“So,” Gina began as Greg plopped the plastic tray loaded down with burgers, fries, and sodas on the table and she dug out her dictaphone. “Tell me about your next show.”

“Going back to my roots, a few small clubs around here. Would you accompany me to one of my gigs, maybe drinks and dancing afterwards?” he asked.

“How long do you plan to stay in Australia?” Gina asked, pressing on, bound and determined to be professional at least until she had a story.

“Now that all depends. How long will it take for you to break down and join me for a steamy romp on the beach?”

Gina glared at him for a moment and continued her questions before she allowed the giggles to creep up on her. “Do you find that the Aussie audiences are as receptive to your humour as, say, your American audience?”

“I find that you’re less receptive than I’d like you to be.”

“Is there anything you’d like to do while you’re in the country, you know, cuddle a koala or something?”

“If I said ‘you,’ would you print it?”

“And send a copy to your wife,” Gina mused.

Greg leaned over and hit the button on her tape recorder. “Come on, Gina. I’ve missed you. Can’t we talk?”

She sighed and closed her notepad. They weren’t getting anywhere anyway. “If you promise to let me interview you sometime this afternoon.”

“Deal,” he grinned. “So, I see you’re doing well back at home, huh?”

“Yeah, I like to think so.”

“Job where people tolerate you for a change?”

“Tolerate is a good word. I like my job.”

“Did you like the ocelot?”

“Ocelot?” she asked.

“The one I left for you.”

With a half-hidden smile, she dug around her bag for a moment and pulled out said ocelot, a bit worn. “This?”

“Yeah.” The smiled at each other until they nervously continued their burgers. “You heard from Fenny lately?” Greg asked.

“Actually, she’s been rooming with me, came here on the same flight from LAX that I did,” Gina shrugged.

“I never would’ve expected that,” Greg gasped. “How’s she doing, is she okay?”

“Oh yeah, she’s turned a corner I think. I was getting ready to drag her off to a shrink, she just spent months feeling sorry for herself.”

“Not that you can blame her,” he added.

“I don’t know, it seems like a lot of angst for a man who probably didn’t deserve her,” Gina shrugged.

“If there’s one thing that’s certain about Sherwood, it’s that he’s gotten what he deserved,” Greg sighed.

“But yeah, she’s doing good. Um, how is Brad, anyway?” Gina asked, even though she knew she didn’t want to hear his answer.

“Honestly I don’t know. The last of our tapings was about a week after you left, they don’t start again for another month or so and, needless to say, the two of us aren’t on real chummy terms. I imagine he and psycho bitch probably have a…”

“Don’t say it,” Gina mumbled, and Greg nodded. “Interview, huh?”

“What’re your plans for tonight?”

“Who’s the interviewer here, buddy?” she laughed.

“I want to take you out for dinner,” Greg smiled.

“Well, I kinda told Fen we would hang out tonight.”

“Of all the people in this world, Fen will understand if I drag you off for the evening.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said with a smile that announced to the world that she would give in and go with him. “So,” she began again with that pure business tone as the Dictaphone clicked back on. “Where’s your next performance.”

“I’m hoping your place.”

“Greg, I’ve got to turn in a story, please,” she grumbled, blushing.

“Fine. There’s a comedy club just outside town called the Laugh In, which I think is an absurd name for a place, like Goldie Hawn’s gonna be sticking her head out of a wall or something…”

“So, Yankee Fenny, what brings you to Australia?”

“That, actually, is a long, painful story,” she answered, turning her eyes down. “We’ll just say that I’ve been hiding from unpleasantness in California.”

“Aah,” Paul agreed with a nod, “escaped convict?” Laughing, Fenny shook her head and he tried again. “Broken heart?”

“Something like that.” She devoted her attention back to her tea.

Paul decided he had touched on an unpleasant topic. “What kind of art are you into?” he asked.

“Oh, you know, Hellenistic sculpture, the Renaissance, Post-Impressionism, Pop art…I know it’s not hip to say that, but I like the traditional forms of art, where you can say, ‘Yes, that is a bowl of oranges and a loaf of bread.’ Photo realism, that’s what I really love, Chuck Close and friends. To be able to recreate something to the point where there’s no difference from the original, where you can create your own reality. I think that’s pretty powerful. And I’m babbling, I’m sorry.”

Paul shrugged off Fenny’s apology. “So, no interest in the expressive qualities of art? Making someone feel something instead of just look at something?”

“Oh, of course, that’s probably more powerful than just about anything else. I find it difficult to relate, though, as an artist. I’ve never been good at the emotional aspects of art, more the design elements, the sterile aspects. Why I went into graphic arts, probably, the scum of the art world.”

“Oh, that’s what you do, some big corporate job?”

“Used to, my brother’s company. Part of why I left home, actually. What is it you do?”

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that.”

“Well what, a little plasma donating, a little drug dealing, what?”

“I write, I paint, I sing. Mainly I’m considered a comedian though.”

“I should have guessed,” Fenny sighed, and realized it sounded a bit condescending. “I mean, from in the gallery,” she added hastily. She had grown tired of comics, what with constant nasty emails from the Hitchhikers for her abandoning them suddenly and at great length, not to mention the whole Whose Line players fiasco, all of which suddenly bubbled to the fore of her brain. But not all comics were bad, she knew that from experience, so she shook off her discomfort and stirred her tea.

Paul watched her carefully, put two and two together, hoped four was the right answer, and steered the conversation another way. Through the doorway they could see one of the walls of the gallery. “What do you think of that one?” he asked, pointing to a painting of a reclining figure.

“Hmm? Oh, I think it looks like a Titian. Sort of Venus of Urbino-esque But then, that was a very popular pose in the Mannerist era. Looks very Mannerist-influenced.”

Paul nodded in agreement. “Interesting color scheme, good use of negative space and light. I think it’s nice.”

“You’re only saying that because she’s naked,” Fenny chided.

“Damn right,” he chuckled.

“Suddenly I find myself wondering why I agreed to have tea with a man who admits to making plaster casts of his genitals.”

“Because I’m buying.”

“Oh yes,” Fenny giggled. She smiled at Paul, and he smiled back. She was glad she had gotten out of the house. Who needed to ruin themselves over lost loves when there were new places to go, new sights to see, an interesting, charming man to catch her attention? She noticed the clock on the wall said 1:43, and she wondered how Gina and Greg were getting on.