Free Gimme More by Liza Cody Page B

make their pitch. I sit, nonchalant, on a fake regency sofa, uninvolved. I look at my watch. Time
is
passing. Sasson is ten minutes’ walk away. If I leave now I will be five minutes late. I watch Sylvie’s husband, and without warning I find myself imagining lying in bed with him, playing the whore for him in a way that Sylvie, with her tennis player’s legs, would find impossible. I can imagine his prudent passion, his puritan pornography. A few years ago I would have bet on myself to make him part with a Central Park apartment within a week. I stop the thought dead and look at my watch again.
    Sylvie’s husband is The Banker. All decisions depend on his indulgence. His. Money, time, all his to dole out or deny.
    Suddenly, I hate the prick. I get to my feet. I say, ‘Sorry, I should be on my way.’
    â€˜Oh, Diana,’ Sylvie says, ‘I didn’t realise … But my husband says …’
    â€˜Don’t worry,’ I say, looking at my watch again. ‘No harm done. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but now I really must go. I hate to be late.’ I nail her husband with a smile of pure charm and regret.
    â€˜Wait,’ says The Banker. ‘Can’t I persuade you to stay for a few minutes longer? Sylvie was just explaining the deal.’
    â€˜There’s no deal,’ I say, taking offence. ‘You’ve misunderstood.’
    â€˜I used the wrong word,’ he says smoothly. He detaches himself from his wife and isolates me a few steps away. A practised power move. ‘The girls are very keen on this palace tour thing and I hear that you know a Royal Equerry.’
    â€˜Let me explain,’ I say. ‘It was just friendly chit-chat, and all I was offering was an exploratory phone call. Your wife is a very charming woman.’
    â€˜It takes one to know one,’ he says, eyes warm and focused. ‘Would you like to use my phone?’
    â€˜I’ll use my own,’ I say. And then, to punish him for the warm focused eyes, which probably worked on his secretary but which he should never have used on me within two paces of Sylvie, I add, ‘If I do get through, and if my friend is willing, would you be interested in the
Private
Portfolio?’ Always dress a punishment in a reward’s clothing. ‘Just the
men,’
I say softly, and my smile is full of dare, amusement and complicity. I know you’re flirting, my smile says, but how far will you go?
    The words may not have registered, but the smile certainly has. ‘My god!’ he says. ‘They keep that sort of thing at the palace?’
    â€˜What sort of thing?’ I say, with just the hint of a dimple.
    He laughs. Naughty boy.
    â€˜It’s amazing.’ I let my lashes tremble. ‘Raphael, Leonardo, Rubens, Michelangelo. Well, Michelangelo you might expect, but
Fra Angelico?’
    â€˜Good grief,’ he says.
    â€˜And hardly anyone has ever seen them. Only the cognoscenti even know they exist. It’ll cost a little extra, of course.’
    â€˜Make the call,’ he says.
    I move off a few paces. I produce my phone book. I look up a number. I punch buttons. Reception is poor. I go to the hotel door. I have a two-minute conversation with my sister. The Banker hovers.
    â€˜Well?’ he says, as I snap the phone back in my bag.
    â€˜Well, you’re in luck,’ I say. ‘But can we solve the money problem? You can’t hand traveller’s cheques to a Royal Equerry. You can’t be seen paying him at all. It’s etiquette or protocol or something.’
    The Banker is good at solving money problems. And so am I. He can lay his hands on a lot of cash and I can relieve him of it. We both do what we’re good at. Dance for Daddy, little girl, and make him pay.
    My reflection in the window of Harvey Nick’s didn’t flinch at all so I dropped in and bought an extraordinary velvet jacket. A prize. The velvet was