Free Gimme More by Liza Cody Page A

physical characteristics are a clue to social status. However, we are all animals and animal judgments can prove to be useful.
    I smile at her again, humorous, rueful. ‘Oh it’s all so boringly British. You can’t get a thing done in this country without introductions and connections.’
    She smiles back at me. She is making an inventory of her own. My accent, naturally, is impeccable and intimidating – it whispers ‘culture’. The venue, an expensive hotel cloakroom, is reassuring. She cannot place my clothes. But my hair has a shining insouciance which, she probably estimates, cost the earth. But am I sound? Would I pass muster at her club? She isn’t stupid, but she is in a foreign country, which can have the same effect.
    She comes to a decision. She extends a beautifully maintained hand and says, ‘Sylvie Glick.’
    Yes! I was right, beige is the social leader.
    â€˜Diana Beresford,’ I reply, noting an unexpected pang at my impromptu choice of
nom de guerre.
Mr John Beresford was a name Jack used when he wanted to make anonymous travel plans or reservations.
    Margaret, the sage-and-gold one, comes directly to the point. ‘So,’ she says, ‘what do you get to see that other people don’t?’
    â€˜It’s a suite of quite small rooms,’ I say. ‘I believe they were used most particularly by Edward VII for his more private assignations. The, er, family still occasionally employs them for the same purpose. But the art and antiques are exquisite.’
    â€˜What do we have to do to get in?’ Margaret says. She is quite transparent: the tour of Buckingham Palace is already ruined for her. Behind the tapestries and security guards is another world that Joe Public does not have access to, and of course it’s more wonderful than what she’s been offered. This is the story of her life – what she already has, by its very nature, is not special. What she has is always spoiled by what she doesn’t have.
    â€˜Well,’ she says, defending herself from Sylvie’s scolding glance, ‘she, I mean, Diana, she’s been there. She must know somebody.’ She turns her disappointed gaze on me and goes on, ‘Tomorrow we’re flying up to Scotland. The guys are crazy to play at StAndrews. A coupla days in London is all we’re getting. I might’ve guessed we’d be fobbed off, even though we paid top dollar.’ ‘What a shame,’ I sympathise.
    â€˜So we really wanted these two days to be something to remember,’ Margaret goes on. A disappointed, middle-aged child.
    â€˜We-ell,’ I say. I raise an eyebrow in the direction of the social leader. Her decision. Her responsibility.
    â€˜We can’t ask you to put yourself out,’ she says, ‘but if you have a number we can call?’
    â€˜I do have a number,’ I say. ‘It’s a personal contact. I could just enquire, if you like. But I should warn you, it’s expensive.’
    â€˜How much?’ says Sylvie.
    â€˜I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘I’ll enquire about that too. It’s unlikely to be less than a hundred pounds a head. If that’s too steep for you, please tell me now because I don’t want to waste my friend’s time.’
    â€˜What’s that in dollars?’ asks Margaret.
    â€˜I don’t know.’ I’m cool. No pressure. These women are hooked. I don’t have to go any further. I can meet Sasson feeling like a fox. This one, you see, was for laughs, for ego, a practice hit. It wasn’t for money.
    But sometimes, as in the past, my detachment acts as a come-on. And now I had two very hot-to-trot American women on my hands.
    We left the cloakroom and went to consult the husbands. Sylvie’s was a man who knew beyond any question that he was an Alpha male. Sylvie might be the queen of the women’s cloakroom, but he was king of everything else.
    The women