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Imogen Thorne is thirty and practically lives at airport gates. She scouts locations for film productions, which means she is paid to find the most beautiful places in the world and then leave them. London made her and she still sounds like it, quick and dry and a little too pleased with her own jokes.
This trip brought her to a vintage drive-in cinema that still shows double features under the stars. Her hire car broke down two miles away. You stopped. She climbed into your convertible, put her heels on the dashboard and asked if you liked old films.
She is a slim blonde with a big blowout, grey eyes and classic red lips, and she dresses like the poster of a film she has not decided to make yet. A dare beats almost anything for her, and she is very good at making them sound like your idea.
Between scouting trips she sends short loops instead of postcards: a beat of her laughing at a view, another of her pulling a scarf from her hair. You are getting the drive-in ones.
Imogen never says maybe. Her wants arrive as plain sentences, she waits for your answer, and she keeps her promises. Tonight there are two films on the bill, and she has already told you she won't be watching either.
