said, taking a hit off the joint and passing it back to Susan.
“Pascal Robbins did something with you the other day?” Susan asked in surprise.
“He spanked me and kissed me!” Amanda revealed sensationally. The three blondes looked at each other and smoked thoughtfully for a moment.
“That’s not like him,” said Hope, with concern for Phoebe’s feelings.
“That’s true. And Phoebe’s so innocent in the scene. She’s done practically nothing,” said Susan. Though in point of fact, she rather suspected Phoebe Casper Robbins of having an extremely large crush on her lover and patron, Anthony Newton, who was producing, directing and playing piano for the Kiss Me Kate revival at the repertory theatre that summer, with Phoebe in the lead role. “Amanda, I wouldn’t say anything about that today,” Susan counseled.
“Especially if you want to pursue some photography with him this month,” Hope added. “I have a feeling he’d be peeved if you told on him.”
“Huh!” Amanda grunted, refusing a second hit of the strong grass. “So he’s allowed to make a totally unsolicited advance towards me and receives not the slightest censure?”
“Did you dislike it so much?” Hope asked, taking a final puff herself and offering Susan one more before extinguishing the spliff in a silver case.
“I didn’t dislike it at all,” Amanda laughed, “But I don’t think he behaved like a gentleman.”
“Well, Phoebe doesn’t know that he isn’t a gentleman at this point and it might break her heart,” said Susan, while thinking to herself, “or drive her straight into Anthony’s arms!” She didn’t like that thought.
“And then there’s Pamela,” Amanda remembered, “She and I are just becoming friends. I daren’t mention anything about Mr. Bartlett in front of her!” The others paused to turn and look at her.
“Does she even know he let you shoot at the store?” asked Susan.
“She may know that, though we haven’t discussed it, but I can’t let her find out why he really let me do that.”
“I think she does know about that shoot,” said Hope. “But she thinks Ambrose let you do it as a favor to Hugo.”
“I mean, they weren’t married yet …” Amanda began to say when a familiar female voice interrupted her, saying, “What’s this about Ambrose?”
They all turned to see Pamela standing on the bridge behind them, regarding them through narrowed eyes and over folded arms.
“Why don’t I ever get invited to smoke pot?” she cried. Susan hastily produced the joint and lit it for Pamela to take from her. “It’s time to come back and place our orders,” she told them, after exhaling the buzz giving smoke. “And by the way, you all look stunning,” she said, critically shifting her gaze from Amanda’s short, figure molding white shirtwaist to Susan’s inexpressibly charming figure in the classic white blouse and full black skirt to Hope’s graceful slender torso set off to advantage by the light, crinkled, checked summer dress.
“We got all our clothes at your shop,” said Susan soothingly.
“Yes, yes, but what about Ambrose?” Pamela demanded of Amanda. “What did that bastard do to you?”
Amanda jumped back at the vehemence of Pamela’s loyalty to herself rather than her husband. Since she already knew her husband so well, Amanda saw little harm in admitting one thing to Pamela, and that a thing which might quiet her new friend’s curiosity as to probing deeper into Amanda’s relations with the owner of Bartlett’s department store. That man, Amanda knew, was half in love with her. He had never stopped sending her gifts, even after paying her the five thousand dollars in cash for allowing him her favors for one hour one night.
“He…broke me!” Amanda admitted finally, and both Susan and Hope nodded their approval of her confession, both having been made aware of her first and most unpleasant session with Pamela’s new husband.
“Yes, he does that on a first date,” Pamela grimly observed, but then smiled and linked arms with Amanda as they started back. “You might as well tell us all the story together when it’s your turn to speak,” said Pamela to her new and dearest friend. Pamela knew that her friendship for Amanda was becoming deep and pure, something akin to love, for she felt no jealousy or hostility towards the eighteen year old for attracting the attention of her capricious, decadent and self-indulgent man. Of course he must have Amanda after he had seen her and after being informed that she too was tinged with the propensity to play hyper erotic games. To be told that the libido of this tall, slender, young and ivy league Aphrodite was as steeped in dominant-submissive fetishism as those of both his current and previous wife, would present an irresistible opportunity to a handsome and affluent man who had come to the world of playing somewhat late in life and wished to waste no more time in storing up such memorable experiences.
Plainly, Ambrose Bartlett enjoyed punishing girls. Of all the men in their circle, he was the coldest fish, the most sadistic spanker, the least gallant or courteous, the least perceptive, the least caring. And yet he knew how to get into a woman’s heart and soul with clothes. He always choose women who adored clothes and it was a minor fixation with him to present his favorites with the most stylish numbers that passed through his ultra high end emporium. This was possibly the only way in which he was able to express generosity, but it happened to hit just the right note among the women he favored. They did feel like whores, but they always kept taking the clothes, which bound them ever in some degree of submission to this man.
“He’s a villain,” thought Pamela, and yet a wave of comfort and joy swept through her slender form as she contemplated her second whole day of no speed and no Bartlett’s department store.
The four young women rejoined the group in the paneled private dining room, that same room that Amanda had peeked into on the night she had done her second session with Bartlett, the much more pleasant one, and had been shocked to see a group of jocks, feasting post-pond hockey game, with her Colby among them. But that was not a story that Amanda planned to tell. As she regained her seat and consulted the gold tasseled menu, she whispered to Susan Ross, “Gee, if I’ve only just come to Random Point within the last year and I have so many secrets, I can only imagine what you might be admitting to.”
“It would take way too long for me to admit to everything I’ve done,” said Susan. “Oh look, they have roast lamb.”
“I’m trying to eat more vegetarian, but it’s very tempting,” said Amanda.
“I’m a vegan,” said Phoebe Casper. “For ten years.”
“I’m so happy to meet you,” said Amanda, shaking hands with Pascal Robbins’ small, fresh-faced wife, with her long, chestnut brown hair down on her peaches and creamy shoulders, which were exquisitely molded and flattered by the delicate, low neckline of her semi-sheer white dress. “You’re Mr. Robbins’ wife, I think? He shot me once.”
“Yes, he’s said he’d love to shoot you again this summer. I can see why,” said Phoebe, feeling a definite pain dart through her stomach while contemplating Pascal photographing this young divinity, possibly fully undressed. No wonder he had barely mentioned her. Though he had mentioned the other night his great disappointment at Amanda having abruptly cut off all her hair, just prior to posing for him again. It was true that Amanda hadn’t much hair left, Phoebe
