"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?"