Dear Madam,

Thank you for your wonderfully intrusive questions. Please do write to me with more. In answer to one of them, yes, I do wax my privates. It makes them look bigger, and every little helps.

Kind Regards,

 

 

“How long have I got to be out of the flat?” I ask incredulously.

“We’ve been over this, Mister Bailey.” The building supervisor sighs heavily. “Three months at a minimum. It could be longer, depending on what we see when we do a more thorough inspection. The water damage is extensive in your flat and the one underneath you, not to mention the structural safety of the two floors may have been compromised.”

I suppose that’s one way of looking at a flat with no ceiling.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “You’ll keep me up to date?”

He assures me he will, and after making arrangements to collect my possessions, I finish the call. I sigh and lean my head against the window in Dylan’s guest bedroom. The cold feels nice against my heated face as I stare down at the garden, while my brain dips and whirls.

Shit. Three months. What the fuck am I going to do? I’ve got two big jobs coming up which is good, but the fact remains I’ll be doing work for Asa, which will stop me doing other stuff. I brighten slightly. Surely I won’t be paying rent for a flat I can’t live in.

Dylan’s shout up the stairs that breakfast is ready, distracts me, and I push the worry away where he can’t see it. My already meagre money took a severe hit when he moved out to live with his boyfriend, Gabe, last year, but I never let him know. He’s fiercely loyal, and would probably have refused to go. I couldn’t see him put the brakes on his relationship, so I cheerfully assured him I had some big jobs coming up, and didn’t need his share of the rent.

I then cheese-pared my outgoings, to the extent that there wasn’t enough cheese to interest a dieting mouse. It’s amazing how you can get by without spending too much cash. Models frequently end up with cast-off clothes, and there are usually light snacks and drinks at the shoots, which hardly anyone eats.

I ate my fill and endured a few sidelong looks, which had puzzled me at first, but then my agent had tentatively suggested booking me in for counselling for bulimia. I reassured him I was just undertaking an activity that millions of normal people do – eating - and he went away happy.

I’d been considering taking on another roommate, but I suppose I might as well forget it for a while. I can’t see many people wanting a room in a flat where if they look up, their vision will be filled by Old Man McGregor’s nether regions.

Dylan shouts for me again, so I shake my hands vigorously, a movement taught to me by an old hook-up who was a counsellor. Apparently it helps with worries by figuratively casting them aside. I’m not convinced, but I keep doing it.

I clatter down the stairs, following the sounds of voices and laughter to the kitchen. Like everything in Gabe’s house, this is a beautiful room made better by Dylan’s presence. I hover on the threshold undetected for a second, watching the two of them.

Dylan’s boyfriend is a high-powered lawyer who used to be Dylan’s boss. I watched them dance around their attraction for years, knowing they were meant for each other, and I was right. They’re one of those couples who manage to show a powerful bond without over the top demonstrations of affection. It’s in their snarky banter, quietly affectionate glances, and the way they echo each other’s movements as though they’re moving to a melody not on my frequency.

I suppress a sigh. I wanted that so much, and at one point in my life I was convinced I had it. I shake my head. I know better now. I’m twenty-eight and it’s high time that I realised this life isn’t for me. Hook-ups with oblivious, interchangeable men like Dean are my future, and nothing more.

Dylan looks up from his position at the stove, and concern washes over his face for a second. Shit. I have to be careful of him. He knows me too well. We’ve been best friends since we were at nursery together. I’d argue there’s no one who knows me better.

I force a smile on my face. “What’s cooking, good looking, in a non-gender bias way?”

Gabe looks up from his position at the table and laughs. He shoves the papers he was looking at into a very expensive looking briefcase, and kicks out a chair for me. “Come and sit down. I’ll pour you a coffee.” I pause, trying to school my face, and he smiles. “Don’t worry, I made it.”

“Oh, fuck off!” Dylan shouts. “My coffee is perfectly lovely.”

“It’s perfectly something,” Gabe mutters. He smiles at me as I sit down. “Sleep okay?”

“Yes,” I say sourly. “I was rocked to sleep by the creaking of bedsprings and the shouts of ‘go harder’. There is really no lullaby sweeter than that.”

Dylan groans, and Gabe laughs and mockingly kisses his biceps. “I tell you, Dylan, this just reinforces it. I’m a king amongst men.”

“You’re a king amongst your own brain cells,” Dylan says sourly, and I laugh and take the plate of sausage, bacon and eggs he hands me.

For a second there’s silence as we all fall on our food, apart from Dylan cooing to the small Border terrier at his feet. “Who’s a good boy, Charlie Hunnam? Do you want a piece of Dylan’s sausage, Charlie Hunnam?”

Gabe shakes his head. “Sometimes I regret naming that dog Charlie Hunnam. I didn’t realise it would usher in an era of innuendo not seen since British television in the seventies.” I laugh, and he turns to me. “What’s the situation with the flat? I presume you’ve got insurance?”

I nod and swallow my mouthful of food. “I have. Which reminds me, will I still have to keep paying rent on the flat?” The food suddenly feels heavy in my stomach, and Gabe must catch something because he looks sharply at me.

“No, you won’t,” he says firmly. “If the landlord tries to make you, put him onto me. In fact, just give me his number and I’ll ring him. I’ll tell him the facts.”

“Nicely,” Dylan suggests, and he see-saws his hands.

“Tomayto, tomahto, Dylan. We have such differing ranges of niceness.”

“No, we don’t,” he says patiently. “You’re equating high-handedness with niceness again.”

Gabe shoots him a suddenly warm, intimate look that makes me swallow. “No, I’m just acknowledging you’re a much better person than me.” He turns to me. “I don’t want you to worry, Jude. I’ll sort it out.”

“Thank you,” I say, absurdly touched. I don’t know if Dylan has told him about my situation. I presume he has, as I said he could, and they don’t keep secrets from each other. It’s just been our secret for so long it seems strange to let a stranger in. Strange but nice. Gabe is such a strong force, he’s actually comforting.

He looks at me searchingly and nods, and I know then he’ll never bring it up unless I do. “No need to thank me. You’re family, Jude. That means everything to me.”

Dylan smiles, and adeptly as always, he breaks the slushy moment before Gabe becomes uncomfortable enough to start chewing his arm off to get away. “What are your plans for today?”

I sit back, cradling my cup. “Well, I thought I’d have a spa day, and then try to avoid Ryan Reynolds’ increasingly desperate attempts to get my attention.” He glares at me and I relent. “Not really. I’ve got a much better day planned. To start with, I’m going to the flat to wade through Mr McGregor’s bathwater, and see if anything of mine is floating in it. Then I’m going round to the house belonging to The Man Who Loves Models, otherwise known as Asa Jacobs. That’s if my tiny little brain can even remember how to use the tube without it going dizzy.”

I expect a laugh, but not for Dylan to take a sip of coffee and promptly snort it out of his nose.

“Fuck. Dylan, that’s disgusting,” I say admiringly, as he mops up the liquid.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Gabe enquires placidly. “Did you forget which hole to put your drink? I’ll give you a clue, it’s the hole you used last night to suck my -”

“Oh my God,” Dylan interrupts wildly, and Gabe and I collapse into laughter. Dylan flaps his hand at me. “Did you say Asa Jacobs?”

“I did,” I say slowly. “Do you know him?” A thought occurs to me. “Oh my God, is he one of your old hook-ups? Because he looks familiar to me.” Gabe frowns, but it clears as Dylan shakes his head.

“It’s Asa Jacobs,” Dylan says insistently. “Surely you know him?” I stare at him, and Gabe shakes his head. “Well, I’m not surprised at you, Gabe. After all, if it wasn’t on your desk or bent over in a nightclub, I don’t think you paid attention.”

“Hey!” Gabe says indignantly, and then shrugs. “Fair point, I suppose.”

Dylan turns to me. “But you should know him.”

I wrack my brains and then shake my head. “So, he’s not one of your hook-ups?” Dylan shakes his head, and I push away the odd sense of relief I feel. Inspiration strikes. “Oh my God, did he live in Flat 4B when we were at Curzon Street?”

“What the fuck, no!” Dylan is practically vibrating with excitement. “For fuck’s sake, Jude, you’re a fully functioning gay man of twenty-eight. Asa should have been in your spank bank.” He shakes his head despairingly. “I should have known better. If he wasn’t between the pages of a book, you wouldn’t know him. He was a massive film star, Jude.”

Gabe and I stare at him, and then Gabe gets out his phone. “I’ll Google him.”

I shake my head. “I wouldn’t bother. Wikipedia’s got nothing on Dylan at the moment.”

Dylan shoots me the middle finger, then grabs his tablet. “He was a huge film star a few years ago, and a really good actor. He won an Emmy Award and a couple of Tony’s. He was very famous. He was openly bisexual, and one of the rare stars who didn’t try to hide it. I don’t know what it was about him, but he got away with it, while it’s derailed other stars.” He flushes slightly. “I was mad about him when I was fifteen.”

“How didn’t I know this?” I say indignantly. “We tell each other everything.”

“Not anymore,” Dylan adds hastily, looking at Gabe, but he shrugs unconcerned.

“Don’t try and cover it up, Dylan. Jude’s our very own Camilla - the third person in our relationship.”

“Why am I the old woman in this scenario?” I say indignantly. “I want to be the younger, much fitter princess, who captured people’s hearts and minds.”

“You would have been, babe,” Dylan says hastily. “And you’d look way better with a tiara than she does.”

“I would,” I nod firmly. “I would be a very desirable addition to the royal family, and a very stabilizing influence, if I do say so myself. I also have a full head of my own hair.”

Gabe shakes his head. “I’m worried that I not only follow these odd flights of fancy, but I find myself actually wanting to weigh in with my own opinions.”

“What did you want to say?” Dylan asks immediately, but he shakes his head.

“I said I wanted to, not that I was going to. I’m looking through the windows of the mental asylum, not going through the door.”

Dylan laughs, and I wriggle my fingers for the tablet he’s holding. “Let me have a look at your mystery man then.”

Dylan hands over the tablet. “You do know him. He was in ‘Time Rush’, the programme about time travellers. You remember how I went on about that series when we were fifteen?”

I stare at the screen Dylan has pulled up. It’s undisputedly Asa, but younger and dressed in historical costume. His hair is short, and he lacks the beard, but it’s him, and although he’s hot, he’s even hotter now.

“I wasn’t into it as much as you, and I think it was on TV when I had cricket practice. I think I do remember him, though,” I say slowly. “Or at least I remember your incessant babbling about him.” I pause, and then smile slowly and happily. “And how you used to sign your name Dylan Jacobs.”

Gabe snorts and Dylan shoves him. “Shut up. I was fifteen. I didn’t even know it wasn’t legal at that point. The gay marriage debate hadn’t made it that far into Devon.”

“Well, he was good looking,” I say.

“Yeah, he was so fucking hot,” Dylan sighs, standing up and leaning over my shoulder to look at the screen. He scrolls over and we stare at a picture of a naked Asa. He’s standing with his back to the camera so I can’t see the goods, but fuck he’s got a beautiful arse, full and round and high and tight.

I tap the screen and another picture appears, and I nearly swallow my tongue. It’s a naked, full frontal of Asa, but he’s standing in a darkened room and the shadows play over his crotch, concealing the goods but giving a clear indicator of heft and girth. Dylan and I both sigh as if synchronised. “Look at that,” I sigh, and Dylan reaches out.

“Let’s see if we can enlarge it.”

“Ahem.” Gabe clears his throat, and Dylan smiles and shakes his head.

“Obviously, he can’t hold a candle to you, Gabe.”

“Obviously,” I say slowly. “Well, not unless he was dribbling the wax slowly over that huge, muscled chest.”

I look up to find them staring at me. I cough quickly. “Yes, well, never mind. On we go with the conversation, ignoring the detour.”

“The slightly pervy detour,” Gabe smirks, and I frown at him.

“Yes, the pervy one which wasn’t anything to do with the way he looks at all. No. Not at all.”

Gabe shakes his head mockingly, and Dylan takes the tablet from me. “I can’t believe you’re going to be living with Asa Jacobs,” he says, scrolling through more pictures. “You lucky bastard. You know I’m going to have to come over a lot and see him. I mean you.”

“Am I actually here?” Gabe asks. “Or is this one of those ‘Twilight Zone’ programmes?”

Dylan laughs. “No one compares to you, baby doll,” he coos, and Gabe grimaces in disgust.

“Never mind, Dylan. Keep pretending I’m not here. It’s obviously better for my mental health in the long run.”

“So what happened?” I interject. “You say he’s bisexual, which obviously doesn’t interest me at all.” They stare at me and I shake my head emphatically. “Not. At. All.”

“Okay.” Dylan elongates the words. “Like I say, he went from this show to Hollywood, won loads of awards. He was a bit of a bad boy, but not horrible. He was very charming and loved life, so more a rascal, if you know what I mean?”

I nod my head. He’s still got the air of an impish rogue, or at least he did, until he found out I have my photo taken for a living. Dylan carries on. “Then, if I remember rightly, he moved in with some actress. I can’t remember her name. I was devastated.” He sighs. “I called her The Witch, and no one was allowed to mention her name in our house.”

I start to laugh. “Oh my God, I remember that. Simon used to throw her name into all the conversations he could, even if he was just asking for you to pass him the tomato sauce.” I pause and say in a ridiculous facsimile of his older brother’s voice, “Dylan, will you please pass the ketchup which I happen to know is Asa’s woman’s favourite brand.” I pause. “That was his girlfriend. Wow, what a weirdly small fucking world we live in.”

“With your bent for philosophy you could go far,” Gabe says sagely, and not at all seriously, and I laugh.

“Thank you. Any more, Dylan? Any mention of why the minute I mentioned I’m a model he treated me as if I have leprosy? It doesn’t sound like the man you’re describing.”

Dylan shakes his head, his brow furrowed. “I think there was some sort of scandal and he vanished from view. He must be in his early forties now. I can’t remember the scandal, because when he fell for a woman and completely ignored the existence of his one perfect partner languishing in Devon, I switched my affection to Damon Albarn.”

“You were admirably hard-faced and fickle,” I say, and he turns to me.

“Thank you,” he says solemnly, and we laugh.

I stretch. “Well, Emmy or not, the man has offended my honour and he’s going to pay.”

“How?” asks Gabe, slightly nervously. “Is it something which means I need to give you my business card, in case it goes wrong?”

I smirk. “It’s perfect. He thinks models are complete morons. I’m going to show him a moron. I’m going to scale the heights of moron. I’m going so high, I’ll find a new species of moron.” I snap my attention back to him. “So, maybe yes, you’d better give me your card. You know, just in case.”

***

A few days later, I stand outside the pink palace, looking at the now familiar navy door. It’s exceptionally quiet on this street, and every window and door shines brightly. It’s a bit like being on the set of the film ‘Oliver’ when he goes to Mister Brownlow’s house. I half expect some woman to start singing about buying roses, and housemaids to shake synchronised dusters out of the windows. I thrust the image away.

I lower my bag to the ground and wipe suddenly damp palms down my jeans. This time I’m dressed much more appropriately in jeans, a navy and white checked shirt and my Pretty Green navy bomber jacket. However, I’m unexpectedly nervous. I can walk a runway with anyone, can strip my clothes off in a room full of people who I know are going to judge every flaw on my body, but moving into the home of a man who obviously despises everything I stand for, makes me nervous.

I shake my hands again, and before I can second guess myself, I ring the doorbell. I hear the melodic tones ring out, but this time there’s no patter of small footsteps. Instead, I hear measured treads, and when the door opens it’s to reveal an old man, who is quite possibly the most miserable looking person I’ve ever seen. His whole face seems to droop with dissatisfaction, so he looks like a very pissed off bloodhound. “Can I help you?” he asks with a depressed sniff and a long sigh.

I already want to offer him the number of the Samaritans, but instead I smile over brightly.

“I hope so. I’m Jude Bailey. Mister Jacobs is expecting me. I’m staying for a while, and he texted me last night to tell me it’s okay for me to move in today.”

He gives a huge, gusty sigh. “Okay or not, I suppose you’re here now, and we must all make the best of it.”

I blink. “I suppose so.” We stand there for what is quite possibly the longest minute in time, until eventually I stir. “So, is it okay if I bring in my stuff?”

He nods and swings the door open. “I’ll help you. It will probably make my sciatica agony tonight, but don’t you worry about that.”

I grab for the handle of the bag he’s reaching for. “Oh, no, please don’t. I’m fine. I managed to bring the bags on my own on the tube.”

He shakes his head. “No, no. I’ll help you. What cannot be cured must be endured.”

For a split second I hesitate, wanting to check for hidden cameras, and that moment gives him enough time to grab the bag and move with surprising agility into the house. I follow him, casting surreptitious glances around for Asa.

His voice recalls me. “How was the journey, Sir? The tube can be so terrible with all those delays caused by unforeseen accidents and suicides.”

I wonder wildly if any of those people had been standing by him and driven to despair, and then there’s the tap of light, quick footsteps and a lady appears. I blink. She’s about sixty, but has bleached blonde hair teased up into an enormous beehive. Blue eyeshadow is plastered over her lids and enormous, false eyelashes cast a spidery shadow on her cheeks. Her lipstick is a bright, traffic light red, and she has one of those enormous chests that almost looks like a shelf.

“Amos,” she scolds in a broad East End accent. “What on earth are you doing answering the door? You know it never ends well.”

Amos draws himself up to his full height of what looks like four foot. He’s like a manically depressed little gnome. “Mrs B,” he says ponderously. “I know I’m not a people person like some people I could mention.” He looks her up and down and sniffs, and she puffs up like a turkey. “But nowadays we must all go above and beyond our job descriptions. Today’s bleak working climate should be a salutary warning. If we don’t diversify and move with the times, then we can all be replaced by technology.”

“You sound like the chairman of Ford cars,” she scolds. “As if technology could ever replace your happy-go-lucky personality. And if you think technology can replace my Bakewell tarts, then think again. Mister Jacobs would sooner chop off an arm than lose those.”

I move from foot to foot awkwardly, and it catches her attention. “Ah, now I think you must be Mister Bailey,” she says warmly.

“Oh, it’s Jude, please,” I say, smiling at the sparkle in her eyes.

“And I’m Mrs B, but you can call me Peggy. Jude’s come to help Mister Jacobs with his work,” she informs Amos, while waving at me to follow her.

We follow her stately progression up the winding flight of stairs, like courtiers following their queen.

He clears his throat, a horrible phlegmy sound issuing. “May God have mercy on you then, Mister Bailey. Mister Jacobs has -” He pauses, and then continues gloomily, “Unusual tastes.”

I look at him as we reach a wide landing, but before I can say anything, Peggy rounds on him. “Unusual tastes. For goodness sake, you make him sound like Michael Barrymore.” She looks at me. “He’s an absolutely lovely man. You’ll see.”

She throws open a door and steps back for me to go in. I step over the threshold and look around curiously. I’m in a large, airy room with an oak bed made up with white linens. Two walls are painted navy-blue and have huge, stark, black and white photographs of the sea hung on them, and the bedside tables have large bases seemingly made from driftwood. The room smells of lemon, and when I step over to the window, I find I’m looking down on the quiet road.

I put down my bag and smile my thanks at Amos, who lowers my other bag with a put-upon sigh.

“Well, I’ll be off, Mrs B,” he says. “I need to look at the Mercedes. There’s a rattle in the engine which sounds expensive.” He sighs with relish. “It’ll probably mean a new engine, and possibly a new car.” With a gloomy half salute, he turns and exits the room.

Peggy sniffs. “Well, that’s Amos,” she says. “He’s a caution. Never met a good mood he couldn’t spoil. If he found a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow he wouldn’t pick it up, in case he pulled something.”

I laugh and she looks at me, her eyes twinkling merrily. “The rest of us are a mite more cheerful,” she says, patting my shoulder. “Bear him no mind about being replaced. He’s been with Asa for years as a driver. Amos amuses him for some reason.”

She looks around the room and darts over to straighten the bedcover before looking it over with gimlet eyes. “Yes, I think you’ll be fine in here. You’ve got an ensuite bathroom through there. I’ll leave you to unpack and get comfortable, and then I’ll come and get you and show you the study where you’ll mainly be working.”

“Oh, no need to wait,” I say hurriedly. “Please don’t treat me as a guest. Mister Jacobs is doing me a huge favour by letting me stay, so I should get on with the work.”

She smiles at me. “As you like, Jude. Follow me then, and I’ll show you the house so you can get your bearings.”

I traipse after her back down the stairs and then down a long corridor. “I saw the study when I first came,” I say.

She looks back at me. “I didn’t realise you’d been here before.”

“Oh yes, Billy opened the door to me.”

She smiles widely, as she opens a door showing me a huge lounge. One wall is made of glass, looking out onto the garden and letting in light. The other walls are painted a dramatic black and on one hangs a seven-foot painting of the sea, all stones and washed colours. A massive, sand coloured sectional sofa sits on a pale oriental carpet, and in front of a long, rustic coffee table.

Peggy’s voice recalls me. “Ah, bless him, the little duck.” She pauses at the door. “Oh, I see now. You’re the young man who’s a model. It was my day off when you visited, but I heard all about you from Miss Hampton.” She says the woman’s name with disdain, so I gather there’s not much love lost between the two. Her next words confirm it. “Asa didn’t half give her a telling off for leaving Billy alone long enough to open the door to a stranger and spend time with him.” She shoots me a quick look. “So, you’re a model, then?”

I nod, wondering if she’s got the same attitude as her employer, but she smiles. “Well, you’re a pretty one, that’s for sure. Bit scrawny though.”

I’m startled into a laugh. “I’m so sorry.”

She smiles. “Don’t worry about it. I like my men like that Vin Diesel, all big and bald.”

I laugh out loud. “Each to their own. I like mine big too.”

For a second I wonder if I’ve gone too far, but then she throws her head back and gives a raucous cackle. “I never can understand those people who say it’s not the size, it’s what you do with it. You can’t do much if it’s the size of a cocktail sausage.”

I give a shout of laughter, and she turns before squeezing my arm. “Did you think you’d shock me?”

“Not really,” I smile.

“I was Asa’s dresser when he started in the theatre. I’ve worked in London theatres since I was nineteen. There isn’t anything I haven’t seen, or got my stars a prescription for. I think I’m fairly unshockable by now.”

She shows me the kitchen, and a big dining room painted red, with a light oak table which is long enough to seat twelve.

Finally, we make our way to the study I saw on my first visit. Today it’s empty, the sunlight flooding in, highlighting the shelves of books and sparkling on the old theatre posters. Without Asa in it, the room seems bigger somehow.

Peggy brushes her hand over the desk checking for dust, and gestures to three plastic boxes. “Asa asked if you could make a start on answering the fan letters in those.” Then she picks up a few sheets of paper. “Andrew, who was Asa’s old assistant, left a list of instructions for what needs to be done, and Asa wanted me to point it out to you.”

I take the papers, looking them over quickly. Written in neat, ordered writing are a list of various passwords for things like email accounts and the Wi-Fi. There’s also a very helpful day to day summing up of what my job will entail, and it’s clear it will be easy enough once I’m in a groove. Then I remember I’m supposed to be doing a terrible job, and suddenly doubt flares in my mind. After all, he’s been kind enough to take a complete stranger into his home, and the only requirement he has is that I help him. My mum would be horrified if I repaid him by being silly.

Peggy stirs, and I look up from the papers. She suddenly looks reluctant. “Asa also asked me to give you a message,” she says. “I’m trying to find a nice way of saying this, but he insisted I give it to you word for word.”

My interest sharpens. “Don’t worry. Just tell me what he said, word for no doubt, lovely word.”

She reaches into a pocket of her overall and brings out a piece of paper. Unfolding it she reads. “He realises you probably aren’t used to hard work, but this is the deal you made. He said you are not to have people sleeping over. This isn’t a knocking shop, and you’re here to do a job. You are not to speak to the press under any circumstances, and as such you’ll be required to sign a non-disclosure. He realises the work may be a little more tasking than the work you usually do, which he refers to as peacocking about.” She gulps at my expression, and finishes quickly. “He said you’re to try your best, and just hopes this will give passable results. He’s not optimistic, but hopefully when you leave after not being able to do the job, you can take away the lesson that looks don’t cut it for every situation.”

I smile at her, and I know there’s more than a hint of shark about it. “Wow. That’s an absolutely epic job description, Peggy. I’m only surprised I didn’t encounter a massive queue of people waiting for what must be the job of the year.” She lets out a surprised laugh, and I smile at her. “Don’t worry. I’ll endeavour to adhere to my side of the deal.”

She looks at me appraisingly, and suddenly gives a big smile. “My, my. I think you’re going to be a very interesting addition to the household.” She gives me a keen glance. “I think he’s met his match.”

She pats my shoulder, and after giving me instructions to come to the kitchen in an hour for some lunch, she leaves me.

I stare around the lovely room, my thoughts running a mile a minute. All my previously charitable thoughts of earlier have flown away, like swallows heading for a warmer climate. He thinks he’s getting a bird-brained model, then that’s what he’ll get.

I smile. Game on.