James Munro - Die Rich Die Happy

Loomis's face darkened to magenta, to purple, to violet; he wheezed horribly, and found relief at last in a moaning bellow of laughter. At last he said: "I quite agree. That wouldn't do at all. You want to rest here a bit more?"

"No," said Craig. I'm all right. I just want to see somebody for a while."

"You know, Selina may be right," said Loomis.

Craig didn't answer. He was looking for his clothes.

The Jaguar purred to a halt like a sleepy kitten, and Craig went into his flat. He remembered another return when he'd sat alone and waited for a girl to come back to him, a girl who was dead. But this time the girl was very much alive, sprawled flat on her stomach on a leather sofa, frowning at a yellow-covered typescript. She heard his footsteps and looked up, still muttering a half-learned line. Then she saw him, and the fine was forgotten altogether.

"Oh," she said.

"Buona sera," said Craig.

"I meant to get out of here, honestly," said Pia. "But I've been so busy, and I didn't know where to find you to leave the key—" She rolled from the sofa, a movement at once erotic and touching, and completely female, and stood facing him.

I'll go and pack now," said Pia. But she made no move to go. "Are you still working?"

Craig touched the plaster on his face.

"No," he said. "It's finished. Except—Loomis tried to palm a girl off on to me. I prefer to find my own."

She looked at him again and he was smiling at her, a grin of anticipatory happiness.

"I don't have to go just yet, do I?" she asked, and she was smiling too.

'Tour agent said I'd be bad for you," said Craig.

And Pia told him, fluently and precisely, exactly what her agent could do.