Free I Can't Complain by Elinor Lipman

invoking Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly.
    There are rumors of a reunion, a special, a feature film. Until then I am steeling myself—and you must, too—for what I predict will actually happen tonight: the Russian and Mr. Big will prove to be a story editor’s tease. Carrie will choose Manhattan.
    If I’m right, my longed-for happy-ending sellout will take a back seat to her city, her column, her bed-sit, her independence, her family of friends, her closet, her I-am-womanhood. And isn’t that what we’ve worked toward in these six short years—ongoing eligibility up to and including promiscuity, and men as mere accessories?
    I have considered the options. I understand that Aleksandr Petrovsky is the mature choice, an unexpectedly appealing diversion on the road posted with signs pointing to Big. At first I resented his intrusion, the deus ex machina arrival of this stable, rich, world-weary, unattached love interest.
How inorganic,
I thought.
How old.
But I came around. For four episodes I gave my blessing, defending him to myself against the ill wishes of Miranda and the doubts Carrie herself telegraphed to my couch. Younger friends of mine deemed him selfish, but I saw him as merely busy, distracted, his own man. Perhaps he was perfect: an artiste who loved her and could pay the Prada bills.
    I hope I’m wrong. I haven’t devoted all these hours to Carrie’s welfare to see her settle for self-determination and freedom. I don’t want to watch her flying home in coach, smiling her bittersweet smile, her head tilted against the portal window, Simon and Garfunkel singing, “So here’s to you New York.” In that scenario dear friends will be waiting at the airport—please, at least could Charlotte be pregnant?—no men except Stanny, with a pitcher of Cosmopolitans, balloons, puppies, the New York skyline. Gershwin. Credits will run much slower than usual. Begrudgingly I’ll admit that any tighter closure would rule out sequels.
    HBO will owe me a wedding with three bridesmaids in nonmatching dresses of blinding originality, and the most fabulous bridal gown of all time. I’ll see it in a theater, instead of waiting for the DVD. I predict I will cry at the wedding, and I’ll learn Big’s given name. Ideally, I’ll see it with three close, inseparable girlfriends, and then we’ll grab a bite at a café, even if it’s in a Massachusetts mall and not Manhattan. We’ll gossip about our dates and lovers until one of us points out that we don’t have any, and that Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte are only make-believe.
     
    EPILOGUE
     
    Four years later, I met Sarah Jessica Parker, star of the show, at the movie premiere of
Then She Found Me,
which featured her husband, Matthew Broderick. After spotting her across the room (Nobu 57, scene of the after-party), I darted in her direction but was headed off by someone from her past. (
Summer camp?
I remember thinking.
Or
Annie
?
) I didn’t want to form a queue, especially because she was eating and because I didn’t want to look as obsequious as I felt. But as I was leaving the restaurant, standing at the bottom of a long, wide stairway, wondering where my husband and son had gone, down came SJP alone, heading toward me in this empty space—“as if we were the only two people in the world,” I have often described the sensation.
    I introduced myself as the author of the book behind the movie, then rushed to say, in case I needed more bona fides, that years before, the
Boston Globe
had asked me to write about the finale of
Sex and the City
in advance of the last episode and to predict how it would end.
    She listened graciously, patiently, adorably. Her dress was white with a big splashy blue print. I later learned it was from her new collection and cost $14.
    I added, “I didn’t get anything right. Well, one thing: that we would find out Big’s real name.”
    Her already darling expression turned to one of astonishment at my prognostication.