The next half hour was one of the strangest of his life, as two people who had chastely shared a bed, prepared each other for their business. Suzanne was later to admit, she found it all very erotic, but then she was always finding herself in situations, that others dreamed of, abhorred or didn't think existed.

After belatedly unpacking their cases, or at least the items that would suffer from prolonged constriction, they proceeded to decide what the other should wear.

'You're going to a business meeting, so you ought to be properly dressed. Is it a man? How old?'

'He's the President of a very large and important company. Older than you. Say late forties!'

He smiled at the compliment, intended or accidental. 'So I would say you should wear at least some knickers and possibly a bra!' He was searching through her case and could only find the skimpiest black thong and the most perilous and structural of Wonderbras in the same come-on colour. 'Is this all you've got? At least I can find stockings and some proper suspenders, that more or less match. They'll go well with these shoes. If he's like me, he'll like that a lot!'

'Yes! I think he will.' She was in his case. 'I know you were very virtuous last night, but do all your underpants have to be labelled St.Michael. The colours are spectacularly dull.' She searched again. 'Hey! What's this? That's more like it!' She held up the padded leather pouch Clarence had produced for him to wear for the Maquis. 'That's for you!' Meekly, he accepted the thong and slipped it on.

'Now, it's your turn. Are you going to wear the black underwear? After all, it's all you've got!' She nodded and turned towards him and he slipped the bra round her back and shoulders, fastening it in front. Next she stepped into the thong and he then fastened the suspender belt around her waist. 'Stockings, I can remove, but you'll have to put them on for yourself. Men don't wear them, because they're far too complicated.' She laughed at him, as she unpacked and rolled a new seamed pair in a shiny, flesh-coloured Lycra up her legs and clipped them to the suspenders.

'God. You're clothes are boring!' She had gone through all his suits, jackets, trousers and shirts at least twice. 'They're all the best makes, but spectacularly boring. You could always wear one of my suits. Pink would suit you!' It was his turn to laugh. Finally, she choose a pair of his cotton slacks and a similar shirt to the one Lucinda had worn to fly. He laughed again. 'What's funny?'

'I'll tell you at dinner, tonight!'

'If that's a promise, I'll see you back here around seven!' She added his red cotton jacket. 'Could I have a bed, please, as well?'

'Yes, of course! Same conditions, though!' He started to search her wardrobe. 'As you're wearing the black underwear, you should wear this black silk suit.' He searched some more. 'Or there's the leather. But that might be a bit over the top. You don't want to look like a whore!' Her eyes almost killed him. 'No, you'll wear the silk.'

Five minutes later, they were inspecting each other as they were now fully dressed. She discovered fluff all over his jacket and proceeded to brush and pick it off. He thought the seams of her stockings were not straight and tried to get them right. Just as Lucinda had done, she had found fault with his shoes and had cleaned them. They scored points here and there, but in the end they accepted that they could not do much better, so holding hands they opened the door and left for their respective meetings.

***

He had said he would meet Pat at half past twelve and the taxi delivered him to Hooters exactly on time.

The restaurant was not as he had expected.

There were no waiters to be seen and all of the waitresses were dressed in minuscule, tight, satin, day-glo orange shorts and tee-shirts knotted to show the maximum amounts of trim mid-rifts and well-endowed cleavage. All could at least be described as pretty, with most scoring high on the American beauty scale, with long hair, slender legs, tight bottoms and ample breasts. It was only when he read the menu, did he appreciate the American slang meaning of Hooters. It had little to do with the owl logo of the restaurant.

Suzanne had been right and he quickly ordered a genuine Newcastle Brown. Brewed on the Tyne! He would wait until Pat arrived before getting any food.

He did not see Pat approach from behind, the first he knew being a hand running up his backbone and a quiet peck on the cheek. 'How are we then?'

'Good. Very good!' Pat had now sat down opposite. 'You seem fine. How's Julian?'

'Not very well! He's got about six weeks at most. Why, he wanted to come out here to die, I don't know. It's such a depressing area. It's so damn, fucking flat and it's all hotels and theme-parks! And it's so awful seeing a man disintegrate before your eyes. He says he needed the sun and I suppose he was born here!' Pat shrugged. 'It doesn't want me to go back to Bolton to die!'

'It's never sunny in Bolton! All those dark, satanic mills!'

Pat ignored the comment and continued. 'So why come nearly five thousand miles to see me? Knowing you, you've got yourself in some sort of deal on the one hand or trouble on the other -' He stopped and corrected himself. 'No you've got yourself into both at the same time. And you want dear old Pat to sort you out and clear up your mess.'

'Right! And it's both ends of the spectrum.' Pat had worked with him off and on for nearly twenty years and was the perfect foil, tester and sounding board for all of his ideas, projects and software, whether they were good, bad or brilliant. 'I've got the most difficult of deals to see through and I need someone, who can make certain I deliver something that works. And is what the client wants and expects!'

***

As they both ate their steaks, fries and salads and washed it down with the dark brown beer, he told Pat the full story of the last few months, from the launch of his analysis software and the death of Catherine, to the current trip to Las Vegas. He even told of some of the less sexual exploits with Lucinda.

As he finished the tale, Pat spoke. 'So you want me to check the quality of everything you do? Just like the old times.'

'That's it! Got it in one!'

'I don't think I can!' Pat thought for a few moments and instead of continuing motioned the waitress over. 'Two more Newcastles, please.'

'But except for Julian, you've got little to do. Surely, you can find a few hours each week, to help out an old friend. I can make sure that the money's excellent.'

He gathered himself and waited before replying. 'You're so fucking heartless, aren't you! - ' The beers arrived and Pat stopped angrily in mid-flow, whilst the waitress removed the tops of the bottles. As she left, Pat continued. 'I've got a gay lover who's dying of Aids and all you can think of is, your own selfish projects. You're all self, self and more self. Christ! I'm probably HIV-positive myself and I don't know how long I'll last, either.'

'Haven't you had a test? Or something!' He was trying to be much more sympathetic.

'Why bother? I think it is better not to know.' Pat had now calmed down a bit.

'Look, I didn't mean to offend, but there's enough in this deal to set us all up for the rest of our lives. I won't need your help until early in the New Year, as I shall have nothing running until then.' He offered his right hand to his friend. 'I'll just send you a brief when I'm ready and you take it as it comes. If you want to bin, bury or burn it, then just do it.'

'That sounds fair.'

'So we've a deal.' He held out his hand further, adding his left as well.

'Yes!' They took both of each other's hands and shook them firmly. 'I mustn't be a bore though, but I've got to get back to Julian. He's very bad at the moment.' He took a large drink from the bottle. 'Let's just finish these beers and go. You know how to contact me!'

Copyright 1999 by Ewart Higgins