She gave him a look. "I must say, darling, I'm very
impressed with your technique. I would have thought you'd need a
hook to catch this sort of fish."
The girl sucked deep gulps of air, alternating her wide,
watery-eyed gape between husband and wife.
"Poor thing, so sorry you don't care for the selection," Greta
said with a pout. "I think there's some more on the floor. Go
fetch, dearie."
"Greta," Matthew snapped, "close that door!"
"Oh, relax, Matthew. This will only take a minute. However," she
said, seating herself in the pit across from them, "I'm not
leaving until I see this live one swim through a hoop and catch a
chunk of that bait in the air."
Matthew glared at his wife as she opened her purse and withdrew
the pink bank form.
"This is Laurence Maupin," Matthew said, attempting to explain
himself. "She's my public relations assistant."
Ignoring the girl's flawless extended hand, Greta slid aside the
tray and dropped the form on the table before Matthew. She made
sure to use her left hand.
The door slid open and the hostess poked her head in. "Would you
like a menu?" she asked graciously.
"Go away," Greta snapped. The door slid closed.
"We were just going over some notes," Matthew said, still
indulging in his farce. "For a speech I'll be giving in a few
weeks."
"Is that so?" Greta said.
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