He wanted her to feel she was his date, not some paid brass. He began by helping her from her jacket, the thin white blouse starched within an inch of...its life, just about managing to concealing substantial brassier straps, white against the pale skin. She sat with her left arm on the sill, the glass beside it, her right hanging at her side, smiling, benevolently at him, her double chin wobbling as she swallowed apprehensively. “No man has seen what lies under my clothing since my Joe died,. Her boudoir was 100 per cent feminine, with not a vestige of Uncle Ned’s presence: no muddy gaiters or hob-nailed boots. It was how I imagined a high-class Parisian harlot’s parlour would look. Draped with diaphanous curtains flapping languidly in the breeze, it was filled with a heady perfume. Discarded lingerie lay on the floor. All the pictures on the walls – etchings, watercolours and even some ancient sepia photographs – were of a most intimate nature. Nude ladies playing together on. More

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