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Fiesta, but you will not have an independent social life.”
    He could see that she was calculating the sums in her head. “Does it cover your mortgage?” he asked.
    For the first time, her whole face smiled. “Yes, it does, and more besides…I hope I check out OK.”
    “So do I. I’ll call you in four days, Ms Meckler.”
    She wore a simple, white lace dress, slim-fitting to just above her knees. Tapered at the waist, it revealed her soft, long curves. She showed considerable beauty. He wore beige cotton trousers, teamed with a salmon-coloured polo shirt and brown suede brogues.
    They stood in front of the registrar, who decided that they made a handsome couple. He also decided that this was a marriage of convenience. He had married thousands of couples and his judgement was honed. First the man had arrived without a ring. The registrar had pointed out, tartly, that although it was not a necessity, it was a nicety. The man had gone off down the King’s Road to a jeweller’s and come back with what must have been the cheapest ring in the shop. Also the registrar had to verify the various documents. The two birth certificates, her divorce papers, and his late wife’s death certificate. He had noted the date on the latter document, 21 December 1988 only six months previous. Yes, it was certainly a marriage of convenience, but the registrar couldn’t fathom what the convenience might be. Usually, it was a would-be immigrant, marrying a British girl for permanent status. They had not even brought the required two witnesses and so the registrar had drafted in a clerk and his secretary. When the brief ceremony was over they did not kiss, but they did shake hands with the registrar and the witnesses.
    Back on the pavement of the King’s Road, Creasy looked at his watch and said, “I have to grab a cab and head for Heathrow.”
    She nodded solemnly.
    “When will you call?”
    “In about a week.”
    She noticed the impatience on his face but said stubbornly,
    “When will we leave for Gozo? I need to know. If I can let my flat, it will help with the mortgage over the next six months.”
    He answered, “Between two and three weeks from now…I’ll call you.”
    He turned away and walked down the street.
    She stood on the crowded pavement, watching him, with his strange walk, weave through the pedestrians. The sides of his feet seemed to come into contact with the ground first.
    She looked down at her dress and her new shoes and felt somehow used. She looked up. He was walking back. He came close to her. “How much remains on your mortgage?”
    “Thirteen thousand four hundred and twenty pounds and fifty-seven pence.”
    “How much interest do you pay?”
    “Seventeen and a half per cent.”
    For half a minute he calculated. Then he reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a thick roll of hundred dollar bills. He counted off several, put them in her hand and said, “That will take care of the interest for the next six months…I’ll call you.”
    She stood, clutching the money, watching him walk away. He hailed a cab and ducked in. She turned and walked down the road, until she came to a wine bar. She went straight to the ladies’ room, counted the money and made her own calculation. It was at least a hundred dollars more than she needed.
    She checked her face in the mirror and walked out to the bar. “What’s the most expensive vintage champagne you have?”
    “Dom Perignon, “59.”
    “I’ll have a bottle.”
    He served her the bottle of champagne in an ice bucket at a table in the corner.
    An hour later the bartender watched as she drained the last drop. Then she took a handkerchief from her handbag and wiped the tears from her cheeks.
    Joe Rawlings had paid top money, and when he paid top money he expected the best, the very best. He was in a suite at the Carlton Hotel in Cannes. That was certainly the best, but the girl under him was not the best, and he had paid top money.
    “Turn over,” he