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ready? I'm just outside ,' came the wondrous voice that I could listen to for hours, made a little crackly over the background noise and the intercom, but still beautiful nonetheless. This man had the kind of voice that would even sound good when speaking through a half-clogged drainpipe .
     
    'I'll be right down!' I told Connor, then put the phone back on its holder, grabbed my bag, and rushed out of the door, remembering to lock it behind me. Keeping my errant fringe out of my face with one hand, I clattered down the stairs, not caring about the noise, just anxious not to keep Connor waiting. As I had expected, the door of the flat below mine opened when I arrived on the ground floor, and the bony, slippered figure of Mrs Windsor appeared in the doorway as I sprinted for the glass door, through which I could see a familiar figure.
     
    'Where're you rushing to like that, young lady?' she squawked. 'Don't you know there are people here who need their peace and quiet?'
     
    'Sorry, Mrs Windsor, I'm meeting someone,' I told her hurriedly, not really paying attention.
     
    'Well I hope you're not going to be bringing back any young men - there's enough noise in this place as there is!' she cried after me disapprovingly as I opened the self-locking front door.
     
    I emerged into the gray sunlight with a smile on my face, because right there stood Connor, his hands casually in his pockets. He grinned at me as I came up to him.
     
    'I see what you meant about that old lady,' he said. 'I hope she won't be too harsh on you when you come back.'
     
    'Ah, she'll probably forget about it,' I replied dismissively, then smiled at him brightly. 'It's really nice of you to invite me, Connor - I know you must be busy nowadays.'
     
    Connor shrugged.
     
    'Well, the scripts I can usually get through easily enough now,' he said, as we began to walk up the pavement. 'And I have help if I need it.'
     
    I nodded, unable to resist stealing a sideways glance at him. He looked very dashing indeed in his shirt, leather jacket, and smart jeans. I briefly wondered whether he, too, had perhaps wondered what to wear...but then again, did men even have those problems? I found my thoughts sidetracked again as I took in his soft, silky crown of luxurious dark curls, and the paleness of his legendary profile under the grey, cloudy sky. He'd probably get his tan back when he returned to the USA...I'd seen many candid pictures taken of him on Calfornian beaches, usually shirtless and wearing sunglasses that suited him marvellously. His chest, neck and shoulders were always burned a bright red and the rest of him toasted brown as he squinted happily from his deckchair. It was still hard to grasp that this much-sought-after man was with me now, walking me from my apartment -
     
    'Hop in,' said Connor lightly, making me realise he had just stopped. I stopped too, turned to him, and then gawped at the vehicle he was getting out the keys for.
     
    'This is your car?' I gasped. The sleek, sexy conveyance parked as naturally as anything between two scratched, dull Renaults seemed entirely unreal. The scarlet paintwork gleamed immaculately even without the sun.
     
    Connor grinned modestly.
     
    'Aye, my English one,' he replied, pressing the button to unlock the car doors with a smart click. 'I can't keep shipping one car back and forth between here and the US, so I have two. I remember desperately wanting a red car when I was wee...so now I have one. Of course, the roads get some getting used to whenever I switch from my American car to my English one, but luckily I've managed to not get arrested.'
     
    A group of shabbily-dressed boys came by, and murmured in admiration amongst themselves - they were obviously automobile amateurs. One of them, a gangly youth in baggy trousers, came up to Connor.
     
    'Ah, sweet ride, sir,' he said reverently. 'What make's it?'
     
    'Mazda RX-8,' Connor replied with a grin, after a short reflective hesitation. I raised my