Watching My Waithtwine

Andrew eyed his guest as mongoose does a snake while Gillon laboured under the weight of an enormous tray of pastries.

“I’m sorry about … this,” he hissed, impatient at his underling’s slow service of the executive éclair ensemble.

“Don’t wowwy about it,” his guest replied, “I won’t be having any anywayth. I’m watching my waithtwine.”

Andrew looked at Caroline coldy.

“Yes, I heard you’d gone onto fish of late.”

A silence hung between them. The mood was like during the Molotov-Ribbentrop negotiations, two vile entities united in mutual distrust and a suspicion one could gain an advantage over the other.

“Tho why have you invited me here anyway, Andwew?” Caroline finally asked.

Andrew swallowed the last of the éclair he’d jammed into his mouth as soon as Gillon had put them down. He felt is work its way into his bloodstream, the shakes gently easing, the cold sweat on the back of his neck drying off. Once this metal-mouthed bitch was gone, he’d have three or four at once, get a decent glow on that would last him through until lunchtime at least.

“Would you be willing to abandon all your journalistic principles if you had a good story? A lot of good stories?” Andrew asked.

Caroline paused for breath.

“How good? How many?”

Andrew rose from the his dragon shaped throne made of human thigh bones and leant closer in to her. Hmmm, he thought, maybe that Rebecca had the right idea after all.

“At least a month’s worth of front pages, maybe more. And guaranteed inside running. Nothing for anyone else. Yours alone.”

With great theatre, Caroline drew her reporter’s notebook from her koala-skin handbag.

She opened it and wrote on the first page in large letters the words JOURNALISTIC PRINCIPLES.

Then, with a flourish, she rose and strode over to a window, her heels clacking on the marble floor.

As Andrew watched in awe, a spine tingling awe, she tore the piece of paper up and threw the scraps out into the fluttering breeze.

“Doeth that ansthwer your questhtion?”

Andrew smiled. This one, he could work with her. They could get stuff done. They could be a beautiful team.

“Caroline my dear, let me tell you about where the West Melbourne Wombats will be playing next year,” he began, his voice slicker than the Persian Gulf after a particularly bad oil spill.