At the end of July, Carrie was sitting in a downtown studio having her picture taken for a magazine. The makeup artist was applying liquid foundation to her face with a paintbrush. The photographer was saying, "We want you naked. You don't mind being naked. You've done it before, eh?" in a European accent of indeterminate origin.
"Can I wear my underwear?" Carrie asked. I just want to be with someone normal.
"Can we have some music?" the makeup artist asked.
Do you mind being naked?
In the morning, Carrie had heard from the Australian. The Australian was a female private detective, a friend of a friend's. Carrie had met her at a dinner after a movie premiere. She was standing in a corner, eating a slice of beef with her fingers off a bloody napkin.
"These guys are all the same," she had said. "That's why I don't get involved."
That morning, the Australian had things to tell Carrie. Like Mr. Big had made dozens of phone calls to a number in Palm Springs. Mostly after the fifteenth of July. All made to one female golf pro. Age twenty-eight. "He probably wants help with his swing. For free, you know," the Australian said. The results were inconclusive at that time. But still.
"You can take your shirt off behind the chair," the photographer said.