It was a surprisingly warm day for October. I had gone out at lunch for a sandwich and marvelled at the kaleidoscope of colours among the trees along the river. The linden were so pretty this year, the lemon yellow and olive a lovely contrast to the warm tones of the sycamore, which overhung the water’s edge. Had I more strictly artistic leanings, I might have set up my easel and splashed a watercolour of the lovely scene. But art takes many forms and my art was art itself.

Being so clement, I had gone to work in an unseasonal, thin cotton blouse and a short lemon skirt, which attracted the attention of the lunchtime crowd. I’m not naïve, I know what effect my 34 DDs and pert behind have. As for my boss, well it’s well known that the antiques industry is awash with red-blooded males in mid-life crisis, so it’s almost anything goes, as far as he was concerned.

I graduated in Art and did my Masters in Italian High Renaissance painting before spending a year or two learning the trade. I did some crummy jobs learning the ropes in a few auctioneers, before landing my job of valuer at a busy auction house. It’s a bit like panning for gold, you have to sieve a lot of grit to find the odd nugget. If I had a pound for every unsigned painting I’ve had to assess, I would be a rich woman. There is the occasional little excitement of course, when a shiny pebble ripples my pond. A Lowry is my best discovery, though one always prays for a Constable or maybe a Picasso, but you never really believe it will happen. However, on that warm autumn afternoon, my pool was about to be disturbed, not by a pebble, but a huge boulder.

My desk is at the top of the main part of the front portion of the building. I have made my little area my own. Craig, my boss says it looks camp, but I like it. I have a few rubber plants, strategically arranged and a bronze statue of a leopard, which belongs to the business and is worth a small fortune. Craig has the only actual office; everyone else utilises what they call ‘artistic spaces.’ From my position, I see anyone entering through the glass doors - I tend to categorize the clients, as they come in. Since lunch I had had ‘the old retired colonel’ with his Moorcroft, followed by ‘hopeful young couple’ clearing out their semi-valuable heirlooms – a Victorian fob watch and a couple of pieces of Arts and Crafts.

Elizabeth was hard to classify. She didn’t so much walk through the door, but stumbled, clutching her box and almost falling over in the process. Jack, our porter was on hand to assist, so nothing was broken, but she made quite an entrance. She was about 25 at a guess, with long dark hair and an inscrutable expression with just a hint of rueful. I suppose you would say she was a cute Keira Knightley. She hadn’t bothered with a bra, and her nipples were very obviously poking through the fabric of her red top. She hadn’t gone out of her way to get made up, and I guess you would say she was naturally pretty. She was one of those people that you would know again if you passed her in the street.

“Hi, I’m Cindy” I said. “I’m your valuer today.”

She sat down and looked at me, with a faint air of embarrassment.

“Hello. I didn’t think I would get it in, in one piece for a minute there.”

“Ah, you should have asked for assistance. Anyway, what have you got?”

I took out a large Edwardian barometer and some sets of silver cutlery before a long, velvet-covered case was thrust towards me by the girl.

“I was hoping these would be worth something.”

I opened the case to reveal some rather nice military medals complete with their coloured ribbons. Even to my untrained eye I could see that one was a Victoria Cross, which have been known to fetch thousands.

“Yes, these look promising. Not my area though – Militaria. Where did they come from?” I asked.

“They were my great grandfather’s.” She spoke with a slight quiver in her voice.

“You’re selling his medals?”

She looked at me imploringly and then just broke down, putting her face in her hands and sobbing.

“Hey, hey! What’s up?” I pulled a tissue from the box on my desk and handed it to her.

“I’m sorry. It must seem like I’m harsh or something,” she said.

“I’m not judging you, it’s just that I have to be honest,” I said, trying to be as sympathetic as possible.

“I’m desperate," she said, pitifully.

“Oh what’s up?” I put a hand on her shoulder, and did my best to comfort her. “Take your time. What’s happened?”

“Since the boating accident, my Dad can’t work. Nearly all his compo went on the house. It’s the repairs! First the roof, then we had subsidence.

“Frick!”

“Yeah. Then we were flooded and the insurance only covered part of it, so we had to spend thousands doing that. “I’m up to my ears in debt. Basically, I’m broke! So yeah – I’m selling my great granddad’s war medals!”

“I’m so so sorry! Of course, we’ll do our best.”

My latest customer was clearly in a proper predicament. It’s in the interest of the auctioneer to get the best price, naturally, but I was moved by her story and wanted to help. While we’re a business and like any business - out to make a profit, I’m pleased to say that we value our clients and maintain a high standard of ethics. That means we don’t just wring them for every cent. When we don’t think it’s in the interest of the client to sell, then we advise them of that. Looking back to her box, there was one more thing, which I hadn’t examined.

“What’s this?” I said, pointing to the remaining item, which was standing up in the box, covered in brown paper.

“Oh, it’s a dusty old painting, it was my uncle’s. Well great uncle.”

I unwrapped the painting. It was rather grubby, and clearly had some age. It took me a few seconds to process what I was looking at and then it hit me like a sledge hammer to the back of the head. My mouth went dry and I began to tremble. It was of a religious looking scene, maybe a bishop or something with who appeared to be the Madonna and baby. I hadn’t seen anything like it in three years working in the business. I took a deep breath and dismissed my fantasy, aware of the fantastic odds against it.

“Did your uncle ever go to Italy?”

“Yes, he worked out there. I gather he was often paid with gifts. There’s this letter. It’s in Italian. It was on the back.”

“Right, that might be important. I’d like to look into this, if it’s okay.”

“Sure. You look excited. Do you think it might be worth something?”

“I don’t want to get your hopes up. It could be a copy or an imitation, but it’s got to be worth quite a lot, even then.”

“Oh, well. Some good news.”

“Okay. I’ll need you to sign it in. Can I be very bold?” I said.

“Sure.”

“Don’t sell the medals.”

“No?”

“I have a hunch. Just a feeling that you won’t need to.”

After taking her details and completing the formalities, I said au revoir to Elizabeth, seeing her to her car. Afterwards I looked at the painting with as dispassionate eye as possible. All the ‘hallmarks’ were there. The lineaments of the figures, the bold colours, even tarnished by years of neglect were shouting the name of one of the greatest artists that ever lived. The painting had that certain je ne sais quoi, which from my years of obsessive research, spoke the name Michelangelo.

As far as my dream to find a great painting went, I had skipped the middle ground of great artists of the like of Constable and Turner and had a potential Old Master on my hands. Not just any Old Master but The Old Master. After valuation that day, I took the painting through to Craig, my boss and asked for a second opinion. His office was stuffy and the smell of his cigar hung in the air, causing me to cough as I entered. I stood the painting on his desk, proudly.

“Ummm… can I have your opinion on this?”

Craig raised his spectacles and looked at the painting closely.

“Yes, not bad. Probably a contemporary of one the High Renaissance Artists. Nice one, Cindy. Get some photos and we’ll put it in at three thousand and see how it goes.”

“Really, you think it’s just a studio job?”

“It’s a good one, don’t get me wrong, but it’s unsigned, so…”

“Okay, forgive me, Craig. You know what I specialized in at uni?”

“Yes, and I value your opinion, Cindy, but experience says it’s an un-attributable painting. So like I say, put it in as an Italian 16th century. It’ll probably make five thou'.”

“Right…”

“You don’t sound happy.”

I wasn’t.

“I just have this gut feeling, that this is the real deal.”

Craig rubbed his beard in that condescending way of his, but I was unflinching.

“So, who do you think the artist is, in your opinion?”

I hesitated. Even the name was enough to make me giddy.

“Michelangelo.”

“What!”

Craig laughed out loud, which I was half expecting, but it still hurt. I felt silly.

“It’s been a long day, Cindy. Catalogue it in the morning, like I said.”

“Okay, well if that’s what you think.”

“Cindy, even if I thought it might be a Michelangelo, you must know what we’d have to go through to prove it. We’d get a ton of media attention but end up a laughing stock.”

“I know what’s involved, but I just think this is the genuine article.”

Craig shook his head, clearly unconvinced.

“There’s been two claims of that artist in the last five years, both discredited. I’m not having my business dragged under the spotlight. It will be counter productive.”

‘You just don’t have the balls,’ I thought.

“Okay, fair enough,” I said, with a lump in my throat. “I’ll catalogue it tomorrow, like you say.”

I went home with all my dreams in tatters. I knew that painting was right, but without my boss’s approval I didn’t have a leg to stand on. In some ways, I saw his point of view. Firstly, there would have to be microscopic analysis and carbon dating. Then there would be intense scrutiny of brush strokes and canvass samples. Finally, assuming it got over those hurdles, there would be the accreditation or otherwise by the Florence School of Art. They were notoriously implacable and their decision was final.

Somehow I had to break the news to Elizabeth. I had promised her so much – stupidly. Now I had to be the bearer of bad news. I decided to sleep on it and then phone her in the morning.

As I lay in bed that night, I thought of her excited face when I said it was a real find. I hadn’t said as much, but the implication was there. All her money worries over. Five grand was a lot of money, but from what she said, it wasn’t going to get her out of the hole she was in. She had taken out a huge loan to cover the damage to her house from the subsidence. The council were meant to foot the bill, but wriggled out on some technicality. The painting would barely cover a third of her debts. I found myself in a strange dichotomy – my professional responsibilities and a genuine warmth and empathy, which I had for Elizabeth. I had wanted to give her a great big hug, but Craig doesn’t encourage that sort of thing.

I went to sleep with a vague plan, but I wouldn’t make any commitments until I had spoken to the owner.

------------------------------------------

I faced the next day with a little trepidation. My first call went straight to Elizabeth’s voice mail, so I tried later, around noon, figuring she would then be at lunch. This time I got through.

“Elizabeth! It’s Cindy from the auction.”

“Hey! Good news?”

I tried to dress it up the best I could.

“Well, we want to put it on sale. I wanted to discuss your options.”

“Why, what options are there?”

There was no easy way to say what I needed to say.

“My boss doesn’t share my enthusiasm about your painting.”

“Oh no!”

“I know. I’m a bit gutted myself.”

“What then? How much do you think it’ll make?”

“Well, rather than answer that now, can we meet up to discuss things?”

“Yes, but you said it would sort out all my problems!”

“I’m sorry Elizabeth. There’s more to it than that. It still could. It just might take a while.”

“But I haven’t got a while. I’ll sell the medals!”

Elizabeth sounded emotional and was reacting just as I had feared.

“No! No, Elizabeth. Don’t sell the medals.”

“Cindy, I’m facing bankruptcy here. My folks are expecting me to come up with something to get us out of this mess. What choice do I have?”

“You have a choice. You always have a choice. Please just meet me later. I’ll explain everything then.”

“Okay, okay. But the medals are still on the table.”

“Fine. It’s your decision.”

I rang off, with a churning sensation in the pit of my stomach. Damn red tape! I felt like that painting was slipping through my fingers. I decided to make some preliminary enquiries after work, prior to meeting Elizabeth. It didn’t help. If I was right, then it was a life changer. If I got it wrong, it was financial ruin for me and Elizabeth. It was a stark choice.

I met Elizabeth around seven, in a mutually convenient pub on the edge of town. She looked different from the first time we met. She had put on a short black skirt with a slit down one side along with a shiny, burgundy blouse. Her hair shone like polished jet. She stood up as I entered the little bar.

“Hey Cindy!”

“You look nice,” I complimented.

“Thank you, so do you. What with everything, looking good is the last thing I have some say in.”

“Awww… you look lovely. Are you dating anyone?” It seemed in hindsight like a forward sort of question, but it just came out.

“You must be joking. Like I have time for a relationship!”

“Well, I thought I’d ask.”

“I suppose you have a guy at home?” she asked.

“No, I’m too independent. I’m not sure what I want. I’m too engrossed in my career. No guys or girls, at the moment.”

Elizabeth reacted to the word 'girls' with a just perceptible twitch of her mouth.

“Do you want a drink?” she asked.

“I’ll get them,” I said.

Elizabeth looked at me reproachfully.

“I’m not that broke that I can’t buy you a drink!”

“Yes, sorry. A white wine then please.”

After ordering the drinks she turned to me and she gave me one of those looks that put tactfully, meant she wanted to rip my clothes off. I won’t lie – she looked hot and I wouldn’t have fought her off. Equally, I knew that she was not in the best place and might have been vulnerable. Adding an extra complication to what was rapidly becoming a complicated situation was probably not wise. But I’m human and I hadn’t had sex in weeks.

We sat down with our drinks and I got straight down to business.

Elizabeth made no attempt to hide her frequent glances at my breasts as I spoke and I had the distinct inkling that she was a boob girl. It’s not unusual for girls to check out other girls, but she was making a point of it. I had reversed my colours from last time, now in a yellow top and a short white skirt. I was aware that my lacy bra was visible through my top and Elizabeth was quietly undressing me.

“The fact is,” I said. “I’m totally convinced that this is a very valuable painting.”

“So, what’s your boss say?”

“This is the thing. Have you heard of an artist named Michelangelo?”

“Obviously!”

“Of course.”

“Wait a minute,” said Elizabeth. “You think my painting is by Michelangelo?”

“I think there is a very strong possibility. I believe it’s a preliminary version of a much larger painting. The subject was extremely popular in the renaissance. There is a similar one in the Sistine Chapel, but much bigger.”

I explained Craig’s reservations and that he simply wasn’t prepared to foot the bill for the necessary investigation or the risk of failure.

“So this Craig, he must know his stuff?”

“He’s very experienced, but he’s not a specialist. I spent three years researching Michelangelo. I think there’s several features of your painting that point to it being by him.”

“And you can’t convince your boss?”

“No. So, that’s where we have to come to a decision.”

I laid these before Elizabeth. The first option was for her to withdraw the painting from sale and we just go it alone. However, there were some reasons not to do that and one very obvious reason why it was a bad option. Clearly once she relinquished ownership, it was game over. So if we sold it, we had to have a fake buyer. That’s not illegal, but if I was discovered, I would lose my job and maybe censured and given a poor reference. Selling the painting at all was not necessarily a bad move and would at least add to its history. It just looks better than finding it in an old box.

“You with me so far?” I asked

“Yes, so who would actually buy it?”

“I don’t know. My cousin or something. Someone I can trust, but unknown to Craig.”

“But he would need the money?”

Elizabeth was starting to see the rub.

“I would have to provide that.”

“You! You’d buy my painting?”

“Yes.”

“But you’d want the money back?”

“No. You can keep the money.”

“Cindy! How much are we talking?”

“Maybe five thousand.”

“But I can’t pay you back.”

“I don’t want you to pay me back. Well, if everything works out, then maybe.”

“Okay, so assuming you’ve got the painting, then what?”

“That’s where the fun starts,” I said, sipping my wine.

“Oh, why?”

“Well even before anything else, it will have to be cleaned. And I don’t mean with a jay cloth and spit. Proper, painstaking cleaning by a professional.”

“And how much is that?”

“About eighteen hundred.”

“No way!”

“Yes, way.”

“And then what happens?”

I outlined the various forensic analyses that would be required and all the hoops we would need to go though. None of which came cheap. Anything but.

“How much would it cost?” asked Elizabeth.

“I made some enquiries today. The carbon dating will be fifteen hundred.”

“Shit.”

“Wait. The other tests, spectrochromatography, minute fibre testing and paint analysis would be another seven thousand. When you factor in the flights back and forth and accommodation, there won’t be any change out of eleven or twelve grand.”

“Wow!”

“Yes. Fortunately, the final attribution is free, but assuming I get that far, they’re not even guaranteed to consider the painting. I will need a sponsor.”

“What does that mean?" asked Elisabeth with a mixture of frustration and consternation.

“An acknowledged expert in the field, who will throw some weight behind the painting.”

“How am I going to pay for all that?!” asked Elizabeth, with a degree of desperation in her voice.”

“Well you can’t. So I would have to.”

“You? You’d do that for me?”

“Yes, but it’s not just for you. It’s a matter of principle.”

“Cindy, that’s a lot of money to spend when you’re not even one hundred percent certain to succeed!”

Elizabeth was right. It would take all my life savings plus a loan of a few thousand. I would have to give up my job, to pursue it. Maybe it would be for nothing. But if I didn’t do it, I would always wonder, ‘What if?’ As far as I was concerned, I just had to go through with it.

“No, Cindy, it’s too big a commitment!”

Elizabeth was full of emotion and placed her hand on my arm, looking into my eyes, earnestly.

“It’s too much,” she said, softly, her eyes brimming with tears.

“I think it’s worth the risk,” I said, calmly, putting my hand on hers.

Elizabeth looked down and then looked at me with her gorgeous hazel brown eyes, which were suddenly like pure garnet.

“Thank you. This is the most amazing thing anyone has ever done for me,” she said, her voice cracking.

“You’re welcome. Don’t cry,” I said, catching a tear with my finger.

“If… just saying, it all turns out right. How much would it make?” As she spoke, she stroked my arm through my blouse.

I honestly wasn’t sure, and I told Elizabeth the same.

“But we’re talking like a lottery win type money?”

“I guess so. It’s just that Michelangelo’s don’t come on the market very often. Like not ever."

I didn’t want to give her unrealistic expectations but a Reuben’s made 95 million a few years ago and he’s not in the same league as her painting.

Apparently content with the matter left to my discretion, we chatted about stuff in general. I gave Elizabeth a potted history of my life to that point, which consisted mainly of my debauched life at university and the route to my current job. Elizabeth was a good listener and ran her finger along the edge of her glass in what I found to be a rather provocative way.

“Anyway, that’s the business sorted, I guess we should have another drink, but just a small glass, cos I’m driving,” I said.

Elizabeth looked at me coquettishly.

“I don’t suppose you ever mix business with pleasure?” she said, softly.

“It depends who I’m doing business with,” I said, flirting back.

She suddenly drew close to me on the pub seat and gave me a kiss. I hadn’t been quite ready and must have looked surprised from the impish expression on Elizabeth’s face.

“Can we do that again, but with our eyes closed,” I said.

She put a hand on my arm and leant in for a second kiss. My lips were pursed gently and they met hers softly, our mouths joining in a moist embrace. It was lingering rather than passionate, but the quiet tingle in my panties was a sure indication that I wanted to take this further. It seemed that fate had thrown the two of us together. There was probably some reason why, I as an auctioneer’s valuer shouldn’t enter into a sexy liaison with a customer, but I couldn’t think what it was. I’m prone not to think things through, but this was one of those times that one’s instinct had to be followed. They say the best decisions are made after exactly one and a half glasses of wine, and that’s what I’d had.

“Are you doing anything later?” I asked.

“Mum and Dad have ordered a takeaway. I’m a free agent.”

“Then maybe we can go back to mine and we can share a bottle? I can pop a pizza in the oven.”

“A pizza sounds fine.”

“You know this probably isn’t a good idea,” I said.

“I know, but I don’t care.”

We stood up as I fished in my handbag for my car keys, and I led Elizabeth to where I was parked. Elizabeth told me more of her life thus far on the drive home. An only child like me, she had left school with three GCSEs and had favoured work rather than university. This was a decision she had regretted, but as she had begun to make plans to return to education, the upheaval of her father’s accident had scuppered that. Her mother had a poorly paid job at supermarket, leaving Elizabeth as the bread winner.

Despite everything, she had her own life and made a little extra cash by making and selling jewellery, but it was just a hobby as much as anything.

As we drove home, I was aware of her sexy legs, which, with the assistance of the split in her skirt were very much on show. I was secretly simmering, wanting to taste her lips again and to run my hands up her legs. We sat quietly for the last couple of minutes of the journey as I negotiated a traffic island and the road works at the end of my street, which had been a headache for the last month. I looked at Elizabeth and licked my lips before we got out. I opened the door, hung up my keys and unset the burglar alarm. Elizabeth turned to me and almost pinned me to the wall, as she raised her left leg, caressing me with it, as we kissed deeply.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” she said.

“I kind of figured.”

She kissed me again and I responded, squeezing her bum with both hands and then searching for that gape in her skirt. Our kiss was passionate and hungry, our tongues swirling together. My hand went inside her skirt, lifting the material, until I had that smooth nylon gliding beneath my fingers. Her bum was lovely and cool and like two cushions, yielding to my fingers. Our hands were exploring each other’s bodies through our clothes, Elizabeth’s hands caressing my boobs as I stroked the gusset of her pantyhose.

We stumbled into my sitting room, still kissing and groping. I managed to adjust the blinds and put the light on a soft setting as I led Elizabeth to the sofa. She had succeeded in unfastening my skirt, which slipped to the floor and then we unbuttoned each other’s tops, stealing a kiss between every other button. Her kisses were hot and her inhibitions, like mine, subdued by the wine; yet we were sober enough to know what we were doing.

I took my bra off at the same time as Elizabeth, both of us eager to see the other’s breasts. Hers were as amazing as I had imagined; soft and squishy but with a contempt for gravity. Her nipples were big and juicy. We fondled each other with a shared fascination. I used one hand, so that I could stroke her legs through the nylon but Elizabeth was content to jiggle my boobs in both hands.

We kissed again while caressing, until I made the next move, and I asked her to stand up. Her panty line was scarcely visible, but still the peachiness of her cheeks was revealed by the contour of her skirt. I undid the clip and eased down the zip, planting kisses on her spine, as I inched her skirt over her hips. To my delight, she had nothing on under her pantyhose. She turned to face me and I pressed my nose into the gusset and nuzzled my face against her sexy pubes. She had an aroma of red roses and sex.

I have always thought that another girl’s scent is enhanced by the imagination. Nature’s way of adding to the reward of the magical instant when her pudenda is revealed. I peeled off her tights, my pussy tingling with the excitement of the moment. Her girlie garden was the neat side of natural, the dark hair leading to beautiful, pink labia. I pressed my mouth against her pussy, pushing my tongue into her sweet nectar. Elizabeth moaned, grinding her pussy into my mouth and urging me to lick her. She put a foot on the sofa, which allowed me to go deeper, while I traced my hands over her the cheeks of her bum.

I’m not sure what the origins of my fascinations with legs and bottoms are, but Elizabeth’s were perfect. My tongue played with her pussy while my hands roamed around her peach-like behind. I don’t know how long it had been since she had had oral sex, but she was beautifully wet and had several trembling, mini orgasms. I flicked my tongue against the shiny flesh above her clitoris, as well as teasing that cute little nub. She jerked her hips, mashing her pussy against my tongue. My response was to draw on the velvety inner lips as my fingers rubbed her clit. Elizabeth was almost panting with her tummy trembling and her hips gyrating, so that my nose and mouth were coated in her juices. It was like she was using me to pleasure her.

I dropped to my knees, and had Elizabeth lean on the sofa. I had a perfect view of her luscious bum. I was sure that like me, Elizabeth was a lover of the delights of being kissed on the bottom. Her round, peachy cheeks were so lovely that it would have been wrong not to shower it with kisses. There was something of the taboo in in giving anilingus, particularly on a first date. Not that this was a date, but you know what I mean. I had only known Elizabeth for five days and here I was, on my knees with my tongue in her sexy bum. I made her sweet ass wet with my tongue, licking her little hole and her pussy until she was sopping wet.

We kissed on the sofa, Elizabeth helping me off with my panties and fingering my pussy at the same time. She kissed me slowly in a random zig zag across my breasts and belly until she was nestled between my legs.

I had had a hard day and all the enquiries and phone calls had made me tense. I lay back and allowed Elizabeth to do as she pleased. I opened my legs and she slipped between them from her kneeling position, with a sexy smile on her face. She leant forwards, holding her hands out, so we could interlock our fingers. She kissed the tender flesh inside my legs, making me shudder with pleasure. I closed my eyes and went into a glorious nowhere land of girlie love as her lips made their way to my pussy. She kissed me softly, using her tongue and lips teasingly, making me bite my bottom lip between little mews of delight.

All the day’s tension ebbed away as Elizabeth’s tongue lashed up and down, inside my little kitty, her nose nudging my clitoris between each stroke. Her hands clutched my breasts, kneading them as she noshed on my sex. My nipples were erect, as sensitive as they get and Elizabeth was tweaking them, just squeezing them between her finger and thumb. The combination of that and her expert oral was making me squirm on the sofa. I was moaning in that urgent fashion, my mind and body in a frenzy of pleasure.

Elizabeth’s appreciative murmurs as she ate my pussy showed that she was a girl like me, who bathes in the joy of giving as well as receiving.

I had almost slipped off the sofa by the time I came, I had given up my pussy to her ravenous lips, until I was perched precariously on the edge. Somehow I had ended up with my calves resting on her shoulders and my whole body was trembling. A cheaper piece of furniture might have given way, as my body tremored and I squealed with ecstasy. Somehow she eased me off the sofa and we rolled together in a kissy cuddly heap on the carpet. She lay on top of me and our lips met in another type of kiss, which was loving and tender.

For a while I had forgotten about the long road that lay ahead with it’s all its uncertainty. We dressed back into our undies and Elizabeth and I polished off the pizza and a chilled bottle of Frascati, while watching Thelma and Louise. She made a phone call to her parents. The last bus had long gone and I was in no fit state to drive. Ideally I needed a clear head for the morning and a good night’s sleep. Elizabeth confessed to being a fidget when she was tiddly, but she promised to do her best.

“You’ll wonder where you are, in the morning,” I said as I went to brush my teeth.

“Ha! Probably!”

“Oh, there’s some spare ‘jamas in the trunk, if you want,” I offered.

“I don’t think I can be arsed. It’s warm, I’ll sleep in my panties.”

“OK… suit yourself. I won’t be a minute.”

Elizabeth hiccuped and kissed me on the nose.

“Thank you, Cindy.”

After completing our late night ablutions, we got into bed. The digital clock showed that it was already tomorrow.

“Cindy?” came the quiet voice by my side.

“Yes?”

“Did you translate the letter?”

The letter! It was in my bureau in the dining room. I had forgotten clean about it.

“Oh yeah, work in progress. I’ll let you know.”

“Okay nite.”

“Nite.”

I turned over and went to sleep, aware that Elizabeth had curled an arm around my waist.

… To be continued.