On my way to a literary lunch with Candace Bushnell in Sydney this month, the flower on one of my shoes fell off. I had spent some time planning my outfit and, ahem, a small fortune, at a shop in North Adelaide called Marilyn & Nicola’s Dépôt-Vente that specialises in recycled European designer fashion.
The shoes were pale green three-inch Miu Miu stilettos, each one adorned with a sumptuous red flower that looked as if it would burst into life at any moment. I fell in love with them on sight and had imagined a grand entrance into the hotel where the lunch was taking place.
But now here I was on the street clutching a flower with the same sort of distressed expression as a poor nineteenth century Cockney flower girl.
For some time now I have thought about getting one of those W.W.J.D. (What Would Jesus Do?) wristbands Christians wear, although I am not sure if it would be sacrilegious, since I would be thinking of Joan, not Jesus, and not even saintly Joan of Arc, but American journalist Joan Didion, who I revere.
But it occurred to me that a W.W.C.D. (What Would Carrie Do?) wristband might prove more helpful in a situation like this. After all, this was a woman who in the television series Sex and the City could have challenged Imelda Marcos to a shoe showdown and would have had a few tricks up her heel (sorry, couldn’t resist).
Bubblegum was an option, but I’d given it up at 14, after an unfortunate incident involving a boy I’d liked.
Or I could try to glide like some lovely, otherworldly queen (think Liv Tyler as Arwen in The Lord of The Rings), and pray to my elf gods the flower wouldn’t fall off, but it is hard enough to walk in three-inch heels, let alone glide.
In the end I settled for a trusty safety pin I remembered I always carry with me. My mother has always told me, rather mysteriously, to carry a few, and even though I still didn’t understand, it certainly came in handy.
So in the end my friend Sarah and I did have our grand-ish entrance.
I had never been to a literary lunch before and had no idea what to expect. A friend had sniggered, “Are you going to eat books?” and I had given him what I hoped was a withering look.
But the truth was I had no clue. Would I be served a light, sparkling novella for the entrée, a thick tome like Don DeLillo’s Underworld for the main, and for dessert, what else but Joanne Harris’ Chocolat?
Or would Candace Bushnell mid-mouthful suddenly have a microphone and camera thrust into her face and then there would be one of those awkward moments while she finished eating?
In the end it turned out to be rather, well, lunch-like.
“There are a lot of women,” Sarah whispered as we entered the huge ballroom, and she sounded a bit scared.
At our table there was only one man, and the woman to our left joked that he was the token male.
“There weren’t enough men so they had to be divided up,” she said.
Everybody laughed, including the man, who was in his forties, balding and with a belly that pushed against his jeans.
“Actually,” his wife said. She was in her late thirties and would have been pretty but for the annoyed look on her face.
“Actually, he’s my husband and he’s a writer.”
Everybody murmured and nodded politely.
Later I heard him tell another woman, “You can Google me,” then he told her his name.
“I haven’t actually had anything published yet, but I used to write radio plays.”
I wondered how many would-be writers who Googled themselves were in the room.
The couple reminded me of bitter Mindy in Bushnell’s latest book, One Fifth Avenue, and her under-published husband James Gooch.
When Bushnell took to the stage with Sydney Morning Herald literary editor Susan Wyndham, she said how her characters seemed real to her, especially Mindy Gooch.
“I think I write about types,” she said.
And certain types recur: writers with pretensions of literary achievement tend not to fare well in Bushnell’s stories and the gold-digging Lola Fabrikant is the same type as earlier creation Janey Wilcox, who featured in Four Blondes and Trading Up.
Bushnell said her characters were fictional because she knew a lot of people in New York City and so wouldn’t want anyone getting “mad” at her.
“And as a novelist you have to know your characters so much better than you can ever know a real person,” she said.
“You have to know what your characters were doing Christmas Eve in 1964 and what their toenails look like.”
Bushnell was glamorous in a green print dress and gold hoop earrings. She said things like “fantastic” and “fabulous” and kept flicking her blonde hair over her shoulder.
I was in awe and scribbled down everything she said.
She talked about New York City. “New York has always been a place where in general people’s apartments are so small that real life takes place in public, on the streets, at events and in restaurants.”
Her new novel One Fifth Avenue. “I was inspired by my own co-op building…and how it brings a real small town aspect to New York City.”
Staying honest and real. “I’ve wanted to be a novelist since I was eight and it took me 25 years to get there, so I don’t take anything for granted and I really try to keep my focus on my work,” she said.
“The glamour stuff is fun but the next day the party’s over and you’ve still got to wake up and look in the mirror and get on with it.”
Not wanting children. “I was like a mini Gloria Steinem when I was really young.”
Getting over the real Mr Big, publisher Ron Galotti. “Mr Big is like a fantasy for women – he’s the guy who makes you feel smarter and funnier and more alive and sexier and more glamorous than you would on your own,” she said.
“I gave it a lot of thought and I realised that absolutely I cannot live my life that way and all of those things I need to feel on my own wherever I am and whatever I’m doing.”
Then she smiled.
“And I also realised I didn’t really want to date Mr Big, I wanted to be Mr Big.”
It was all great stuff for an aspiring writer such as myself, who also wants to live in New York one day. But what I really wanted to know was: how on earth did she get to where she is?
Later, when Bushnell was signing books, I was dumbstruck and it was all I could do to hand over my books. Luckily Sarah was never one to be shy.
“Hiiiiiii Candace,” Sarah said. She could charm a cobra out of its basket. “I’m Sarah and this is Sarina.”
“Hi Sarah, hi Sarina,” Candace said, smiling briefly before going back to signing my books.
“We’re both writers and you know, we’ve done it all, we lived in a rat-infested house, been unemployed, and we just want to ask you, does it get any better?”
Bushnell put down her pen and stared at us intensely. She had tiny, doll-like features and fierce blue eyes. This is what Barbie would have looked like if she had been a feminist, I thought.
“How old are you both?”
We told her.
“Ugh,” she said, throwing up her hands as if she understood completely.
“Your twenties are shit!” she said emphatically.
“But, you know. You just keep going and you just keep your sense of humour.”
Then she posed for a photo with us and we left.
But I couldn’t help feeling a little flat. I was hoping she would have recognised us as fellow writers, invited us out for coffee and told us, “Listen girls, when you come to New York, I’ll take you to all the good parties, help you land jobs.”
But that didn’t happen.
“Dude, she had like a zillion books to sign,” Sarah said. “And she’s probably just really busy.”
“I guess,” I sighed.
And then I realised: the real Carrie Bradshaw (Bushnell) slept on a foldout couch and had to borrow money from a girlfriend to pay the rent. She really struggled.
I have always been able to sleep on a proper bed. But the house mice, thinking they were cute, used to leave little presents under my bed.
When I was writing stories for free for any publication that would publish me, there were times I only had $3 to my name.
And I had to admit, Sarah and I always had a laugh.
So I cheered up. I would just keep going, like Bushnell said.
Oh, and by the way? I finally have my wristband. Only it reads W.W.S.D. What Would Sarina Do?