Trevor, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets, shouldered open the glass door. Accosting the first waiter he saw, he announced that he had arrived to lunch at a table booked by Nick Spencer. He took an instant dislike to the waiter for not having greeted him with the cheerfulness and deference that he would have preferred, but he dutifully followed him past a number of empty tables. Vivid salmon pink screamed at him from the walls, the carpet, the tablecloths, the napkins folded into fans, even the velvet upholstery of the chairs. Trust Nick to choose a place like this, he thought as the waiter led him to a table by the window.

Dismissing the offer of the wine list, Trevor ordered a bottle of Chablis and, as soon as the waiter left, he settled back in his chair and looked out of the window. He enjoyed appraising pedestrians as they passed by, especially attractive women in their short skirts or skimpy summer frocks. But after a few moments he tore himself away and took from his jacket pocket the packet he had lust picked up at the chemist. After nonchalantly tossing the wallet onto the table, he began to smile as he studied the shiny coloured photographs, occasionally allowing himself to chuckle at the memories they evoked.

Trevor decided not to look up when, from the corner of his eye, he saw the burly figure of Nick slide into the chair opposite. He continued to concentrate on the photographs, pretending Nick was not there, until at last he could hold back no more. "Venice," he declared, "was fantastic."

With neither a word nor a smile, Nick extended his open hand across the table.

Dropping the photographs into the hand, Trevor added, "It was unbelievable, Nick. One of the best - " He was interrupted by the return of the waiter, who bowed as he presented the bottle of Chablis to Nick. Trevor was peeved. He had ordered the wine, not Nick. The waiter should have shown the label to him. Nick nodded his approval and Trevor scowled as the man uncorked the bottle and poured some into Nick's glass for acceptance. There was a surliness in the man's manner that irritated him. A glint of mischief in his eyes coupled with a mouth that betrayed not only a smirk of disrespect, but a desire to be rude or even obnoxious. "Italiano, lei?" Trevor asked him grimly.

Barely parting his lips, the waiter muttered, "Si," then grinned as he placed a menu in front of each of them.

Trevor hated that grin. It oozed a sense of superiority. He swallowed a mouthful of wine and waited for the man to leave before returning his attention to Nick, who was thumbing through the photographs. "It was one of the best weekends I've ever had in my life, Nick. The weather was great, so was the food, and Venice itself, well, it's unique. There isn't another place like
it. And I still can't believe I actually went. There I was, planning to spend the weekend as usual, few beers and a curry on Friday night, watch the rugby Saturday, play cricket Sunday. And what happens? I meet a girl in a wine bar who says, 'Take Friday off and we'll fly to Venice for a long weekend'. Just like that, Nick. And I'd only known her for half an hour. Naturally, I was a bit worried, going away with a complete stranger. You never know how you're going to get on with each other. But Pearl was fantastic. Full of energy, full of ideas about what to see and do. A smashing personality and great sense of humour. And on top of all that she speaks a fair bit of Italian. Did you notice me talk to that waiter in Italian? Pearl taught me that."

"You obviously didn't object to the goofy teeth then."

"Sorry, Nick~"

"This Pearl from the wine bar. When she suggested that you accompanied her on this epic journey to Venice, you weren't at all put off by her teeth looking like that?"

"Her teeth?"

Nick savoured a mouthful of wine as he chose his next words. "Trevor," he said at last, "some women's mouths are made for a damn good snog. Judging from these photographs, Pearl's mouth falls far short of being one of them."

"I didn't have any trouble kissing her," retorted Trevor.

"Are you sure? Are you seriously telling me she didn't lacerate your gums?"

Trevor quickly ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. "All right. I admit they're a bit sore. But that's often the case after a night or two of passion."

"Passion?" queried Nick with a sneer.

"But they're not lacerated."

Nick paused to drench his palate with more wine. "Listen, Trevor, what do people actually do when they snog? They open their mouths wide, press them hard against each other, then begin to maraud the interior of the other's mouth with the tongue. The tongues mash against each other, lapping and licking, teasing and toying, prodding and probing, darting and diving, plunging and plundering, salivating and slurping in a sort of wild frenzy. And while all this is going on the teeth are forgotten. They become redundant. Anyway, that's always been my experience. But then again my experience has been limited to women with vertical teeth. You know, the ones that go downwards from the top and upwards from the bottom. Like stalactites and stalagmites. It'sinevitable that horizontal teeth damage the other's gums during a snog, Trevor. It stands to reason."

"Come off it, Nick. Horizontal's an exaggeration."

"Is it?" asked Nick. He casually tossed one of the photographs across the table.

Trevor leaned forward and studied it. "That's St. Mark's Square.
It's full of pavement cafes and we had some coffee there on
Sunday morning. We really needed it after the Saturday night we had. Pearl asked a tourist to take the snap."

"Fair enough," replied Nick. "But haven't you noticed those four young men at the table behind you? All standing up behind this Pearl of yours and making monster faces. Sticking their teeth out and curling their hands into talons."

"I wondered why they kept doing that," said Trevor. "All right. So she's a bit dentally challenged. What of it?"

"Dentally challenged!" scoffed Nick. "She looks as if at some time in her life someone has clamped her mouth against the end of a vacuum cleaner and switched on the suction full blast."

"That's ridiculous!" protested Trevor, and he returned his attention to the pedestrians walking past the window, leaving Nick to yank the bottle from the ice bucket and again refill their glasses. "That's the waiter's job, not yours," he added. "Not exactly on the ball, is he?"

"I often use this restaurant, as do a lot of people from my company. See that chap over there?" Nick smiled and waved at the man. "He's the marketing director. That fellow there is the company secretary, and my own boss is due to lunch here today. We've never had any problem with the service. And talking of being on the ball, I take it you're now aware of the result of Sunday's match?"

"I phoned Gerry on Sunday night when I got home," admitted Trevor. "He said it was a close one, that we'd only lost by two wickets. Mentioned that their lot had an awesome fast bowler."

"An awesome fast bowler," repeated Nick emphatically, '"Who you would have knocked all round the ground - had you played. I knew we were going to be up against it when the draw was made, but I thought we could win. Gerry's always good for fifty plus - as he proved yet again - and I managed seventeen, but that bowler of theirs skittled through the rest of the order. We needed just one more player, just one more, with the confidence to stand up to him and get a decent knock. Then we'd all be looking forward to a semi-final. But where was that player when we needed him? Swanning around Venice on a bloody gondola with a goofy tart. Old Jack Trelawny was absolutely livid when he discovered that you'd pulled out at the last minute. He's now thinking of having you kicked out of the club."

"Old Jack wouldn't do that to me."

"He's club secretary, Trevor. He's got a lot of clout. He doesn't take kindly to players who let the side down." Nick poured the rest of the wine into their glasses, then snapped his fingers at the waiter, waving the empty bottle, indicating they wanted a replacement.

"So you got seventeen," mused Trevor. "That's not a bad score for you."

"You don't have to remind me that you're the better batsman, Trevor. But at least I turned up and played. I had a go and let nobody down. Jack asked me to find out why you did it. Why the Sunday of the quarter-final, for Christ's sake? Why not this coming Sunday or the following Sunday? That's the purpose of this lunch, Trevor. I'm on strict instructions from old Jack to find out why you let the team and the club down. He wants an answer tonight so he can make his recommendation about what to do with you at the committee meeting tomorrow."

"Oh," said Trevor glumly. "I thought it was purely social. That you wanted to find out about my weekend. Out of friendship."

"Our friendship hardly excuses you from letting us all down, Trevor. I can understand anyone wanting to go to Venice for a weekend and nobody knows more than me how important it is for us single chaps to get a leg-over and have the middle stump looked after from time to time. But why the weekend of such an important match?"

A broad grin spread across Trevor's face as he took a long drink of wine. His eyes twinkled dreamily at Nick. "Do you know what Pearl calls the middle stump?"

"Oh, God." Nick raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Please tell me, Trevor. I can't wait to find out."

Trevor chuckled mischievously. "She calls it Mr Sticky. Says it rears up like a big stick when it's aroused, then wants to stick itself into a nice, warm, moist orifice, and when it's finished it gets all soft and sticky! I told you she had a great sense of humour, Nick!"

Nick winced. "How utterly disgusting. Anyway, she's bound to have a great sense of humour. Goofy tarts always do. Goofy tarts have to develop a great sense of humour in order to avoid leading a life of complete isolation. Your confidence with the bat seems to desert you where women are concerned."

Trevor shot to his feet. "Pearl is not a goofy tart!"
"I must ask you to sit down and not raise your voice, sir. You are disturbing the other customers. I do not want to have to call the head waiter."

Trevor turned to see the waiter standing alongside, glaring at him. He looked around at the other tables, now mostly filled with people also gazing at him with stark disapproval. He sat down again, breathing heavily and seething with resentment at having been publically admonished.

Scowling at Trevor, the waiter solemnly uncorked the second bottle of Chablis and topped up their glasses. "Ready to order food now?" he asked Nick.

"Give us a couple more minutes, please," replied Nick. "And as well as having goofy teeth she looks like a stick insect with those spindly arms and legs. Why you went away with a female like this is beyond comprehension. I hope you're not going to show these photographs to old Jack. It would add insult to injury. God you must have been desperate."

"I was not bloody desperate," countered Trevor. "And it was not simply a question of having the middle stump taken care of" He fingered the stem of his glass as he spoke more softly. "This is serious, Nick. I really like Pearl. I've never met a girl like her before. When she asked me to go to Venice I jumped at the chance. I had to go. She's special, Nick. Very special."

"She's special, all right," said Nick. "Those four lads in St. Mark's Square could see how special she is."

"It's got nothing to do with her teeth. She's special because of her.. what's the word I'm looking for.. .her. . ef fervescence. There's an effervescent bubbliness to her personality that I find irresistible. She's not hard or cynical like so many women you meet these days. She doesn't hide her vulnerability. When I saw her walking towards me in that wine bar, with those big brown sparkling eyes, and that soft, delicate skin, I simply wanted to reach out and touch her. Ever so gently. And the way she smiled when she spoke to me - it was a smile of such innocence - sort of childlike. I'd never felt such affection and tenderness towards a woman before. Mr Sticky got aroused of course, but it certainly wasn't all sexual. They were purer feelings, Nick."

Nick drummed his fingers rapidly on the table. "Which precisely proves my point about you having no confidence with women. But I'll tell old Jack tonight. I'm sure he'll be delighted to hear how effervescent she is and how you spent the weekend revelling in your first faltering footsteps in the freshly discovered realms of affection and tenderness. Shall I also give old Jack an account of the activities of Mr Sticky?"

"You can be so sarcastic at times, Nick," snapped Trevor. "Just tell old Jack that I'm sorry we lost the match, but remind him
there are more important things in life than cricket, and that I consider Pearl to be one of them. You'll see for yourself when she arrives."

Nick's face dropped. "Arrives? You've invited her here? Now?"

"Well, I mentioned I was coming here to meet you and she said she might pop in for a bite. And she wants to see the snaps." He glanced at his wristwatch. "She's leaving it a bit late, mind you. I've got a meeting at four and my boss is attending."

"This gets worse and worse," said Nick. "Half my bloody board of directors are here and she'll be sitting at my table?" He suddenly snatched up a menu. "Yes! They do corn-on-the-cob! At least I'll find out how someone with horizontal teeth eats one!"

"She might not like corn-on-the-bloody-cob, Nick! Just give it a rest, eh? Ah! Here she is at last!" Trevor waved wildly at a tall thin young woman sauntering slowly along the pavement outside. She wore a sleeveless white frock patterned with huge purple and orange flowers amidst swirling green stalks and leaves. Her long pale arms hung limply at her sides, and a yellow plastic handbag reflected the sunlight as it dangled loosely from one of her slender shoulders. Too self-absorbed to notice Trevor's gesticulating, she was only wrenched from her thoughts when he began to bang against the window with a fist.

Stooping until her face was level with Trevor's, she prised her eyes open with thumbs and forefingers, and pressed her nose flat against the glass. Parting her large, protruding teeth, she allowed her tongue to flop out and roll from side to side as if feverishly lapping a drink.

Trevor rocked back and forth in his chair, clapping his hands and laughing. "I told you she's a character₇ Nick!"

Resuming her full height, Pearl tucked her hands under her armpits and began to flap her elbows up and down, rapidly jerking her head back and forth and lifting her knees up high while walking in a circle.

"She's doing her chicken walk!" squealed Trevor excitedly as he rapped the palms of his hands on the table. "They loved that in Venice!"

From behind his hands, into which he had buried his face, Nick peeked out at the other diners who were shaking their heads in bemusement at the antics of the woman outside. "What's she doing now, Trevor?" he groaned.

"GIN AND TONIC!" mouthed Pearl to Trevor. "LARGE ONE! ICE AND LEMON!"

"She really cracks me up!" exclaimed Trevor. Turning to locate the waiter, he found the man standing behind him.

"I must ask you not to bang against the window or the table, sir. You are disturbing the other customers. I do not want to have to call the head waiter." He turned to Nick. "Are you ready to order food now?"

Clenching his fists, Trevor growled, "Just bring a large gin and tonic with ice and lemon and set the table for another place. Now!" He waited for the man to leave. "God, I hate that chap."

The lanky figure of Pearl then loomed alongside the table. The two men stood up and, as he introduced Nick, Trevor proferred his cheek which was smacked with a loud kiss.

Bowing slightly, Nick gently shook Pearl's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Pearl. Trevor's been telling me all about Venice."

"Not All I hope," cried Pearl with a huge unashamed laugh that revealed the full extent of the protrusion of her teeth. Feeling the waiter slide a chair against the back of her legs, she sat down next to Trevor and picked up a menu. "I'm absolutely starving. Have you two ordered yet?"

"They do a great corn-on-the-cob, Pearl," suggested Nick. "Then I suppose you'd like the chicken.^T'

"Corn-on-the-cob sounds great," replied Pearl emphatically. "Then I shall have the veal saltimbocca."

Trevor chuckled as he nudged her. "Veal meat again?"

A broad grin spread across Pearl's face as she opened her arms wide and broke into song. "Veal meat again, don't know where, don't know when..."

Trevor collapsed into laughter as Nick, slapping a hand against his forehead in horror, looked around nervously at the other diners. "Just one of our little jokes," Trevor explained to him. "Totally lost on the Venetians, of course. But she just doesn't care"
Spotting the pile of photographs on the table, Pearl picked them up and flicked eagerly through them. "They've come out really well, eh, Trevor? Have you ever been to Venice, Nick?"

"Afraid not," replied Nick. "Grinning with mischievous anticipation, he tapped a forefinger against the photograph of St. Mark's Square which lay apart from the others. "Don't forget that one."

Pearl tossed her head back and laughed uproariously, opening her mouth wide. "Those four lads! I'm not kidding you, Nick, but if Trevor hadn't been with me I would have taken them all back to the hotel. They were so much fun. And imagine all that energy!"

The waiter then returned, placing Pearl's gin and tonic in front of her, and again asked if they were ready to order their food. Steadfastly ignoring the malign glare that Trevor had fixed upon him, the waiter dutifully scrawled the dishes in his little notebook as Nick wearily read them out. With an efficient flourish he then poured more Chablis into Nick's glass and, after refilling Trevor's glass almost to the brim, he hit it with the base of the bottle with just enough force to overturn it, sending the liquid across the tablecloth and onto Trevor's lap.

Trevor jumped to his feet and looked down in horror at the front of his trousers. "Can't you be more careful!" He snatched his napkin and began to dab the spreading damp patch.

"Let me have a go!" Grabbing her own napkin, Pearl giggled helplessly as she too dabbed at the dark stain. "It's not the not the first time you've been wet down here!"

"That'll cost you another bottle of Chablis," said Nick with quiet authority to the waiter, who humbly nodded his agreement and scurried away.

"The bastard didn't even apologise," said Trevor. 'And I'm sure he did it on purpose. He's had it in for me ever since I came in here." He sat down, stood his glass up and refilled it. "I've a good mind to complain to the head waiter about him."

Pearl slapped Trevor's hand. "Don't be such a big baby. Of course it was an accident." Taking a large sip of her gin and tonic, she fished out the slice of lemon with her tongue and manoevered it onto the top of her two front teeth. After loudly sucking all the juice from it, she spit the rind into the glass.

Noticing the look of disgust on Nick's face, Trevor said, "Just before you arrived, Pearl, I was telling Nick how lucky it was that we were both in that wine bar at the same time last week. Otherwise I would probably never have visited Venice."

"Yes, Pearl," added Nick. "I've known dozens of women fall over themselves in an attempt to get Trevor to go away with them. But you succeeded after just one brief chance meeting. You clearly made quite an impact on him."

"It was more the impact he had on me," said Pearl. "There he was standing at the bar, wearing a big cheeky grin as he talked to his friends. So solid and confident and masculine, and yet with the sensitivity and gentleness of a lamb shining out of him." Draining her gin and tonic, she playfully stroked Trevor's beaming face with a forefinger and asked him to pour her a glass of Chablis.
"He struck you as being confident?" asked Nick with a grin.
"Absolutely. I was riveted. I thought he oozed confidence. Of course I subsequently realised he doesn't have any at all, but at first sight those four magic words repeated themselves in my mind again and again - like a mantra."
"What four magic words?" asked Nick curiously.

"I must have it," replied Pearl with finality. "And now I must be going to the ladies, to be sure. I can't be enjoying my meal with a bladder bursting to pee."

Trevor glowed with pride as she left. "She's great at different accents as well, Nick. That was Irish."

"And there was I thinking it was Swedish."

"So what do you really think of her? Her teeth aren't that bad, are they? And that personality? Isn't she a laugh?"

Nick stared grimly at his friend. "Trevor, she's worse than in the photographs. Her teeth are not only goofy, but yellow and stained. She is like a stick insect. Her arms and legs are skeletal. I'm still trying for the life of me to fathom what attracted you to her, Trevor, but I can't. As you said, she's got big brown eyes, but there's an incredible sadness about them. A sort of haunted quality. And this effervescent personality you were going on about seems to be nothing but some manic desire to draw attention to herself. Her behaviour is appalling. She's a total embarrassment. Furthermore, her willingness to go away with a chap like you at the drop of a hat, her apparent readiness to take to her hotel four young Italian men who were laughing at her reveal a craving for love which is unnatural. Frightening even. So how come you were filled with feelings of affection and tenderness whereas I feel revulsion and pity? No wonder she said you don't have any confidence."

"I don't understand why she said that," muttered Trevor.

Nick's face suddenly lit up. He pressed his hands together in a gesture of prayer. "I've got it. I know what's going on. She's dying, isn't she? She's got some terminal disease and is about to pop off at any minute. That's why she's behaving like that. She's enjoying a final fling before she goes and you're helping to make her last days as happy as possible. That'll keep old Jack happy too. He won't kick you out if I tell him that. Saint Trevor. It all makes sense now. Though I hope she hasn't got AIDS. Not when Mr Sticky's been involved." He took Trevor's hand. "I think what you're doing is wonderful, Trevor. But put my mind at rest. Tell me she hasn't got AIDS."

Trevor withdrew his hand sharply. "She has not got bloody AIDS or any other terminal illness! She's simply a fun person and being with her makes me feel great, Nick. That's all. Ten feet tall. And I don't care if she is skinny with goofy teeth. You
keep on saying I lack confidence except with the bat. With Pearl I feel full of it - in spite of what she said just now. But you heard what she said when she first saw me in the wine bar. I must have it. Like a mantra, she said. I must have it. Now she's got me, Nick. And I'm happy."

"A fun person," scoffed Nick. "Like a bloody mantra. I must have it."

Pearl returned, with the waiter following, and sat down. She smiled at Trevor and Nick, licking her lips and rolling her eyes, as the man placed a steaming corn-on-the-cob before her.

"Where's my minestrone?" asked Trevor sulkily as the waiter placed another corn-on-the-cob in front of Nick. Without replying, the man merely removed the replacement bottle of Chablis from under his arm, uncorked it, and dropped it into the ice bucket.
After telling Pearl and Nick to start without him, Trevor sat back and watched Nick and Pearl eagerly smear butter and vigorously shake pepper over their starters. Nick sank his teeth into his in a huge healthy bite, whereas Pearl shovelled her mouth hard against hers until a row of the kernels became detached and sat upon her upper teeth like a yellow necklace. With one swift, slurping movement she then curled up her tongue over her teeth and deftly swept the beads into her mouth. "That's so clever, Pearl," blurted Trevor. "Did you see that, Nick?"

"Very clever," muttered Nick without enthusiasm.

"My goodness, Pearl," said Trevor. "That's praise indeed coming from Nick."

Pearl winked at Nick. "You wan' I should do it again, big boy?"

"There she goes again!" shrieked Trevor. "I just love that accent. It's New York Jewish, Nick."

Ignoring Trevor, Nick sighed, "I'd like nothing more than to see you do it again. It would make my lunch complete."

Cheerfully repeating the same action under Nick's tired gaze, Pearl chomped on another mouthful of corn with exaggerated relish.

A hint of a smile, coupled with an expression of curiosity, slowly spread across Nick's face. "I was wondering how you'd eat
a corn-on-the-cob, Pearl. You've obviously developed a method."

Pearl swept another row of corn kernels into her mouth. "You wan' I should repeat my mantra, big boy? I must have it. I must have it."
Nick's smile grew broader as his eyes lit up. "There's a great deal of determination behind your technique. I must have it. like that mantra."

"She's not just a pretty face, you know," gushed Trevor.

After sweeping another row of corn kernels into her mouth, Pearl wiped some melted butter from Nick's chin.

The waiter returned, balancing a tray on his arm. Lifting from it a bowl of steaming soup, he lowered it over Trevor's shoulder and tipped it sufficiently to allow a small cascade of the hot liquid to anoint Trevor's lap.

"Damn you!" yelled Trevor. He shot to his feet, overturning the chair behind him. Snatching the napkin, he began to mop the dark patch on his trousers. "This hurts! It really does. I want to see the head waiter. Now!"

"The head waiter is in the kitchen, sir," confirmed the waiter defiantly.

"Then go and get him!" shouted Trevor. "I shall be in the gents. Cleaning up!" He rushed past tables full of sniggering diners before realising that he did not know where the gents was. He stopped and looked back at Nick who, now deeply engrossed in conversation with Pearl, did not notice him. He then snarled as he saw the waiter grinning and triumphantly jabbing a forefinger in the direction of the toilets. He stormed to the door and barged his way through it.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, seeing in the mirror the extent of the spillage. After shoving his napkin under the hot water tap of the wash-basin, he began to fervidly wipe the stain. This was turning out to be some lunch, he thought bitterly. A bloody disaster. Nick was being obnoxious, first slagging off Pearl's teeth and then accusing him of having no confidence. Then even Pearl had commented that he had no confidence. Old Jack was planning to kick him out of the cricket club, and a surly waiter kept spilling food and drink on him.

"Credo che c 'e una problema piccola, signor. Posso aiutare?"

Trevor looked up to see the head waiter. "I sorry. I don't speak Italian."

"Oh!" exclaimed the man. "The waiter told me that you speak fluent Italian. Then I translate. I believe there is a little problem, signor. Can I help?"

"I'm making a complaint about that waiter," announced Trevor. "He doesn't smile, he hardly says a word, he spills Chablis over me...
"Wait, wait, signor," said the head waiter, interrupting him. "Was it the eighty-seven or the ninety-three Chablis?"

"The ninety-three, I think."

Emitting a sigh of relief, the head waiter wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. "Thank goodness for that. I will not tolerate my staff spilling the eighty-seven."

"And then he spills soup over me!" protested Trevor.

The head waiter scratched his chin and frowned. "Which soup, signor?"

"Minestrone."

"That is a good thing," sighed the head waiter. "I was afraid it might be the tomato soup. The tomato soup is more, how you say, viscous. It is harder to wipe off than the minestrone." Dropping to his knees, he examined Trevor's stain. "Minestrone is not so bad once you get rid of the pieces of vegetable. There is a small piece of carrot here which needs to go, and a tiny pea is lodged in the flap of signor's fly."

"Jesus Christ!" spat Trevor. "Is that all you can say? I've got a business meeting at four and my boss is going to attend. What do I tell him when he sees this stain?"

The head waiter shrugged. "Tell him the truth. An Italian waiter was careless with the minestrone."

"I can't tell him that," retorted Trevor. "My trousers look awful."

Nodding his head knowingly, the head waiter smiled. "Ah. I think I can now see the real problem."

"What's that?"

"Signor does not have enough confidence to stand up to authority."

"I'm not taking any more of this!" shouted Trevor, and he stormed towards the door, flinging the wet napkin in the head waiter's face as he passed.

"Your trousers will be dry before four anyway," the head waiter called after him. "And I will tell the waiter to bring signor some more minestrone."

Marching through the restaurant towards his table, Trevor groaned at the sight that greeted him. Pearl was leaning forward, grinning broadly as her chin rested gently upon the palm of Nick's upturned left hand. flis face was inches from hers, his
right hand holding a toothpick with which he was painstakingly dislodging tiny pieces of corn from between Pearl's teeth and wiping them on the tip of his tongue. Behind Pearl stood the waiter, laughing and gesturing to the other waiters as he made a monster face, sticking out his teeth and curling his hands into talons.

"I must have it," muttered Trevor under his breath and he rushed up to the waiter and drove his fist into his stomach, making him crumple to the salmon pink carpet. He was immediately grabbed by several pairs of hands, shoving and slapping him. "Help me, Nick," he cried.

"Signor Nick!" Trevor recognised the voice of the head waiter behind him. "Per favore, I do not want to see this man in my restaurant again. He is not good for business. He stands up and shouts, he bangs his fists against the window, he fusses like a big baby about a couple of tiny spills of wine and soup, he throws a wet napkin in my face, and now he punches my waiter. It is not my problem if he has no confidence. Please do not bring him here again."

Feeling his legs lifted from the ground and his body begin its weightless journey to the street, Trevor glanced down at Nick and heard him address Pearl as he picked her teeth. "And so you're suggesting that when I'm at the crease, and the ball is hurtling towards me at a hundred miles an hour, I should repeat your mantra. I must have it. I must have it."

"Works all the time, big boy," came Pearl's reply. This time she was not adopting an accent.