Read Online Sex and the City by Candace Bushnell - Free Book Online
Authors: Candace Bushnell
Tags: Fiction
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was one of those beautiful English types, you know, you can never really tell if they're gay or straight. But the whole thing just got so pathetic. He was crawling around on his hands and knees, exposing his bum. And to think that before this I was considering marrying him.
"Anyway, I told him I was leaving. He wouldn't let me. He locked me in the bedroom, and I had to escape out the window. And I was stupidly wearing Manolo Blahnik spike heels instead of the more sensible Gucci ones because I let him fondle my shoes and the Manolos were the only ones he didn't like—
he said they were last year. Then he wouldn't let me back in the house. He said he was holding my clothes ransom because of some stupid, itsy-bitsy phone bill I'd racked up. Two thousand pounds. I said, 'Darling, what am I supposed to do? I have to call my daughter and my mother.'
"But I had my trump card. I took his cellular phone. I called him from the street. 'Darling,' I said, 'I'm going to meet Catherine for tea. When I get back, I expect to see all my suitcases, neatly packed, on the front stoop. Then I'm going to go through them. If anything's missing—one tiny earring, one G-string, the rubber on the heel of any shoe—I'm going to call Nigel Dempster.'"
"Did he do it?" Carrie asked, somewhat in awe.
"Of course!" Amahta said. "The English are scared to death of the press. If you ever need to bring one to heel, just threaten to call the papers."
Just then, the Argentinian walked by the table. "Amahta," he said, extending his hand and giving her a little bow.
"Ah Chris. Como estd?" she asked, and then they said a bunch of stuff in Spanish that Carrie couldn't understand, and
then Chris said, "I'm in New York for a week. We should get together."
"Of course, darling," Amalita said, looking up at him. She had this way of crinkling her eyes when she smiled that basically meant bug off.
"Argh. Rich Argentinian," she said. "I stayed on his ranch once. We rode polo ponies all over the campos. His wife was pregnant, and he was so cute I fucked him and she found out. And she had the nerve to be upset. He was a lousy lay. She should have been happy to have someone take him off her hands."
"Miss Amalfi?" the waiter asked. "Phone call for you."
"Eighty," she said triumphantly, returning to the table after a few minutes. Righty was the lead guitarist in a famous rock band. "He wants me to go on tour with him. Brazil. Singapore. I told him I'd have to think about it. These guys are so used to women falling at their feet, you have to be a bit reserved. It sets you apart."
Suddenly, there was again a flurry of activity at the door. Carrie looked up file://D:\Bushnell, Candace - Sex and the City.htm 2008.09.06.
Page 37 of 156
and quickly ducked her head, pretending to examine her fingernails.
"Don't look now," she said, "but Ray's here."
"Ray? Oh, I know Ray," Amalita said. Her eyes narrowed.
Ray wasn't a man but a woman. A woman who could be classified, loosely anyway, as being in the same category as Amalita. She was also an international beauty, irresistible to men, but a nut case. A late-seventies model, she had moved to L.A., ostensibly to pursue an acting career. She hadn't landed any roles, but she had reeled in several well-known actors.
And, like Amalita, she had a love child, rumored to be the offspring of a superstar.
Ray scanned the restaurant. She was famous for her eyes— among other things—which were huge, round, the irises of such a light blue they appeared almost white. They stopped on Amalita. She waved. Walked over.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, seemingly delighted, even though the two were rumored to be sworn enemies in L.A.
"I just got in," Amahta said. "From London." "Did you go to that wedding?"
"Lady Beatrice?" Amahta asked. "Yes. Wonderful. All the titled Europeans."
"Durn," Ray said. She had a slight southern accent, which was probably put on, since she was from Iowa. "I shoulda gone. But then I got involved
"Anyway, I told him I was leaving. He wouldn't let me. He locked me in the bedroom, and I had to escape out the window. And I was stupidly wearing Manolo Blahnik spike heels instead of the more sensible Gucci ones because I let him fondle my shoes and the Manolos were the only ones he didn't like—
he said they were last year. Then he wouldn't let me back in the house. He said he was holding my clothes ransom because of some stupid, itsy-bitsy phone bill I'd racked up. Two thousand pounds. I said, 'Darling, what am I supposed to do? I have to call my daughter and my mother.'
"But I had my trump card. I took his cellular phone. I called him from the street. 'Darling,' I said, 'I'm going to meet Catherine for tea. When I get back, I expect to see all my suitcases, neatly packed, on the front stoop. Then I'm going to go through them. If anything's missing—one tiny earring, one G-string, the rubber on the heel of any shoe—I'm going to call Nigel Dempster.'"
"Did he do it?" Carrie asked, somewhat in awe.
"Of course!" Amahta said. "The English are scared to death of the press. If you ever need to bring one to heel, just threaten to call the papers."
Just then, the Argentinian walked by the table. "Amahta," he said, extending his hand and giving her a little bow.
"Ah Chris. Como estd?" she asked, and then they said a bunch of stuff in Spanish that Carrie couldn't understand, and
then Chris said, "I'm in New York for a week. We should get together."
"Of course, darling," Amalita said, looking up at him. She had this way of crinkling her eyes when she smiled that basically meant bug off.
"Argh. Rich Argentinian," she said. "I stayed on his ranch once. We rode polo ponies all over the campos. His wife was pregnant, and he was so cute I fucked him and she found out. And she had the nerve to be upset. He was a lousy lay. She should have been happy to have someone take him off her hands."
"Miss Amalfi?" the waiter asked. "Phone call for you."
"Eighty," she said triumphantly, returning to the table after a few minutes. Righty was the lead guitarist in a famous rock band. "He wants me to go on tour with him. Brazil. Singapore. I told him I'd have to think about it. These guys are so used to women falling at their feet, you have to be a bit reserved. It sets you apart."
Suddenly, there was again a flurry of activity at the door. Carrie looked up file://D:\Bushnell, Candace - Sex and the City.htm 2008.09.06.
Page 37 of 156
and quickly ducked her head, pretending to examine her fingernails.
"Don't look now," she said, "but Ray's here."
"Ray? Oh, I know Ray," Amalita said. Her eyes narrowed.
Ray wasn't a man but a woman. A woman who could be classified, loosely anyway, as being in the same category as Amalita. She was also an international beauty, irresistible to men, but a nut case. A late-seventies model, she had moved to L.A., ostensibly to pursue an acting career. She hadn't landed any roles, but she had reeled in several well-known actors.
And, like Amalita, she had a love child, rumored to be the offspring of a superstar.
Ray scanned the restaurant. She was famous for her eyes— among other things—which were huge, round, the irises of such a light blue they appeared almost white. They stopped on Amalita. She waved. Walked over.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, seemingly delighted, even though the two were rumored to be sworn enemies in L.A.
"I just got in," Amahta said. "From London." "Did you go to that wedding?"
"Lady Beatrice?" Amahta asked. "Yes. Wonderful. All the titled Europeans."
"Durn," Ray said. She had a slight southern accent, which was probably put on, since she was from Iowa. "I shoulda gone. But then I got involved
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