Tricks to curry favour, and all.
“Well, you came,” Sarah Jane notes. “Have a seat then. We need to talk, you and me.”
Sliding into a seat, she pushes over a chocolate martini, clear as crystal. “And you ordered me a drink,” I note. “Takes a lot more than that to get me liquored up.”
“I know. But it’s a start.”
I sit down and press my knees together, somehow reminded of maternal influences (stern ones, at that) by the way Sarah Jane keeps staring at me and I know better than to call her Sarah or SJ, so I don’t. I don’t drink, either, because give an investigative reporter an inch and they’ll take a mile. And I have a feeling I know what this is about.
“…and I mean, the man keeps asking me.” I tune back in, just as she’s launched into a passionate rant about something (or rather, someone) or other and I just watch, almost unsure as to how she expects me to answer. She’s really more beautiful than she thinks she is, but the alcohol has given her cheeks a pink flush and there’s determination in her eyes. But then, there’s always been that there. “You know I love him, clearly, but it’s more than that. It’s…”
“He understands you?” I suggest.
“I want to be in love with him and do everything you’re planning in that brain of yours,” she says, leaning over to brush hair out of my eyes and I twitch, involuntarily. We share that, at the least, a thick head of hair and a stubbornness beneath. “I know what’s in there, you know. I peek.”
But she’s still smiling, so clearly she’s not all upset by the road ahead.
“So?” I ask, starting in on my drink when I think I’m out of the woods.
“So?” she echoes, much in the same tone. “Get me there, already.”