them on the first night," the woman said. She was dressed in a prissy navy blue suit.
"You've got to wait at least three dates if you want the man to take you seriously."
"That depends on the woman," said the client. He was late thirties, looked German but spoke with a Spanish accent—an Argentinian.
"I don't get it," said the woman.
The Argentinian looked at her. "You middle-class American women who always want to hook a man, you're the ones who must play by the rules. You can't afford to make a mistake. But there is a certain type of woman—very beautiful and from a certain class—who can do whatever she wants."
At just that moment, Amahta walked in. There was quite a stir at the door as the maitre d' embraced her—"Look at you!" she said. "So slim. Are you still running five miles a day?"—and her coat and packages were whisked away.
She was wearing a tweedy Jil Sander suit (the skirt alone cost over a thousand dollars) and a green cashmere shell. "Is it hot in here?" she said, fanning herself with her gloves. She removed her jacket. The entire restaurant gaped.
"Sweetpea!" she said, spotting Carrie at the bar.
"Your table is ready," said the maitre d'.
"I have so many things to tell you," Amahta said. "I have just barely escaped with my life!"
Sometime in April, Amahta had gone to London to attend a wedding, where she met Lord Skanky-Poo—not his real name—"but a real lord, darling," she said, "related to the royal family and with a castle and foxhounds. He said he fell in love with me instantly, the idiot, the moment he saw me in the church. 'Darling, I adore you,' he said, coming up to me at the reception, 'but I especially adore your hat.' That should have been a dead giveaway. But I wasn't thinking clearly at the time. I was staying with Catherine Johnson-Bates in London and she was driving me crazy, she kept complaining about my stuff all over her fucking flat . . . well, she's a virgo, so what can you expect? Anyway, all I could think about was finding another place to stay. And I knew Catherine had had a crush on Lord Skanks—she used to knit him scarves out of that horrendous worsted wool—and he wouldn t give her the time of day, so naturally, I couldn't resist. Plus, I needed a place to stay."
That night, after the wedding, Amalita basically moved into the Eton Square house. And, for the first two weeks, everything was great. "I was doing my geisha routine," Amalita said. "Back rubs, bringing him tea, reading the newspapers first so I could point out what was interesting." He took her shopping. They entertained, throwing a shooting party at the castle. Amalita helped him with the guest list, got all the right people, charmed the servants, and he was impressed. Then, when they got back to London, the trouble began.
"You know, I've got all of my lingerie that I've been collecting over the years?" Amalita asked. Carrie nodded. She knew all about Amalita's vast collection of designer clothing, which she'd been acquiring over the past fifteen years—knew it well, in fact, because she had had to help Amalita wrap it up in special tissues to be put in storage, a job that had taken three days.
"Well, one evening he comes in when I'm dressing," she said. "'Darling,' he says, 'I've always wondered what it would be like to wear one of those merry widows. Mind if I . . . give it a try? Then I'll know what it feels like to be you.'
"Fine. But the next day he wants me to spank him. With a rolled-up newspaper. 'Darling, don't you think you'd get more out of life if you read this instead?' I asked. 'No! I want
file://D:\Bushnell, Candace - Sex and the City.htm 2008.09.06.
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a good thrashing,' he said. So I complied. Another mistake. It got to the point where he would wake up in the morning, put on my clothes, and then he wouldn't leave the house. This went on for days. And then he insisted on wearing my Chanel jewelry."
"How did he look in it?" Carrie asked.
"Pas mal," Amahta said. "He
"You've got to wait at least three dates if you want the man to take you seriously."
"That depends on the woman," said the client. He was late thirties, looked German but spoke with a Spanish accent—an Argentinian.
"I don't get it," said the woman.
The Argentinian looked at her. "You middle-class American women who always want to hook a man, you're the ones who must play by the rules. You can't afford to make a mistake. But there is a certain type of woman—very beautiful and from a certain class—who can do whatever she wants."
At just that moment, Amahta walked in. There was quite a stir at the door as the maitre d' embraced her—"Look at you!" she said. "So slim. Are you still running five miles a day?"—and her coat and packages were whisked away.
She was wearing a tweedy Jil Sander suit (the skirt alone cost over a thousand dollars) and a green cashmere shell. "Is it hot in here?" she said, fanning herself with her gloves. She removed her jacket. The entire restaurant gaped.
"Sweetpea!" she said, spotting Carrie at the bar.
"Your table is ready," said the maitre d'.
"I have so many things to tell you," Amahta said. "I have just barely escaped with my life!"
Sometime in April, Amahta had gone to London to attend a wedding, where she met Lord Skanky-Poo—not his real name—"but a real lord, darling," she said, "related to the royal family and with a castle and foxhounds. He said he fell in love with me instantly, the idiot, the moment he saw me in the church. 'Darling, I adore you,' he said, coming up to me at the reception, 'but I especially adore your hat.' That should have been a dead giveaway. But I wasn't thinking clearly at the time. I was staying with Catherine Johnson-Bates in London and she was driving me crazy, she kept complaining about my stuff all over her fucking flat . . . well, she's a virgo, so what can you expect? Anyway, all I could think about was finding another place to stay. And I knew Catherine had had a crush on Lord Skanks—she used to knit him scarves out of that horrendous worsted wool—and he wouldn t give her the time of day, so naturally, I couldn't resist. Plus, I needed a place to stay."
That night, after the wedding, Amalita basically moved into the Eton Square house. And, for the first two weeks, everything was great. "I was doing my geisha routine," Amalita said. "Back rubs, bringing him tea, reading the newspapers first so I could point out what was interesting." He took her shopping. They entertained, throwing a shooting party at the castle. Amalita helped him with the guest list, got all the right people, charmed the servants, and he was impressed. Then, when they got back to London, the trouble began.
"You know, I've got all of my lingerie that I've been collecting over the years?" Amalita asked. Carrie nodded. She knew all about Amalita's vast collection of designer clothing, which she'd been acquiring over the past fifteen years—knew it well, in fact, because she had had to help Amalita wrap it up in special tissues to be put in storage, a job that had taken three days.
"Well, one evening he comes in when I'm dressing," she said. "'Darling,' he says, 'I've always wondered what it would be like to wear one of those merry widows. Mind if I . . . give it a try? Then I'll know what it feels like to be you.'
"Fine. But the next day he wants me to spank him. With a rolled-up newspaper. 'Darling, don't you think you'd get more out of life if you read this instead?' I asked. 'No! I want
file://D:\Bushnell, Candace - Sex and the City.htm 2008.09.06.
Page 36 of 156
a good thrashing,' he said. So I complied. Another mistake. It got to the point where he would wake up in the morning, put on my clothes, and then he wouldn't leave the house. This went on for days. And then he insisted on wearing my Chanel jewelry."
"How did he look in it?" Carrie asked.
"Pas mal," Amahta said. "He
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