She was a nice little piece and she opened the door with a cheeky grin on her face although she didn't have a clue who I was.

"Hi," I said. "Are you Ms Hutton, by any chance?"

"Sure, I'm Vicki Hutton. But they must have delivered you to the wrong house. I didn't order any big black guys. Not unless you're a special offer."

This was a live one. I like that kind of girl.

"Well, maybe I am." I answered. "My name's Harry Lucas and I'm a reporter with the local paper. The editor sent me over because he heard you'd won a modelling contest in Leicester. I was wondering if you'd like to do an interview for us."

That caught her attention in a hurry. "An interview? With me?"

"That's right. About the contest, why you entered and what it felt like to win it. And if you've got any ideas about perhaps becoming a professional model?"

"I never thought anybody would want to put something in the paper about it."

"It's not exactly like being on Parkinson," I admitted. "But we're always looking for something interesting to fill in the gaps between the ads."

"Oh." She thought about that for a moment. "Am I interesting then?"

"Well, I'm interested in you. Will that do?"

She laughed and opened the door: "You'd better come in then."

It was a nice house inside. Very nice. Very middle class nice.

"You picked a good day to come round. My parents are on holiday," Vicki told me.

I wondered if I needed to know that. If I did, maybe it was going to be a better than good day. But I played dumb. Stick to what you do best, that's my motto.

"OK then, Harry," she said brightly. "You choose. Do you want to see me in a really raunchy negligee or would you rather have a cup of tea?"

"Would it be a cup of tea made with a tea bag or in a pot?"

Vicki looked sideways at me with puzzled eyes: "What's the difference?"

"I thought maybe I could see you in the negligee first and then you could read the tea leaves afterwards and tell me what I have to do to get lucky."

She laughed: "That probably depends on how many inches you give me in the papers, Harry."

"How many inches would you like, Vicki?" I deadpanned.

"Probably more than you can give me, Mr Lucas."

She was playing it as straight as I was. So I volleyed straight back.

"Aw, shucks, Vicki, I bet you say that to all the boys."

We both broke up. "Hey, you're pretty funny for a black dude," she said.

"You're not bad yourself for a white chick. But if you want a real laugh I could waggle my ears."

"What's so funny about that?"

"I can only waggle them when I'm naked."

Vicki sighed: "I had a boyfriend like you once. For a week. Sit down and make up your mind. Tea or me?"

"You for now, please. And perhaps we could get together sometime for a cup of Irish breakfast blend. Maybe the next time your parents are on holiday."

"I'm sorry, I only kind of reporters I go to bed with are ones with stiff ears. But sit down anyway and I'll be back soon."

She'd gone by the time I stopped chuckling. You meet a lot of people in my line of work and it's always a surprise how interesting many of them are. But a shapely little spunkette with a sense of the ridiculous is the rarest of birds. Sex or no sex, a night out in the pub with Vicki Hutton could be a fun event. Though looking around me I had a quick guess that Mr and Ms Hutton senior would not be real rapt in seeing their daughter dating a black guy. An older black guy. Worse yet in the social pecking order, a black journalist.

Then Vicki walked back into the room and I suddenly had a column in my jeans which had nothing to do with any newspaper.

"My God," I said. "You didn't appear in public dressed like that, did you? You'd have started a riot."

She laughed at the effect she was having one me: "No, you idiot. This is my own outfits. I thought it might give you a better idea of what sort of body I've got."

"Oh yes, it does that all right, Vicki," I conceded. "I've now got a very good idea of what your body looks like. I've even got a few ideas of what I'd like to do with it. But they'll never let me print them."

She twirled around on her toes gracefully, holding the sides of the flimsy negligee out wide so I didn't miss out on a single detail. I shivered and growled deep in my throat: "Please, Miss, Harry wants to go walkies."

"Sit, boy, sit," she answered, and giggled. "Bad dog! Where did you get that boner?"

I pretended to notice the huge hump underneath my fly zip for the first time.

"Oh, this? I was thinking about a girl. Not you, of course, Vicki. A totally different girl. The fact that you're standing there in front of me with almost nothing on isn't affecting me in the slightest."

"She must be quite a girl, Harry. Go ahead take it out if you like. The poor old thing seems pretty cramped in there and we don't want any of your seams splitting, do we?"

I didn't know if she was playing the fool again, but if she was the joke was on her because I'm not the sort of guy who's shy about flashing his package. There had always been more than enough of it to satisfy any woman I'd ever come up against. So I unzipped my jeans and let the blood run free. Ms Hutton's eyes went kind of glassy for a second or so.

"Not bad for a poor old thing, is it?" I asked her. "Of course it's computerised nowadays."

She looked up. Rather slowly and reluctantly, I flattered myself.

"What do you mean, computerised?"

"It's got a microchip in the top. All you have to do is to talk into it and then I write it down later."

She giggled like a schoolgirl and shook her head: "You silly bastard."

"It's true. You've heard of shorthand, haven't you? Well, this is shortarm reporting. Come over here and tell me what you want to see written about yourself in the paper."

Vicki laughed again, but came closer and slowly knelt down in front of me: "Are you really going to write something nice about me in the paper?

"Well, if you like, I could tell the readers you give great head," I said. "That should sell a few extra copies."

She was struggling to keep a straight face.

"That sounds like blackmail, Mr Lucas."

"I guess so. It's certainly male and definitely as black as they come."

"Oh, it comes, does it?"

"Unless it gets bent. Then I go when I should be coming."

Vicki shook her head again in mock bewilderment: "Do you African guys always do a stand up comedy routine when you've got a stand on?"

"African?" I asked. "African? I come from Henley-On-Thames. My initiation test into the tribe was to lead a safari party to the Elephant's Graveyard."

"An Elephant's Graveyard -- in Henley-On-Thames?"

"It's a pub," I explained. "Where all the old pros hang out trying to turn one last trick."

Vicki sniggered: "You're full of it, Mr Lucas."

"Which is precisely the problem I hope you can help me with, Ms Hutton," I responded.

END OF PART ONE