I patted her bare bottom.
“Theo?”
“My husband.”
“For God’s sake! Is that his name?”
“Theo Danrimpeclass="underline" the fink with the millions.”
I sat up.
“You mean you married that guy! He’s as rich as Ford!”
She pushed me back, leaned over me and began to nibble my ear.
“I married him, honey, but you can’t imagine! I know you are a heel, but what a lovely heel! I need you. I can’t live with a fink who just sits and watches. A girl must have her own, intimate life.”
“That I can understand, but how would I fit in?”
“How would you like to live in Palm Springs, honey? Theo has a big estate. There is a gorgeous little cottage for you. Theo knows I need a boyfriend. He’s marvellously understanding. How about it?”
Suddenly the clouds lifted, the sky was blue again and the sun shone.
As a status symbol, a gigolo was way ahead of a blackmailer.
Me, Bertha and Theo were about to begin a beautiful, lush-plush partnership.
If I played my cards right (and Man! I was certainly going to play them right!) I was now not going to starve.