Fucking In Manhattan 2
Thursday, February 25th, 2010“OK.” Privately, Anita was wondering how she’d managed to become a lawyer at all if she could be sweet talked into such a stupid deal. Conned by a client! It was a disgrace.
Even the passage of several hours and the solace of a martini did little to sooth Anita’s irritation with herself. A fine thing if she couldn’t get away at the weekend to practice her dressage because of some lousy mongrel. She stood at the window in her apartment which gave the best view over Gramercy Park, a view which usually cheered her up but which was doing nothing for her mood tonight. The brunette with the sharp eyes and tight lipped mouth reflected in the darkening glass was doing really well – a solid legal career, a rapidly expiring use by date and the only meaningful relationship she had was giving an occasional sugar lump to a horse. Oh yes, and now she could look forward to sharing her gossip with a sad assed basset hound.
Which reminded her of another thing. Tristan, for God’s sake! Was she going to have to try to make sense of some Hispanic girl’s explainations in Spanish about Beech’s likes and dislikes? Damn Toni for letting her in for this and damn herself for letting it happen. The intercom buzzer sounded exactly at seven. Well, at least the wretched girl was on time. “Hello.”
“Ms Ruger? I’ve brought Beech over.” Anita’s spine quivered. The voice she was listening to sounded exactly like Sean Connery’s when he was still 007. What the hell? She selected the video display, nearly spilling the remains of the martini in her rush. Six foot and more, bulging out of a leather jacket at the shoulders and arms and not a surplus inch around the trim waistline. Neatly cut fair hair, a facial profile like an Air Force recruiting poster, and twenty one or two at a guess. This was Toni’s dog person? “Jesus Christ!” Anita whispered.
“I’m sorry, Ms Ruger, I didn’t catch that.” “Uh – yeah, right. Come on up. You know the number.” “Yes, I’ve got your number, Ms Ruger.” And Anita asked herself how come he’d got it? Was this some kind of joke by Toni? Was this guy a strippergram guy and the dog only an excuse to get in? But it was definitely Beech’s portly shape dragging its ears on the sidewalk beside him and Toni would never have turned her beloved dog over to some guy she’d just rented from an agency. What the hell was the deal here? Or was she getting a distorted picture from the surveillance camera, maybe from the high angle? Maybe this guy was really only four foot tall and had more body odour than a dead goat?
The first question was answered as soon as she opened the door – his body filled the doorway as if it had been designed for the job without an inch to spare. The shoulders of the leather jacket almost brushed the frame on either side, the tight fitting denim jeans would have made two pairs for Anita and the top of her head didn’t even reach his Adam’s apple. Anita wondered about his other Adam specific anatomy, a passing thought rapidly overborne by a more immediate concern that maybe it hadn’t been a very smart move to let Terminator Three into her apartment. But he was smiling gently at her with that soap-opera-leading-man face. And when he knelt down to unfasten Beech’s lead the dog licked his hands with obvious affection. Then he stood up again and slid off a backpack.
“I’ve brought along Beech’s basket, some food for him and a couple of other things. Maybe you’ve got somewhere I could put them down where they’ll be out of the way?” “Yeah, sure, this way.” ‘I wasn’t wrong, he does have a brogue like Sean Connery. Where had Toni dug this character up from and what the hell was she going to find in Europe that was better than this?’ “Tristan. Is that really your name?” “I’m sorry, I beg your pardon, I should have introduced myself. Yes, I’m Tristan, Tristan Yorstan. My mother got the stupid name from a TV series.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Tristan. I’m Anita. Can I ask what TV series that was?” “It was about some vets in Yorkshire. Tristan was one of them and my mum decided she’d take the name without bothering about copyright.” Tristan grinned like an embarrassed kid and knelt down on the kitchen floor to begin unpacking the back pack. “No reflection on your mother, Tristan, but it kind of sounds to me like that Johnny Cash number about a boy called Sue. I was expecting a girl to come round.”
He chuckled: “I guess it’s one of those things. To tell the truth, every time I look at my birth certificate I feel lucky. Tristan’s brother in the TV series was called Siegfried. Being called Siegfried Yorstan is a heavy load to carry through life.” He opened a packet of dog biscuits and poured them into a bowl then took another bowl from the pack. “There wouldn’t be any water at all, would there?”
