The Curious Incident at Claridge's by R.T. Raichev

did it once,’ the dark girl said. ‘I was missing you.’
    â€˜She always does things without thinking—always—and they say it’s blondes who are dumb,’ the blonde girl said.
    â€˜Was Olivia ’orrible to you, Nicky?’
    â€˜Well, she said nothing, but she just looked at me.’
    â€˜Poor Nicky! I am so sorry for getting you into trouble!’
    The blonde girl asked after a pause, ‘Which one of us do you like better, Nicky?’
    â€˜I like you equally well,’ Nicholas Tradescant said truthfully.
    â€˜I don’t think that’s possible!’
    Nicholas Tradescant held up his forefinger. ‘Comparisons are odious. We agreed we wouldn’t have that sort of talk, didn’t we?’
    â€˜Let’s loosen up,’ the dark girl said. ‘Let’s all have a drink.’
    She went to the sideboard and started examining the array of drinks. They were at a rather exclusive moat hotel in Surrey. They had been there on three previous occasions, so they felt quite at home. A minute later the blonde girl was distributing drinks.
    There was a pause as they drank. They sat on the bed, the two girls on either side of him. ‘I bet Nicky will forget all about us once his dad dies and he gets the title,’ the dark girl said with a sigh.
    â€˜Will you, Nicky?’
    â€˜No, of course not.’ Warmed by the drink, he smiled. ‘I might even marry the two of you.’
    â€˜You would start one of those—what do you call them? Harems? Sheikhs have them.’
    â€˜Yes. You will be my two-girl harem. But you must promise not to fight,’ he said, falling into the spirit of the thing. ‘If you fight, I’ll kick you out.’
    â€˜We can’t do that sort of thing in England, can we? We’ll need to become Muslims first.’
    â€˜Not necessarily,’ the blonde girl said. ‘We could only live together. Like Hugh Hefner. Hugh Hefner lives with three girlfriends, I read in a mag.’
    Nicholas frowned. ‘Is that the Playboy chap?’
    â€˜Actually, there’s an English lord—a viscount—who does that too,’ the dark girl said. ‘What was his name now?
    There was a programme on the telly about it once. He’s got wifelets . Lots of wifelets. All the walls at his country estate are covered in dirty pictures. He’s got a beard and wears fancy waistcoats.’
    â€˜Weymouth.’ Nicholas sipped more whisky.
    â€˜We could be Nicky’s wifelets!’ The blonde girl clapped her hands.
    â€˜We were with an Arab sheikh once. Oh, it was dreadful, wasn’t it?’
    â€˜It was dreadful,’ the blonde girl agreed. ‘No class. Never again.’
    Never again , Olivia Tradescant thought. Never again shall I humiliate myself ringing up White’s and asking to speak to him. The cheating bastard. Did he really imagine he had managed to deceive her? She knew very well the explanation she had been given as to why Nicholas couldn’t come to the phone was a fabrication. Did he bribe people to tell her tales? How sordid. Stooping so low. He claimed he had broken his mobile and was still waiting for a replacement. That was a lie, of course. Did he think she was a fool?
    Where was he? Who was he with? Well, she didn’t want to know, though she could very well guess. That phone call. A young person’s voice asking rather perkily to speak to ‘Nicky’. An extremely common voice. The exchange had given Olivia such a frightful headache, she’d had to spend two hours lying down in her bedroom. Some girl. At least it hadn’t been a boy . Thank God for small mercies. Olivia gave a mirthless laugh. The next moment her eyes filled with tears. She pressed her handkerchief against her lips.
    Olivia was sitting in bed, a book across her lap. It was the latest P.D. James; however, she hadn’t read a single sentence since she had opened it. She felt exhausted