The most powerful woman in New York is not Tina Brown
or Diane Sawyer or even Rosie O'Donnell.
It's the hostess at Balzac
which had overnight become the only restaurant that mattered.
And we were there to celebrate the moment.
This is humiliating.
We've been waiting for 45 minutes.
I think I'm gonna faint.
-Doesn't she know who we are? -Who are we?
I own my own PR firm. You write a newspaper column.
This should not be happening.
I'm going back up there. Excuse me.
Hello. Excuse me. Hello! We've been waiting 45 minutes.
Look, I'm not sure you understand,
but I'm kind of somebody
and she's definitely kind of somebody,
and we really need to eat now.
I'm sorry.
Excuse me.
-Give me a 20. -You must be joking.
Do you think I should make it a 50?
If I had $50 with me, do you think I'd give it to that girl?
She cannot do this to us.
-We're leaving. -Oh, God.
Let me tell you something.
I was that woman ten years ago,
but I wielded my power in a benevolent manner.
Can we please talk about this over lunch somewhere else?
Where, somewhere like New Jersey, where we might actually get seated?
Do you realize, if she were a man, not only would we be eating right now,
but they'd be sending over free drinks.
Well, listen, I know a great Thai place around the corner
where the owner's son practically always sends over
a complementary order of mee krob.
How sad. Do you think we can get it to go?
A short time later, Samantha headed back to her office
while I decided to investigate this theory I had
about shopping as a way to unleash the creative subconscious.
All right. I'm gonna take them.
I was already planning on returning them when...
Miss?
They told me to do that. And now they want to talk to you.
Scuza!
-That won't be necessary. -Oh, my God! I don't believe it!
-When did you get to town? -Just yesterday.
-Darling, you look fantastic. -Oh. I can't let you do this.
Of course you can. And you can pay me back never.
Besides, it's on Carlo.
Oh. Wow. When did you two...
About two months.
His family has this gigantic ranch in Argentina. Very, very wealthy.
He has a tiny little penis, but he knows exactly how to use it.
-Oh. -Wave, darling. Wave.
Ciao, ciao, ciao.
Well, that's very nice of you, but I just can't accept these.
But of course you can.
When have I ever given you a birthday present
or a Christmas present?
I mean, you are like a sister to me, yet I never see you.
The truth was, we'd only met a few times.
Most people would classify Amalita as Eurotrash.
I thought she was fun.
So call me. I'm staying at the Four Seasons with Carlo.
-Don't you live in the city? -I'm a citizen of the world.
-A citizen of the world, darling.
Now take the shoes, and we'll talk soon.
-I can't do this. -Of course you can.
-Go, go. -Thank you.
I couldn't understand a word she was saying,
but I felt I had in my possession all the Italian I'd ever need to know.
Dolce, Dolce, Dolce.
While at home, all the English I seemed to encounter
was "bills, bills, bills."
I envied Amalita.
Her life was a blur of rich men, designer clothes,
and glamorous resorts.
She didn't actually work for a living, yet possessed a dazzling sexual power
that she exploited to her full advantage.
Which presented a certain conundrum.
Where's the line between professional girlfriend
and just plain professional?
Women have the right to use every means at their disposal to achieve power.
Short of sleeping their way to the top.
Not if that's what it takes to compete.
But that's exploitation!
Of men, which is perfectly legal.
Saturday night. In an effort to save money
and maybe even pick up a few extra bucks,
I invited the girls over for poker.
- I'll buy two. - I'm in for three.
So you advocate a double standard.
Women can use their sexuality to get ahead whenever possible,
but men should not be allowed to take advantage of it?
No. I'm just saying that men and women are equal-opportunity exploiters.
I fold.
What if you sense
that someone is giving you a professional advantage
because they find you charming?
-Charming? -This I gotta hear.
Well, a few days ago, Neville Morgan, the notoriously reclusive painter,
paid a visit to the gallery.
Neville was making his yearly pilgrimage to Manhattan
to check out what was new and hot on the art scene.
And he found it... Charlotte.
It was only a matter of moments before he invited her to his farm upstate
to view his latest work.
So, if I could get him to show at the gallery,
it would be an incredible coup.
-But what if he wants me to, you know. -Hold his brush?
If he so much as suggests what she's suggesting,
you give me a call and we'll sue the hell out of him.
That's the only proper way to trade sex for power.
I can't believe what I'm hearing.
You're like the Harvard Law Lorena Bobbitt.
Uh, it's Skipper. I told him I was here.
And he insisted on picking me up,
but he's not supposed to be here till 11:00.
Aw. He's like a sweet little seal pup.
That you sometimes want to club.
You're an hour early.
Oh, I can wait in the hall.
No, Skipper, come in.
It's all right.
I'm leaving anyway.
You guys have cleaned me out.
Good night, ladies.
Charlotte, keep me posted.
A couple of hours later,
I was looking forward to calling it an early night, when...
-Hello? -Carrie, you bitch! What are you doing?
Actually, I'm getting ready to go to sleep.
Why don't you come and join us?
We are at Balzac, and there is someone here I am dying for you to meet.
I'd love to, but I'm really trying to cut back.
You know, pinch a few pennies.
You are crazy, you know that?
Why don't you just come down here and be your fabulous self?
The truth was I could barely afford that either.
But I rationalized that my new shoes
shouldn't be punished just because I can't budget.
-Hi. -Sorry. You're not on the list.
Oh, no, no. I don't need a list. My friends are already in.
Darling, what took you so long?
You won't believe what Carlo bought me this afternoon at Van Cleef & Arpels.
What?
Oh, my God, it's gorgeous.
$12,000.
-Oh, wow.
Listen, I want you to come and meet the world's most fabulous man.
Sounds like a trendy sideshow act.
You're crazy!
Carrie, I'd like you to meet my boyfriend Carlo.
-Hi. -And his friend Gilles.
Hello.
Hello. Nice to meet you.
-Gilles is an architect from Paris. -Oh.
-How long are you here for? -Just a couple of days. On business.
I've told Gilles all about you.
I told him you were the most beautiful,
talented and fascinating woman in New York.
And single. How is this possible?
Oh. I get it. You're an architect and a comedian.
I don't understand.
Nothing. I'm just being un peu stupide.
You? Never.
I suddenly recalled my terrible weakness
for gorgeous French architects.
Can I get anyone something else?
You would like another bottle of wine?
Wonderful.
And what will the rest of you be having?
During the next couple of hours,
I put my journalistic skills to good use.
I discovered that Gilles was recently divorced
with a five-year-old daughter, Beatrice,
who lived with her mother in Paris.
He was passing through New York on his way to Brazil
to supervise construction of a new hotel.
I think you are too beautiful to be a writer.
I think you're too charming to be an architect.
I think you should give up your life here
and move with me to Paris immediately.
I thought you were spending the next six months in Brazil.
You can join me there first.
Oh, don't tempt me.
I'm so broke these days, I might take you up on that offer
just to save on rent.
Writing does not pay well?
No, it does.
It's just, um, I have this little substance-abuse problem.
Expensive footwear.
I see.
I'm only here for the weekend,
but I would love to see you tomorrow.
Maybe you could show me the town.
You've never been to New York?
About 12 times,
but I've never seen it with someone like you.
You really have that certain je ne sais quoi, don't you?
Yes.
And so do you.
So, I'll see you tomorrow.
Good night.
Bonsoir.
Sure, I saw some red flags.
Divorced, French and almost uncomfortably handsome.
But I felt like I was floating on air.
The next morning, I was brought back down to Earth
as I confronted that eternal puzzle,
a closet full of clothes, nothing to wear.
Just a minute!
Who is it?
-Skipper. -Oh.
-Hey. -Hey. I'm sorry. I should go.
No. No, no, no, no, Skipper, come on in. What is it?
It's Miranda. She's got me totally whacked.
It's like I'm obsessed.
And I know that I shouldn't be because I can sense
that it's totally turning her off.
But I can't control it. I can't.
It's like she's got this power over me,
and I'm helpless.
Keep going. I have to get dressed, all right?
Is it possible to be addicted to a person?
I mean, the sex is so awesome that it's, like...
it's all I can think about, you know?
I've never considered myself, you know, a horn dog before,
but I'm worried I might be starting to scare her off.
Well, is that what she said?
No, but mostly we just have sex in the afternoon.
She never lets me spend the night.
Well, I have an idea.
Why don't the two of you just spend a night together, you know,
and not have sex?
That would be hard. That would be really hard.
Well, I think it's really important that you try.
I don't even shower afterwards.
I like to spend the whole day smelling like Miranda.
I began to fear that Miranda's sexuality
was overpowering poor Skipper.
Later, I spent the most incredibly romantic afternoon with Gilles.
I felt like I had landed in a Claude Lelouch film,
A Man and a Slightly Neurotic Woman.
Wait. Wait.
I kind of have this rule.
I don't sleep with men I've only known a day.
I see.
I gave in. After all, it was already tomorrow in Paris.
You look so beautiful when you sleep.
I didn't want to disturb you.
-Are you leaving so early? -I've got a plane.
I'll get up.
No, no. Stay in bed. Order room service.
Enjoy yourself, huh?
-I can just get dressed. -Relax.
I'll call you.
Okay.
Bon Voyage.
As he walked out the door, it suddenly dawned on me
that he didn't have my phone number.
And I didn't have his phone number.
But he had left me a note...
with $1,000 in cash!
"Thanks for the beautiful day."
Must have been a hell of a beautiful day.
Well, it was. We had such a fantastic connection.
Then he leaves me money.
I don't understand. What exactly about me screams "whore"?
Besides the $1,000 on the end table?
I just can't believe that you had dinner at Balzac.
Wait a minute. I thought I ordered two eggs benedict and one spinach omelette.
It's all right. I'll take the omelette.
You know what, you guys, this isn't right.
We're gonna pay for all this ourselves, all right?
He said order anything.
The room service is one thing, but the money... uh-uh.
What are you getting so uptight about?
I mean, money is power. Sex is power.
Therefore, getting money for sex is simply an exchange of power.
Don't listen to the dime store Camille Paglia.
I don't know whether to take it as an incredible compliment
or as an incredible insult.
Just take it, period.
I wouldn't know how to return it anyway
because the one thing he didn't leave me was his number.
He paid in full. What more is there to talk about?
Who is this Amalita Amalfi character, anyway?
I'm concerned that you've been drafted into a ring of high-class hookers.
She isn't a hooker.
She's...
She's like an international party girl.
She's a hooker with a passport.
Do you ever have any conversations about money?
No. I mean...
I did allude to the fact that I was a bit cash poor these days.
So maybe it's supposed to be a loan?
I don't remember filling out an application.
Sweetheart, men give, women receive.
It's biological destiny.
Hello! Do you really want to be saying that?
I mean, that's exactly the kind of argument men have been using
since the dawn of time to exploit women.
-You guys, you guys.
I'm just gonna write the whole thing off as a bad date with a cash bonus.
You know, that salmon is really good.
I think we should order another one.
As I struggled with the dilemma of how to manage my newfound money,
Charlotte arrived at the secluded Connecticut home
of the painter Neville Morgan in an attempt to secure his latest work.
Hi. Welcome.
Hi. I feel so privileged.
Meeting you is without a doubt the high point of my career.
Thank you.
I'm frankly surprised that someone as young as you
is even familiar with my work.
Are you serious? I studied you in college.
Oh, my God. I apologize.
-I really do. -You're much too modest.
Here we are.
Excuse me.
The canvases you're about to see are what I consider to be the apotheosis
of every great idea I've ever had.
It's the closest I've ever come
to pure, universal God force.
The cunt.
Oh, my.
They're very powerful.
Exactly.
The most powerful force...
in the universe.
The source of all life
and pleasure...
and beauty.
That's true.
I used to paint full nudes,
but as I got older I realized
that the truth
was to be found only in the cunt.
Charlotte hated the "C" word.
But Neville Morgan was not a man to be corrected.
Hi.
I thought you might like something to drink.
Charlotte, this is my wife, Gertrude.
It's a pleasure.
-Lemonade and cookies? -Thank you.
Each of these portraits
is of a woman who has touched my life.
Incredible.
I wonder...
would you consider posing for me sometime?
Me? I...
Uh... Well...
I'm very flattered.
Excellent.
So long as you're here, I could sketch you this afternoon.
I bet you have a beautiful cunt, dear.
As Charlotte pondered how far she would go for her love of art
and the gallery.
Another Saturday night.
With my hooker money still burning a hole in my pocket,
Samantha and I showed up at Balzac.
She reasoned that since I was there once,
I was as good as in.
I don't understand.
I made these reservations weeks ago, and she's already been here.
I'm sorry.
Is there a host that I might talk to?
I will snap her.
I will put her over my knee, and I will snap her like a twig.
I'm sorry. I'm hungry.
I'm going to go to the bathroom, and then we're leaving, all right?
Ah, Carrie! Carrie, ciao!
Come here!
They all looked so chic and glamorous.
Part of me wanted to grab Samantha and make a run for it,
while another part...
Hi. How are you?
Carrie, I want you to meet Mario,
Allen, Justine and Peter.
Hi.
Mario's family has one of those gorgeous palazzos
on the Grand Canal in Venezia.
And we are all going there next week for the film festival.
-You should join us. - Absolutely!
Yes, you must bring your little laptop and write all about it.
You'd be mad not to go.
Mario, Carrie is one of the most fascinating,
talented and beautiful women in New York.
I have no doubt.
I've never been to Venice.
Venice is the most beautiful, the most romantic city in the world.
Really?
I... I heard it was sinking.
That's why you must come immediately, before it's all gone.
I couldn't say I wasn't tempted.
I realized that I could leverage myself
like the human equivalent of a sexy junk bond.
I'd parlay that $1,000 into a trip to Venice
into a nice piece of jewelry,
a rich husband, followed by a richer divorce.
I'm sorry. I'm gonna have to say good-bye.
I'm here with a friend. She's waiting for me at the bar.
What a pity.
Call me. I'm staying at the Carlyle with Peter.
-Okay. Ciao. -Ciao.
Just because Venice was sinking,
didn't mean my morals had to go down with it.
And as for Gilles and the $1,000,
I figured there was nothing to be done.
For better or worse, I had just established my rate
for a one-night stand.
Excuse me.
And then, the most powerful woman in Manhattan
asked me for a favor.
Do you have a tampon?
Oh! Sure.
Of course.
Thanks a lot.
I never told Samantha the source of my newfound power,
but from that moment on, we never had a problem
getting a table at Balzac again.
A couple of weeks later,
we were all there to celebrate Charlotte's coup.
Hi. Excuse me just a second.
Are you number nine?
Oh, my God.
I am so not number nine.
Five.
Yeah, right.
It's this, right?
-No?
Well...
Really?
They say a picture is worth a thousand words,
but in this case,
I was speechless.