Skinner's Mission

53

Alex laid the ninth diary face down on the floor beside her chair, and leaned back wide-eyed. She took a deep breath, blinked hard, then nodded, a decision made.

She jumped from her chair and ran through to her bedroom. Ten minutes later, the reincarnation of Myra Graham emerged once more, smoothing the dress against her thighs, flexing and thrusting out her breasts in the brassière, which was fastened at its tightest notch, and giving the suspender belt a final adjustment.

She stepped out into Woodlands Road and looked around. The pubs in the area were peaceful and friendly, fine for Alex, but not for Myra, and not for the dress. She walked towards the City Centre for a few minutes, until a taxi came towards her, its orange sign lit up, and she hailed it. ‘Maitland Hotel, please.’

Barely three minutes later, the black cab pulled up outside the high-rise, five-star hotel. She paid the driver and strode confidently through the automatic doors. Inside, the foyer was plush and inviting. She looked around, selected an available table and sat down. As she lowered herself into the leather chair, the black dress rode up, revealing thigh almost up to the top of her nylons.

She glanced across at a waiter, summoning him with a faint smile and a flick of an eyelash. As he strode briskly across the room, almost at a trot, she felt a surge of exultation. ‘Yes, miss?’ he asked, a little too eagerly.

‘Gin and tonic, please.’

He returned, within a minute, with her drink and a bowl of potato crisps, setting them before her with a flourish, which turned into a bow as she told him to keep the change from the five pound note.

She sat there, sipping her drink and looking coolly around. The foyer bar was far from being at its busiest, but even late on a Sunday afternoon, it was alive with guests. A few of them were women, all accompanied, but mostly they were single men.

She spotted her target at once. Even seated she could tell how big he was from the size of his shoes and the length of his legs crossed in front of him. His reddish-blond hair was cropped tight and the yellow-tanned pallor of his skin marked him out as an American. She had sensed him watching her as she had swung, long-legged, into the hotel.

Slowly and deliberately, she turned her eyes around to look at him. She held his gaze for a few seconds, smiled briefly, then looked away. She picked up her drink, took a sip and looked over her shoulder, around the rest of the big area. When she turned back to replace her gin and tonic on its mat on the table, he was standing over her.

‘Good evening, ma’am,’ he said, in a light Texan drawl. ‘Mind if I join you?’

She glanced towards the door. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I was late arriving. So I’ve either been stood up, or my date’s given up on me. Sure, go ahead, sit down.’

She watched as he lowered himself into the seat opposite her. He was around thirty, at least six feet six and running slightly, but not unacceptably, to fat. ‘What a well filled lunchbox,’ she thought to herself, as he sat down.

‘Been in Glasgow long?’ she asked, almost casually.

‘Two days,’ said the American. ‘My name’s Randall. Randall Garland, a lonely man from Austin, Texas.’ He held out a hand.

She shook it, looking him full in the eyes, and holding it for just a second longer than necessary. ‘Myra,’ she said. She grinned, with a lift of that right eyebrow. ‘Myra Graham, a friendly lady from Glasgow, Scotland.’