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The boy just might be out of his depth.

Paul tried to keep up and he felt, to his credit, that he held his own fairly well, the very fact that he was Publisher, adding stature to him in the eyes of the clients. He was well greeted, and during the afternoon he actually became comfortable - meeting people he knew as well, which lent an air of conviviality to the whole affair. He was unable to get to their booth until late in the afternoon, having managed to lose Neil along the way. Three of the girls were there, including Sarah who was, this time, dressed in a formal light gray suit and gray satin blouse. They all three smiled, as he gagged up his entrance, staggering as if he were drunk.

"I hope your feet feel better than mine" he said, grimacing, and sidling to one of the empty sofa chairs on the booth. Glancing at his watch, he said "How're things? Much business?" Gina, one of the assistants promptly started to fill him in on "traffic flow" at the booth, and generally outlining how their publications had been accepted. He half listened, watching Sarah dealing with a client-prospect, her back to him as he sat, his head at her waist height. He simply watched as she moved slightly on her heels and again, imagined her out from under the clothing. He actively sighed, and Gina was perplexed for a few seconds, knowing that she'd "lost him" and regretting that she'd said something that didn't meet with his approval.

Finally, it came to an end, the loudspeakers broadcasting the fact that the show was now closed, and "...we look forward to meeting you all again, tomorrow, this time at eleven o'clock...."

He had left but now returned to the booth, remembering to recover his briefcase which was stored in one of their cupboards in the booth. Angie - the third girl - was just covering their exhibits with a dust cover. "Er, Angie - do you know where Sarah is, please? - I have to give her some client application cards that I've picked up...." He paused, letting her finish.

"I think she's already left the show. Neil - Mr. Richards, was talking with her, and I think they may have gone to the Hotel bar..." She shrugged apologetically, as he thanked her, and said that he'd see her tomorrow. Perhaps he'd drop by the bar on the way back to his room.

But she wasn't there, and he caught the elevator to the sixth floor. He'd take a shower and a nap, maybe calling Jilly first, as he planned the evening ahead. Yawning, he keyed the lock and entered his room, to see the blinking red light on the phone, indicating a message. Listening, he took three messages, one from Jilly - telling him that he hadn't answered his cell-phone, where was he? (it probably didn't work inside the exhibit hall), one from a client with an offer to lunch with them tomorrow, and then her accented brief verbal note. "I was thinking about dinner at eight. Hmmm? Call me?" Now, just what the HELL did THAT mean?

"Hello. It's Paul" he stammered as she answered the phone. He called on his bravado. "Was that an invitation......or are you just informing me of your whereabouts?"

"What would you like to think?" The slightly lowered voice betrayed her nervousness.

"I think that maybe we should decide whether we eat 'in house' - or somewhere away from the Hotel. What would you suggest?" But, he knew immediately that his daydreams had been answered.

"How about we grab a cab. I know a little bistro that's away from the madding crowd. Meet you in reception at eight on the dot!" And the phone went dead before he could create a response. He hung up slowly, re-ordering his chain of thoughts, back to reality. He must phone Jilly. Keep the peace on the home front if nothing else.

_______________


He realized that they'd both drunk too much, the two bottles of wine plus various aperitifs prior to dinner now settling in his brain - and hers, too - so that they were both giggling as he ordered coffees for them.

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