"Sweet, but naive. Look at this picture on your book. Mother Meera's a cutie-pie. You want controversy, you want to face the repercussions, upset an ayatollah. Blast into a religion the west's crusaded against for centuries. Christopher Hitchens wrote a reasonable and critical book about Mother Theresa. Do you think it made him rich? Sure as hell not. Learn a lesson, baby. Don't go for the public's sweethearts. Now let's sideline your Mother Meera for a moment. Her time will come. Tell me, you went to Oxford University?"
"No. Leeds."
"Forget it. You've been to Oxford, right?"
"For a visit."
"So you got a better idea of Oxford from going there. You learned something new. So we can say you were educated at Oxford. Tell me, what's the skinny on Mayor Giuliani."
"I don't know. I've never met him."
"But you know who he is, right?"
"Of course I do."
"Perfect. That accent. That self-confidence. That assured declaration of total ignorance. I love you Brits. You get away with so much. You make the banal sound sophisticated. Remember that in the days ahead."
"You're going to represent me? I'm going to get to talk about my book?"
"Not a word. You're sworn to silence on the subject. Have them scramble for the story. Who knows, some of them might even scan its pages." She stands up. A shaft of light through the pane above the door catches the streaming ginger of her hair like a flame. Her mandarin-colored smock clashes brazenly with the scarlet slacks. Pink blush is rubbed into her pale cheeks. She holds out her hand "You'll do what Ginger says?"
"Anything."
"Then we've got a deal." She crushes my hand in hers, holds on, and leads me over to the far corner of the restaurant. "Hi, Matt!" she says, her voice softened into a gasp of intimacy. He blinks up through the rounds of his John Lennon spectacles, but she is already looking away.