as she eyed the mess. Trudging home with his sample case after another desperate outing and no sale. Only with Connor, it was Death Of A Slattern.

      Collapsing on her sofa, she watched her ginger cat, Simone, turn circles in the middle of the rug, her fluffy behind lifted high in the air, making low moans in her throat, in a parody of lust. According to the vet, there was some problem with her ovaries, which he could only identify by cutting the poor animal open.

      The cut on Connor's leg had stopped bleeding but throbbed with an insistent beat. Connor didn't mind getting wounded on a successful mission, but failure made the pain pointless. If she hadn't gone to that screening, then broken her rule about no actors, she wouldn't now be alone and mangled on New Year's Eve. The one night when you rightfully expected to be in flagrante.

      Connor had been invited to the screening along with some other rich people; the producer was angling for money to back a New York opening. The movie had been forgettable, except for one scene which held her rapt.

      The heroine was a widow, a recluse who hadn't left her house since her husband's death. Every day she stared out the window at her garden falling into neglect, until at last she called a landscaping service. They sent over a gardener.

--------

© 2004 Sarah Kernochan