7. The International Crazy Girls

If you're lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you look at it), you might one day run into a certain type of woman in New York. Like a constantly migrating, brightly colored bird she's always on the go. And not in the mundane, Filofax-filled way. This woman travels from one international hotspot to another. And when she gets tired of the party season in London,

when she's had enough of skiing in Aspen or Gstaad, when she's sick of all— night parties in South America, she might come back to roost—temporarily, mind you—in New York.

On a rainy afternoon in January, a woman we'll call Amalita Amalfi arrived at Kennedy International Airport from London. She was wearing the white fake-fur Gucci coat, black leather pants custom-made at New York Leather ("They're the last pair they made in this leather—I had to fight with Elle Macpherson over them," she said), and sunglasses. She had ten T. Anthony bags, and she looked like a movie star. The only thing missing was the limo, but she took care of that by prevailing upon a wealthy-looking businessman to help her with her bags. He couldn't resist—as virtually no men

are able to resist Amalita—and before he knew what had hit him, he, Amalita, and the ten T. Anthony bags were crawling toward the city in his company— paid-for limousine, and he was offering to take her to dinner that night.

"I'd love to, darling," she said in that breathless, slightly accented voice that hints at Swiss fuiishing schools and palace balls, "But I'm terribly tired. I've really just come to New York for a rest, you see? We could have tea tomorrow though. At the Four Seasons? And then maybe a little shopping afterwards. There are a few things I have to pick up at Gucci."

The businessman agreed. He dropped her off in front of an apartment building on Beekman Place, took her number, and promised to call later.

Upstairs in the apartment, Amalita put in a phone call to Gucci. Affecting an upper-crust English accent, she said, "This is Lady Caroline Beavers. You have a coat on hold for me. I've just arrived in town, and I'll be picking it up tomorrow."

"Very good, Lady Beavers," the salesperson said. Amalita hung up the phone and laughed.

The next day, Carrie was on the phone with an old friend, Robert. "Amalita's back," she said. "I'm having lunch with her."

"Amalita." Robert said. "Is she still alive? Still beautiful? She's dangerous. But if you're a guy and you sleep with her, it's like becoming a member of a special club. You know, she was with Jake, and Capote Duncan. . all those rock stars, billionaires. It's a bonding thing. You know, the guy thinks, Me and Jake."

"Men," Carrie said, "are ridiculous."

Robert wasn't Ustening. "There aren't very many girls like Amalita," he said. "Gabriella was one of them. Mark too. And Sandra. Amalita's so beautiful, you know, and really funny, and very bold, I mean, she's incredible. You'll run into one of these girls in Paris, and they'll be wearing a see-through dress and it will drive you nuts and you see their pictures in W and places like that, and their allure keeps growing on you.

Their sexual power is like this amazing, dazzling force that can change your life, you think, if you can touch it, which you can't, which. . " Carrie hung up on him.

At two o'clock that afternoon, Carrie was sitting at the bar at Harry Cipriani, waiting for Amalita to arrive. As usual, she was half an hour late. At the bar, a businessman, his female associate, and their client were talking

about sex. "I think men are turned off by women who have sex with 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

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 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

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 with Snake," she said, naming an actor well known for action films—he was in his late sixties but still making them—"and, you know, I couldn't get away."

"I see," Amahta said, giving her the crinkly-eye treatment.

Ray didn't seem to notice. "I'm supposed to meet this girlfriend a'mine, but I told Snake I'd meet him back at the hotel at three, he's here doin' publicity, and now it's nearly two-fifteen. You know, Snake freaks out if you're late, and I'm always en retard."

"It's just a question of handling men properly," Amalita said. "But I do remember that Snake hates to be kept waiting. You must tell him hello for me, darling. But if you forget, don't worry about it. I'll be seeing him in a month, anyway. He invited me to go skiing. Just as friends, of course."

"Of course," Ray said. There was an awkward pause. Ray looked directly at Carrie, who wanted to throw her napkin over her head. Please, she thought, please don't ask my name.

"Well, maybe I'll give her a call," Ray said.

"Why don't you do that?" Amahta asked. "The phone's right over there."

Ray departed, momentarily anyway. "She's fucked everybody," Carrie said. "Including Mr. Big."

"Oh please, sweetpea. I don't care about that," Amalita said. "If a woman wants to sleep with a man, makes the choice, it's her business. But she's not a good person. I heard that

she wanted to be one of Madame Alex's girls, but even Alex thought she was too crazy." "So how does she survive?"

Amalita raised her right eyebrow. She was silent for a moment—in the end, she was a lady through and through, having been raised on Fifth Avenue with a coming-out ball, the whole works. But Carrie really wanted to know. "She takes gifts. A Bulgari watch. A Harry Winston necklace. Clothing, cars, a bungalow on someone's property, someone who wants to help her. And cash. She has a child. There are lots of rich men out there who take pity. These actors with their millions. They'll write a check for fifty thousand dollars. Sometimes just to go away.

"Oh, please," she said, looking at Carrie. "Don't be so shocked. You always were such an innocent, sweetpea. But then, you've always had a career. Even if you were starving, you've had a career. Women like Ray and I, we don't want to work. I've always just wanted to live.

"But that doesn't mean it's easy." Amalita had quit smoking, but she picked up one of Carrie's cigarettes and waited for the waiter to light it. "How many times have I called you, crying, no money, wondering what I was going to do, where I was going to go next. Men promise things and don't deliver. If I could have been a call girl, it would have been so much easier. It's not the sex that's the problem—if I like a man, I'm going to do it anyway—but the fact that you'll never be on their level. You're an employee. But at least you might walk away with some cash."

She raised her eyebrows and shrugged. "My way, well, is there any future? And you've got to keep up. With the clothes and the body. The exercise classes. The massages, facials. Plastic surgery. It's expensive. Look at Ray. She's had her breasts done, Hps, buttocks; she's not young, darling, over forty. What you see is all she's got."

She mashed her cigarette in the ashtray. "Why am I smoking? It's so bad for the skin. I wish you'd stop, sweetpea. But

you remember? When I was pregnant with my daughter? I was sick. Flat broke. Sharing a bedroom with a student, for Christ's sake, in a lousy flat because that was all I could afford. $150 a month. I had to go on welfare so I could get medical care to have the baby. I had to take the bus to the county hospital. And when I really needed help, sweetpea, there were no men around. I was alone. Except for a few of my good girlfriends."

At that moment, Ray reappeared at the table, biting her lower hp. "D'y'all mind?" she said. "This girl's gonna show up momentarily, but in the meantime, I need a cocktail. Waiter, bring me a vodka martini. Straight up." She sat down. She didn't look at Carrie.

"Hey, I want to talk to you about Snake," Ray said to Amahta. "He told me he was with you."

"Did he?" Amahta asked. "Well, you know, Snake and I, we have an intellectual relationship."

"Do you now? And I just thought he was a pretty good fuck who was good with my kid," Ray said. "I ain't worried about that. I just don't think I can trust the guy."

"I thought he was engaged to somebody," Amahta said. "Some dark— haired woman who's having his baby."

"Oh shit. Carmelita or something like that. She's hke an auto mechanic from nowhere'sville. Yew-tah. Snake was going skiing and his car broke down and he took it to a garage, and there she was with her wrench. And her needy slit. Naw. He's trying to get rid of her."

"It's very simple then," Amahta said. "You just get some spies. I have my

masseuse and my maid. Send him your masseuse or chauffeur and then have them report back to you."

"Goddammit!" Ray screamed. She opened her large, red-lipsticked mouth and leaned back precariously in her chair, laughing hysterically. Her blond hair was nearly white, perfectly straight; she was a freak all right but amazingly sexy.

"I knew I liked you," she said. The chair thumped to the floor and Ray nearly crashed into the table. Everyone in the

restaurant was looking. Amalita was laughing, almost hiccupping. "How come we're not better friends?" Ray asked. "That's what I want to know."

"Gee, Ray, I have no idea," Amalita said. She was just smiling now. "Maybe it has something to do with Brewster."

"That goddamned little shit actor," Ray said. "You mean, those lies that I told him about you because I wanted to get him for myself? Well, shit, honey, can you blame me? He had the biggest willy in L.A. When I saw the thing—we were out to dinner at a restaurant and he puts my hand on it under the table, and I got so excited I took it out of his pants and started rubbing it, and one of the waitresses saw it and started screaming 'cause it was so big and then we got thrown out— I said, that thing is mine. I ain't sharing it with anyone."

"He was pretty big,"'Amalita said.

"Pretty big? Honey, he was like a horse," Ray said. "You know, I'm an expert in bed, I'm the best any man ever had. But when you get to be my level, something happens. The average-sized cock just doesn't do anything for you anymore. Oh yeah, I'll sleep with those guys, but I tell 'em all, I've got to be able to go out and get my little bit of fun. My satisfaction."

Ray had only had three-quarters of her martini, but something seemed to be happening to her. It was like the high beams were on, but no one was driving. "Oh yeah," she said. "I just love that filled-up feeling. Give it to me baby. Do me." She started rocking her pelvis against the chair. She half raised her right arm, closed her eyes. "Oh yeah, baby, oh yeah baby. Oh!" She ended with a squeal and opened her eyes. She was staring straight at Carrie as if she'd suddenly noticed her for the first time. "What's your name, honey?" she asked. And Carrie suddenly recalled a story about how Capote Duncan had had sex with Ray on a couch in the middle of a party in front of everyone.

"Carrie," she said.

"Carrie. .?" Ray asked. "Have I met you?"

"No," Amalita said. "She's a great girl. One of us. But an intellectual. A writer."

"You gotta write my story," Ray said. "I'm telling you, my life would be a best-seller. So much stuff has happened to me. I'm a survivor." She looked to Amahta for affirmation. "Look at us. We're both survivors. The other girls like us. . Sandra. ."

"She's in A.A. and works all the time and never goes out," Amahta said.

"Gabriella. ." "Call girl." "Mark. ."

"Went crazy. Detox, then Silver Hill." "Tell me about it," Ray said. "I heard she freaked out on your couch and you had to take her to the bughouse." "She's out now. Has a job. PR."

"Poor Relations, I call it," Ray said. "They want to use her for her social connections, but her eyes are so glazed over you can't hardly talk to her. She just sits there like a bug while they paw through her Rolodex."

Carrie couldn't help it. She laughed.

Ray glared at her. "Well, it ain't funny. You know?"