‘Um,’ she tried again. ‘I, um, I’m here for my appointment.’ ‘Oooookay!’ the receptionist replied, brightening. ‘That means you’re, ...ike, on this computey thingie.’ She waved a hand at the monitor on her desk, flashing her long, sparkly pink fingernails at Marsha. ‘Like, what’s your name?’ ‘Marsha,’ Marsha said. ‘Marsha Smith.’ The receptionist stuck her tongue out and started carefully typing Marsha’s name into the computer. ‘That’s, like, a rilly tough name,’ the receptionist observed. ‘My. Never money or anything like that. Not that either Tracey or Buttercup had any use for money. Women weren’t permitted into shops and money wasn’t used as currency in the community where they lived. Any potential client offering just money had to be turned down. Those notes with the president’s head on them and the pictures of Gomorran industry and Gomorran war victories, they were totally worthless in the world of women. It was relatively easy to identify men who were looking for sex. They. More

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