London calling

We meet as arranged at the Café Nero on Brompton Street, directly opposite Harrods. Alistair seems on edge – I’m not sure why - technically this is just a business meeting. He looks hurried, slightly disheveled.
You make me feel inadequate, he says, always so immaculate.
You should see me in the mornings, I tease.
He chokes on his latte. I’d love to Cherie, he says, but business first.
Of course, where are we going?
Across the road first, he says.I want to show you something.

Harrods is also choked, with Christmas shoppers. Alistair grabs a Christmas pudding – he promised Caroline – and chuckles when the assistant asks if he has an account.
I mean, do I look loaded, he asks me.
Well, aren’t you? I say.
I don’t feel it, he says. This bloody crunch credit or whatever they call it.
Suddenly no-one’s interested.
We climb the ornate stairs and I follow him into the fashion section. Two adorable long legged blondes smile at us.
D’you need any help, one asks.
Alistair politely refuses. I drool mentally.

He shows me a necklace and asks me to read the price tag.
It’s £25,000, I gasp.
I know. For my wife.
Caroline has expensive tastes.
Cherie, I have something in mind for you also.
He shows me this chiffon dress, silver and shiny.
It’s nice, I say, glancing at the label. Less than £400. Not bad for a night’s work.
Try it on, he suggests, but I’m frowning. I shake my head.
You can’t buy me, I say.
He shrugs. Okay, but you’ll have dinner tonight?
Sure, I smile, why not.
The blonde is hanging around nearby. We leave without troubling her further.

In the world outside, it’s raining. We duck into Knightsbridge underground and catch the tube to Covent Garden. Then we walk down Drury Lane towards the river. The ice rink is open so we decide to spend an hour there, the rain having by now stopped. I nearly fall once but Alistair is there to catch me. After about half an hour my legs are tiring, so we give it a rest. But it’s nice watching all the jolly faces in the crowd.

Alistair has booked a table at a restaurant near the Opera House. It’s a crazy place, with tables hanging from the sides of the walls like Theatre booths, and opera singers regaling us while we eat. The food isn’t up to much, but the atmosphere is raucous and truly a unique experience. The strangest thing is the toilets, which are daubed with erotic paintings of genitalia and indecent acts. We drink two bottles of red wine and some liqueurs courtesy of the host, a Turkish gent. I’m feeling quite emotional.

Alistair senses his chance. In the privacy of our booth his fingers slide between my thighs. He looks me straight in the eye, and I don’t flinch.
It has to be tonight, Cherie. Maybe only tonight, but it just feels right. Don’t you see.
He’s right, there is something magical about it. But I’m not about to yield that easily.
Maybe, I say, but there’s a price to pay. No clothes, no diamonds.
Name it, he says.
I want her, I say, I want Miranda. You have to promise me.
Alistair slurps from his wine glass.
Let’s go, he says, I think they want us to leave.
The place is almost empty. Even the waiters are waiting to go home. We walk in silence towards his hotel in Holborn.
This is a one off, he says. Caroline must never know.
I’m not going to tell her, I say. Unless you forget your promise.
Alistair is oblivious to this last comment. His only thought is the imminent ecstasy that will soon envelop him.

The following morning. we take a stroll across to Trafalgar, then down Whitehall to Westminster Bridge. We part on the platform of the tube, Alistair in a hurry to get home to his neglected wife. He kisses me fondly.
My flat is deserted. Who do I call? Maya? Helene? No, in the end I'm on the line to ET.
Never has his voice sounded so good. Suddenly I don't know what to do next.