Harry was a painter. He had painter’s overalls, a van and a ladder.
Harry was pretty fit and good looking but, while he had some successes with girls, his big mouth nearly always got him into trouble long before he could test his charm on female company.
One barmy night in June he finished up in a pub after a long day’s work.
There was a gang of bikers behaving rowdily at the end of the bar and after a few pints Harry was in the middle of them, mouthing off.
“I don’t mind tattoos. I once had a bird with a tattoo. Mind you, when I found out, I dumped her.”
The bikers were not going to do anything about him inside the pub, but when Harry left, they were waiting for him.
“Who do you think you are, you tosser?” started the leader as Harry made for his van.
Episodes such as this had sharpened Harry’s wits and, although drunk, he made to lunge at them and then dived inside the van and roared off.
He knew he couldn’t outrun them but he did have a head start.
He made a left, then a right. Then he parked, jumped out and grabbed his ladder off the roof.
He could hear the bikes behind him but there was a second-floor window open.
Ladder down, steady, he shimmied up, muscular arms pumping hard.
He jumped through the window, pushed the ladder into the flower bed and crouched down to see.
In the darkness a long naked arm snaked around his neck.
“I haven’t had a gift like you since my lovely Harry died.”
*
“What is it about Saturday night and the English, drinking and cockfighting?”
“We haven’t invaded France lately. We have to take it out somehow.”
“Anyway, a painter in Italy would never get that lucky.”
“If he hadn’t shot his mouth off, he might not have had to work so hard to get lucky.”
“It never actually said he got lucky.”
“What do you mean?”
Giorgio laughed.
“How do you know who’s really on the other end of that arm?”
“It’s from Anastasia,” said George, smiling. “She’s a free spirit.”
“Do you think she would have gone for the painter?”
“She’d be up the ladder in front of him.”