Seven.

`You fancy yourself as my Dr. Lecter do you?’ She laughed quietly. `No, I was brought up extremely properly in Boston. But I’ve been away from them for quite a while now. No,’ She changed the subject `I just seem to connect with animals - I like being with them and I enjoy learning from them. Sometimes I feel… I don’t know, as if I understand them better than people.’ Her speech had a lilt that coloured its edges with character. Whilst it was strong and even, her voice was quiet enough to make him lean closer to hear. The girl didn’t appear to mind.`Also, they’re always in the present, never the past.

Max thought he understood her angle.`You’ll be from suffocating old money then, I guess? There’ll be a limo somewhere outside.’
`No limos for this girl.’ Her tone was sharp and she quickly changed the subject. `What do you write, Mr. Roundhill’
`Well, Ms Ellis’ He raised an eyebrow. `I write stories for mass appreciation.’
`Do you do it well?’ she sipped her drink.
Max laughed `I’m hopefully more successful than your ignorance of my books would suggest.’’
`Ah.’ She flushed lightly. `I’m sorry. I don’t read much fiction Max, no offense’
`None taken. I assume you spend time engrossed in deathly scientific journals or, of course, the society pages…’
`Now look here…’ she noticed him laughing and did so herself, shaking her head.`Sore subject, I guess. I’m sorry to snap.’
`No sweat. I was pushing it. Could I err’ he coughed to cover his sudden nerves and stood to order more drinks. She looked up into his face. He continued`would you allow me to buy you dinner - I promise I won’t mention family or money or Boston or anything you’d rather not talk about.’
She smiled.`How do you know I want to talk in the first place?’
`I’ll take my chances. Besides, I don’t mind silence at all.’
`In which case, I’m happy to accept your offer, but I warn you, I’m hungry.’ Her words made Max blush.

Shortly, Guilio arrived and directed them to a table. They both chose from the simple but varied menu and when they eventually noticed their food, agreed that it was superb. Max lost himself and revelled in her attention. She seemed so together, steering her way into life with a precision that suggested a long term plan. Her energy was emanating in waves he found washing over him - he was carried by her enthusiasm into nostalgic memories. He began to tell her of the guiding light of his literary ideals - the need to write that had been present for as long as he could remember. He, like all other budding writers he’d known at college, had wanted to set the world alight with his erudition expressed in cerebral prose. His unique insight into the human world. The way he could watch people and their situations, then write the rest of the story. Christ, he had been so full of himself then. He figured he knew the answers - just give him the questions.

He tried to write whilst doing various jobs - after work, on the train, at weekends. A few stuttering imbecilic sentences were the result. He’d taken another job - less hours, less money and forced himself to sit down every day and write for a set number of hours. He’d done this for months until his head was bursting with directions but going nowhere. His brain seemed intent on leaving his head, such was the weight of ideas pressing for release. `I decided to write a thriller type thing just for fun. To let off the head of steam in a mindlessly silly story written just for my entertainment and a few hours peace - getting words on paper…’

At this point his mood sobered and he lowered his gaze from Alison’s jewel-bright eyes to his empty plate, the remains of spicy tomato sauce seemed to absorb him. To Alison, the radiance that had surrounded him suddenly dimmed. He seemed ashamed as he continued;