Chapter One

A Black Tie Dinner By The Bridge

This was not really a black tie dinner because I was wearing tropical evening wear: a white jacket, black dress trousers and, actually, no tie at all but, instead, an open-necked, dark blue cotton shirt!

Sappho was wearing black and white.

Her mini-skirt was made from black lamb’s leather and it had a cute, but short, slit up one side; her blouse was a billowing whiteRalph Lauren Oxford cotton shirt that belonged to me; it was open at the neck with three or four buttons undone that just showed the curve of her breasts. The sleeves were rolled up to her mid-forearms, but, because her limbs were so slender, it had been possible to button the cuffs and keep the sleeves secure.

The rest of her outfit included black high heels and hold-ups but no underwear and, this evening, she was wearing long dangling earrings; her hair was flowing over her shoulders and her fragrance was subtle but stunningly erotic.

I’d chosen a French restaurant in a hotel by the river with a view from the dining room over a new millennium bridge and we’d been able to reserve a south-facing window seat. However, because of a kink in the river, it actually faced south-west, so our table was lit by the sunset.

I knew Jean-Pierre, the Maître D’, who showed us to our table and, using his prior knowledge, he cocked his head and I nodded. Shortly afterwards, two large gin and tonics arrived, together with a litre bottle of sparkling mineral water, some bread, olives and an olive-oil-vinegar mix along with two menus. He thanked us and left but kept half an eye on me.

Typically, the starters here were pretty poor but the entrées and desserts were just the opposite and, with the restaurant being French, the wines were very good and well kept. We wanted to order but also, to check-out one or two things with Jean-Pierre, so, I looked at him for a moment longer than usual and he came over. I asked about his specials and he started running off a whole list of things that weren’t on the menu.

Sappho, who is multi-lingual, realised this guy was the real deal and was, actually, an Afro-Frenchman, and, suddenly, she spoke to him in his native tongue. Clearly this took him by surprise, because he paused slightly, but it was equally apparent it delighted him, and further, something that endeared us to this young restaurateur.

He began to engage with Sappho, who was equally well-engaged, and, as was his habit, crouched down on one knee to our eye-level to continue his conversation, mostly with her, in French. It was early in the evening because, rather than drinkor dine, or, drinkand dine, later, I prefer to get both out of the way and leave space for other eventualities.

So, although we weren’t the only customers in the restaurant, it was by no means full or, even, busy. Nevertheless, although there were people sitting nearby, Jean-Pierre left these to his staff and carried on chatting with myamour, in French, without really involving me.

I was comfortable with this because the body language was neutral and I’d noticed that Sappho had her legs crossed in that peculiar way of hers. Although there was interest in her eyes there was no threat of competition so it was a