within easy reach, and the room
was fuggy with cigarette smoke, rising in fragile white curls above the sofas. The girls were so absorbed in chatter they didn’t notice Lola’s entrance.
‘What is she going to do? So humiliating! ’ Georgia exclaimed eagerly, pushing back her heavy red curls with both hands.
‘I know, ’ Madison drawled, leaning forward to click on the keyboard. She took a long drag on her Silk Cut Ultra, reading what had come up on the screen. ‘I’m so glad now I didn’t fuck Jean-Marc, think what I might have caught –’
‘Oh God, ’ Devon gasped. ‘She’ll have to get every test there is! That tranny looks riddled with disease in the photos!’
They all bent forward to peer at the computer screen. Lola felt tears pricking her eyes.
‘Is it all true?’ she asked, taking a few steps into the room, onto the priceless Aubusson rug.
Dead silence fell as they all swivelled to look at her.
‘Jesus, Lola, you look like shit on a stick, ’ Madison said frankly.
‘Do I?’
Lola crossed the room to examine herself in the gigantic gilt-framed mirror hanging over the fireplace. Although it was age-misted enough to give a flatteringly softened reflection, she still
screamed when she saw herself. Her make-up was halfway down her cheeks, her hair was a tangled mess and her eyes were redder than twin traffic lights. Even her skin looked sallow.
‘Here, ’ Georgia said, holding out a glass of champagne. ‘Medicine.’
‘I need painkillers, ’ Lola said, collapsing on the sofa next to Georgia and taking the glass.
‘Here you go, ’ Madison said, rootling in her Bottega Veneta bag. After the rattling noise that Madison always made going through the pill section, she produced an orange
prescription vial with a white lid and handed it to Lola.
‘Vicodin. Take two, ’ she said. ‘ Fantastic with champagne. You’ll be on Cloud Nine in no time.’
Lola downed them immediately.
‘How did I get here?’ she said feebly. ‘I fainted at my neighbour’s, didn’t I?’
‘Ugh.’ Devon made a face. ‘She got my number out of your phone and rang me. Horrible. Lots of “Your Grace’s” this and “Your Ladyship’s”
that. So nouveau. We sent the car for you and apparently she was standing in the mews yelling, “Out of the way for the Marchioness of Claverford’s chauffeur!” at the top of
her lungs, so that everyone knew who was visiting. Foul woman. You really owe me, Lo.’
Lola’s head was still hurting so badly she couldn’t take everything in.
‘Why was she having to yell “Out of the way?”’ she asked, sensing she wasn’t going to enjoy the answer.
Devon’s big blue eyes had not been Botoxed recently, as was evident by the amount they were able to widen.
‘Because of the paps, of course!’ she exclaimed.
‘They’re surrounding the front of the house, didn’t you know?’ Madison drawled, shaking out her long golden mane. ‘They followed the Bentley here.’
‘They got a lot of photos of the driver carrying you into the car, ’ Georgia said.
Her blood running cold, Lola sculled the rest of her champagne and reached for the Evening Standard .
‘Lo?’ Devon said. ‘You might want to wait till the Vicodin kicks in before you look at that . . .’
But Lola was already scanning the cover, barely able to breathe for shock. This was the later edition, and the photograph of Jean-Marc on the stretcher was now shrunk down to make space for the
main one – the transsexual in whose apartment Jean-Marc had overdosed.
There are some transsexuals in the world who look even more beautiful than the most stunning of women. Gay fashion designers and Donatella Versace dream of their creations being worn only by
Thai ladyboys, with their exquisite features, their improbably full and high breasts, and their narrow, narrow hips. And if Jean-Marc’s transsexual, Patricia, had looked like Donatella
Versace’s ideal fashion model, Lola thought that she might
was fuggy with cigarette smoke, rising in fragile white curls above the sofas. The girls were so absorbed in chatter they didn’t notice Lola’s entrance.
‘What is she going to do? So humiliating! ’ Georgia exclaimed eagerly, pushing back her heavy red curls with both hands.
‘I know, ’ Madison drawled, leaning forward to click on the keyboard. She took a long drag on her Silk Cut Ultra, reading what had come up on the screen. ‘I’m so glad now I didn’t fuck Jean-Marc, think what I might have caught –’
‘Oh God, ’ Devon gasped. ‘She’ll have to get every test there is! That tranny looks riddled with disease in the photos!’
They all bent forward to peer at the computer screen. Lola felt tears pricking her eyes.
‘Is it all true?’ she asked, taking a few steps into the room, onto the priceless Aubusson rug.
Dead silence fell as they all swivelled to look at her.
‘Jesus, Lola, you look like shit on a stick, ’ Madison said frankly.
‘Do I?’
Lola crossed the room to examine herself in the gigantic gilt-framed mirror hanging over the fireplace. Although it was age-misted enough to give a flatteringly softened reflection, she still
screamed when she saw herself. Her make-up was halfway down her cheeks, her hair was a tangled mess and her eyes were redder than twin traffic lights. Even her skin looked sallow.
‘Here, ’ Georgia said, holding out a glass of champagne. ‘Medicine.’
‘I need painkillers, ’ Lola said, collapsing on the sofa next to Georgia and taking the glass.
‘Here you go, ’ Madison said, rootling in her Bottega Veneta bag. After the rattling noise that Madison always made going through the pill section, she produced an orange
prescription vial with a white lid and handed it to Lola.
‘Vicodin. Take two, ’ she said. ‘ Fantastic with champagne. You’ll be on Cloud Nine in no time.’
Lola downed them immediately.
‘How did I get here?’ she said feebly. ‘I fainted at my neighbour’s, didn’t I?’
‘Ugh.’ Devon made a face. ‘She got my number out of your phone and rang me. Horrible. Lots of “Your Grace’s” this and “Your Ladyship’s”
that. So nouveau. We sent the car for you and apparently she was standing in the mews yelling, “Out of the way for the Marchioness of Claverford’s chauffeur!” at the top of
her lungs, so that everyone knew who was visiting. Foul woman. You really owe me, Lo.’
Lola’s head was still hurting so badly she couldn’t take everything in.
‘Why was she having to yell “Out of the way?”’ she asked, sensing she wasn’t going to enjoy the answer.
Devon’s big blue eyes had not been Botoxed recently, as was evident by the amount they were able to widen.
‘Because of the paps, of course!’ she exclaimed.
‘They’re surrounding the front of the house, didn’t you know?’ Madison drawled, shaking out her long golden mane. ‘They followed the Bentley here.’
‘They got a lot of photos of the driver carrying you into the car, ’ Georgia said.
Her blood running cold, Lola sculled the rest of her champagne and reached for the Evening Standard .
‘Lo?’ Devon said. ‘You might want to wait till the Vicodin kicks in before you look at that . . .’
But Lola was already scanning the cover, barely able to breathe for shock. This was the later edition, and the photograph of Jean-Marc on the stretcher was now shrunk down to make space for the
main one – the transsexual in whose apartment Jean-Marc had overdosed.
There are some transsexuals in the world who look even more beautiful than the most stunning of women. Gay fashion designers and Donatella Versace dream of their creations being worn only by
Thai ladyboys, with their exquisite features, their improbably full and high breasts, and their narrow, narrow hips. And if Jean-Marc’s transsexual, Patricia, had looked like Donatella
Versace’s ideal fashion model, Lola thought that she might
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