Christmas season in New York. The parties. The star on 57th Street. The tree. Most of the time, it's never the way it should be. But once in a while, something happens and it works.
Carrie was at Rockefeller Center, thinking about ghosts of Christmas Past. How many years ago was it, she thought, putting on her skates, that I was last here? Her fingers trembled a little as she wrapped the laces around the hooks. Anticipation. Hoping the ice would be hard and clear.
Samantha Jones made her remember. Lately, Sam had been complaining about not having a boyfriend. About not having a love during the holidays for years and years. "You're lucky now," she told Carrie, and they both knew it was true. "I wonder if it will ever happen to me," Sam said. And both of them knew what «it» was. "I walk by Christmas trees, and I feel sad," said Sam.
Sam walks by Christmas trees and Carrie skates. And she remembers.
It was Skipper Johnson's second Christmas in New York, and he was driving everyone crazy. One night, he went to three cocktail parties in a row.
At the first one, he saw James, a makeup artist. James was at the second and third cocktail parties, too, and Skipper talked to him. He couldn't help talking to everyone. Remy, a hairstylist, came up to Skipper and asked, "What are you doing with that guy, James? You're too good for him.
"What do you mean?" Skipper said.
"I've seen the two of you everywhere together. And let me tell you something. He's scum. A user. You can do better." "But I'm not gay," Skipper said. "Oh, sure, darling."
The next morning, Skipper called up Stanford Blatch, the screenwriter. "People thinking I'm gay, it's bad for my reputation," he said.
"Please," said Stanford. "Reputations are like cat htter. They can be changed daily. In fact, they should be. Besides, I've got enough of my own problems right now."
Skipper called up Fiver Wilde, the famous novelist. "I want to see-e-e you," he said.
"You can't," said River.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm busy."
"Busy with what?"
"With Mark. My new boyfriend."
"I don't get it," Skipper said. "I thought I was your friend." "He
does things for me that you won't do." There was a pause.
"But I do things for you that he can't do," Skipper said. "Like
what?" Another pause.
"That doesn't mean you have to be with him all the time," said Skipper.
"Don't you get it, Skipper?" River said. "He's here. His things are here. His underwear. His CDs. His hairballs." "Hairballs?" "He has a cat."
"Oh," Skipper said. Then: "You let a cat in your apartment?"
Skipper called up Carrie. "I can't stand it. It's Christmas, and everybody is in a relationship. Everybody except me. What are you doing tonight?"
"Big and I are staying home," Carrie said. "I'm cooking."
"I want a home," Skipper said. "I need a house. Maybe in Connecticut. I want a nest."
"Skipper," Carrie said, "you're twenty-five years old."
"Why can't everything be the way it was last year, when nobody was in a relationship?" Skipper moaned. "Last night, I had the most amazing dream about Gae Garden," he said, referring to the famously frosty socialite in her mid-forties. "She's so-o-o beautiful. And I had a dream that we were holding hands and we were so in love. And then I woke up, totally bummed because it wasn't true. It was just that feeling. Do you think you can ever have that feeling in real life?"
The year before, Skipper, Carrie, and River Wilde had all gone to Belle's Christmas party at her family's mansion in the country. Skipper drove his Mercedes, and River sat in the back seat like a papal personage and made Skipper keep flipping radio stations until he found some music he could tolerate. Afterward, they went back
to River's apartment, and River and Carrie were talking while Skipper complained about how his car was parked illegally. Then Skipper went to the window and looked out, and sure enough, his car was being towed. He started screaming, and Carrie and River told him to shut up and do a line or smoke a joint or at least have another drink. And they thought it was hysterical.
The next day, Stanford Blatch went with Skipper to get his car out of the pound. The car had a flat tire, and Stanford sat inside the car, reading the papers, while Skipper changed the tire.