she passed by, even though their first ones weren’t finished yet. His friend was dressed head-to-toe in
a red tartan suit and tam-o-shanter. Now used to the British penchant for drinking as much free booze as possible at events, it didn’t surprise Piper that famous personages did the same.
It struck Piper as ironic that the displays of outrageously expensive commodities on the shelves had the same disconcerting sparseness as a Soviet era supermarket, the sparseness for
diametrically opposite reasons admittedly. She threaded diligently through a coterie of power women, their husbands and toy boys, navigating the silver tray back and forth as skillfully as she
could.
“What are you doing here?” The manager approached with his palms out and rising slowly. “You’re supposed to wait in the diamond launch room.”
“No-one said anything.”
“We really must listen more carefully, mustn’t we?”
“Dude, no-one told me. Okay?”
She was rewarded with ‘What an obnoxious American’ look. “ Go .”
“Where is it?”
He scrutinised her drinks tray and ordered her downstairs to replenish the champagne. Piper longed to sit. Downstairs, she dropped her tray off at the bar and headed to the makeshift kitchen
while the barman swapped her empty flutes for new ones. She hovered, one eye on the table laden with food and the other on her drinks tray. When the chef turned his back and began to garnish a
platter, she devoured two canapés, caviar and crème fraîche on sliced French bread, as payback for the manager’s rudeness.
“How’s it going?” Todd asked, as he set his serving platter down on the table to be refilled. He ran his hand up and down her back.
“Can you do my feet, too?”
He nodded at the caviar. “Hope there’s some of these left to take home.”
“Fat chance. Eat now.”
“Been doing that,” he said, and winked.
“Oi,” the head barman called over. “Yeah, you. Think you’re a bleedin’ guest or what?”
As she made her way upstairs, Piper quenched her thirst with a flute of champagne, finishing it just as the manager appeared at the top of the stairs.
“You’re not in diamonds yet?” he asked. “What’s this?” He retrieved the empty flute with his long, skinny fingers.
“Bar guy must have missed it.”
“Your job’s also quality control.” He sighed as he gesticulated to his left. “ Go .”
A European ex-supermodel remarried or divorced from a New York tycoon (Piper couldn’t remember) and her equally stick-thin sidekick were standing just inside the room as she entered. They
were chatting to a local evening news show anchor who looked decidedly healthier on television. Both women were in their early fifties and wore pancake concealer. The hemlines of their flouncy
party dresses stopped just short of the globes of their asses. The ex-supermodel was holding court and ignored Piper as she held up the tray. Piper walked away.
The flawless profile of a woman seated on a stool to the left side of the bar made Piper stop abruptly. In her early thirties, she had high cheekbones and gleaming raven hair cut in a bob.
Dressed in a snug, jet black dress, long matching satin gloves, she wore a long rope of pearls around her neck and posed with an upward tilted, fourteen-inch ebony holder containing an unlit
cigarette. She looked like a flapper out of a 1920s Harper’s Magazine .
Piper was equally intrigued and unsettled by the woman’s svelte femininity. Despite her best efforts, as Piper moved about the room, she could not peel her eyes off the stranger’s
face. A man to her left touched her arm lightly for some champagne. The glasses on her tray were empty and she needed to go downstairs again for more. The quiet animosity she felt toward the man
surprised her.
When she returned, a handsome, young man in a caramel-coloured linen suit was talking to the beautiful woman. After serving the man his drink, Piper approached the couple.
“Sir, would you like
a red tartan suit and tam-o-shanter. Now used to the British penchant for drinking as much free booze as possible at events, it didn’t surprise Piper that famous personages did the same.
It struck Piper as ironic that the displays of outrageously expensive commodities on the shelves had the same disconcerting sparseness as a Soviet era supermarket, the sparseness for
diametrically opposite reasons admittedly. She threaded diligently through a coterie of power women, their husbands and toy boys, navigating the silver tray back and forth as skillfully as she
could.
“What are you doing here?” The manager approached with his palms out and rising slowly. “You’re supposed to wait in the diamond launch room.”
“No-one said anything.”
“We really must listen more carefully, mustn’t we?”
“Dude, no-one told me. Okay?”
She was rewarded with ‘What an obnoxious American’ look. “ Go .”
“Where is it?”
He scrutinised her drinks tray and ordered her downstairs to replenish the champagne. Piper longed to sit. Downstairs, she dropped her tray off at the bar and headed to the makeshift kitchen
while the barman swapped her empty flutes for new ones. She hovered, one eye on the table laden with food and the other on her drinks tray. When the chef turned his back and began to garnish a
platter, she devoured two canapés, caviar and crème fraîche on sliced French bread, as payback for the manager’s rudeness.
“How’s it going?” Todd asked, as he set his serving platter down on the table to be refilled. He ran his hand up and down her back.
“Can you do my feet, too?”
He nodded at the caviar. “Hope there’s some of these left to take home.”
“Fat chance. Eat now.”
“Been doing that,” he said, and winked.
“Oi,” the head barman called over. “Yeah, you. Think you’re a bleedin’ guest or what?”
As she made her way upstairs, Piper quenched her thirst with a flute of champagne, finishing it just as the manager appeared at the top of the stairs.
“You’re not in diamonds yet?” he asked. “What’s this?” He retrieved the empty flute with his long, skinny fingers.
“Bar guy must have missed it.”
“Your job’s also quality control.” He sighed as he gesticulated to his left. “ Go .”
A European ex-supermodel remarried or divorced from a New York tycoon (Piper couldn’t remember) and her equally stick-thin sidekick were standing just inside the room as she entered. They
were chatting to a local evening news show anchor who looked decidedly healthier on television. Both women were in their early fifties and wore pancake concealer. The hemlines of their flouncy
party dresses stopped just short of the globes of their asses. The ex-supermodel was holding court and ignored Piper as she held up the tray. Piper walked away.
The flawless profile of a woman seated on a stool to the left side of the bar made Piper stop abruptly. In her early thirties, she had high cheekbones and gleaming raven hair cut in a bob.
Dressed in a snug, jet black dress, long matching satin gloves, she wore a long rope of pearls around her neck and posed with an upward tilted, fourteen-inch ebony holder containing an unlit
cigarette. She looked like a flapper out of a 1920s Harper’s Magazine .
Piper was equally intrigued and unsettled by the woman’s svelte femininity. Despite her best efforts, as Piper moved about the room, she could not peel her eyes off the stranger’s
face. A man to her left touched her arm lightly for some champagne. The glasses on her tray were empty and she needed to go downstairs again for more. The quiet animosity she felt toward the man
surprised her.
When she returned, a handsome, young man in a caramel-coloured linen suit was talking to the beautiful woman. After serving the man his drink, Piper approached the couple.
“Sir, would you like
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