he saw her, caught in profile as she started to cross the road, a pretty face framed perfectly by a sumptuous black hat. Suddenly, life in this strange country of offish Barbours and oafish Trendies had a plus to it. This, Carlos realized with a great deal of excitement, was his first glimpse of an English Rose. He gawped transfixed; watching the cars slither and toot while she danced and laughed her way between them. There is a zebra crossing a hundred yards ahead but today Sally prefers to jay-walk.
Bella, bella
! The hat, the face, the rosiness â and here she is, ordering a cappuccino and a Danish pastry.
Sally graciously accepted the compliments of the waiter. Soon she was deftly scooping up the chocolate-dusted froth and thinking of nothing in particular as it fluffed into nothingness on her tongue. The pastry was absolutely heavenly and she even closed her eyes as the first mouthful revealed to her tastebuds apple,
crème patissière
and the lightest of pastry. By the second sip and third mouthful, Sally was happily recalling the details of her decadent afternoon. A coffee-brown lambswool blazer; two silk shirts, one olive, one cream; a pair of exorbitantly expensive designer jeans; and a short (was it too short?) black devoré velvet skirt.
When on earth am I going to wear that?
You will.
She had indulged in garments of the finest fabrics, and at the most exorbitant prices. The whole experience had been so pleasurable, the looking, the touching, the trying on; the decision-making so effortless. Finally, it had been a joy and well worth the money to watch her acquisitions being coddled in tissue paper and then handed to her so reverently.
As she pressed a determined fork against the last flakes of Danish, she pondered for a moment; common sense versus decadence. Sally, you must understand, had spent her rainy-day money. Frequently she put a little aside âfor a rainy dayâ, not really knowing when that would be. But it was definitely today and common sense had a place neither in her scheme of things nor her purse.
Today
, she told herself as the brisk November breeze reddened her nose and chin a little more,
today it is pouring
.
Despite the pavements being dry and no umbrella in sight, Sally decided that it was the rainiest day in ages and the spending of pounds amassed from hard-saved pennies was utterly justified. These purchases, after all, were an
investment
. She turned to look for her waiter, and in doing so felt a whisper of velvet against her cheek. Its caress felt wonderful and, as the waiter was nowhere to be seen, she kept her head still a moment longer.
Over her second cappuccino, Sally indulged in recalling, moment by moment, thrust by thrust, the athletics of the previous night, and if one can feel light-headed between the legs, then that was how Sally was feeling.
Never have I been worshipped like that, never have I been so aware of my body, what it can do, how it can feel, how it can make another feel.
Perhaps it was because she had consciously watched, analyzed even, a man totally absorbed in her, so hungry for her, that her own physical awareness had been heightened. The sex seemed so much more fulfilling, the orgasm so exquisite. New. Sitting there, in Hampstead, with the light growing thin, a November navy replacing the afternoon silver, Sally decided to recast herself as a fly on the wall of her replay and ran the whole sequence again, this time as a series of film stills. Vivid in her mindâs eye was the interlocking of two bodies, the various formations and patterns, firm flesh, the spaces in between; Rodinâs marble; Henry Mooreâs bronze.
Carlos found himself unable to resist. The English Rose, smiling carefree out loud, was compelling, magnetic. He was helpless in the face of her. As his luck would have it, she turned to him with that very smile as he presented the bill to her. With his very best English, he let go:
âSeñorita, your smile, it
Bella, bella
! The hat, the face, the rosiness â and here she is, ordering a cappuccino and a Danish pastry.
Sally graciously accepted the compliments of the waiter. Soon she was deftly scooping up the chocolate-dusted froth and thinking of nothing in particular as it fluffed into nothingness on her tongue. The pastry was absolutely heavenly and she even closed her eyes as the first mouthful revealed to her tastebuds apple,
crème patissière
and the lightest of pastry. By the second sip and third mouthful, Sally was happily recalling the details of her decadent afternoon. A coffee-brown lambswool blazer; two silk shirts, one olive, one cream; a pair of exorbitantly expensive designer jeans; and a short (was it too short?) black devoré velvet skirt.
When on earth am I going to wear that?
You will.
She had indulged in garments of the finest fabrics, and at the most exorbitant prices. The whole experience had been so pleasurable, the looking, the touching, the trying on; the decision-making so effortless. Finally, it had been a joy and well worth the money to watch her acquisitions being coddled in tissue paper and then handed to her so reverently.
As she pressed a determined fork against the last flakes of Danish, she pondered for a moment; common sense versus decadence. Sally, you must understand, had spent her rainy-day money. Frequently she put a little aside âfor a rainy dayâ, not really knowing when that would be. But it was definitely today and common sense had a place neither in her scheme of things nor her purse.
Today
, she told herself as the brisk November breeze reddened her nose and chin a little more,
today it is pouring
.
Despite the pavements being dry and no umbrella in sight, Sally decided that it was the rainiest day in ages and the spending of pounds amassed from hard-saved pennies was utterly justified. These purchases, after all, were an
investment
. She turned to look for her waiter, and in doing so felt a whisper of velvet against her cheek. Its caress felt wonderful and, as the waiter was nowhere to be seen, she kept her head still a moment longer.
Over her second cappuccino, Sally indulged in recalling, moment by moment, thrust by thrust, the athletics of the previous night, and if one can feel light-headed between the legs, then that was how Sally was feeling.
Never have I been worshipped like that, never have I been so aware of my body, what it can do, how it can feel, how it can make another feel.
Perhaps it was because she had consciously watched, analyzed even, a man totally absorbed in her, so hungry for her, that her own physical awareness had been heightened. The sex seemed so much more fulfilling, the orgasm so exquisite. New. Sitting there, in Hampstead, with the light growing thin, a November navy replacing the afternoon silver, Sally decided to recast herself as a fly on the wall of her replay and ran the whole sequence again, this time as a series of film stills. Vivid in her mindâs eye was the interlocking of two bodies, the various formations and patterns, firm flesh, the spaces in between; Rodinâs marble; Henry Mooreâs bronze.
Carlos found himself unable to resist. The English Rose, smiling carefree out loud, was compelling, magnetic. He was helpless in the face of her. As his luck would have it, she turned to him with that very smile as he presented the bill to her. With his very best English, he let go:
âSeñorita, your smile, it
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