Transvestites, Opioids and Champagne

Episode 20 in the Lymp Duhdashian series

Fanny Groesadijk was sheltering from the rain as best she could, but the drips from her wig had streaked her makeup and run down the back of her neck. She was very uncomfortable, but determined to be the first independent paparazzi to photograph Diamond Duhdashian as she left Dr Dontrust’s clinic. There were no other contenders on the street, so she was assured of an exclusive scoop. She had been stalking Dim for many months in the hope of securing a personal interview somewhere intimate and cosy. The thought of what could transpire kept her warm on this soggy November day in London.

Each time the door opened she would raise her iPhone in preparation. She watched a couple of nurses run to the local Starbucks and decided to follow suit. Once within the steamy premises, wrapping her chilly fingers around a latté, she struck up a casual conversation with the nurses and ascertained that their least favourite patient was preparing to go home today, just as Fanny had calculated.

She downed her hot drink and sped back to the clinic. A taxi arrived and Pru Dense alighted. This was a great sign. Pru was likely to be driving Dim’s car for her. It being highly unlikely that the rib-less wonder would be capable at this early stage of her recovery. Precisely as Fanny had guessed, Pru reappeared running with a newspaper over her head towards the multi-storey car park at the corner of the street. Fanny felt a surge of sexual tension flood through her groin. Nerves don’t fail me now! She thought as she advanced closer to the door and was able to see Diamond Duhdashian in a wheelchair just within.

The door opened and Fanny, discreet and unnoticed, snapped a couple of photographs before pocketing her iPhone and assisting the wheelchair down the pair of low steps to the pavement. Diamond Duhdashian looked to be on the verge of tears. Fanny seized her opportunity. “Oh you poor love!” she cooed, “here, let me help you!” and she positioned her umbrella to protect Dim from the battering rain. Pru drew the car close to the entrance and Fanny helped Dim to rise from the wheelchair which was immediately whipped away and taken back to the clinic by a grumpy porter.

Poor Dim was very shaky and clung to Fanny’s strong forearm. “Thank you!” she managed to gasp as she tottered unsteadily to the car. Fanny gently helped her into her seat and presented her card. “Call me!” she said, with a kind smile and stood back, waving the very distressed Dim on her way.

Pru, careful not to jog her delicate passenger, gingerly and slowly drove the short distance to Kensington. Dim examined the elegant gold edged, pleasingly embossed card in her hand. “Ms F. Groesadijk” she read aloud, “Personal assistant and Registered Nurse” and winced as the car cornered. She slipped the card into her handbag.

Once installed on the chaise longue, Dim listened to Pru’s long list of engagements and photoshoots, parties and events. She was zoning out on the details. Damn, those pain killers! She wailed inside her foggy brain. Pru was still rattling off a schedule which would tax the fittest of celebrities and did not seem to be aware that Dim was indeed dim at that time.

“Could you interview, run a check and engage this nurse for me please?” Dim managed to say between shallow sips of air. She handed Fanny’s discreet card to Pru before succumbing to the clouds of opioids coursing through her bloodstream.

Two days later Fanny Groesadijk was bursting with joy. She was packing her suitcase, dancing and chirping along with the radio:

—0—

Olympia and Khan had attended so many parties on so many yachts in Pointe-à-Pitre that another glass of champers would have risked them tumbling into the greasy marina water. They were helping each other to navigate the walkway back to their own charter, giggling and singing the Caribbean Bob Marley anthem “Don’t worry ‘bout a thing, every little thing is gonna be alright!”

Lymp could not remember a time when she had felt happier. She was holding her shoes and her hair was a mess. She hiccupped and stumbled but Khan had a firm grip of her, preventing her from sliding off the slippery wooden boards.

Only the Captain was on board the charter yacht, enjoying a rare moment of tranquillity. He hated parties. He wasn’t a drinker either. He preferred to be on his own yacht avoiding humanity, but he hadn’t even been in the same country as his precious SeaSwan for many months. He was in a light trance to flute and night nature sounds.

The Captain gazed dispassionately at Khan and Olympia struggling to board while collapsing in giggles. He sighed, turned down the volume on the sound system and reluctantly went to assist them.

Khan apologised “Sorry man, bit hammered…..” as he half dragged Olympia to the master cabin. The Captain nodded his acceptance and returned to keep watch from the wheelhouse. His crew would probably be staggering along the walkway in a similar condition at any moment.

Pointe-à-Pitre was lighting up the Caribbean sky in celebration. Every hotel and restaurant was fully booked and earning much needed foreign dollars. The once-in-four-years yacht race was vital to the local economy and some staff had travelled from other islands to work there, taking much needed income back to their cash-strapped families. The enormous Route de Rhum yacht race attracts the wealthiest of hedonists to stay for almost a month, combining their many addictions in a whirlwind of demands upon the resident population. Sex, drugs and endless parties result in some curious effects.
People go missing, never to be seen again…. especially young people. Parents in Pointe-à-Pitre keep their children out of the city, safely housed with grandparents at small holdings well away from the tourist beaches and hotels. Some go as far as sending their children to other safer islands. Everyone in the Caribbean knows the risk of entertaining the world’s richest predators, but only the local people talk about it, you won’t find the subject raised in the media.