Sunday, 6 March 2016


My skin looks incredible. I shine. The basque clings to my body. The fit is everything I could ask for and I feel a flutter of excitement as I pick up the card, again.


Suddenly, I know who has sent me the stunning lingerie.

I look into the mirror and the woman who looks back isn’t the woman who worries if her skirt is long enough, or if her hair is straight enough. The woman in the mirror doesn’t care if it is eight in the morning or eight in the evening. I smile, the slow, knowing smile of a woman who knows she already has what she wants.

The woman in the mirror, is me.

I take time with my make up, sweep my hair away from my face. I want him to see me. I already know what else I’m going to wear but at the last minute, I hesitate.

Then I remind my self: surrender.

I run my hands through my hair and let my fingers travel down, over the sheer fabric, tracing the pretty feather embroidery, touching the little rose-gold ‘s’ charm. I close my eyes as my hands cover my body, as I luxuriate in the smooth silky fabric, following the lines of the basque that celebrates every curve. My fingers savour the softness of my skin, and as I trace the suspenders, as I feel the tug of the naughty peep-hole briefs, I know I can do this.

I slide my feet into my heels and pluck one single item from my wardrobe: my long black coat.

At the door, I check my lipstick, but I don’t need to check my body again. I know I look good. The soft silk of my coat is cold against my skin and outside on the street, the light breeze plays around the hem of my coat. I pull the belt a little tighter. My heels click on the pavement and I walk with my head high, knowing my own power. At the entrance to Macari’s, I stop.

After all these years, would it be the same? Did he still know my mind, my heart, like he knew my body?

I already knew the answer. The huge dance floor was empty except for one man.

Tom. His uniform spotless, he turns to face me. Our eyes meet.

I let my coat fall to the floor.