Russell Twyce

I Live In My Scuba Gear – Chapter Three

Warning: This story contains some fairly explicit sexual depictions

Click Here for the Secrets of Same Night Lays

For the next few days, Belinda stayed over. One day they drove to her apartment to collect fresh clothes and toiletries. She called her folks to assure them that aliens hadn’t abducted her but that rather she was on a special freelance assignment.

The interview sessions took place during the days and evenings, punctuated with frequent sex breaks and various outings. He hadn’t dropped any more conversation bombs like the admission of his having murdered his adoptive father. Rather, the talk was on whatever topic struck a moment’s fancy or detailing the exotic places he had been to and dwelled at. The bulk of his work experience had, not surprisingly, been related to scuba diving, scuba gear, diving equipment and/or swimming.

The two settled into a domestic routine that Belinda found to be surprisingly comfy. It was almost like they were newlyweds and the intercourse that went on without prophylactics or even usage of the Catholic rhythm method made cohabitation feel as if they were a church-wedded couple.

To be completely honest, Belinda quite enjoyed the unprotected sex. When he dived into her naked like that, it felt like she was swimming in the nude. When he came, there was a warm and gooey feeling inside her that made sex with a condom seem clinical in contrast. There was also the background fact that she could conceivably conceive and that bit of life drama turned their sex acts into reproduction events.

“Let’s go to the beach today.” Scott offered. “I’ll teach you how to scuba dive.”

Along the way he stopped off at a specialty sporting goods store for the appropriate scuba diving equipment.

“Can’t we just rent my scuba gear package?” Belinda cringed at the hit to her credit card that a full set of diving equipment might cost.

“We could,” he ushered her to the scuba gear section, “but I’ve seen the way rental diving gear is handled at a dive charter outfit. Most, but not all companies give their stuff a thorough maintenance but I’ve seen scuba gear abused worse than I was.”

He picked out diving gear items and got her to try them on. And a pile of equipment that met his approval grew steadily larger. There were scuba fins, a diving mask, snorkel, a scuba BC vest, regulator and a weight belt. The final selection was a sexy looking scuba diving wetsuit with short sleeves and the leggings ending at her mid thigh. But there her meager finances rebelled.

“I don’t think I’ll need the scuba wetsuit: it’s such a nice warm day.”

“Try telling me that after we’ve been down to about 10 meters or so.” He grabbed the bundle and headed for the store’s checkout. “The warm sunshine isn’t quite as toasty in deeper water.

Belinda’s worst fear, an embarrassing transaction declined message, didn’t materialize though, as he flipped his credit card onto the counter. They wheeled the purchases out to his SUV and loaded them in the back beside his equipment bag.

“What if it turns out that I don’t enjoy scuba diving?” Belinda asked.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to offer it all to the next hot female reporter who wants me to grant her an interview.”

She could tell from his expression that he wasn’t being serious, so she punched him on the shoulder. Her hit was fairly hard: it was stronger than she had intended.

“I barely even felt that.” Scott laughed and scoffed. “Luther’s right hook was a like a freight train coming around a tight corner.”

[private_Chevron]Belinda forced a smile at the quip but his frequent references to the abusive man always stirred up different emotions than humor. As she circled to her side of the car, she wiped away a tear of empathy. Her childhood had been so secure, loving and supportive that she would be ashamed to describe it for him.

“Don’t I have to get a certificate before I can do this?” She asked after they got to the place where he wanted her to learn. It was a tiny beach flanked by outcroppings of rock. It didn’t have sand but rather small smooth pebbles. The main reason he used this place was the gently sloping bottom that was easy to find the ideal depth for training purposes. He promised that it also had interesting sea life along the rocks.

“I’m a fully qualified scuba instructor and a licensed scuba guide.”

“I mean,” she started but didn’t want to spark a talk on bureaucratic requirements, “never mind. I’ll bet you were an amazing scuba guide.”

“Truthfully, I was crappy at it. I found it difficult to suppress my underwater speed to match the jellyfish’s pace of my customers.”

The next few hours were enjoyably spent in his teaching her to use the scuba gear. She practiced with it and then as a final exam he took her to a depth of 10 meters where they could watch the fish playing around the rocks. After about half an hour they returned to the level where she could stand up.

“I see what you mean. You swim faster some motor boats go.” Belinda put her dive mask up onto her forehead. “Would you do something for me?” She’d experienced a sudden inspiration. “I want to fully understand the difference between your famous kick, so many people rave about, and the way the other Olympic swimmers do it?”

“Certainly.” Scott first removed his weight belt and he strapped it around her waist. “Now you’ll sink to be able to sit on the bottom.” He explained. “You can shoot an mpeg of my swimming by from underwater.” He handed her a waterproof digital camera from a pocket of his Scuba BC device. “I’ll go by you several times and if you can’t spot the differences, I’ll explain them to you later.”

Belinda gave him the thumbs up signal when she was positioned with her head and the camera about a half a meter under the surface. And he began the first pass of several runs, swimming the physically demanding butterfly stroke. Although she was filming it, she also watched his movements as closely as she could. The reporter did notice that the one method he used produced a visibly faster result.

“You bend your knees further forward than the others did.” She guessed when they were finished and back standing.

“The medical terminology is hyper extension, as opposed to the hyper flexion that would mean knees completely bent. But I’m doing much more than just that.” He played one of her video clips of his signature style. “In the normal butterfly kick, the power comes from rapidly bringing the knees from a partial flexion position, to a nearly full extension.”

“Your kick does that.” She noted. “Just as the other swimmers do.”

“Yes, but then the action of recoiling the knees again is passive. Yet the muscles on the human calf that bend the knees and the back thigh are about as strong as the ones those on the shins and in the front of the thighs that straighten the legs. My way improves on the kick, but still keep it within the rules, by not wasting all of the flexion movement by just passively recoiling my legs. By hyper-extending my knees at the kick’s end, I can use part of the flexion to deliver some extra forward thrust and I’m using muscles that would be otherwise largely untaxed.”

“Your competitive edge is in the bit from the hyper-extension and the less than full extension of the other swimmers?”

“Basically yes but there are also some other subtle differences.”

“What made you think of doing it that way?”

“I spent countless hours in minutely scrutinizing the way fish use their tails and trying to imagine how I could employ my legs in a similar fashion. In a regular butterfly stroke, the swimmer relies on the paddle shape of his/her feet to be the mechanism of producing forward thrust. I also develop a water flow along the whole length of my legs.”

So your kick does exactly what the other style does, but it additionally nets you extra gains from your modifications. That’s why you broke all the records.”

“Again, that’s only part and the rest is my heart.”

“That’s poetic,” she smiled, “and it requires an explanation.”[/private_Chevron]

“Fully understand one concept before we move onto the next.” Scott grasped her scuba mask and he kicked his flippers: he towed her like that out to deeper water, laughing all the way. Then he stopped kicking and relaxed his grip. Her scuba mask settled onto her face but it was a bit cockeyed. “Let’s go back down to the reef and watch the fish swimming again. This time pay careful attention of how they use their tails and play back the video clips to compare that with my unique kick.”

…

“You’ll not likely finish so far ahead of the rest in the next Olympic games.” Belinda had sat in the truck quietly thinking, before uttering the pronouncement. “Others will have copied Fosbury’s flop.”

“A flop?” His attention was diverted from his driving. “And who is this Fosbury?”

“All high jumpers used to drape their bodies over the bar with their bellies facing down. Then in the 1968 Mexico City Olympic games, a high jumper named Richard Fosbury stunned the world and captured the gold by employing a different style. He went over the bar with his chest facing up instead and it became known as the Fosbury Flop.”

“A ‘flop’ described his odd looking drape over the bar?” Scott correctly guessed.

“Then in the following 1972 Munich games,” she continued, “more than half of the high jumpers employed his technique.”

“Whether or not others emulate my style doesn’t concern me whatsoever. For one thing, in order to beat me, other swimmers would have to overcome my final edge.

“And that is?” The sports reporter asked.

“A coach wants his athletes to follow his game plan. He gets them to start fast and then coast from there, or perhaps he’ll order them to start slowly to conserve the best strength for a powerful finish. My game plan begins with expending maximum effort and then to keep accelerating with all I have, to the end.”

“That would be your poetic heart.” She concluded it for him.

“And secondly,” his resuming caught her off guard because she had forgotten that his previous, ‘for one thing’, had hinted of another reason, “I’ll not be competing in the Olympics again. My times might be later bested, but I won’t be beaten.” Then in a muted tone he added. “I had more than my fill of that during my childhood years.”

Belinda Lyle went quiet. No matter how many times Scott casually remarked about Luther’s abuse, the thought still affected her as strongly each time. She just didn’t like to think about how it had been for the boy to endure it.

…

“Why won’t you do it again?” She asked later that evening, when they were in bed.

“I could gamely try my best,” Scott accurately guessed what she was referring to but an intentional was more fun, “but I think it’s too soon after our last for a reasonable hope of physiological success.”

“You know what I was asking.” Belinda’s fingers tweaked a tender place under the sheets. “So answer that intent or I’ll demand that you go for the second.”

“Decisions, decisions.” The athlete mocked a pause of thought. Then his demeanor became serious. “The reason I won’t compete in the Olympics again is closely linked to my motivation for entering the last games and to the driving force that spurred me to win my events. I wanted to find a strong voice.”

“Fanning water into an open mouth doesn’t grow gills and it hasn’t been shown to augment the development of vocal cords either.” In truth, Belinda had surmised the reason but she felt that some misconstrued turnabout would be fair play.

“Oh never mind.” He sighed. “I have an idea of how I can demonstrate it for you tomorrow.”

“That brings us back to the other meaning.” Her hand walked on her fingers like a crab and it headed straight for his male sex package. “Look on this experiment as a purely scientific study into the physique facts of your stamina and recovery times.”

…

“How old do you suppose she is?” Scott asked as a young streetwalker strolled by.
Instead of driving his truck, they took a taxi to the inner city and got dropped off at a coffee shop with an outdoor seating area. The view from their table was somewhat less than spectacular, as it only looked out over some rush hour traffic amid a light drizzling rain.

“Not very.” Belinda answered. She watched the teenager looking into car windows in hopes of finding a man who had left work horny.

“Yet according to the documentaries one sees on television, underage prostitution only seems to occur in poverty stricken parts of the third world.”

“People here don’t want to see it here.” She replied.

“He especially doesn’t seem to want to see it.” The Olympic swimmer nodded over at a crossing street where a police cruiser was stopped at the curb. “Do you suppose that her apparent age would be discernable from his current location? And does it appear that she’s trying to mask what she’s obviously attempting from him?”

“Easily to the first,” the reporter replied, “not in the slightest to the other. Instead, she’s overacting her intent and physically leaning towards each car to ensure the men inside are able to plainly see that she’s not just an innocent girl on the street.”

“So one could guess that even though the cop is currently looking at a clipboard, a could look in her direction has already shown him precisely what she is up to.”

“That is reasonable to assume.”

Scott then abruptly dropped the topic and he took a drink of his coffee.

“Your point?’ Belinda urged.

“It’s not such a nice day today.” Wagner remarked. The sky had a low overcast and the air was thick with moisture in the form of a fine drizzle.

“One constant thing about the weather, is that it’s always the weather.” Belinda said dryly in frustration over his obvious stalling tactic. “And another is that regardless of what we think of the weather, it will be exactly what it is until it changes into the form it will be next – of its own accord.”

“I see she’s found a mark.” Scott observed. A late model American car had stopped at the very young girl’s position. The man inside leaned over to roll down a window on the passenger’s side.

The streetwalker approached and bent over to discuss the terms. Behind the halted car, several other commuters honked their horns. “And the music of the tooting must’ve sparked the policeman to look over at least briefly.”

They watched as the girl climbed into the car. The vehicle moved forward again, to rejoin with the slow flow of traffic.

“I’m just a layman,” he continued, “but I should think that the crime of ‘soliciting a minor for the purpose of sex’ has already occurred here. Our faithful law upholder is just now jotting something in his pad, if it were the vehicle’s license number and he tagged along behind at a slight a distance, I can surmise that some other offenses could be fairly easily spotted. But obviously, the cop was oblivious to the scene. His cruiser has remained stationary.”

“He really might have legitimately missed it.” Belinda defended. “There may really be something riveting on his clipboard.”

“Your reciprocal blindness has just placed an imaginary fog to cloud what you know to be the real truth.” Scott took another sip of coffee. “But let’s wait a moment to see if this scenario will present us with more information. I’ve been here for coffee more than just this once, so I’ll give you this reality opera’s libretto. In a minute or so, the officer’s cell phone will ring. He’ll answer, listen without speaking and he’ll write something else on his notepad: I suspect it’s an address or a location.”

They watched for a few moments and events unfolded exactly as Scott predicted.

“I’ll attempt to put down my white cane for long enough for you to enlighten me.”

“The first thing the policeman wrote in his pad was the car’s tag number because he was well aware of what was going on. The phone call was from the girl, telling him where she could be found if her john turned into a bad trick. The police come down much harder on pimps, than they do on prostitutes—because pimping is the ideal moonlight job for police officers and they don’t want the competition. The overly young girl has to pay off his pretended blindness and his emergency protection with the coin of gratuitous sexual services and/or a commission of her received fee, with a dividend of insider street information. Should she refuse to cooperate, she would be arrested on a charge of prostitution and locked up in a juvenile offenders home—where her only customers would be the non-paying guards.”

Belinda was tempted to again remark on his omnipresent cynicism but she had just seen it as he did. The scenario as he described it was the most likely explanation.

“Now take the final exam.” Scott continued after a few seconds of her reverie. “Who would God think committed the worst sin here?”

“You’re the only one at this table who has had a death experience to go by.”

“That only qualifies me to grade your answer. You are as capable as anyone is of fathoming God’s mind.”

“Me.” Belinda Lyle answered after a pregnant pause. “And you, and the motorists behind who only honked their frustration over the minor traffic inconvenience.”

“That’s a perfect score. If we had done what we should’ve done, what blindness lets avoid doing, then that girl wouldn’t have her body exploited at such a tender age.”

“This has been your demonstration?”

“No.” Scott chuckled wryly. “I haven’t started that yet. This was only some gravy. Take some photos and videos of what you see here.” He set his digital camera on the table. “You should interview some of the participants.”

“I don’t really see anything going on.” Belinda looked around to confirm that only commonplace things were happening. The heavy traffic was stop and go. Several homeless men were walking between the lanes and using their squeegees to clean motorist’s windows. Because of the drizzling rain, the commuters were less than willing to pay for the cleaning of windows that would be dirtied again so quickly.

“You will.” Scott Wagner stood and removed his shirt. [private_Chevron]He walked to the nearest homeless windshield washer and with a few words, he relieved him of his tool. The famous swimmer then began to squeegee some windows.

The ‘I live In My Scuba Gear’ tattoo was instantly recognizable and the vehicle flow immediately went from heavy to a virtual traffic jam. Drivers whistled for service, and to beg for autographs.

Each was eager to hand cash to Scott’s financial assistant, whereas in the moments before the Olympic swimming star’s appearance, they had pretended to not even notice that their windows had been cleaned. The squeegee’s prior operator made more money in minutes, than he had in the previous month. Belinda Lyle shot video, still photos and she inquired of both names and comments.

After a while, Scott handed back the squeegee and put his shirt back on. After a few autographs for the homeless, he and Belinda returned to their now stone cold coffee.

“That will earn you some instant revenue.” Scott grinned. “Do up a human interest piece for the television and local papers: you’ll be able to sell them by tonight.”

“They don’t mean much though.” She observed.

“They are of no value at all but that won’t stop the media from buying your work. But it isn’t finished until you’ve interviewed me on camera.” Scott called over the man whose squeegee he had used. He got him to hold the camera so that both he and Belinda could be in the same frame.
“I’m speaking with Scott Wagner. What prompted you to engage in this seemingly impromptu event?”

Scott didn’t say anything. He just shrugged.

“There you have it folks.” Belinda giggled. “Directly from the camera shy Olympic sensation, being the man of very few public words—as we’ve all come to expect.”

“This was the demonstration you planned to graphically explain your motives.”

“Exactly so. By my being a celebrity, I can make a statement about a problem like homelessness without even saying a word. The people in the cars were just driving by a serious social ill, without a thought or notice. Now for at least one day, those who have to wash windows to get their next meal will be in the public’s focus.”

“If Scott Wagner, the unknown victim of abuse spoke out, none would pay much attention.” Belinda guessed. “But when an Olympic gold medal winner says the same thing, the statement will be loudly heard.”

“Precisely. So get to work on preparing the print and video articles and I’ll wager it’ll be on the TV by tonight.”

“No.” Belinda said firmly.

“What do you mean no?”

“N-o. A two letter word indicating a negative, as in ‘no, that’s not going to happen’.”

“This is good material.” Scott protested and he tapped the camera with his finger.

“I’m not suggesting that it isn’t. But we’re still not going to release it now, and we’ll probably never use it.”

“Why not?

“Because homeless window washers and underage hookers are not issues that Scott Wagner is passionate about. We aren’t going to weaken his thunder with something that means practically nothing. Nor are we going to feed you piecemeal to the media sharks until we’ve lured the public onto your team.”

“How do we do that?”

“By playing your persona and reputation to the nines,” Belinda grinned, “but also by showing the folk at home that you’re not as different from them as they’ve believed.”

“You’re not a publicist.”

“We find that out soon enough because you need one but you don’t see a candidate lurking in the wings. I suspect my education and skill in journalism will give me an equal edge at being a half decent publicist, as your raw swimming ability would’ve helped you to enjoy at least a modest success, as a water polo player.[/private_Chevron]

…

“What are you planning to do with those?” That evening after making love, Belinda’s eyes fell onto his four medals hanging on the bedpost. During her time with Scott, he hadn’t touched them or even seemed to notice they were there.

“At first I thought I’d use the gold to replace some lead in my weight belt. But having them there might lead to the theft of some treasured scuba gear. Lately though, I’ve been contemplating whether they would net more on Ebay if I sold them singly or as a complete set.” He crawled to the foot of the bed and grasped all four. “Offer me a good price.” Scott Wagner placed the Olympic medals around the girl’s neck. “And maybe you can take them before the bidding opens.”

“None of those are going to happen.” Belinda sternly warned. She had seen him on the computer earlier: he was drafting a message to someone. She hadn’t encroached on his privacy by trying to read it, but had noticed he was messaging from an Ebay account. “Those are the material emblems of your Olympic glory and your publicist absolutely requires you to have them physically available whenever she feels they need to be seen, either in the background or around your stiff neck.”

“I’ve already struck a tentative deal with a power seller.”

“You’ll immediately back down from it. Pay him off with some cash to unruffled his feathers if needs be or give him something else of yours to sell instead. The medals are now utterly OFF the auction block. Am I crystal clear on that?”

“Yes madam.” He acquiesced in the same meek tone of voice that a schoolboy might employ when telling the teacher that he wouldn’t throw rocks again.

…

[private_Chevron]“This is putting my audience to sleep.” Belinda tossed her pad aside, and her pencil followed next. Her body was draped over an inline bench in the bedroom he had outfitted as a home gym. “It’s making me nod off periodically too.”

“What is?” Scott paused in his push-up set. “My working out?”

“No. This boring crap that you’ve been reciting into my notepad over the passed ten days.” Belinda shrugged. “Sorry, I couldn’t think of a less insulting way to say so.”

“I thought you wanted the all my life’s details.” His voice sounded wounded.

“A journalist only really wants the exciting, controversial and the unique parts. We do have to listen to the other dross though, to sluice out the goodies.”

“Pardon me for wasting my breath by prattling off worthlessness.”

“It’s not really completely useless.” She consoled. “A biographer needs this kind of filler to expand your memoirs into the size of a book, as opposed to the pamphlet a journalist would compile on you.”

“You’re hired for that too.”

“Good lord!” Belinda stood and fired a towel at him. “I’m your reporter, playmate, and publicist all rolled together. I laundered a basket of your smelly socks, t-shirts and underwear yesterday. And now I’m to pen your biography as well. Are there any other positions around here that I’m qualified for?”

“Yes.” He answered quickly. He saw Belinda look quizzically under her eyebrows at that snap retort but he didn’t elaborate. “Why didn’t you say something nine and a half days ago? We could’ve used the time more valuably.”

“I could copy down that bland stuff without thinking about it,” Belinda brightened, “and my mind was free to plan out something else. Truthfully, the exercise kept you from unduly interfering with my background project.”

“Oh that makes my ego feel loads better.” Scott’s voice oozed with sarcasm.

“You won’t be moping after you see what we’re going to accomplish tomorrow.

…

“Thanks for your help today.” Belinda escorted her older brother down from Scott’s apartment.

“Are you kidding me?” Martin’s laugh exploded from his belly. He shook his photo under his sister’s nose. “I’ll have to have it laminated for protection: everyone at the firm will be drooling all over this treasure.”

“Thanks anyways.” Belinda didn’t have to look. It was one she took and printed today that had Scott’s arm draped over Martin’s shoulder. The Olympic star had signed it: ‘to my pal Martin Lyle.’

“I’m glad you walked me down alone because I’ve something private to say to you.” Martin stopped with her in the lobby. “I’m not completely stupid, so I know there is more going on in that apartment, than just interviews. But you can trust me not to blab anything to Mom and Dad. Say whatever you will to them on your own time.”

“We have too much mutual blackmail on each other for it to be any other way.” She giggled a bit on recalling some. “We should consider sharing some with them, while their hearts are still young enough to take the shocks.”

“I noticed something when I was videotaping you and it stayed with me all day. I have never seen you looking so good.” Martin smiled as his sister blushed. “I don’t mean there’s ever been anything wrong with your looks. Radiant is the description that leaps to mind. Whether that guy upstairs put that on your face, or if it’s there from the work you’re doing is for you to decide, but sis,” his fist pushed her shoulder like a friendly slow motion punch, “it really works for you.”

Back upstairs at Scott’s flat, Belinda set to work, with her video editing software hooked up by a firewire cable to her video camera. She smiled when she linked in the portion of Scott they had shot on the balcony. They had done the segment five times before the perfectionist reporter had thought she had the perfect take.

“If I came with you tomorrow,” Scott stepped up behind her. He had just finished his assigned job of disassembling and packing up a professional lighting system Belinda had rented for the day, “they would be certain to let you in the door.”

“I’m not letting you even close to another news person yet.” She shot back.

…

“We have freelance reporter Belinda Lyle here today.” Charlene Biggs was the top sports desk anchorwoman at a major channel. She smiled at her guest seated adjacent on a sofa. “You just strolled in here today and presented us with a video segment. But you knew that we’d buy it.”

Belinda just smiled sweetly and recalled the advice they had offered in the green room. ‘When Charlene wants your response, she’ll pose a question.’ Until then, Belinda’s job was merely to look good.

“I previewed this piece.” Charlene spoke to the camera. “I was amazed and you all will be too.”
The successful woman then turned to her guest. “Do you know that I once tried to interview him?”

“I’d love to view that clip.” Belinda said.

“No way.” Charlene laughed. “Especially not when we now have yours to compare it to. Let’s not tease the folks anymore. Run the video.” She then reached over and put a hand on Belinda’s knee in a friendly manner and whispered. “I hadn’t planned on posing that as a question, but your answer made it great.”

“I’m in the Olympic gold medalist Scott Wagner’s tastefully appointed apartment.” Belinda said on the video, while the camera followed her across the living room. “Surprisingly, he doesn’t live in an aquatic cave, littered with half-gnawed sports reporter bones. Mr. Wagner?” She spoke a bit louder as the camera cut to him.

“Scott.” He said curtly. He was semi-reclined on a deck chair, wearing only a pair of snug gym shorts. His bare chest glistened with baby oil.

“Certainly.” Belinda was heard but the view remained on Scott. He sat up slightly: the movement caused his abdominal muscles to tighten and become sharply defined as a sexy six-pack. He then swiveled at the waist to collect a t-shirt that was draped over the back of a chair. That motion brought his ‘I Live In My Scuba Gear’ tattoo into full sight. In the opening few seconds, Belinda had probably cause 80 percent of the female viewing audience to gasp, and then had made certain that all instantly recognized him.

“Scott.” She hesitantly tested the word, as shyly as a mouse would be careful of a gift of cheese mysteriously sitting on an odd looking contraption. “Up until now, you’ve been less than forthcoming with the press.”

“You’ll notice that the phrase ‘up until now’,” his voice terse but not hostile, “still resides in the present tense.”

“You did agree to the stipulation of my limbs remaining attached to my torso.”

“Grudgingly.” Scott mumbled. He had put on the slightly too small black t-shirt that accentuated the lean musculature of his well-proportioned body.

“When one doesn’t speak up for himself,” Belinda’s on camera countenance had grown a little bolder, “he has to be content with what others say about him.”

“Mmmm.” His noise was nasal based, like a hum to denote thinking, but it was closer to his famous throaty growls, than in appreciation of a tasty aroma. Belinda had needed a few takes before Scott had achieved the exact tone she wanted.

“Why don’t you tell us something of your life prior to the Olympics?” The camera angle had begun with showing the two people seated corner-on the table: they were in profile as they had been facing each other. But as Belinda spoke the line from her script, Martin’s cue was to walk the camera’s perspective to almost behind her. I’ve read that you were a scuba diving instructor.”

“I have my instructor ratings,” he corrected, “but I mostly worked as a guide.”

“I’m guessing that you were amazing at it.” Belinda slowly leaned over towards him. She seemed as a lion tamer brazenly walking up to a wild beast. Martin’s job was to zoom the lens in slightly faster than her movement. In this way, a viewer might feel he or she was participating just as fearlessly.

“If that’s your final answer,” Scott chuckled slightly as he stole a line from the game show, “then you’ve blown your shot at the big-money round. I was lousy at it.”

“How so?” Belinda set her elbow on the table and she rested a chin on her knuckles. That was the last posture the audience would see her in, because the zooming lens continued until Scott’s face was in close-up.

“I found it extremely difficult to swim slowly enough for clients not to feel rushed.”

Belinda’s voice could be heard occasionally from off screen, as with sparing use of her own words, she gently nudged him to converse genially with the viewers. The effect was homey and casual. Scott described several anecdotes that summed up his life in the diving industry.

“While you were earning your living in the water,” the reporter gently steered the subject matter, “you were also effectively beginning your own Olympic training?”

“I suppose so.”

Martin Lyle’s prearranged camera instructions had him swinging the shot again. The new position brought both the interview participants back into the frame.

“You didn’t receive financial assistance from the nation’s sport program either?”

“I have my own money.” He said: then as her expression seemed to ask for more, he added. “I’m not wealthy. I’ve just been frugal with my modest inheritance.”

“I just wish we had more time to explore that thought further.” Belinda glanced at her wristwatch. She normally used her cell phone’s time display and had bought a pricey looking one as just a production prop for this moment. “I’ve heard some say that you shirked an obligation by not swimming the four by one-hundred relay but by your being at the games on your own dime, as it were, you had a right to decide.”

“I fully concur that we haven’t the time to go into that.” He paused for a breath and a very brief span of thought before going on. “Maybe I should tell you of it later.”

“I’m sure the people watching would want that too.” She turned her head to look at the camera’s lens, while Martin panned back slightly. “Thank you Scott Wagner for an interview without any snarls.”

“Rrrrrr.” In the background he was smiling and the rumble resembled a very large cat’s loud friendly purr.

“Make that with only one growl.” She corrected. “For ASN, I’m Belinda Lyle.” She had made a dozen endings similar to this, each corresponding to the networks she planned pitching the interview to.

“Brilliantly done.” Back in the seemingly live action, but the show was being taped, Charlene Biggs congratulated her. “And especially so, given that until you managed it, I thought that interviewing the Olympic mystery man was an impossibility.”

“How would you coax a turtle’s head from its shell?” Belinda audaciously asked, when her input hadn’t been invited with a question.

“With food maybe.” Charlene ventured. She could always have the snippet chopped later, if it didn’t make her look good. “Or perhaps with a hot looking lady turtle.”

“But neither would work. The harder you tried and the closer you shoved in a lure, the more determinedly he would remain safely inside.”

“That’s a good analogy. How would you do it?”

“By not trying to. The only way is to patiently wait until the turtle pokes a head out. Then you show him by respecting his space, that the outside is a nice place to be.”

“Those are words of wisdom that we media people often tend to forget. Thank you Belinda, for sharing your presence and your wonderful video article with us.”

“You are more than welcome.”

“I suspect the name of Belinda Lyle is one that will be heard more and more.” The seasoned television commentator said after the director called for a cut. “I’ll go butt kick my agent to ensure that my contract is locked in.” Her quip was lighthearted.

“You needn’t worry.” Belinda giggled. “I’m elbows deep in my freelance project.”

“Yes.” Charlene stroked the affirmative out deliciously. “And until you had Scott sit up with that well-oiled belly, I’d forgotten what a hunk he is.” She fanned her face as if feeling sharply elevated sexual heat. “I’d swap you jobs in a nanosecond.”

Belinda wasn’t prepared for that and she blushed.

“When you’ve worked up a piece on the 4×100, I want it. This network will outbid any other offers for it. If an editor balks at the price, tell them to come talk to me.”

…

“That’s what you have a publicist for.” Belinda remarked with justified pride as they finished watching the segment air. She glowed further on a thought of her parents sitting as close together as she and Scott were, while they viewed the same channel. She had phoned to tell them when and where their daughter would be on TV.

“Not to mention what a script-writer, producer, scene decorator, make up artist, key grip, prop manager, and video editor do too.”

“Your credit roll has left out the caterer.”[/private_Chevron]