The bad day, the day that tipped the balance so to speak, occurred back in June, shortly after Mr. Big's business dinner for the golf company, a dinner at which, Carrie was told, a female golf pro was present.
It started with a dinner at an apartment on the Upper East Side.
Friends of Nico's. Halfway through the dinner, Carrie started having fun. She left Mr. Big a message, telling him she was tired and was going to go to her house that night.
She was exhausted, but after the dinner she didn't feel like going home. She didn't feel like making the right decision. She felt like getting on the wrong train. She went downtown. Pravda. Saw some people she knew. They
went someplace else. Someplace else after that. Etc.
At eight in the morning, she turned up at Mr. Big's apartment. "I'm not
even going to ask," he said.
She got into bed and began to take the long, delicious slide into hysteria. Hours were passing inside her head, but when she looked up, Mr. Big was still sitting on the chair in the bedroom, in a starched white shirt and dark socks, staring. Saying nothing. Just with that expression on his face. "I'm not happy," she said.
After he left to go to work, she began crying uncontrollably. The maid came in and looked horrified. At eleven A.M., Carrie called his office. "I want to go to an insane asylum."
She wanted to put herself in someone else's hands. She wanted no responsibility. She wanted to lie in a white room and watch TV, and maybe make potholders. You can't act like you're twelve. "Take a shower," Mr. Big said.