I awoke to the sound of a fearful, incessant throbbing.  The room next to mine had suddenly been invaded by a romping horde of inebriated idiots who were in no mood for sleep.

      Some Americans are incurable extroverts.  I don't begrudge them that, especially in their own country.  What I did resent was being so close to a lively party and knowing that I hadn't been invited.  I might have withstood the relentless thumping of their music and the raucous giggles of susceptible girls if I'd been a part of it - it could even have heralded the start of a lightning romance.   Instead I lay there for two hours, building up a deep and boiling resentment.  By now we were well into Sunday morning as far as I was concerned.  I felt mortally weary, yet my stupid body, unable to recognise my Atlantic crossing, knew with devastating certainty that it ought to be getting up.

      I freely and humbly admit it - my thoughts were becoming those of a racist bigot.  Normally of placid disposition, I was now in a thoroughly bad mood.  Why had some inconsiderate imbecile given these rowdy revellers the very next room to mine?  The hotel had looked virtually empty when I checked in - couldn't these merry-makers have cavorted elsewhere, on the far side of the building, well away from innocent jet-lagged travellers?

      Unable to sleep, I turned on the television - an appliance unlike any I'd seen in England, with a button marked TINT designed to show anything normally red in either orange or purple - between these two extremes there was apparently no middle ground.  For a while I stuck fingers in my ears and watched an old film till I caught sight of an orange London bus.  I twiddled the knob to see if it looked more authentic in purple.  It didn't.

      In disgust I put on a dressing-gown and stormed down to the front desk, intent on raising my own brand of hell.  But in the Land of the Free, this was evidently a Fend-for-Yourself Hotel!  Was there another room which I could raid in pursuit of solitude?  No, every other door was locked.  The entire hotel was probably empty, save for the one room next to mine which had been turned overnight into zoo.

      Needing someone - anything on which to vent my displeasure - I chose an ice-machine at the end of the corridor.  I thumped it furiously with both fists, getting it to make loads of ice I didn't want, and letting hundreds of pieces dance all over the carpet like miniature elves.  If I had wanted ice, I'd have been satisfied with a dozen knobs at most, but this ridiculous contrivance would dispense no less than a bucketful each time.  I was, I admit, in a state of puerile rebellion, but my act of vandalism did me some good and left me feeling slightly less suicidal than before.

      Passing my rowdy neighbour, I banged hard on the door and prepared for a fight, but they were having so much fun, not a soul heard me.    It was six a.m. before the noise finally subsided, and I dozed off only to be startled into consciousness by someone thumping on my door and bellowing incoherent commands about escaping.

      In a cold sweat, I realised it meant only one thing.  The hotel, built entirely of wood, must be on fire.  A careless smoker, no doubt, from next-door's party ...

      "Escaping!" came the unmistakable voice again.  My God, and here was I, stranded on the fourth floor!

      I leapt from my bed and began struggling frantically into a pair of trousers as the door burst open and a formidable Caribbean woman sailed in, brandishing a broom.

      "Escaping?" she challenged me, standing guard as if I might have left without paying.  Yet in her voice I detected no urgency.  If there was a fire, why couldn't I smell smoke?

      I did my best to be polite, but it wasn't easy.  To paraphrase my words, I believe I told her that I had no intention of escaping until someone could convince me we were about to be engulfed in flames.

      "Room!" she bellowed, flourishing a yellow duster.  As this apparently exhausted her English vocabulary, I chose to retaliate with some of mine.

      "You come barging into my sanctuary," I hissed, "breathing fire and brimstone, merely to inform me that you've been programmed to dust my sideboard at the crack of dawn?  It's Sunday morning, dammit!"

      "Is room?  Escaping!" she repeated with a pleasant smile.  Sensing resistance, another of her team poked a head around the door and peered in wide-eyed as if I were the first half-naked white man she'd ever seen.  Modesty made me continue climbing into my trousers, while both women stood in the doorway, discussing my predicament like chipmunks.

      "Oscar Penn?" nodded the newcomer, oblivious to my annoyance.

      "No," I stressed with icy calm, "I am not Oscar Penn, I am a fragile Englishman and thanks to the nocturnal frolics of neighbouring noisemongers in this over-sized orange-box I have been denied my usual quota of sleep.  I suggest you leave me in peace before I turn uncontrollably nasty!"

      "Room!" they chorused, nodding mutual disapproval of any guest whose personal needs threatened to hinder their progress.  They wheeled in an aluminium trolley covered in sheets and shrouds, and an industrial vacuum cleaner which they were determined to plug in, come what may.  Whether it suited me or not, my bed WAS to be remade and my towels WERE to be changed.  The ritual was sacrosanct.

      In defiance of hotel rules, I dragged an armful of covers off the bed and huddled myself like a squirrel in an armchair, where I feigned loud snoring.  Praise God for the international language of mime!  As if forewarned that the English are not only eccentric but potentially lethal, the two women bowed in deference and retreated rapidly down the corridor in search of a more passive victim, while I returned my tangle of bedding to the bed and built myself a cosy nest.

      The next thing I knew, the room was filled with sunshine.  It was eleven o'clock - the hour for my appointment with Sunday Morning Brunch!  Globe-trotting colleagues back home had assured me that this weekly American flirtation with good food was a gastronomic delight not to be missed.  I quickly dressed, and in eager anticipation trotted nimbly downstairs and found my way to the dining room.

      It was ominously quiet.  Admittedly it was only half past eleven - perhaps a trifle early?  Nonetheless I'd expected some sign of preparation as this great American tradition got under way.  Not a soul was about!  I was either in the wrong part of the hotel, or I'd been sadly misinformed.

      I approached the front desk, where an irritable clerk was bending over his desk-top computer, engrossed in some complex task which he wasn't about to abandon.  Like a good boy I stood patiently waiting to be noticed.  I even whistled a little tune for his benefit, but still he showed no interest.   After all, who was I?  A mere guest, of little relevance on a busy Sunday morning.        By the time he turned to acknowledge me, my customary affability had withered to a brittle stick.

      "Excuse me!" I began, but he responded with a stony stare, his way of putting down unwelcome guests with funny accents.  "Excuse me," I persisted, "but when and where do you serve Sunday Brunch?"

      "Closed," he announced with an air of finality, turning again to his machine.  This goaded me into a outburst of vitriolic sarcasm.

      "Are you implying it is the policy of this cardboard cats' nest not to provide food on Sundays?  Am I inconveniencing you by staying here?   Would you prefer I return to my room, suck my thumb, and wait patiently for tomorrow's breakfast, or has that too been cancelled?"

      He glared back with the tired eyes of a man who'd attended an all-night party, silently jerking his head towards a notice-board where I read that the hotel's "dinning" facilities would be closed on Sundays until the Fall.

      "Forgive my naivety," I continued, "but it is prudent to ask why you deny your guests weekend meals?  It may benefit one's health to be starved for a day, but I confess to being hungry.  According to my watch it is now half-past-four in the afternoon, and I've had not so much as a crust to eat since I arrived in this land of opportunity.  Where do you recommend I go?  Perhaps you know of a obliging dog who might be persuaded to spare me an old bone?"

      By now I was really enjoying myself, but none of my nonsense was reaching its target.  In the end I thanked him for giving up his weekend and strode outside, the legendary mad Englishman, straight into a blistering midday sun.

      From my bedroom window, I'd already spotted a small hamburger-joint a few hundred yards down the road, so I set off in that direction.  But I was now faced with a new and potentially lethal challenge from two lanes of fast-moving traffic.  If there had been a footpath, I might have enjoyed a pleasant stroll;  but American pedestrians are an endangered species, and in trying to reach my goal I felt like a track-side spectator at Le Mans.

      Stepping from the ninety-degree heat into the air-conditioned chill of a diner, I regretted not having brought along a warm pullover.  I shivered inwardly and approached the counter, intending to ask for a modest hamburger and chips, but this proved too imprecise a request for the incredibly helpful girl behind the counter.  Unlike my hotel clerk, there was nothing this sweet child wasn't prepared to do for me.  It seemed there were at least ten varieties of hamburger, all with meaningless titles.  Did I want fries, what kind, what shape, how many, and with what fixings?

      I randomly settled for a "Morris-burger" with a medium helping of chips, but still she required more information.  How did I want my Morris-burger cooked?

      Ever keen to amuse an attractive girl, I suggested it might prove delicious if roasted gently over a charcoal fire beneath the amber glow of a setting sun in the middle of the Navajo desert.  She stared back as if I'd placed my order in Arabic.

      "Just cook it," I pleaded.

      She nodded politely and handed me a packet of crisps.  Too late I remembered being warned that in America a chip is known as a French Fry and a crisp is a Chip.  I accepted the crisps, not only to avoid further argument, but because I feared my hotel would be ill-equipped to offer me an evening meal.  I could have gone further afield if I'd had a car - but I hadn't, and as I watched the traffic thundering past the window, I wasn't sure I wanted one.

      I took my "Morris-burger" complete with fries and fixings away to a table and sat like a hungry dog with a long-awaited bone.  I had just laid everything out to my satisfaction when an employee shuffled over and began smearing the surface with a damp cloth.

      There seemed little point in suggesting he might do this later.  I was at the mercy of someone no more able to understand English than the hotel cleaning staff, and so I watched helplessly as he made my table-top thoroughly unhygienic, restored the sauce and condiments to where he wanted them placed, then moved on to annoy his next customer.

      Those who dine alone have little to do but speculate about the more entertaining aspects of life around them, and I formed a theory that there existed somewhere in North America a training establishment where non-English-speaking immigrants were shown a hundred ways of irritating the pants off other people.  Never once did I suspect that within forty-eight hours I'd be impersonating just such a character myself.

      I bit hungrily into my "Morris-burger" and found it sadly lacking in taste.  This was another phenomenon I'd been warned about - American law decrees that a burger must be made purely from beef, with nothing added to enhance the flavour.  Any seasoning has to be poured on top in the form of tomato sauce or cheese, rather than being blended in beforehand.  Hoping to counteract the blandness of my burger, I smothered it with whatever brand of ketchup they'd provided - and I never noticed the name on the bottle!

      There I sat, eating my food in silence, disillusioned over my choice of accommodation, and seeing no reason to recommend New Jersey to any of my friends.  In fact I could have ended up with a grossly unfair grudge against the entire nation.  However, a Chartered Accountant is trained to be objective, and I realised it was time I took a more practical approach to my mission.  Despite my misgivings about driving on the wrong side of the road, a car was evidently essential in America, particularly for someone marooned in a badly run hotel.

      From my bedroom window I had noticed what looked like a car-hire firm, so I decided I'd stroll along later to investigate its potential.  There was no harm in just looking; and besides, I rather like the styling of modern American cars.  It would be an interesting way to spend the afternoon.

      Ten minutes later I was walking back in oven-high temperatures.  It was not only hot but humid like a laundry, and for this reason I decided to return first to my hotel.  I felt I needed a shower before going to look at cars, where my presence might have brought forth an attractive female assistant.  Already perspiration was playing havoc with my personal freshness.

      It was at this moment that Fate stepped in.  Before I could reach my hotel the heavens opened and I ran for cover into the foyer, shaking myself like a dog.  I was about to go up and change, when I noticed a young woman bidding for attention at the front desk, and as I waited for the lift, I overheard a snatch of her conversation:

      "Four-twenty-two?  Give me a break - I hate the sight of that damned factory!  Can't you find me a room on the other side?"

      The clerk was still making excuses when the lift arrived.  I stepped into it and turned in time to hear the woman add: "By the way, do you have anyone from England ..."   But by then the doors had closed, and I was whisked willy-nilly up to the fourth floor.  I was about to return and seek the girl's acquaintance, when I remembered my dishevelled appearance and decided I'd better freshen up.

      I stood in the shower, my curiosity at odds with my resolve to keep a low profile.  Why was the girl asking about someone from England?  More to the point, what was she saying about some factory that might have been visible from her window?  By the time I was presentable, I concluded that hasty moves were seldom the wisest, especially for someone aiming to remain unobtrusive.  So I lay on my bed and reflected.

      What a farce this was turning out to be!  I had flown to America hoping to do some sight-seeing and to discover what kind of outfit my uncles had been running.  Yet here I was, holed up in a dull hotel with no-one sensible to talk to, kept indoors by torrential rain, unable even to walk down the road and ask about hiring a car.

      The rain continued pelting down in globules the size of golf balls.  My window offered a dismal view of the front car park, barely visible in the downpour - a parking lot, the Americans called it, though there wasn't a lot of parking to be seen, two or three cars at the most.

      It then dawned on me that I hadn't asked Brian Smith what kind of product Slaggs actually made, so I picked up the phone book, and found a Slaggs factory listed with its full address.  It was right next door!

      Impulsively I sprang to my feet and hurried along the corridor in the hope of finding a window facing that way.  The fourth floor was high enough for a good view, if only I could find an empty room.  But every door I passed was closed.  Were these rooms occupied?  Should I knock and beg to be allowed to look out of someone's window?  Daft idea, even for an Englishman.

      I continued down the corridor until I came to a door that was slightly open - and it happened to bear the number 422, the very room the woman downstairs had rejected.  I gave the door a cautious push and peered inside.  The window did indeed present a perfect view of the premises next door.  With no signs of any occupant, I boldly ventured in.

      Across the empty parking lot, beyond a wire fence, stood a collection of ramshackle buildings and what appeared to be a gate-house, painted in a revolting shade of yellow.  This was not the bright, cheerful yellow of April daffodils nor the cool yellow of a lemon sherbet.  Instead, I was reminded more of the mess that babies make, but there was nothing to indicate what kind of substance my inheritance produced.  Only by closer inspection of the factory itself would I learn that.  And even with an umbrella I would have got soaked.  If only it would stop raining ...

      At that precise moment it did stop, very suddenly - or at least, the sound of it stopped.  The hiss of running water died away as if it had been turned off like a tap.  I was just debating whether a stroll outside would now be feasible when I heard another familiar sound that sent a shiver of alarm up my spine - the flushing of the toilet in the en-suite bathroom.

      There was no time to escape, nowhere to hide.  I stood petrified as this attractive young woman stepped into the room, clad only in a white bath-towel.  My mind took an instant but unforgettable snapshot of a neat short hairstyle and a bright perky face with intelligent eyes that stared at me in bewildered dismay.  I turned quickly and began examining the window frame for leaks.

      "Well, it soytainly ain' in this room!" I exclaimed in my best New York accent.  "Ah sho aim marty sari fo de intrusion, maym," I continued in a dreadful Southern drawl, "but that there rain sure was a-comin' in some place, yes sirree!"

      I now sounded like a plantation slave, and knew I'd have done better to say nothing.

      "Look," she began, "I don't know who you are, but I recognise a phoney accent when I hear one.  Forgive me for asking what may seem a naive question, but what are you doing in my room?" It was a very reasonable enquiry from a very reasonable young lady, and I knew I had to come clean.

      "I'm truly sorry for barging in," I said, "but you did leave your door open, and honestly I thought the room was empty.  There's no luggage anywhere.  I simply came in to ... to look at the view!"

      "The view?"  She repeated my words slowly and deliberately, with a quaint frown as she advanced towards me.

      The view to which I referred looked so uninviting that my tale sounded painfully implausible, even to me.  She stood beside me at the window and stared outside, nodding to herself in disbelief.

      "A great scene, I grant you, but I hadn't planned open house for Joe Public to come wandering in."  The voice carried a familiar touch of irony, and I matched her mood at once.

      "But that rusting wire fence," I exclaimed, "and those corrugated iron roofs do add a dash of je-ne-sais-quoi, a certain urban charm to the New Jersey landscape, don't you agree?"

      "You mean the metalwork?  Riveting!" she retorted.  "With any luck we might see it featured in next year's Beautiful America calendar."

      "Ah, yes!" I said, "but which month?"

      "Oh, definitely November!  Look, Mr. Peeping Tom, it's fun meeting like this, but the air-conditioning's giving me goose bumps.  Would you mind awfully getting your British butt out of here?  Like now!"

      "Of course," I agreed, and made hastily for the door.  "Again, I truly am sorry for dropping in like this."

      "If you feel you need another glimpse at the American Dream," she added softly, "you may call back later this afternoon.  But first, give this nymphette a sporting chance to get herself dressed, do you mind?"

      "Of course," I complied.  "My name's Richard Downing, by the way, and I'm in Room 405.  I mention that, in case you want to complain to the management."

      "Well, now!  Fascinating!" she nodded and closed the door.

      I wandered back to my own room, knowing I'd made a complete ass of myself, yet enthralled by the instant rapport I'd felt from the moment we began conversing.  Who was she?  More to the point, was she staying in the hotel unescorted?  I waited a full thirty minutes before daring to dial her on the house phone.

      "Hallo!"  The voice sounded soft and friendly as if she was fully expecting my call.

      "Hi, this is your apologetic prowler from 405 - just phoning to make sure you haven't had any more disturbances.  You need to keep an eye on these bogus window inspectors, you know - there's a lot of them about, especially on a Sunday, and you can't be too careful.  I blame television myself."

      "Too much of it?"

      "Not enough!"

      "I see.  Do all English Peeping Toms have this passion for inverse voyeurism?  Normally, you're supposed to peep in from the outside, or so I've been told.  Not that I do much peeping myself, life's far too hectic for a working girl.  Anyway, to set your mind at rest, it's been peaceful here for at least the past half-hour.  Nothing to complain of, really.  Your move?"

      "Look, Miss 422, I'm usually a reticent sort of chap when I'm not raiding hotel bedrooms, but - well, I was wondering if I might be bold enough - just this once - to ask you to have dinner with me tonight, assuming one can obtain dinner in this part of town?"

      "I don't know about that, Mr. Downing.  Do I know you well enough?"

      "You might get to know me better if we dined together."

      "True.  That would be nice.  Thank you, Mr. Downing.  What time?"

      "Say seven?"

      "Seven's fine with me.  Your window or mine?  Or shall we meet on neutral ground, say in the lobby?"

      I wanted to sound decisive, so I promised to give a smart rap on her door at precisely seven o'clock.

      I still felt hot and sticky as if I'd been rolled in marmalade, yet I was dubious about taking another shower in case my phone rang.  It's an odd quirk of hotel plumbing that you frequently hear imaginary phones while showering.  Yet I felt it was important to look my best.

      I don't know if hers was as bad, but in my bathroom the shower-head protruded like an elderly tortoise and rattled ferociously as the water flowed.  Its controls could be reached only by darting like a cormorant into the stream of water and fumbling blindly for a knob, running the risk of being either scalded or frozen to death if you were unlucky enough to turn it the wrong way.  With the clattering pipes and stereo sound effects, I doubt if I would have heard the fire alarm, let alone a telephone.  

      An hour ago this wouldn't have mattered - no-one knew where I was, or so I thought.   But my visit had now taken on a wholly new meaning.

      By ten to seven I was lightly scented with my best aftershave, and dressed in a navy blue blazer with my old school tie - the typical Englishman abroad.  And why not?  Any disguise that made me look like a casual tourist was good for my low profile, if not for my ego.

      At one minute to seven, I left my room and took a measured stroll down the corridor to make my rendezvous with Miss 422.  On the stroke of seven precisely I tapped gently on the lady's door, hoping she'd be impressed by my English punctuality.  I waited, then tapped again.

      I consulted my watch.  Was it correctly reset to New Jersey Time?  Was there a special brand of American Summer Time that I knew nothing about?  Or maybe there wasn't here, while for us back home there was?  If in Britain we had Summer Time and Americans didn't, would we be six hours ahead or four?  It was a little too confusing for a jet-lagged accountant.

      After four minutes I concluded that I'd been stood up.  And serve me right, for being too forward.  She'd no doubt tried to phone and cancel the arrangement while I was still under the shower.  I was about to walk away feeling thoroughly disappointed when I heard neat footsteps behind me.  I turned and saw my smiling new friend smartly dressed in an apple-green skirt and jacket, walking briskly towards me.

      "Sorry to keep you waiting," she panted.  "Just realised I'd left my compact in the car.  Hope you didn't think I was backing out?"

      "Who, me?  Heavens, no," I beamed.

      "Shan't be a moment," she said, opening her door.  "You can come and admire the view if you want."

      I stepped gingerly into the room after her.  "That really IS what I was doing," I pleaded.  "I admit it sounds absurd."

      "To some, maybe," she called from the bathroom.  "I know, you have this irresistible fascination for rust!  We quite understand."

      "It's that place across the parking lot.  Some sort of factory, though I don't know what they make."

      "You're kidding!"  She put her head round the door.  "You disappoint me, Richard.  Surely you've heard of Slagg's Sauce?"

      "Sauce?"

      She disappeared again.  "Yes," came the silvery echoing voice, clear as a bell.  "Sauce, as in Ketchup.  Or do they call it Catsup in England?"

      I thought of my lunch, and wondered what substance I had blithely poured onto my Morris-burger.  Come to that, who in his wildest moments would buy a bottle of sauce with "Slaggs" on the label?

      "What do you know about that place?" I asked.  "Are you from around here?"

      "Not any more.  But I used to work there a while back.  I was a saucerer's apprentice."

      "But not any more?"

      She emerged from the bathroom.  "Do I look so dumb?  I was a mere kid, fresh out of college.  I noo no better in dem days.  It was a job!"  She revealed this in a rough Bronx accent, with slightly crossed eyes and a wry face to match - a talent I found most endearing.

      "But what's wrong with the place?" I needed to know.

      She shook her head.  "We don't have time to go into that.  Ask what's right with Slaggs and I'll tell you while I lock my door.  Where are we eating?"

      "I doubt if the restaurant downstairs is open - they refused to serve Brunch today."

      "Richard, trust me," she shook her head severely, "you don't want to eat here.  This is familiar territory and believe me - no!  I know a very nice little place nearby if you like Italian?"

      "I'm afraid I don't have a car," I explained.

      "No problem.  Remember where I left my compact?"

      "Of course.  Well, if you don't mind being tonight's chauffeur, dinner's on me."

      "We'll discuss that later.  Now, are you quite sure you've seen all you need to from my window?  If so, Lori's ready when you are!"

      Lorry?  We made our way down the back stairs to her car, a smart white Buick that looked brand new.

      "Your own?" I asked as we drove off.

      "No, I stole it while the owner had lunch.  Saw this fabulous compact lying on the seat and couldn't resist."  She stared at me, then grinned.  "Actually, it's my boss's car.  He's flying in from Washington in the morning.  I drove this up for him in your beautiful British weather.  Glad they let you import a few home comforts, Richard."

      I nodded.  "What line of business is your boss in?"

      "No secret.  Same as me.  Food!  We're wholesale suppliers to the catering industry, which is why I say, with inside knowledge - there are better places to dine than in that hotel."

      "It's not ideal," I conceded.  "So tell me, why would a discerning girl like you choose to stay there?"

      "Thanks for the adjective.  Simple.  There's a conference tomorrow.  I'm surprised you don't know," she added with a mysterious smile.

      She drove the automatic with grace and style, and pulled into a restaurant car park, where a young lad sprang forward to demand the keys.

      "Valet Parking," she explained.  "A hell of a racket, but it helps circulate wealth in this part of New Jersey."

      We watched the car being driven rapidly away.

      "Is there a charge for his services?" I asked.

      "He gets a dollar if John's car is still in good shape when we need it again."

      The restaurant was much larger inside than it appeared from the road.  I was impressed to discover that my companion had already booked a table for two.  She seemed so efficient, I could well understand why she'd failed to find a fulfilling career in my miserable sauce factory.

      We were seated comfortably in a small alcove, and I leaned confidentially towards her.

      "In two minutes' time," I whispered, "I'm going to ask a rather personal question, so prepare yourself.  Try to act natural when it comes."

      "I guess I can handle that," she smiled, glancing at her watch to time me.  "So, Mr. Downing, how long have you been interested in the industrial charm of New Jersey?"

      "I flew over from England yesterday."

      She grinned back knowingly.  "So!  And what are your first impressions of America?  There are no hidden mikes here.  You may speak freely."

      I commented on the weather and said I'd had a tough time with the hotel staff, but added that one English-speaking native had shown remarkable tolerance to my odd behaviour.

      "So, when you came and knocked on my door fifteen minutes ago, it was midnight where your bodily functions were concerned?   I must remember that."

      "Monday morning already!  Doesn't time fly?"

      She studied her watch carefully, then looked up with a ready smile.

      "I think I can face that intriguing personal question now.  Shoot!"

      "It's simply that you know my name, but you haven't told me yours.   I'd like to have some clue as to whom I'm dining with this evening."

      "Wow!" she breathed.  "You English believe in coming straight out with it - no pussy-footing, eh?"

      "I'm due to fly back home on Saturday."

      "Are you?  Then I'll make it snappy!  I'm Lori," she confided, "I did mention it earlier but you weren't listening.  Lori D'Amico.  I normally work in Baltimore, but my roots are in Little Gap, across the Pennsylvania State border.  I sometimes spend my vacations up in Vermont, and no, I've never been to Italy.  More perhaps later, but now it's my turn to get personal.  What brings you to New Jersey?"

      She looked at me so intently, I knew I couldn't get away with being too evasive.  Yet I felt she'd appreciate frankness, so I merely said it was a delicate issue involving a highly sensitive business deal.

      "Really?  Your job sounds terribly important.  Are you a spy?"

      I was more than ready to trust this girl.  I wanted to tell her precisely why I was there, but I wavered.  "If I am, and if I accidentally let slip anything secret, can I trust you to keep it to yourself?"

      "No," she said.  "Sorry.  I'm afraid you can't.  Please don't take that as a rebuff, Richard.  But suppose you told me something this evening that I felt my boss should know about?  I owe him some loyalty too.  Fair's fair."

      I complimented her, saying I could see why she might not have fared too well at Slaggs.

      "Ah, yes, good old Slaggs!"  She cupped her chin into her hands and fixed her eyes on mine with a penetrating stare.  "So, Mr. Downing, what's your particular interest in the Slagg heap?  And don't deny it.  Lori ain't dumb.  The average British tourist doesn't go limp with excitement over the sight of some grimy sauce factory, even when seen from a girl's bedroom window.  So what's up?"

      "You used to work there," I went on guardedly.  "Tell me a little about the atmosphere, the working conditions, the general spirit of the place.  Did most employees long for the five o'clock whistle, or look forward to the thrill of another Monday morning?"

      She paused for a moment, her mouth open while she selected a suitable reply.

      "I spent a dismal four years in that place, Richard, a complete waste of my time.  No-one seemed to want to DO anything.  In some ways it was like a club, people larking about instead of working - though it felt more like an open prison.  I'm not kidding!  I wanted to make a worthwhile contribution there, and I got really angry with the silly people, wasting time and money, and the sloppy inefficiency everywhere.  To be honest, I often felt as if they were deliberately trying to gum up the works."

      "Interesting!  Yet you stayed four years?"

      "I needed the money.  But it's a great relief now to work for a decent company, run properly by reliable, enthusiastic, and above all, honest people."

      "Including your boss who's flying in tomorrow."

      "Yes.  I'm scheduled to pick him up from Newark at nine."

      "Can we discuss what he's coming here to do?" I probed.

      "It's no secret!"  She renewed her challenging gaze.  "I told you, there's a meeting tomorrow in one of the hotel conference rooms."

      "About food?"

      "About Slaggs."

      "Not a gathering of creditors?" I enquired as casually as I could.  

      She laughed.  "Heavens, no!  We'd hate to see them go, really.  It's nothing like that - just a routine sales pitch, and some of their customers come along for the ride.  The bait is a free lunch and liberal splash of wine."

      "Yet you didn't recommend food there this evening."

      "True!  I guess tomorrow's feast won't be any too special either, but there are two important differences between that and us dining out this evening.  Tomorrow's lunch will come out of Slagg's budget, not ours, and there's nothing wrong with the hotel's wine cellar.  Good wine is good wine, no matter who sells it.  My Dad could tell you - he's an ardent connoisseur of the grape."

      "How many visitors are they expecting tomorrow?"

      "No idea - maybe twenty," she answered carelessly, pausing for a moment, then fixing me with another shrewd stare.  "Okay, Richard, the game's up.  Time to be blunt, do you mind?  I believe these questions aren't merely to make light conversation.  You're pumping me for information, right?"

      I confessed.  "Guilty!"

      "Well, at least you're honest.  I'm glad about that.  You get three extra points.  Am I allowed to know why you're so interested?  Surely your company hasn't gone to the expense of flying you across the Atlantic for a free buffet lunch with a grubby little outfit like Slaggs?  So, out with it - tell your Auntie Lori - what gives?"

      "I'd prefer not say any more, if you don't mind.  But contact me in six days' time, and I promise to reveal a few secrets before I leave.  How's that sound?"

      "Suspicious!  Just six days, huh?  Let me tell you what I think you are.  I'd say they owe you a heap of money, and you're here to stir up trouble."

      I grinned back.  "Nice try, Lori, but wrong.  I admit I'm interested in what goes on behind Slaggs' main gate, but I'm not here to get any money out of them, and I'm certainly not going to stir anything up - not yet."

      "You're not from the I.R.S.?"

      "Who are they?  Terrorists?"

      She smiled at the thought.  "Sorry, Internal Revenue Service!  That's Yankee talk for the taxman.  And you haven't heard of them?  I bet you're an auditor!"

      "As it happens, yes, I do a fair bit of auditing, so I'll award you four points for getting closer.  But you're still wrong.  And please, I don't want to keep fending off your questions, because I feel rotten about not confiding in you.  Normally I'm a trusting sort of chap and I'll admit I'm tempted to tell you more than I should.  Maybe later I will, but I need first to do some fact-finding, okay?  And please believe this - I asked you to join me for dinner, not to pump details about our mutual friends, but because I'd have gone nuts this evening without some companion who can give me an intelligent, lively conversation.  Also, I have a burning desire to make up for invading your privacy this afternoon - again, humble apologies. And because I'd hate you to think I'm being devious, I'll admit this much; if you're willing to tell me more about what it was like working at Slaggs, I really would be most grateful."

      "Okay.  I accept the gesture and the spirit of goodwill.  But I have one question.  You really had no idea, until I told you, what kind of product they make?  Therefore you can't be representing a customer nor a supplier."

      "Very observant."

      "Part of my job!" she smiled.  "So your interest must be either legal, financial or personal."

      "I'd agree with that," I said, "But is it okay to take a short break and decide what we're going to order?"

      "Good thinking," she said with a grin.  "We agree on priorities."

      For a while we sat in silence, perusing our menus.  I suspected I'd be lucky to get away with much change out of a hundred dollars, but felt my chance encounter with this ex-employee of Slaggs would make it a worthwhile investment.  And Lori D'Amico was undoubtedly a very intelligent and stimulating companion, for whom I was rapidly developing a great deal of respect.

      "Ready," she called suddenly, like a child playing hide-and-seek.  "So, Mr. Englishman, what else can I tell you?"

      "I have an interest in knowing what the management was like.  Did you know the three Slaggs brothers at all?"

      "I knew all four."

      "Four?" I echoed stupidly.

      "Yes, Richard.  Watch my lips.  Four!"  She held up four slender fingers, devoid of wedding or engagement rings.

      I told her I knew of Arthur Ernest Slagg, John Walter Slagg and Percy Middleton Slagg, but confessed I couldn't name the fourth.

      Eyeing me like a hawk, she grinned.  "You know something?  You recited their names just like a lawyer, like you were reading out a summons or a will!  Aha!  Now!  Wait a minute.  Now we're getting somewhere!"

      A knowing sparkle sprang to Lori's eyes and they narrowed, betraying her enjoyment of our cat-and-mouse game.  "They died a month ago, the three you just mentioned?  The only one still alive is the guy you couldn't name.   Significant, eh?  Comment is invited."

      I gave a despairing smile of admiration, but said nothing.

      "Bull's-eye, then.  You have some connection with winding up the Slaggs' estate, but for the moment it's a secret.  Now, I'll give you fair warning, Richard.  You're on dangerously thin ice here, because if I heard from anyone that the factory was about close down, I would have to pass that on to my boss at once.  Otherwise, I'd be failing him very badly, do you understand?"

      As she scanned my face for more tell-tale clues, I could only grin back sheepishly.

      "I adore your frankness, Lori.  But there's no talk of shutting the place down, or none that I know of."

      "Good," she sighed in some relief.  "Thanks for that much, anyway."

      After the waiter had taken our orders for food and wine, I tried to resume my  interrogation of Lori, while forestalling hers of me.

      "How long ago did you work at Slaggs?"

      "Up till a year and a half ago."

      "I want to find out a lot more about that place."

      "You're kidding!  Oh, Richard, and I never guessed you were the least bit interested."

      "I have an interest in knowing what the company's worth, and please - I don't want that remark to go any further than your boss's ear."

      "I can live with that," she mused.

      Then she rested her elbow on the table with a fore-finger on her chin, and smiled, still apparently fascinated.

      "This is like a game of chess, isn't it?" I remarked.  "Each player making a subtle move, then waiting for the opponent's response."

      "And my next move is to challenge the word Opponent.  Your turn."

      "Is their product any good?" I asked.

      "Nice one!  Direct, clear cut.  I like it.  Deserves an honest reply.  It's a reasonably palatable ketchup, if you like that sort of thing."

      "Is that their only product?"

      "No," she said, then waited for my next question, knowing full well what it had to be.  I chose to prolong her wait.

      Finally she giggled: "Sorry, couldn't resist that.  They produce a  mayonnaise of sorts, but I don't recommend it.  There's also a yukky synthetic thousand island dressing, and seafood cocktail sauce.  Look, let me make a suggestion - what are you doing tomorrow morning?"

      "Nothing planned.  Why?"

      "Then stick around and I'll smuggle you into the meeting," she promised.  "I'll get you a badge and you can be another member of our team from Argyle Foods.  I'll square it with John in the morning when I pick him up.  How does that sound?"

      "Great.  What will I learn?"

      "Depends who's doing the presentation.  You'll hear the usual sales crap about their products, and you'll probably get a taste too, if you're brave enough."

      "Sounds good to me, as long as your boss doesn't object."

      She looked me straight in the eye.  "John might want something in return.  You're not the only guy interested in Slaggs, you know.  Enough said?  Now, do you mind if we stop talking shop, or I shan't be in the mood to eat when the food arrives."

      From then on, we exchanged interesting but trivial information about our respective life-styles and hobbies.  Lori was a keen golfer, and had won several cups for her game.  She had a fondness for classical music and enjoyed a comfortable life in her apartment, somewhere near Baltimore.  Her parents were both living and had recently retired to nearby Pennsylvania.

      For my part, I outlined my work, complained about my mortgage, and touched briefly on the fact that I was still a bachelor, to which Lori made no comment.

      The food was excellent and I was relieved to find I'd chosen a very suitable wine.  Unlike Lori's father I'm no expert, and nearly confessed as much.  But I badly wanted to impress her, and so far I seemed to be getting away with it.

      I happened to mention again that I was still single, and I waited for her response.  I wasn't consciously thinking of her in any such context - dammit, it was barely five hours since we'd met.  But already I liked Lori enough to want to know a lot more about her.

      In a moment of wistfulness she revealed that she had formerly been married, and that she'd had an infant son who died.  Her marriage broke up, and she was now a free career girl, still in her twenties, with no intentions of ever tying herself down again.  I marvelled at the way tragedy hadn't destroyed her lively effervescent personality, nor had it robbed her of a very appealing sense of humour.

      We were on our third cup of coffee when I gave an uncontrollable yawn and instantly apologised.

      "Gee, I'm sorry," she said with genuine concern, "I'd forgotten it was nearly time for your breakfast."

      I smiled and assured her I was still perfectly wide awake, and happy to go on talking for as long as she could stand my company.  But Lori was a sensible girl who knew it was time we made a move.  I insisted on paying, though she then slipped two twenty dollar bills into my breast pocket.

      "That's your fee for coming to check my window this afternoon," she grinned.  "We neither us want any dangerous leaks, beyond what's already seeped through!"

      As we stepped outside, her car appeared as if by magic.  Like a child handing buns to an elephant, I gave the lad a five-dollar bill, and Lori drove us swiftly back to the hotel.

      The night air was still warm and steamy, as though the whole of New Jersey had become one vast launderette.  We went into the hotel lobby and took the lift up to the fourth floor.  This was the moment, I thought, when if either of us wants any hanky-panky we shall soon know.

      Emerging from the elevator, Lori took my hand to give it a positive and meaningful squeeze.

      "Thanks again for a lovely evening," she said.  "It was fun meeting the way we did.  Unconventional, but most memorable.  See you downstairs at eight sharp.  We start work early in this country.  Good night, Richard."

      She gave me a warm farewell smile and disappeared purposefully down the corridor.  I returned to my room and collapsed onto my king-size bed.   Hers was no less spacious and I couldn't help but think about her lying in it all alone.  In my dreamlike state, I began murmuring to myself:

      "I wonder if she'll phone in a minute?  I wonder if she's wondering if I'll phone in a minute?  I wonder if she wonders whether I'm wondering what she's wondering ..."

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