Agreeably surprised to have been propositioned by an attractive girl, the waiter scribbled his mobile number on a paper napkin and slid it surreptitiously across the table. ‘I’m afraid I’m working until midnight tonight and tomorrow, but I’m off at six the day after,’ he said.
‘I’ll call you,’ said Sharon, putting the napkin into her handbag; she had to admit, if only to herself, that she could be a very deceitful temptress who enjoyed teasing handsome young men. However, she had other plans in which the waiter would play no part. Another time, perhaps?
Unsurprisingly, Sharon having flirted outrageously, the young waiter didn’t notice that it was her dead husband’s credit card that he put in the machine before handing it to her. Not that it would have worried him any more than it may have concerned the girl at the lingerie boutique, had she seen it.
It was one of the great advantages of the chip-and-pin method of payment.
Finally, Sharon found a mobile phone outlet and bought an untraceable pay-as-you-go throwaway for which she paid cash. She put ten-pounds’-worth of talk time on to it, for which she also paid cash.
And then it was time for what she hoped would be a ‘fun’ afternoon.
Arriving at the Dickin Hotel on the fringes of Heathrow Airport at midday, Sharon checked in and took the lift to the second floor. Ten minutes later, recalling the number from memory, she made a telephone call on her new mobile.
‘I’m ready and waiting for you, darling,’ she said, when the man answered.
‘Are you at our usual hotel?’ asked the man, his excitement mounting.
‘Of course, darling. I’m in room 219 this time.’
There was a pause while the man jotted down the room number on the pad by the telephone and calculated how long it would take him to get there. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can, darling,’ he said, having told Sharon when he expected to arrive.
‘Drive carefully,’ cautioned Sharon. She terminated the call and deleted the number from the phone.
She undressed and hung her uniform in the clothes closet. Crossing the room to her suitcase, she put in the underwear and tights in which she had arrived. During the time she had to wait until the man arrived, she took a much-needed shower. The weather was still in the low eighties Fahrenheit and even the air conditioning in the hotel was struggling to alleviate the humidity.
Emerging from the shower room, she dried herself, brushed her long, honey blonde hair and skilfully applied her make-up. And from her selection of perfumes, she applied the one that had been given to her by the man she was expecting. Next she donned the tiny red thong, matching shelf bra and a pair of sheer black hold-up stockings, all of which she had purchased in Uxbridge. Having slipped into a cream satin robe, she pushed her feet into a pair of black stilettos.
Pouring herself a gin and tonic from the minibar, she sat down in an armchair to await the arrival of her lover.
When the expected knock came, she crossed the room and peered through the peephole. Disconnecting the security chain, she opened the door.
Her lover, attired in a sports shirt and slacks, hastened into the room, pausing only to hang a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the outside handle. He closed the door behind him, locked it and reconnected the security chain.
Sharon slipped off her robe and tossed it on to a chair; it hung there briefly before slithering to the floor. For a moment or two the man stood admiring the girl’s trim and exciting figure. She in turn studied his firm body.
The next twenty seconds were filled with a frenzy of lust as his clothing was strewn about the room and he divested Sharon of her minimal attire, apart from her stockings. Effortlessly lifting her in his arms, he placed her on the bed.
An hour later they lay on top of the duvet, satiated and perspiring. Sharon turned and nestled closer to her lover. ‘I’ve something wonderful to tell you, darling, something that means we can now be together forever,’ she said, moving her hand enticingly down his torso.
Purely on the basis that Fulham was closer to our Empress State Building office than the other names on Sharon’s list, I decided that Dave and I would interview Gordon Harrison first.
It was half past five when we arrived at Glenn Road. Harrison’s terraced house was one of several in the road that had been ‘gentrified’. According to the electoral roll, he lived there by himself. I’d taken a chance on him being at home, and I was lucky.
‘Hi!’ The man who answered the door was attired in shorts, tee-shirt and a pair of flip-flops. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, had a shock of unruly blond hair and was suntanned.
‘Mr Harrison?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I’m Gordon Harrison.’ He looked slightly concerned to be confronted by two strangers on his doorstep, one of whom was six foot tall, well-built and black. ‘You’re not Bible bashers, are you?’