Still in London, Bettie’s serious research mission goes completely off the rails as she tries to be sensible, only to discover that the only thing she's good at, is being bad.
After a night at the Rock Hard Casino and way too many cocktails, Lord knows how I managed to navigate the near-infinite hotel options and back to the right hotel room. Last thing I can remember was when my craps evening climaxed with six Screaming Orgasms and a Loose Deuce. After that, it’s a blur. Because Big Frank had told me to go careful with the pennies, I decided to not book my usual Roof Suite at The Dorchester – and settled for a Deluxe. While I missed the Hollywood glamour of gazing up at the same pink marble ceiling as Elizabeth Taylor must have done from beneath Richard Burton, as I crawled from beneath the crumpled silk duvet and shrieked the words, “Starbucks! Get me Starbucks!” into the intercom, I comforted myself with the fact that, hey, at least I was being sensible.
It was about then I noticed the naked man in my bed.
Whoops! Did I just write that out loud? Making a mental note-to-self to get a padlock for my diary, I tiptoed back and checked again. Yep, it was a man, alright. As he roused and peered around, I next noticed the big chunk of gold wrapped round his wrist.
“Hey,” I said, “those fake Rolexes sure are convincing nowadays.”
“It’s real!” he spat back.
Unperturbed, I let that go, for as he disappeared into the en-suite, at least I’d discovered how I was going to pay for my ridiculously expensive night out.
Outside, qu’elle surprise, it was raining. Well, doesn’t that figure? The way I see it, diary, England is a fine place to live – if you happen to be a pond slug. But being a non-mollusk with more backbone than most, the prospect of schlepping about in a tempest is not high on my list of good times. Still, I had a frantic need to get to a pawn shop for some reason, and for that I had to venture outside.
It’ll come as no surprise to anyone that since the Prince of Pop came to The Dorchester, London’s premium hotel for all things fabulous is now packed with more nuts than a Wal-Mart on welfare check day. For example, as I was leaving the lobby I collided with a woman tottering on seven-inch heels smothered in stuck-on crabs and paparazzi.
“Don’t you know who I am?” the crazy-lady asked.
“No, don’t you?” I replied, though by the look of her it was more than likely she didn’t.
“Here’s a clue: I’m more famous than Madonna.”
“Are you Jesus?” I tried. Though why the Son of God would be born again as a woman covered head to toe in crustaceans was anyone’s guess.
“Try again.”
“Is it World Whelk Awareness Week?” I asked, whereupon she stormed off in a huff and promptly fell into the gutter.
After seven hours of fluorescent pink and green signs screaming ‘SALE! FINAL REDUCTIONS! 99 PER CENT OFF! LOWEST PRICES EVER!’ in ever-increasingly desperate lettering, I felt a lot better. Staggering from damp retail chain to dripping department store, I was once again educated in the three R’s of shopping: Reduced. React. Regret. Or, more likely: Receipt, Return, Refund. Because, in my experience, the secret to a rich and fulfilling life is to find what makes you happiest and then damn well just go out and buy it.
