paused in order for others to express their moral approval when a voice intervened from further down the table. ‘I’m not so sure,’ it said brightly. This could ruin my relationship with Martin.’
‘Martin?’ Baader enquired, attracted to any source of dissent.
‘My bank manager.’
‘I don’t understand. He talks dirty down the phone to you?’
‘Not poor Martin! He’s a telephone banker, the one who has to approve my overdraft. So I have to make sure he understands precisely what I need the overdraft for. Like why I need a new dress. And how it fits. Or where it fits, at least.’
‘Martin is a progressive bank manager, then?’
‘Good grief, no. He hasn’t any idea how a girl has to get through life. So I have to educate him. On the phone. And that’s where I might fall foul of the Government’s guidelines.’
Mickey Ross had brushed across his life, and Baader’s world suddenly began to brighten. Up to that point the entire weekend had been as exhilarating as a correspondence course in bookbinding. Boredom stirred him to excess – which was why he had grown overly interested in the Ambassador’s wife and had been fantasizing about a late-night liaison with her in the Embassy lift. Boredom also bred mischief. And impatience. He had now spent two days in this place, two days of the rest of his life. Beyond the age of fifty, these things had begun to matter to him. Time was running out. And the more they crammed his official diary with duty the more he began to think about the things he was missing. Those things that had not yet been done, by him at least. In Baader’s judgement the errors of commission were far more excusable than the sins of omission. You learnt more. And had more fun. And after two days of bookbinding Baader was in a mind to commit. He didn’t feel like going to bed yet.
The dinner had drawn to its lifeless close and they were huddled together waiting to collect their coats. His official car would be loitering outside, waiting to take him back to the Embassy. To the Ambassador. To his small talk. And to his lissom wife. It was as his mind roved over the appalling trouble he might just get into if he went back to the Embassy in this mood that Baader found himself next to the young woman with the overdraft. He came to an instant decision.
‘Fancy a bus ride?’
The bus in question turned out to be of the sightseeing variety, double decked, open topped, touring the sights of Berlin. It was dark, one of the last tours of the evening, and they sat alone on the top deck, the warm wind in their faces and their spirits like birds released from their cage.
He kissed her just as the bus passed the Opera House. A lingering, thirsty kiss. Forceful, almost aggressive.
‘You don’t object?’ he enquired.
‘You hear me shouting for help?’
He was about to reach for her again when she interrupted, almost teasing. ‘Actually I prefer a Porsche to a bus.’
‘Why a Porsche?’
‘Has very special vibrational harmonies, totally in tune with my own. Turns me on something rotten. The top of a Number 53 from Clapham has much the same effect, but the other passengers do have a habit of staring so.’
‘No passengers tonight.’
‘Funny you should notice that.’
By the time the bus had passed the Brandenburg Gate their fingers were exploring, and as they passed into the darkness of the Tiergarten their mutual lack of inhibition had become clear. Zips, buttons, clasps, gasps. Clumsily he helped her remove her tights, which were grabbed by the breeze and flew away into the night, accompanied by their laughter.
Of course it was ridiculous. As a Minister of the Crown what he was doing was extraordinarily dangerous. But as a man – and bugger the Crown – this was nothing less than magnificent.
Utterly Bloody Magnificent. And mastering the geometry of the back seat of a swaying sightseeing bus proved to be an inspiring new challenge. He enjoyed new challenges.
Her nipples
‘Martin?’ Baader enquired, attracted to any source of dissent.
‘My bank manager.’
‘I don’t understand. He talks dirty down the phone to you?’
‘Not poor Martin! He’s a telephone banker, the one who has to approve my overdraft. So I have to make sure he understands precisely what I need the overdraft for. Like why I need a new dress. And how it fits. Or where it fits, at least.’
‘Martin is a progressive bank manager, then?’
‘Good grief, no. He hasn’t any idea how a girl has to get through life. So I have to educate him. On the phone. And that’s where I might fall foul of the Government’s guidelines.’
Mickey Ross had brushed across his life, and Baader’s world suddenly began to brighten. Up to that point the entire weekend had been as exhilarating as a correspondence course in bookbinding. Boredom stirred him to excess – which was why he had grown overly interested in the Ambassador’s wife and had been fantasizing about a late-night liaison with her in the Embassy lift. Boredom also bred mischief. And impatience. He had now spent two days in this place, two days of the rest of his life. Beyond the age of fifty, these things had begun to matter to him. Time was running out. And the more they crammed his official diary with duty the more he began to think about the things he was missing. Those things that had not yet been done, by him at least. In Baader’s judgement the errors of commission were far more excusable than the sins of omission. You learnt more. And had more fun. And after two days of bookbinding Baader was in a mind to commit. He didn’t feel like going to bed yet.
The dinner had drawn to its lifeless close and they were huddled together waiting to collect their coats. His official car would be loitering outside, waiting to take him back to the Embassy. To the Ambassador. To his small talk. And to his lissom wife. It was as his mind roved over the appalling trouble he might just get into if he went back to the Embassy in this mood that Baader found himself next to the young woman with the overdraft. He came to an instant decision.
‘Fancy a bus ride?’
The bus in question turned out to be of the sightseeing variety, double decked, open topped, touring the sights of Berlin. It was dark, one of the last tours of the evening, and they sat alone on the top deck, the warm wind in their faces and their spirits like birds released from their cage.
He kissed her just as the bus passed the Opera House. A lingering, thirsty kiss. Forceful, almost aggressive.
‘You don’t object?’ he enquired.
‘You hear me shouting for help?’
He was about to reach for her again when she interrupted, almost teasing. ‘Actually I prefer a Porsche to a bus.’
‘Why a Porsche?’
‘Has very special vibrational harmonies, totally in tune with my own. Turns me on something rotten. The top of a Number 53 from Clapham has much the same effect, but the other passengers do have a habit of staring so.’
‘No passengers tonight.’
‘Funny you should notice that.’
By the time the bus had passed the Brandenburg Gate their fingers were exploring, and as they passed into the darkness of the Tiergarten their mutual lack of inhibition had become clear. Zips, buttons, clasps, gasps. Clumsily he helped her remove her tights, which were grabbed by the breeze and flew away into the night, accompanied by their laughter.
Of course it was ridiculous. As a Minister of the Crown what he was doing was extraordinarily dangerous. But as a man – and bugger the Crown – this was nothing less than magnificent.
Utterly Bloody Magnificent. And mastering the geometry of the back seat of a swaying sightseeing bus proved to be an inspiring new challenge. He enjoyed new challenges.
Her nipples
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