saline silk of an oyster. To be calm in a storm can be a release, Hal. That’s what I am providing here, a shake-up, a move, a jostling of ideas, a new habitat, a change of energy.” I lay my hand on his shoulder. I could feel his young warm flesh leap to reach the touch of my hand.
“Do you understand?” I said, slowly stroking his back.
He allowed himself the luxury of staying in my power for as long as his blush took to travel to his face, and then the exquisite feeling of excitement and confusion dragged his body away.
“Um, yes, I see… well, I think I see,” he added courageously.
“That’s all that we can ask for Hal. Now then, let’s find a home for these extremely tedious photographs and then I think you and I should go out for the afternoon.”
He jumped nervously.
I smiled.
“Well, John Taylor is taking your mother shopping for a few things. Bella is helping her new friend Fiachra the painter and then I’m sure will do something yeasty with Maria in the kitchen, your father is at work, Maria will undoubtedly be busy making milky sweet tea all day for invading hordes of painters as well as instructing Bella, so you and I have the afternoon all to ourselves.”
A few glancing memories swept across my mind. Other afternoons, other young men. A jumble of images fought their way through my mind. Silky hair lapping down a smooth almost hairless chest caressed by linen sheets, a slim naked brown torso twisted in a bolt of purple fabric, an open mouth raised to mine revealing milk white puppy teeth, how long ago? How long indeed. Perhaps far too long. But I had to be careful, I reminded myself. Peaking too early was always a danger and then I would have a love sick puppy on my hands. But, then again, the Ambles were proving themselves to be very malleable. Perhaps the timing was right after all?
“Where are we going?” Hal asked with an air of forced politeness.
I weighed the possibilities. Could I let myself indulge in the play of the flesh this afternoon? And if so, where?
“Do you know Mr Isaacs? He lives in Limehouse.” I asked, knowing that Hal couldn’t possibly know that monster of venal intrigue.
“Um, no, no I don’t,” Hal said, showing that he had been searching his memory by screwing up his brow in concentration.
“But of course you don’t, how could you?” I said.
Rule Number Five
“ Copulation is the act of an animal . Seduction is the art of a
woman . But there is nothing to stop the latter taking tips from the
former .”
Archie Amble was having a bad day. He’d had an even worse night. He had suffered from acid indigestion, heartburn and insomnia, not to mention acute social unease at the hands of the Elvis impersonator at that ghastly Chinese dive. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had food poisoning. To cap it all off, the spare room that he’d been delegated to had a terribly draughty window that had let in a thin icy breeze that had coagulated somewhere around his left ear.
He smoothed the pink sheets of the FT spread on his desk and sighed heavily. He sipped at his coffee, noting with distaste that the china cup was not quite clean. With the amount of money that everyone was paid in this financial institution, he thought, there really was no excuse. None. Normally he would have been on the phone complaining and sorting out the problem. But not today. He was too tired. He flicked on his computer and stared at the day’s market leaders. Not good. Another sigh issued from his mouth. He stared at his diary. No inspiration of cheer came from there, either. A round of meetings, a lunch with two senior (but junior to him ) heads of department where he would be expected to be avuncular yet wise and indulge in a glass too many of claret, and an afternoon wrestling with an impenetrable report.
It was all that bloody woman’s fault. Flora Tate. Who was she anyway? More to the point, how the hell had she ended up in his
“Do you understand?” I said, slowly stroking his back.
He allowed himself the luxury of staying in my power for as long as his blush took to travel to his face, and then the exquisite feeling of excitement and confusion dragged his body away.
“Um, yes, I see… well, I think I see,” he added courageously.
“That’s all that we can ask for Hal. Now then, let’s find a home for these extremely tedious photographs and then I think you and I should go out for the afternoon.”
He jumped nervously.
I smiled.
“Well, John Taylor is taking your mother shopping for a few things. Bella is helping her new friend Fiachra the painter and then I’m sure will do something yeasty with Maria in the kitchen, your father is at work, Maria will undoubtedly be busy making milky sweet tea all day for invading hordes of painters as well as instructing Bella, so you and I have the afternoon all to ourselves.”
A few glancing memories swept across my mind. Other afternoons, other young men. A jumble of images fought their way through my mind. Silky hair lapping down a smooth almost hairless chest caressed by linen sheets, a slim naked brown torso twisted in a bolt of purple fabric, an open mouth raised to mine revealing milk white puppy teeth, how long ago? How long indeed. Perhaps far too long. But I had to be careful, I reminded myself. Peaking too early was always a danger and then I would have a love sick puppy on my hands. But, then again, the Ambles were proving themselves to be very malleable. Perhaps the timing was right after all?
“Where are we going?” Hal asked with an air of forced politeness.
I weighed the possibilities. Could I let myself indulge in the play of the flesh this afternoon? And if so, where?
“Do you know Mr Isaacs? He lives in Limehouse.” I asked, knowing that Hal couldn’t possibly know that monster of venal intrigue.
“Um, no, no I don’t,” Hal said, showing that he had been searching his memory by screwing up his brow in concentration.
“But of course you don’t, how could you?” I said.
Rule Number Five
“ Copulation is the act of an animal . Seduction is the art of a
woman . But there is nothing to stop the latter taking tips from the
former .”
Archie Amble was having a bad day. He’d had an even worse night. He had suffered from acid indigestion, heartburn and insomnia, not to mention acute social unease at the hands of the Elvis impersonator at that ghastly Chinese dive. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had food poisoning. To cap it all off, the spare room that he’d been delegated to had a terribly draughty window that had let in a thin icy breeze that had coagulated somewhere around his left ear.
He smoothed the pink sheets of the FT spread on his desk and sighed heavily. He sipped at his coffee, noting with distaste that the china cup was not quite clean. With the amount of money that everyone was paid in this financial institution, he thought, there really was no excuse. None. Normally he would have been on the phone complaining and sorting out the problem. But not today. He was too tired. He flicked on his computer and stared at the day’s market leaders. Not good. Another sigh issued from his mouth. He stared at his diary. No inspiration of cheer came from there, either. A round of meetings, a lunch with two senior (but junior to him ) heads of department where he would be expected to be avuncular yet wise and indulge in a glass too many of claret, and an afternoon wrestling with an impenetrable report.
It was all that bloody woman’s fault. Flora Tate. Who was she anyway? More to the point, how the hell had she ended up in his
Similar Books
