Carrie Bradshaw is swanning about in tulle in her massive Gramercy Park townhouse. Her boyfriend is in Virginia, her jewelry designer millennial neighbor is now living in her old uptown apartment, and her friends are busy fucking nuns and stalking elite college counselors.
Naturally, that means it’s time for her to sit down and write a novel. About women. Women who “toss and turn” due to their “insecurities,” and obsess over the past. But it’s not the past, it’s the present: May, 1846. Or is it 2012? When you’re talking about “And Just Like That…”, one can never be sure.
