Sally. Freya North

I don’t care much for Myra Hindley or Peter Sutcliffe.’

      ‘What do you consider the most overrated virtue?’

      ‘Chasteness. Decorum.’ Richard raised his eyebrows at the intensity of her proclamation.

      ‘What is your greatest regret?’

      ‘Not being good enough to go to ballet school.’

      ‘Ballet?’

      ‘Ten years of it.’

      ‘That explains your hyper-mobility then! When and where were you happiest?’

      ‘Childhood holidays at Aunt Celia’s in Mull.’

      ‘What single thing would improve the quality of your life?’

      ‘A farmhouse in Tuscany.’

      ‘And the dark, swarthy man?’

      ‘Him too.’

      ‘What would your motto be?’

      ‘Don’t look before you leap.’

      ‘How would you like to die?’

      ‘When I’m ready.’

      ‘How would you like to be remembered?’

      ‘With desire and longing and a twinkle in the eye.’

      ‘Thank you, Ms Lomax,’ said Richard, pouring her another cup of Earl Grey and stirring it with the microphone, ‘that was intriguing!’

      And necessary, my love. ‘But there’s one more question,’ he asked lasciviously, ‘how do you like it best?’

      Sally smirked. ‘Milk, no sugar?’ she ventured.

      Richard raised his eyebrows in a that-won’t-do fashion.

      ‘I’ll show you later. First, there’s the small but pressing issue of your answers, Richard Stonehill.’

      ‘And then you’ll show me?’

      ‘Then I’ll show you.’

      NINE

      ‘Richard Stonehill, thirty-five, architect, new-age man and all round good-looker, what is your idea of perfect happiness?’

      ‘Yachting in Australia.’ You, Sal.

      ‘Ever done it?’

      ‘Yes, I have.’

      ‘What is your greatest fear?’

      ‘Multiple sclerosis.’

      ‘With which historical figure do you most identify?’

      ‘Byron.’

      ‘How pretentious! Which living person do you most admire?’

      ‘Bob.’

      ‘Bob-and-Catherine Bob?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘What vehicles do you own?’

      ‘An Alfa Romeo Spyder and a Cannondale mountain bike.’

      ‘What is your greatest extravagance?’

      ‘Silk ties and olive oil that’s as expensive as the former.’

      ‘What objects do you always carry with you?’

      ‘Why, my little black book of course.’

      ‘Am I in your little black book?’

      ‘You are in my little black book.’

      ‘What makes you most depressed?’

      ‘Housing estates. Oh, and nylon.’

      ‘Hear hear. What do you most dislike about your appearance?’

      ‘My legs.’

      ‘Your legs?’

      ‘Too skinny.’

       Richard, they’re gorgeous, unquestionably masculine, you vain old thing.

      ‘What is your most unappealing habit?’

      ‘Moi? Rien!’

      ‘Ri-chard!’

      ‘Okay, I pick my nose, fart and belch.’

      ‘Big deal.’

      ‘Simultaneously. In the bath.’

      ‘Gracious Good Lord. What would you most like for your next birthday present?’

      ‘You. Wrapped up in brown paper and red ribbons.’

      ‘When is your birthday?’

      ‘June the second.’

      ‘I’ll see what I can do. What is your favourite word?’

      ‘Telecommunication,’ proclaimed Richard. ‘Well, it sounds nice, doesn’t it?’ Sally raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, all right then – copulation.’

      ‘Later. What or who is the greatest love of your life?’

      ‘My mummy!’

      Laughter erupted and Sally tickled Richard into saying ‘Architecture’ and finally admitting ‘Food’.

      ‘Ooops, watch that cup! What do you consider the most overrated virtue?’

      ‘Etiquette.’

      ‘What is your greatest regret?’

      ‘That my father and I did not get along.’

      ‘It’s never too late for a reconciliation.’

      ‘He’s dead.’

      ‘Oh. Poor Richie. Mine died when I was fifteen. When and where were you happiest?’

      ‘Finishing the London marathon three years ago.’

      ‘What single thing would improve the quality of your life?’

      ‘A housekeeper-cum-therapist-cum-masseuse-cum-sex-goddess. Want the job? Seven-fifty an hour?’

      ‘Ten? Done! Which talent would you most like to have?’

      ‘Telepathy.’

      ‘What would your motto be?’

      ‘Bien faire ce que j’ai à faire.’ Sally nodded, earnestly hoping to veil the fact that she had not the faintest idea what that meant.

      ‘How would you like to be remembered?’

      ‘As Sally Lomax’s favourite lay!’ As Sally Lomax’s favourite.

      ‘Thank you, Richard Stonehill, for your co-operation and honesty. Would you like your reward now or after lunch?’

      ‘What do you think?’

      Richard and Sally explored each other’s bodies with a new inquisitiveness and a new depth. A new tenderness, too. Richard found how Sally’s personality shone through; her breasts spoke of it, her fuzzy bikini line proclaimed it. She spent a long time caressing his legs, with hands, lips and eyes, showing him that they drove her wild. She whispered ‘telecommunication’ as she chewed and licked his ear lobes. He hummed Genesis and sang ‘Turn It On Again’ after she came. She came again. She felt more fulfilled than she had with any other man, not that there had been that many. Now they both wanted to give, not merely to take. To give and to receive, to linger and to lap it up.

      What is it that I am feeling? thought Sally as she showered, alone, in Richard’s bathroom. What is it? she wondered, as she swathed herself in Richard’s thick, burgundy towelling robe. What is it that feels so, well, nice? she asked herself as she padded