October 2, 1989

Charlotte

The Chanel slingbacks were truly elegant. Charlotte York admired the reflection of her feet wearing them in the store mirror.

"Those shoes were just made for you," the salesman enthused.

"I'll take them." These shoes were her first real grown-up fashion purchase. Something from a label like Chanel couldn't possibly be purchased an instant before college graduation. It just wouldn't be right. Now that she had her first job, at an art gallery, she couldn't do without them.

Less than an hour ago she had deposited her commission check for her first important sale, a piece by the sculpture Aleksandr Petrovsky, the Russian-born artist whose defection a decade ago had been the talk of the art world to this day. She was in the mood to splurge.

It had been an accomplishment on the part of the gallery where she worked to have the work of several well-known European-based artists on exhibit. It was her own personal coup to have sold the most important piece in the collection even before the opening party.

When she returned to her office, she took off the Papagallo flats with the little flowers that she has been wearing all morning, took the new shoes out of the box and put them on.

Then she dialed Joe's office. Joseph Woodhall was an up-and-coming stockbroker and a fraternity brother of her older brother, Wesley. He and Charlotte had been going out for a little over a month. Joe's blond good looks were something out of a Ralph Lauren ad. He had his MBA from a top university. His manners were impeccable. Best of all, he owned his own "classic eight" on the upper east side. He was bordering on perfection.

"I'm sorry Miss York, but Mr. Woodhall is in a meeting. Would you like to leave a message?"

"No, that's okay. I will get in touch with him later." Charlotte tried to keep the disappointment from showing in her voice. Joe had certainly been busy a lot in the last week. But he had been so sweet to her. She remembered the two of them tangled up in the sheets the night before last. He would call. And he would definitely show up at the gallery opening tonight. She had told him how important it was to her and he had promised.

A few hours later, Charlotte checked her watch. It was past seven o'clock and Joe had still not shown. Charlotte wanted to go back into her office and try to reach him at home. She knew that he had left work for the day several hours ago. Where was he?

The blonde publicist who had introduced herself as Samantha was telling some story about having actually met Aleksandr Petrovsky at Studio 54 years ago. Samantha abruptly interrupted her own story by saying, "I know you," very loudly.

The "you" Samantha recognized was a petite woman with chunky blonde streaks in her hair.

"You're Carrie aren't you? We met at the opening at that club…" Samantha snapped her fingers and tried to remember. "I have seen you around town. I read your articles in the Star every week."

"Carrie" looked pleased and a bit surprised that Samantha remembered her. "You saved me that night," she said. Then she turned to Charlotte. "I'm Carrie Bradshaw. I'm a staff writer for the New York Star."

When Charlotte went to the gallery's back room to get some more bottles of champagne, she took a moment to call Joe at his home number. She got his answering machine.

As the evening wound down, Charlotte was proud. Over the evening, she has managed to sell a few minor pieces. Though she had worked at the gallery for several months, this was the first time she felt like she belonged here. How nice it would have been if Joe had been here to see her at her moment of triumph.

"Carrie and I have decided that we are going out dancing Saturday night," Samantha announced. "You must come along with us."

Charlotte hesitated. "Oh, no, I can't. I am seeing someone. I am sure that we will be going out Saturday night."

"Well, if Mr. Wonderful doesn't show, the offer still stands."

"Oh, yes, please, please, please come along. It will be fun," Carrie wheedled.