‘Just there, number forty-two,’ shouted Ford Prefect to the taxi-driver. ‘Right here!’
The taxi lurched to a halt, and Ford and Arthur jumped out. They had stopped at quite a number of cash-dispensers on the way, and Ford chucked a fistful of money through the window at the driver.
The entrance to the club was dark, smart and severe. Only the smallest little plaque bore its name. Members knew where it was, and if you weren’t a member then knowing where it was wasn’t any help to you.
Ford Prefect was not a member of Stavro’s though he had once been to Stavro’s other club in New York. He had a very simple method of dealing with establishments of which he was not a member. He simply swept in as soon as the door was opened, pointed back at Arthur and said, ‘It’s OK, he’s with me.’
He bounded down the dark glossy stairs, feeling very froody in his new shoes. They were suede and they were blue, and he was very pleased that in spite of everything else going on he had been sharp-eyed enough to spot them in a shop window from the back of a speeding taxi.
‘I thought I told you not to come here.’