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The handbag is one of my most treasured possessions. I treat it like a jewel, only taking it out on special occasions, and always returning it to its cloth pouch and then to its original box. I keep the box in the back of my closet. Except this time, when I went to get it out, it wasn’t there. Instead, I found The Consensus, which I’d also hidden in the back of my closet. The last time I used the bag was six months ago, when Lali and I took a trip to Boston. She kept eyeing the bag and asking if she could borrow it sometime, and I said “yes,” even though the thought of Lali with my mother’s bag gave me the creeps. You would think it would have given her the creeps too—enough for her to know better than to ask. After the trip, I specifically remember putting the bag away properly, because I decided I wouldn’t use it again until I went to New York. But then Sebastian suggested dinner at this fancy French restaurant in Hartford called The Brownstone, and if that isn’t a special occasion, I don’t know what is.
And now the bag is missing. My whole world is falling apart.
Dorrit, I think suddenly. She’s gone from pilfering earrings to stealing my handbag.
I tear into her room.
Dorrit’s been awfully quiet this week. She hasn’t been causing her usual amount of turmoil, which is in itself suspicious. Now she’s lying on her bed, talking on the phone. On the wall above her is a poster of a cat, swinging from a tree branch. Hang in there, reads the caption.
Dorrit puts her hand over the receiver. “Yes?”
“Have you seen my bag?”
She looks away, which makes me guess she is, indeed, guilty. “What handbag? Your leather saddlebag? I think I saw it in the kitchen.”
“Mom’s bag.”
“I haven’t seen it,” she says, with exaggerated innocence. “Don’t you keep it locked up in your closet?”
“It’s not there.”
Dorrit shrugs and tries to go back to her conversation.
“Mind if I search your room?” I ask casually.
“Go ahead,” she says. She’s crafty. If she were guilty, she’d say, yes, she did mind.
I search her closets, her drawers, and under the bed. Nothing. “See?” Dorrit says in an I-told-you-so tone. But in her second of triumph, her eyes go to the giant stuffed panda bear seated on the rocking chair in the corner of her room. The panda bear that I supposedly gave her as a present when she was born.
“Oh no, Dorrit,” I say, shaking my head. “Not Mr. Panda.”
“Don’t touch him!” she screams, leaping off the bed and dropping the phone. I grab Mr. Panda and run out.
Dorrit follows me. Mr. Panda is suspiciously heavy, I note, as I bear him away to my room.
“Leave him alone,” Dorrit demands.
“Why?” I ask. “Has Mr. Panda been up to something naughty?”
“No!”
“I think he has.” I feel around the back of the stuffed bear and find a large opening that’s been carefully fastened closed with safety pins.
“What’s going on?” Missy comes running in, her legs dripping with foam.
“This,” I say, unfastening the safety pins.
“Carrie, don’t,” Dorrit cries as I slip my hand into the opening. The first thing I pull out is a silver bracelet I haven’t seen for months. The bracelet is followed by a small pipe, the type used to smoke marijuana. “It’s not mine. I swear. It’s my friend Cheryl’s,” Dorrit insists. “She asked me to hide it for her.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, handing Missy the pipe. And then my hand closes around the soft nubby surface of my mother’s bag. “Aha!” I exclaim, yanking it out. I place it on the bed, where the three of us stare at it aghast.
It’s ruined. The entire front side with the chic little flap where my mother used to keep her checkbook and credit cards is speckled with what looks like pink paint. Which just happens to be exactly the same color as the nail polish on Dorrit’s hands.
I’m too shocked to speak.
“Dorrit, how could you?” Missy screams. “That was Mom’s bag. Why did you have to ruin Mom’s bag? Couldn’t you ruin your own bag for a change?”
“Why does Carrie have to have everything of Mom’s?” Dorrit screams back.
“I don’t,” I say, surprising myself with how calm and reasonable I sound.
“Mom left that bag to Carrie. Because she’s the oldest,” Missy says.
“No she didn’t,” Dorrit wails. “She left it to her because she liked her the best.”
“Dorrit, that isn’t true—”
“Yes it is. Mom wanted Carrie to be just like her. Except that now Mom is dead and Carrie is still alive.” It’s the kind of scream that makes your throat hurt.
Dorrit runs out of the room. And suddenly, I burst into tears.
I’m not a good crier. Some women can supposedly cry prettily, like the girls in Gone with the Wind. But I’ve never seen it in real life. When I cry, my face swells up and my nose runs and I can’t breathe.
“What would Mom say?” I ask Missy between sobs.
“Well, I guess she can’t say anything now,” Missy says.
Ha. Gallows humor. I don’t know what we’d do without it.
“I mean, yeah,” I giggle, between hiccups. “It’s only a handbag, right? It’s not like it’s a person or anything.”
“I think we should paint Mr. Panda pink,” Missy says. “Teach Dorrit a lesson. She left a bottle of pink polish open under the sink. I almost knocked it over when I went to get the Nair.”
I race into the bathroom.
“What are you doing?” Missy squeals as I start my handiwork. When I’m finished, I hold up the bag for inspection.
“It’s cool,” Missy says, nodding appreciatively.
I turn it over, pleased. It really is kind of cool. “If it’s deliberate,” I tell her, with a sudden realization, “it’s fashion.”
“Ohmigod. I love your bag,” the hostess gushes. She’s wearing a black Lycra dress and the top of her hair is teased into spiky meringue waves. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Is that your name on it? Carrie?”
I nod.
“My name’s Eileen,” she says. “I’d love to have a bag like that with my name on it.”
She picks up two menus and holds them aloft as she leads us to a table for two in front of the fireplace. “Most romantic table in the house,” she whispers as she hands over the menus. “Have fun, kids.”
“Oh, we will,” Sebastian says, unfolding his napkin with a snap.
I hold up the bag. “You like?”
“It’s a purse, Carrie,” he says.
“This, Sebastian, is no mere purse. And you shouldn’t call a handbag a purse. A purse was what people used to carry coins in the sixteen hundreds. They used to hide their purse inside their clothes to foil robbers. A bag, on the other hand, is meant to be seen. And this isn’t any old bag. It was my mother’s…” I trail off. He’s clearly not interested in the provenance of my bag. Hmph. Men, I think, opening my menu.
“I like who’s carrying it, though,” he says.
“Thank you.” I’m still a little annoyed with him.
“What would you like?”
I guess we’re supposed to be all formal, now that we’re at a fancy restaurant.
“Haven’t decided.”
“Waiter?” he says. “Can we have two martinis please? With olives instead of a twist.” He leans toward me. “They have the best martinis here.”
“I’d like a Singapore Sling.”
“Carrie,” he says. “You can’t have a Singapore Sling.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a martini place. And a Singapore Sling is juvenile.” He glances at me over the top of the menu. “And speaking of juvenile, what’s wrong with you tonight?”
“Nothing.”
“Good. Then try to act normal.”
I open my menu and frown.
“The lamb chops are excellent. And so is the French onion soup. It was my favorite thing to eat in France.” He looks up and smiles. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“Thanks,” I say, with slight sarcasm. I immediately apologize. “Sorry.” What is wrong with me? Why am I in such a bad mood? I’m never in a bad mood with Sebastian.
“So,” he says, taking my hand. “How was your week?”
“Terrible,” I say as the waiter arrives with our martinis.
“Cheers,” he says. “To terrible weeks.”
I take a sip of my drink and carefully put it down. “Honestly, Sebastian. This week was pretty bad.”
“Because of me?”
“No. Not because of you. I mean, not directly. It’s just that Donna LaDonna hates me—”
“Carrie,” he says. “If you can’t handle the controversy, you shouldn’t see me.”
“I can handle it—”
“Well then.”
“Is there always controversy? When you’re seeing someone?”
He leans back and gives me a smug look. “Usually.”
Aha. Sebastian is a guy who loves drama. But I love drama too. So maybe we’re perfect for each other. Must discuss this aspect with The Mouse, I think, making a mental note.
“So are the French onion soup and lamb chops good for you?” he asks as he gives our order to the waiter.
“Perfect,” I say, smiling at him over the rim of my martini.
And there’s the problem: I don’t want French onion soup. I’ve had onions and cheese my whole life. I wanted to try something exotic and sophisticated, like escargot. And now it’s too late. Why do I always do what Sebastian wants?
As I lift my glass, a woman with coiffed red hair, a red dress, and bare legs knocks into me, spilling half of my drink. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says, slurring her words. She steps back, taking in what appears to be a romantic scene between me and Sebastian. “Young love,” she twitters, staggering away as I mop up the mess with my napkin.
“What was that about?”
“Some middle-aged drunk.” Sebastian shrugs.
“She can’t help being middle-aged, you know.”
“Yeah. But there’s nothing worse than a woman over a certain age who’s had too much to drink.”
“Where do you pick up these rules?”
“Come on, Carrie. Everyone knows that women are lousy drunks.”
“And men are better?”
“Why are we having this discussion?”
“I guess you think women are lousy drivers and scientists, too.”
“There are exceptions. Your friend, The Mouse.”
Excuse me?
Our onion soup arrives, the top bubbling with melted cheese. “Be careful,” he says. “It’s hot.”
I sigh, blowing on a spoonful of gooey cheese. “I still want to go to France someday.”
“I’ll take you there,” he says, just like that, cool as can be. “Maybe we could go this summer.”
He leans forward, suddenly aroused by the thought. “We’ll start in Paris. Then we’ll take the train to Bordeaux. That’s wine country. Then we’ll swing down to the South of France. Cannes, Saint-Tropez…”
