Tommy Mack

I pushed open the door to the restaurant and followed Miss Jones inside. Lucca, the maître d', greeted her like an old friend and showed us to a candle-lit table in the corner.

'Lucca, this is my friend, Mr Fox,' Miss Jones said.

Lucca smiled. 'Buona sera, signore,' he said. 'And welcome to Scrivano's.' And then turning to Miss Jones he said, almost sadly: 'So ... the last supper.'

Miss Jones smiled. 'Well ... the last for the moment, Lucca. But I am sure that there will be visits. I don't think that I will be abandoning London altogether.'

'Let us hope not, Miss Jones,' Lucca said.

Miss Jones must have noticed my frown and after Lucca had left she explained. 'I am moving to Spain, Mr Fox. My sister and I have bought a guesthouse and a small vineyard. I know nothing about vineyards -- or wine making -- but my sister is quite knowledgeable. She has even written books on the subject. I intend to become a good student.'

'Gosh,' I said. 'Spain.'

Miss Jones frowned, quizzically. 'You don't think a vineyard in Spain is a good idea?'

'Oh, no. I mean ... umm ... yes. It's probably a very good idea -- especially if your sister is an expert. Just a bit of a surprise. You know.'

Miss Jones reached across the table and gently placed her immaculately-manicured hand on top of mine. 'It's all right. There is no need to rush supper, Mr Fox. My flight is not until tomorrow afternoon.'

'Tomorrow! Gosh. That soon.'

'Afternoon,' she assured me.

'So no more Tommy Mack then.'

Miss Jones smiled and shook her head. 'No, my Thompson Mackenzie days are over, Mr Fox. They have been interesting days, happy days, but now it is time to move on.'

For a moment or two I felt strangely sad that Miss Jones was spending her last evening in London having supper with me. There must have been other people in her life: friends, family perhaps. But then, after we had finished the complimentary glass of Prosecco that Lucca brought and started sipping the excellent Vernaccia di San Gimignano, I decided to just go with the flow. It had, after all, been Miss Jones' choice. And anyway, I really enjoyed her company. Surprising? Perhaps -- although not altogether.

I must say that Miss Jones' earlier suggestion that the food at Scrivano's was 'quite good' was not quite correct. The food at Scrivano's was excellent.

We started with a simple dish of air-cured bacon, new season's peas, garlic, and a fruity olive oil. It was superb. I ate every last spoonful, and would probably have eaten more if there had been more. The bacon and pea starter was followed by a light-yet-tasty version of cacciucco, the famous Livorno seafood stew. It probably sounds strange that a rustic stew, packed with prawns, clams, and chunky pieces of monkfish, served on a thick slice of toast, could be light, but, trust me, it was. It really was.

'I do hope that you have left a small space for a slice of Aurelio's wonderful chestnut cake, Mr Fox. It has a delightfully crisp crust, and a deliciously-soft melt-in-the-mouth centre. And the balance of the creamy chestnut with the slightly pungent rosemary is something to behold.'

'I am in your hands, Miss Jones,' I said. And I was enjoying every moment of being in Miss Jones' hands.

But eventually the meal came to an end. The food had all been eaten; the wine had all been drunk. Miss Jones made a little sign to Lucca for the bill. But Lucca just smiled and shook his head. 'It has been our pleasure,' he said. 'We will miss you, Miss Jones.' And he blew her a little kiss.

When we left the restaurant, Miss Jones linked her arm through mine. 'My furniture is on its way to Spain, Mr Fox, and my tenants will move in tomorrow, and so, for the moment, I am staying at The Markham.'

'The Markham?' I assumed that it was some sort of hotel, but I couldn't picture it.

'It's just around the corner,' Miss Jones said, as if she had read my mind and found the page blank. And she steered me north, away from the main road.

With its distinctive stone quoins and central triangular pediment set against a hipped roof with dormers, The Markham looked as though it may have started life as an 18th century manor house. But, over the years, it had acquired closer and closer neighbours, and now it was a slightly-out-of-orbit star in a short street of smart but largely undistinguished houses.

As we approached the impressive front door, Miss Jones reached out to press the polished brass doorbell, but before she could do so there was an audible buzz followed by a sharp click. Miss Jones smiled. 'The night porter is very ... umm ... attentive.'

'Impressive,' I said.

Having seen Miss Jones safely to her hotel, I was about to thank her again for her hospitality, wish her farewell, bon voyage, and good luck in her new venture, and head for home. But Miss Jones had other ideas.

'I hope that I can tempt you to join me for a small nightcap, Mr Fox. After all, this could be my last chance to enjoy your most agreeable company for, gosh, who knows how long -- unless of course you come and visit my sister and me in our new establishment.' And, gently but firmly, she led me past the reception desk (and the attentive-yet-discreet porter) and on towards the broad sweeping staircase beyond. 'We are on the first floor,' she said.

Miss Jones' room was like something out of a grand house as seen in a period TV drama: tall, windows, lush drapes, a seating area bigger than many modern living rooms, and a large canopied bed.

'If I could ask you to do the honours, Mr Fox. In that cupboard over there, the one to the left, you should find a bottle of Laphroaig. If it's good enough for the Prince of Wales, I'm sure that it will be good enough for us. The cupboard on the right is actually a refrigerator and there's a small ice box too. If you would like ice with your whisky, please help yourself. Personally, I prefer a splash of chilled water. You should find a jug of water in the fridge.' And with that, Miss Jones disappeared into the bathroom.

I have no idea what the room rate is at The Markham, but I'm sure that it's a notch or two above The Travelodge. Even the drinking glasses appeared to be top quality crystal.

I followed Miss Jones' instructions and retrieved the Laphroaig from the cupboard. To my surprise (and delight), it was a bottle of the celebrated 18-year old. I slowly withdrew the cork, and I was immediately greeted by the soft sweet and spicy aroma of peat smoke. I even thought that I detected a hint of the salty sea air of Islay -- although that may have just been my somewhat over-stimulated imagination. (It was turning into a wonderfully indulgent evening.) I poured a small dram of the pale golden liquid into each of the glasses and added a splash of water.

I was just standing there, figuratively pinching myself, wondering what I had done to deserve such good fortune, when Miss Jones emerged from the bathroom. Gone was the business suit. Gone were the immaculate Salvatore Ferragamo pumps. It seems that not only had Miss Jones moved on from Tommy Mack, she had also moved on from being the buttoned-down Personal Assistant to Men of Power and Influence. The Miss Jones that emerged from the bathroom was a fine-looking woman of a certain age, dressed in pink silk pyjamas, and heeled slippers.

'Thank you, Mr Fox,' she said as I held out her drink. 'And cheers.'

'Cheers indeed, Miss Jones,' I replied.

The Laphroaig did not disappoint. The flavour was every bit as good as the aroma.

'Knowing you these past few months has given me great pleasure, Mr Fox. So many of the new recruits at Thompson Mackenzie are still little more than children, but you have a certain maturity that I find, well, both reassuring and endearing. Our little chats on our morning journeys have been a delight. Thank you. And thank you too for your company at supper this evening. I can think of no one with whom I would rather have shared this evening.'

'The pleasure has been all mine,' I assured her.

'It is nice of you to say so, Mr Fox, but I assure you that the greater part of the pleasure has been mine. And now I hope you will not think me too presumptuous if I ask you to take me to bed. We can turn out the lights if you would find that more comfortable.'

Yes, it was a surprise. But only for a moment or two. Looking back, I suppose that we had been flirting in a courtly manner for several weeks. And as for the lights: there were no overhead lights, just an array of side lamps which gave the room a warm, soft glow. 'Up to you, Miss Jones, but I think the lights will be just fine as they are,' I said.

Miss Jones kissed me lightly. 'Thank you. There's no hurry. We should enjoy our whisky first.'

Having agreed (I'm pretty sure that's what we had done) that we would take our developing friendship to another level, we both sat down on the couch and sipped and chatted. And then, the sipping reached an end, and the chatting paused. Miss Jones held out her glass. 'What do you think, Mr Fox? A wee dram to take to bed?'

'Why not?' I said. 'Mixture as before?'

'Thank you. It was perfect.'

As I refreshed our nightcaps, Miss Jones went around to the other side of the bed, pulled back the duvet and, after stepping out of her slippers, swung her legs up onto the bed and under the duvet. 'There.' And she propped herself up on the pillows.

'I'm afraid that I forgot to pack my pyjamas,' I said.

Miss Jones smiled. 'I don't think that pyjamas will be required, Mr Fox. Not by you anyway. You have youth on your side. I, on the other hand ... well, let's just say that a little subtle camouflage can do no harm at my age.'

I handed Miss Jones her drink and began to remove my suit, tie, and shirt.

'Although, now that I am safely under the covers, perhaps I could dispense with a part of my apparel.' And she wriggled out of her pink silk pyjama trousers and tossed them on to a nearby chair.

Stripped down to my red and white striped boxers, I joined Miss Jones under the duvet.

'Hmm,' she said, looking at me as though over the top of a pair of glasses, 'I have removed my lower garment, Mr Fox; I think it is only fair that you do likewise.'

Only fair? Well, yes, I suppose it was. I wriggled out of my boxers and dropped them onto the floor. 'Happy?' I said.

'Very,' she replied.

I took a large sip of my nightcap and then turned my full attention to Miss Jones.

Thinking about it afterwards, I realised that it could have been very awkward. But it wasn't. It was as though it had been meant to have happened.

As I recall, I began by kissing her neck -- not just once, but ten, fifteen, maybe even twenty times. I remember that she giggled, lightly, girlishly. Giggling was not something that I associated with Miss Jones, but, yes, she definitely giggled. And then, while my lips moved to her pale throat and the small triangle of exposed flesh framed by the V-neck of her elegant pink pyjama jacket, I slipped a hand up under the jacket a began to explore her soft breasts.

'Oh, yes,' she murmured. 'Oh, yes, Mr Fox.'

Oh, yes indeed, Miss Jones, I thought; and I felt my cock swelling and stiffening. Perhaps it was just as well that she had insisted that I remove my boxers. There could have been a terrible tangle.

From her breasts, my fingers slowly travelled south, over her rib cage and across the contours of her belly until, eventually, they reached the upper limits of her luxuriant patch of thatch. For a moment or two, they tarried, teasingly, tracing the border between her smooth soft skin and the springy garden that flourished atop her pubic mound. I was tempted at that moment to throw back the duvet and bury my nose in her tantalising triangle, to inhale the heady aroma of sex. But there would be ample opportunity later.

After a further 15 or 20 seconds, my fingers continued their journey south into the warm cleft valley.

'Oh, yes, Mr Fox.'

Her fur-clad outer lips were already starting to swell and open. I ran my pleasure finger gently between them and felt the beginnings of a slippery slickness on the surface of the smooth lips within. Four ... five ... six times my finger swept her secret valley, and each time the valley opened up a little more. Eventually I plunged my finger into her hot and waiting tunnel. And then, covered in her sweet pussy juice, my finger made the short journey north again to her soft-yet-firm clit.

And while I went to work on Miss Jones, Miss Jones went to work on my cock.

For perhaps ten minutes we lay there, side by side, exchanging little peat-flavoured kisses and pleasuring each other. And then, suddenly, Miss Jones began to make little animal-like sounds, part grunt, part yelp, before starting to shudder and then pushing my hand hard against her hot, wet vulva.

'Oh, yes, Mr Fox. Oh, yes, yes, yes!'

For a minute or so afterwards, she just lay there smiling, her breathing gradually returning to normal. And then she kissed me again. 'You have been very patient, Mr Fox, but I don't think we should delay any longer. Why don't we start with you on top?'

And so we did. Miss Jones lay on her back, her thighs spread, her knees drawn up, and I slid my cock slowly, surely, deeply into her wet and waiting tunnel of love. It felt very good. It felt very good indeed. It also felt very good when Miss Jones took her turn on top, riding my cock, cowgirl style. And an hour or so later -- after we had both had another sip of whisky -- it felt fantastic when she knelt on the edge of the bed and I took her from behind, doggy style.

At some stage, thanks probably to the sex and the alcohol, we both fell into a deep sleep, and when I next opened my eyes the bedside clock-radio was showing 5:32. Doing my best not to disturb my bed mate, I crept out from under the duvet and went for a quick (and much-needed) shower.

Showered and dressed, I was sitting in one of the armchairs, tying my shoelaces, when a small voice addressed me from amid a pile of pillows. 'Thank you, Mr Fox. That was a perfect way to end one phase of my life and begin the next. Thank you.'

I finished tying my shoelaces and walked around to the other side of the bed and kissed her lightly on her forehead. 'Thank you, Miss Jones,' I said. 'For everything.'

Miss Jones smiled. 'And if you ever find yourself with a few days to spare and feel the need of a little Spanish sunshine ....'

'I will keep it in mind,' I assured her.