Murdering Americans by Ruth Edwards Page B

Can you talk?’
    The door crashed open. ‘Not now. Later.’
    ‘So this is where you got to,’ said a truculent Traci. ‘You haven’t even seen the bathrooms.’
    ‘I’m not interested in bathrooms,’ grunted the baroness. ‘They’re for washing in.’
    ‘Not just for that,’ said Constance to her in a low voice, as Traci tossed her hair around and shouted for a maid to open another bottle of champagne. ‘I spotted some suspicious-looking white powder.’
    The champagne was forthcoming, but it was another half-hour—during which Traci paid another visit to a bathroom—before dinner was announced, by which time Traci had told them where she’d bought everything from her overstuffed chairs to the gold bath taps and the baroness had finished her book. Holding out her glass for a refill, the baroness noticed with interest that Constance was glassy-eyed—though probably with boredom rather than drink—and that Traci’s voice was becoming more and more high-pitched. ‘I buy what I like,’ she shrilled, as she led them to the dining room, ‘and I don’t say sorry to no one. I’m my own person. I have a beautiful soul in a beautiful body, and if people don’t like me, they can fuck off.’ She looked at them threateningly. ‘Gimme a hug.’
    United in wishing to avoid more tears, the baroness and Constance reluctantly obliged and after a minute, they were allowed to sit down. The baroness found solace in the Mexican appetizers. ‘The soufflé’s good,’ she said. ‘A bit heavy on the cheese, but there’s a satisfactory amount of chilies.’ Traci paid no attention, being focussed on describing her exercise and beauty routine, which apart from regular visits to her colonic irrigator and sports masseur, appeared to involve a minimum of three hours a day in a gym and beauty parlour and on her sun bed. The care of her decorated nails alone, she explained, spreading them out for inspection, required a visit twice a week to a specialist salon in Indianapolis.
    It was while they were eating the lobster salad that they got on to plastic surgery. ‘So how old do you think my husband is?’ asked Traci.
    ‘Sixty-five,’ said the baroness.
    ‘Fifty,’ said Constance.
    ‘Sixty-eight,’ said Traci triumphantly. ‘That face-lift and the hair graft have made all the difference.’
    ‘I thought his face barely moved,’ grunted the baroness, but the remark was lost on her hostess.
    Traci giggled. ‘And that’s not all he got done, but I’m not going to tell you. ’Cept it proved that size matters.’
    The baroness and Constance caught each other’s eye and cringed.
    Traci was now in high good humour. ‘And how old do you think I am?’
    ‘Thirty,’ said Constance cautiously.
    ‘What a politician you are, Constance,’ said the baroness. ‘Tell the truth. Traci must be closer to forty.’
    Traci was enraged. She threw down a lobster claw with such force that it bounced off her plate onto the floor. The maid glided over and picked it up. Traci began to cry. ‘How can you say that? You must be blind. I’m only thirty-five and everyone thinks I look ten years younger.’
    Constance gave her an awkward hug which dried up the torrent. The baroness shrugged.
    ‘Have you any idea what work and money and pain I’ve put into looking as good as I do?’
    ‘I think we’re getting the idea,’ said the baroness. ‘And your lips and expressionless face tell their own story.’
    Constance looked at her in horror, but Traci was so caught up in an earlier grievance that she hadn’t been listening. Rage had now triumphed over distress. ‘Who do you two snobs think you are telling me I look old?’ Ignoring Constance’s protestations, Traci’s voice rose higher. ‘If anyone needs cosmetic surgery it’s you. Ana, more champagne.’
    She turned on Constance. ‘Look at you. You’ve got lines on your forehead, your eyelids droop, your lips are thin, your neck’s wrinkled, your teeth need bleaching, your ass