One Fifth Avenue, by Candace Bushnell
One of life’s intriguing mysteries was how Carrie Bradshaw managed to fund a rapacious Manolo Blahnik habit whilst spending her entire working life sitting in her knickers and vest in front of a laptop in her bedroom typing drivel about men. This was skilfully glossed over, and my enjoyment of the wondrous Sex and the City never suffered from it. Slowly, despite myself, I came to believe that there were female columnists in New York who wrote one loosely worded article a week and got paid so much for it that they could afford an apartment in the West Village and a hoard of designer frocks and shoes that would make Imelda Marcos blush. They could also eat at the best restaurants, drink at the trendiest bars and stay in five-star hotels, no questions ever asked about the room-service bill or minibar. Meanwhile, the rest of us scavenged around and panicked about ordering a tonic water in case we couldn’t get it through exs.
It was all OK, because SATC was of its time, the Nineties, and people didn’t ask questions about where money came from in those days. They simply accepted that it might be possible for glamorous girls in the US media to make tons of cash from oh, I don’t know, something glamorous. Throw in a rich boyfriend called Big, rent control, friends in PR giving them freebie Birkin bags and you’re pretty much there. Call it the trickle down.
I have a feeling Candace Bushnell will not find herself immune to questioning if she introduces us to many more unfeasibly rich females, however. The downturn is pounding our disbelief-uspension and you might say she picked a bad time to tell us about another clique of minted journalists, millionaire columnists and online hacks on six-figure salaries.
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