The Man Without A Tie

·         Oh, darling – the voice is pleasing, sensual.

I look at her. It’s her, the black Venus, as they call her at the agency, a splendid Creole from Louisiana that for some time has been working with us a hostess. I believe she’s called Phyllis. We’ve spoken a few times in a mixture of English and French. No more than a five-minute conversation each time.

·         Darling, do you want to enjoy my spaghetti?

She’s wearing a pink dress and a jacket. She’s tall, slim, she’s worked as a cover girl in New York, she’s been a porn diva in California, I remember these details now. Why she happens to be with us, no one knows.

·        Surely, Phyllis – I reply, kissing her on the cheek (I hope she appreciates my gesture, it’s meant as a form of greeting).

·        Do you remember my name? – she seems a bit astonished, it obviously pleases her that I remember her name – Now let’s go to chez moi to eat some spaghetti. With relish.

She smiles. Then she takes a look at her watch.

·        It’s time to lunch.

She takes me by the hand. We go into the lift, I press the button with the T, several moments later we go down the staircase with the red carpet. Without saying anything, we run several hundred metres. Phyllis, smiling – she’s got magnificent regular brilliant white teeth – she shows me a white MG parked under a sign indicating no parking. It’s her car, I believe. She opens the door with the key, she sits in the driver’s seat and indicates to me to open the other door.

·        Open – she says to me.

I don’t delay in sitting down next to her.

·        Chez moi – she repeats.

Maybe she believes I haven’t understood our real destination.

·        Chez toi. To eat spaghetti – I say.

She laughs, says “Well”, turns on the engine and is off like a shot causing the tyres to screech like in gangster films.

Phyllis knows how to drive skilfully through the chaotic city traffic. It’s already one o’clock and people are hurrying home.

The C