Netsuke

“Dave!” Ann took a step backwards. “It isn’t your business where I am.”

She sashayed across the marble floor on her Jimmy Choos and pressed a button. Georgy, sitting on a black leather sofa in red Armani casuals, could now hear the conversation.

“What the hell have I done with what?”

Ann’s neck jutted forward.

“Polite, Dave. We’re divorced now.”

She wiggled her hips over to the sofa and sat on its wide armrest. Georgy’s large hand cradled her buttocks.

“You had your netsuke collection valued? The best pieces have been replaced by copies?” Ann laughed. “You told the judge you don’t have a netsuke collection.”

Georgy patted Ann’s buttocks.

“Like you didn’t have a Jag. Remember? A year before the divorce. You changed it for a Fiesta and told me you’d lost all your money.”

She stalked over to a cabinet and chose a small object.

“Polite, Dave, or I’ll put the phone down.”

Ann fluttered her eyelash implants at Georgy.

“If you do have a Jag and a netsuke collection, we’ll have to go before the judge again. The Swiss give bank details now.”

She sat on the armrest again.

“You’ll bash me to pulp? Come and get me, Dave. I’m with Georgy Basilic, in a villa with bodyguards and servants in the South of France. …Yes, the Georgy Basilic. The woman boxing champion. My boxing teacher. You wanted me to learn.”

“Come any time, Dave,” Georgy growled into the phone.

Ann cut the connection.

“This beauty’s worth a half a million, darling.” She held out the object in her hand. “His dad collected, but he can’t tell one from another. And that’s not all I’ve taken.” She slid onto Georgy’s knees. “While he was filling his bank vaults,” Ann interrupted herself to kiss her, “I was filling mine.”




by Joy Manné

www.joymanne.org

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