Slap! The sound of the impact was like a gunshot. A strangely costumed figure sailed through the air and landed with a thump on the mat where an equally bizarrely attired assailant renewed the attack. The noise was incredible, announcers shouting, crowd baying, contestants' contorted faces screaming threats. Chris winced with evident distaste and lowered the volume on the laptop.
"Sports entertainment is a big thing across the pond," said a voice at his shoulder.
Chris shrugged dismissively and delivered a succinct verdict, "cartoon violence, pantomime for the cerebrally challenged."
"Sure, it's fixed," responded his boss, "but don't underestimate those guys, it takes a lot of strength and timing to avoid serious injury in the ring."
"Those would be the guys with the bumps on their chests?" said Chris, rewinding the video. "I can't believe the smaller one's boobs can be natural, although I grant you her muscles look real enough."
"Female wrestling is hot, a massive crowd pleaser, we're hoping it'll catch on the UK," continued Terry, "which brings me neatly to your next assignment."
"Moi?" Chris looked suspicious.
"Indya, the dark-haired pretty one whose décolletage you just mentioned, is our client."
"The woman, apparently having her arms removed without anaesthetic?" queried Chris.
"Quite," Terry confirmed. "Indya's wisely decided her wrestling days are numbered and decided to branch out with an autobiography and a minor part in a sitcom "
Chris raised his eyebrows. "Please God, no," he murmured, "and presumably Vinnie Jones is about to play Richard the Third at the RSC."
Terry grinned. "Surprisingly, she's not a bad actress, her years in the ring have provided valuable instruction in the method; and the book, which I'm assured was not ghosted, isn't a bad rags to riches read."
"And you want me to do what exactly?"
"Guide her through a two-week UK chat show and promo tour," confirmed Terry.
"Oh, come on!" Chris's worst fears were substantiated. "Why do I get to babysit a female wrestler? No, don't tell me, this is because I worked in the States for two years?"
"Partly yeah, oh, I warn you she prefers to be considered a 'sportswoman'."
"Yeah, as if. Listen, Terry, it may have escaped your notice that I worked in San Francisco on the comparatively civilised Californian West Coast, whereas Indya, he cast his eyes over a brief blog on the table, "aka Betty Martin, is from Boondock Hell, Alabama. Which means Republican voting, bible bashing, cousin marrying country folk."
Terry was having none of Chris's objections. "Oops, I think you just dropped your liberal credentials, but not to worry; everyone is equal under the sign of the dollar".
"Oh sure," replied Chris. "Silicon Valley versus little house in the trailer park. Do you seriously think the US has no class system, Terry? Christ, they're the most status-conscious people in the world."
"And you're not? I think Ms Martin might just confound your preconceptions. You'll soon find out; she flies into Heathrow in three hours. Be there.''
Halfway across the Hammersmith flyover, en route to the centre of town, Chris is already making a rapid reassessment of his charge. In the back of the car, Indya is proving not at all parochial. She's never visited London before but has done some homework on the city, scoring immediate brownie points with Chris. He'd half expected denim, rhinestones, and cowboy boots. Wrong, an expensively cut jacket flatters Betty's impressive body, and the matching, not-too-short skirt showcases impressively long and muscular legs.
"Now then," she picks up the itinerary and immediately becomes business-like, "what's on the agenda for today?"
Fumbling in her bag, Betty finally locates a pair of glasses that she perches on the end of her nose. "I normally wear contacts, but my eyes are dry after the flight. Not a word to anyone about these," she says with a winning smile, "don't want to dent the dumb image."
Chris relaxes, what might have been a chore is turning out to be fun. If he can just keep his eyes off those legs and concentrate on work, this girl's warm and frank persona is going to play well with the public.
"Okay, first a lunchtime radio interview then an afternoon chat show," he says. "Have you done much talk TV?"
"Sure, Chris, but have you ever seen US TV?"
"Oh yes," he rolls his eyes, and they're still laughing when the car reaches the hotel.
By the end of the next day, both interviews have gone well, however, things begin to take an inauspicious turn as jetlag kicks in and Betty's grouchy. Chris waits with practised patience in her hotel room while, with more speed than haste, she completes a lengthy make-up routine.
Catching his reflection in the mirror Betty suddenly turns on her minder, her southern accent much more pronounced. "Whatcha' lookin' at?" she snaps, "tryin' to see my tits, huh? Shit, you guys are obsessed. What were you, bottle fed or somethin'?"
"Actually, I was wondering if mismatched earrings were part of the Southern Belle look," Chris responds calmly, "and what I see is a sassy woman, trying for a make-or-break career change, feeling low and a long way from home."
There's a long pause, and eventually, Betty throws up her hands in defeat. "Hell, I blew it there," she admits. "I'm really sorry, Chris."
"It's okay," he soothes. "I'm used to celebs getting a bit worked up. Relax, have a drink, and give yourself a chance to regroup."
"Let's not kid ourselves about the celeb bit, honey, and I'll pass on the drink, my ex-husband drank enough for an entire lifetime in just a couple of years." Betty sighs. "You're sure enough right about being lonely though. Trouble is, the tough girl image scares most guys, either that or they can't see beyond the gloss and the chassis. Sure, I'm trying hard to make this work, who wouldn't? The alternative's a future spent opening shopping malls or cheerleading for a load of steroid-crazed pro-fighters."
"Such as 'Hulk Hogan?"
She smiles ruefully. "Babe, he's an intellectual and a gentleman compared to most. Aw dammit, you've shown me a lotta respect and hospitality these last couple of days and I've bad-mouthed ya like some bratty kid. I deserve to get my hiney warmed..."
"Spanked?" Chris's adrenaline kicks in hard, and without yet realising it Indya has rung his bell.
"If that's what you guys call it over here?" she shrugs. "I guess so."
"Well now," Chris's legendary interpersonal skills are about to be put to the ultimate test, "you're spot-on there, Betty. That's just what you need." Christ, he thinks, that's my bridges well and truly burnt. If she goes berserk my only chance is to plead two nations divided by a common language.
"Need, or deserve?" comes the unexpected response.
"Both," says Chris, fortunately sounding more confident than he feels. "Look at this as therapy," he continues, and taking the initiative, grasps the waist of her tight leather trousers, pulling her, teetering on her trademark heels, towards him.
She offers no resistance, merely looks up quizzically and says in a puzzled tone, "You figure you're gonna tan my butt, doncha?"
"Damn straight," Chris replies, fixing her with what he fervently hopes to be a steely gaze.
"Honey, I could throw you across the damn room."
"Could, but won't," responds Chris coolly. "You need someone who isn't intimidated by you and that's me." Seating himself on the capacious sofa he adroitly undoes her expensive strides and drags them down, "and I want you over my knee."
To his incredulity, she offers no resistance. Betty is equally amazed. What her long-since divorced husband might have achieved with brute strength this guy is doing with mere words. Which, she silently observes, mind racing with ambivalent emotions, is a good deal more impressively masculine. Darn sexy if you want to know the truth.
