It was the voice that I noticed first. From somewhere over on the other side of the bar I heard: ”Just call me Gina, darling!” followed by a deep-throated chuckle. I looked across and saw a scene that wouldn’t have been out of place in a 1930s movie. She had one arm resting on a red clutch bag on top of the bar, and she was poised on a high seat, keeping her balance by means of a gracefully outstretched leg, whose red, patent-leather shoe ended the ballerina-esque pose with the slightest contact of toe and floor. The other foot rested on a strut of the stool to help push her upper body into a high stretch. She was dressed in a tailored white suit with a skirt that rode high on the thigh because of her posture.
Her back was slightly arched and shoulders pulled down and level to accentuate the shape of her small, round breasts; her elongated neck emphasised a strong chin and high cheekbones. Her flawless make-up enhanced her clear, green eyes and her golden-russet hair was swept away from the face into an elegant chignon. She leaned gently towards her companion as she offered him the unlit end of a cigarette that was nipped in a long, black, lacquer holder, the other end kissed by her flame-red mouth. The nail polish on the hand that clasped it matched her lips, which she pursed gently as he held up a lighter in trembling hands. She slowly blinked, then opened her eyes as she sucked hard on the lacquer tube, and I could see that the poor sap was enchanted.
“She’s having you on, mate, not to mention out of your league," I thought as I watched the pantomime.