She had spread out on the flat plush top of the balcony wall a program, a pair of binoculars, her hand-bag, a carton of cigarettes and her orange scarf. The heady perfume of No. 5 Chanel brooded over her nick-nacks, herself, and of course, me.
Sitting so close to her—the seats were cut on economical lines—I could feel a subtle warmth from her body, and her perfume had a distinct effect on me. I wondered vaguely what she would do if I enfolded her in a Charles Boyer embrace.
The four Spaniards finished their game and walked off the court to a scattering of applause. They looked jaded and hot. If I’d been in their place I would have been carried off on a stretcher, with a dewy-eyed nurse in attendance packing ice around my temples.
There was an interval, and Miss Spence looked around the auditorium as if she expected the rest of the audience to stand up and sing the National Anthem at the sight of her. They didn’t.
She looked to her right, and then to her left. As I was on her left, she looked at me. I gave her a sad, coy leer, and hoped it would unhook the disdainful expression on her face. It didn’t exactly do that, but it registered enough for her to study me.
I leaned forward confidentially. “They say the elastic shortage has made woman’s position in world affairs less secure than it was four years back,” I said briskly.
She didn’t say “Huh?", but she wanted to. She looked away instead, the way you look when a drunk speaks to you. Then she looked back and caught my grin. She smiled bleakly.
“Reilly’s the name,” I said. “I’m a playboy with a lot of dough and a yen for red-heads. You’d better scream for help while there’s time. I’m considered to be a fast worker.”
She looked me over. No smile now. Eyes medium to hard.
“I could handle you without help,” she said in a husky voice that sent chills up and down my spine, “and I don’t like playboys.”