who have slept with him. You don’t want to get involved in that shit. It’s that weird Euro sex shit. It’s gross. It’s not American.”
Then Zack did turn up. He was with some other people. “Come to the table,” he mouthed.
Janey went over and wedged a chair in next to Zack. “You again,” he said. “You look like one of those girls who’s everywhere. Are you a socialite?"
Janey smiled and sipped her drink. She knew she didn’t have to say anything. Eventually, her looks would begin to affect him. She turned away, to the man on her other side. He was a little, eager English fellow.
“Are you going to the Hamptons, too, this summer?” she asked.
“No, but I’m fascinated by it. We don’t have anything like it in England. It sounds marvelous. All those movie starts fighting the traffic.”
“I go every summer,” Janey said. “It’s wonderful.”
Zack leaned over. “What is it with you and this good summer business?” he asked. “Are you mentally impaired in some way that I should know about?”
“Probably,” Janey said. She put down her drink. “I have to go,” she said. “Call me.”
“I don’t call girls. I ‘get in touch,’” said Zack,
“Then I’ll look forward to your ‘getting in touch,’” Janey said.
Two days later, Zack messengered an envelope to her apartment. Written on an engraved card was a brief missive: “Janey, would you like to meet for a drink? Ring my secretary, who will give you time and place. Regards, Zack.”
Burnt Toast
Janey wanted this summer—in her head she’d already started calling it her “Zack Summer,” though she usually caught herself from saying it out loud—to be better than the summer with Harold—and much better than the summer with Peter. That summer was only half over when she’d developed an alarming hatred for Peter. At the beach, he either talked on his cellular phone to clients or was criticizing other women’s bodies. His pet peeve was women over 40 who’d had kids. “Look at her,” he’d say. “Look at the belly. Why doesn’t she get off the beach?”
“Oh, Peter,” she’d say.
“Oh Peter what? It’s in a man’s nature to be attracted to beautiful young girls. It’s instinctual. A man wants to sleep with as many young women as possible. It’s all about reproduction.”
Sex with Peter remained lousy. He didn’t want to be touched, and could barely bring himself to touch her. They’d had sex once in three weeks. “Do you think maybe you’re gay?” Janey asked. She’d developed a habit of baiting him. “I’m going to find some young guy to have sex with. Men over 40 really can’t perform, you know.” Then they’d get into a screaming argument in his house. One morning, Janey burned some toast, and he stormed into the kitchen and fished the burnt toast out of the garbage, scraped it off and tried to make Janey eat it. She fed it to Choo Choo instead, who promptly threw up. Janey had fantasies of killing Peter, and wondered whether, if she accidentally threw his cellular phone recharger into the pool, he’d be electrocuted.
They’d make up because they always had parties to go to.
To be continued…
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.
