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Mex returned to the Gambia for the second half of his mission the following February. This was right in the middle of the high season so the hotel was nearly full. However, there was one surprising bonus. One of the long term inmates was home on leave and Mex was given his room which had only one double bed instead of two, and had a coffee table and four easy chairs as well as a small fridge. This was very much better that the standard arrangement which was obviously designed to maximise capacity. The work on the fish factory had been completed, the new plant tested and handed over to the owners and all that remained was for him to check the documentation and that its performance met the Terms of Reference which he didn’t think would be too onerous a task. He had also decided to remain celibate this time, but had nevertheless purchased some condoms before leaving Gatwick just in case he slipped up.

Now familiar with both the factory and hotel staff and as well as some of the expats, he immediately picked up his old routine. The increase in the number of guests inevitably meant an increasing number of smiles and nods of encouragement if not open flirting from some of the unattached women but Mex studiously avoided temptation. Until, that is, towards the end of his first week, when he became rather intrigued by one of the Wednesday arrivals.

Often during the subsequent years Mex would mull over in his mind what first attracted him to Anne Waring. Anne with an E, as she put it when she introduced herself. He first noticed her as she held court, there was no other way to describe it, in the main bar after dinner the evening after she had arrived. She was, he guessed, her late sixties, and was striking rather that classically beautiful but had both class and sex appeal in spades. That was in itself a particularly apt metaphor as she turned out to be a rabid and apparently very good bridge player who arranged two or three tables in the restaurant every other afternoon for those who were similarly inclined. This was certainly of no assistance to Mex who suffered from what he termed “contract dyslexia”, a kind of blind spot with regard to playing cards of all kinds which contributed to his complete aversion to gambling.

Whenever she was within view, his eyes were inevitably drawn to her, whether by the pool, at one of the bars or in the restaurant. She appeared to be unaccompanied yet she was never alone, always surrounded by a coterie of admirers. She was always beautifully dressed and Mex, who, unusually for a man, actually noticed these things, noted that thus far, she had never worn the same outfit twice, one each day and another each evening. She had beautifully cut and styled silver grey hair which was complimented by the blue tinted frameless spectacle she always wore. She was facially wrinkled but her extensive collection of stylish one-piece swimsuits revealed an extraordinarily good figure and fabulous skin which spoke of hours of moisturisation and the tanning bed. He wondered if the wrinkles were a relic of a life in the tropics, that perhaps she was the widow of a retired expat. Other than a simple wedding ring on her left hand and a plain gold man’s watch with a leather strap on her right wrist, she wore no jewellry. An accomplished hostess, she effortlessly held the centre of any convivial group that might form. Mex was fascinated, though for the life of him he couldn’t work out why. She was, after all, at least twenty years older than him, old enough, he suddenly realised, to be his mother. Perhaps it was that distinctive cloud of Chanel No.5 which followed her everywhere.

As the days passed, they progressed to nodding terms and the occasional good morning or whatever. She once caught him rather blatantly staring at her from a neighbouring table and had the good grace to wink back at him causing him to momentarily blush, a rare occurrence. Still he hung back but kept her under surveillance. He lay awake in bed most nights trying to rationalise the strange allure she cast over him, to no avail.

Every Friday evening they held a dance in the main bar with music provided by a group who played the local hotels in turn. It made a change from the disco music that blared out the rest of time and went down particularly well with the greyer members of the clientele. It was an event Mex avoided, dancing not being his favourite pastime, but on this particular evening, having got his work up to date, he carefully shaved again, changed into a clean shirt and went back down to the bar. He bought a pint of Jul-Brew and ensconced himself at a recently vacated table in a dark corner. It took his eyes a few minutes to get used to the gloom and he could systematically scan the room.

She was sitting in the centre of a large and noisy group beside the rail that separated the upper and lower levels of the dance floor. He had already noticed in the course of dinner that she was wearing an extremely elegant dress of the deepest blue; sleeveless with a high neck, while its long skirt was slashed to well above the knee. As per usual she was the life and soul of her party and as always Mex found his eyes constantly drawn to her. In the Stygian gloom she was quite oblivious to his presence.

The three man group had been taking a break when he arrived and had now returned and started to play a medley of sixties ballads. Couples rose and made for what soon became a crowded dance floor. He looked on in silence taking a periodic swig of his pint. The medley concluded and the floor emptied. A pause, then the group went off into another one and the whole process repeated itself. It took some time before it dawned on him the object of his interest if not his desire had not been dancing, or, as far as he could ascertain, been asked to dance. For a moment or two he wondered why. Then, as the group launched into one of his favourite Simon & Garfunkel numbers he decided to find out for himself. He rose to his feet and walked purposely across to where she was sitting. She immediately sensed his presence and looked up quizzically at the new arrival. He leant over her to make himself heard.

“Would you care to have this dance?” he managed to get out, all too aware that he was now very much the centre of attention.

“Why of course!” she replied and rose to her feet before leading him gently but firmly down to the small dance floor. A half smile played on her lips as she offered up both her arms in the classic ballroom dancing pose. He took her in his arms and they began to dance, their bodies meshing perfectly. A little shorter than he, her crotch brushed provocatively against his and Mex realised the she must have exceptionally long legs. She lightly brushed her cheek against his, such that he was quite oblivious of her spectacles. She possessed that rarest of skills; the ability to follow his clumsy footsteps with an unerring accuracy that made him feel like Fred Astaire. Mex glided over the floor in a daze.

After a couple of circuits she tilted back her head and looked up at him through pale grey eyes.

“I take it you're not a tourist.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“Right, first time. I’m here for a few weeks on business.”

“I thought as much. You don’t look a run-of-the-mill tourist.”

He laughed, “Neither, for that matter, do you.” She smiled in return.

“Touché!” With that she again snuggled into him and continued to dance.

When the music eventually stopped, they each, quite without prompting, bowed and curtseyed their acknowledgement to each other. Then she grasped two of his fingers and led him off the floor. She stopped and turned to face him,

“I’m Anne, Anne Waring. Anne with an E.”

“I’m Mex. Mex Robertson,” he replied.

“Mex, why don’t you get your drink and come and join us?”

“I’d… I’d love to,” he stammered and he went off to retrieve his pint. They found another chair and made room for him a couple of places away from Anne on her left. It was an excellent vantage point from which to observe her more closely than hitherto. She introduced him round the company although he struggled to remember more than the odd name. He watched as she effortlessly kept the conversation light and bubbling along while at the same time taking care to ensure that everyone was included and no-one felt left out of things. They ran a kitty to which he cheerfully contributed and drink and conversation flowed in equal measure. She skillfully drew him into the discussion and he was asked for his views of this and that, in particular on the recent unrest in Liberia which had resulted in many refugees arriving in the Gambia. While they exchanged a few private glances she did not engage him directly in conversation.

Time flew. They managed another dance together during which conversation was entirely superfluous, before the band started to pack up. Most of the company had already made their excuses and left. Mex found himself alone with Anne and heading to the main stairs. While conscious of her advance years, he was completely under her spell, or whatever was the pull that she exerted over him. They climbed the first flight of stairs together.

“Would you care for a night-cap?” he asked as if was the most natural thing in the world.

She turned to him, eyes sparkling. “I’d like nothing better!” and she clasped him firmly by the hand.

She was much taken by his room. “So this is business class,” she chuckled as she took it all in. “This I could handle”. She accepted the gin and tonic Mex had poured. They lightly touched glasses and drank. She put her glass down on the dressing table then took his from him and placed it beside it. Then, tipping her specs up on her head, she took his head very firmly in her hands and kissed him very deliberately on the mouth. While she slid her tongue inside his mouth, his hands slid down her back and came to rest on her bottom. He could feel felt the outline of her briefs as he gently pulled her closer to him. Releasing him from her embrace, she reached for her drink, taking two of three more sips before excusing herself and heading for the bathroom. He heard her slide the bolt in the door so he sat down on the bed to ponder his next move. As soon as he did, he realised that it was quite unnecessary. This crazy woman, he could think of no other words to describe her, knew exactly what she wanted. She appeared to want him, and he had to admit that he too wanted her. Very much. Sundry noises emanating from the bathroom indicated that her return was imminent so he slipped off his shoes and lay down on the bed to wait.

She retrieved her glass and came round to his side of the bed. She kicked off her shoes and put her glass next to his on the bedside table before sitting down on the edge of the bed beside him. Leaning forward, she began to unbutton his shirt and as she reached the bottom, hauled it out of the waistband of his trousers before opening it out to expose his chest. Leaning further forward, she began to lightly trace patterns all over it with her fingers. He shivered with pleasure at her touch and was becoming all too aware of his arousal as well Anne’s. She must have discarded her bra when she was in the bathroom since an erect pair of nipples were very visibly struggling to break out of the confines of her dress. He stretched his arms up to caress her cheek then slowly slid his hands down her back before gently fondling her bum with his right hand whereupon he discovered that she had also discarded her briefs. Haste was not one of her priorities and her fingers continued their delicate exploration of his torso while she ignored his increasingly obvious erection in spite of frequently brushing it with her forearm.

Eventually she motioned to him to move further over on the bed. She sat up as he did so then she too moved over and knelt beside him. His belt was concealed under the folds of her dress and she slid her hands under it and began to undo it and his trousers. Her eyes never left his face as she tugged and pulled his trousers and pants out from underneath her.

“Ooooh!” she said quietly as she ran her fingers over an unfettered Stumpie then down and round his balls, “ you have got the most gorgeous bits!”

“M-mmm,” he replied.

She had the most wonderful fingers. Most women, Mex felt, once they got their hands round one’s dick were too rough by half, and being circumcised and lacking nature’s lubrication system, Stumpie was a very sensitive fellow. All too frequently he had had to tell an over-zealous lover to be more careful, that they were handling a delicate instrument not a fire hose. Some never got the message. By contrast, Anne’s fingers barely touched Stumpie but danced around him bringing him to an extraordinary level of excitement. She sensed his approaching climax and rose up on her knees to swing over and sit astride him, adjusting herself before sinking down onto an impatient Stumpie.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed as she wiggled her bum to ensure they were properly engaged. She moved slowly at first then gathered pace. Later, in reflective moments, Mex was given to liking it to a performance of Ravel’s “Bolero”. She paused only once, to yank her dress over her head because, as she succinctly put it, her boobs were killing her. He marvelled at the body thus revealed; she had a fabulous figure for a woman of any age, far less one of nearly seventy. As his eyes moved down to inspect the rest of her now glistening body, he saw her pubic hair had remained blond. He tried to slow the pace by grabbing her shoulders once or twice but to no avail and he soon exploded into to her. If she noticed she gave no heed, but moments later collapsed over him as she too climaxed with a low groan. She was not a noisy lover.

Although she had stopped riding him, her vagina was still exerting considerable authority on Stumpie, who, to his credit and his owner’s surprise was still standing rigidly to attention. Anne started rocking gently back and forth. He had noticed during his prolonged surveillance of her that she was in almost perpetual motion, always fidgeting, gesticulating or whatever and seemed incapable of relaxing or even sitting still for more than a few seconds. This was an interesting variation of the phenomenon. He was also being overwhelmed by an intense desire, nay craving, to try and exert some sexual superiority on this amazing woman. He knew it would be temporary, but he had to do it. He shook her shoulders to get her attention.

“I want to make love to you this time”, he whispered, a tacit admission of who had been in control until then. She nodded her assent before lifting herself off and rolling on to her back. Without prompting she drew her knees up to her chest and stretched out a hand to guide Stumpie, whose owner was now kneeling on the bed in front of her, into her once more. He leant forward, supporting himself on her folded legs, and proceeded to very slowly, gently but deliberately to try and fuck her brains out.. . Her eyes were tightly closed and she squirmed with pleasure before surrendering completely to his ministrations by adopting that most passive of positions; clasping a wrist with her arms stretched up and behind her head. Mex nuzzled each of her armpits in turn and revelled in their soft, smooth skin and musky aroma,

As he pleasured her with his usual steady rhythm, he observed the most extraordinary transformation. Somehow, her wrinkles began to disappear, and as they did so the years seemed to fall away. It was as though his very actions were pumping some magic elixir into her. Her eyes remained tightly closed and she kept biting her bottom lip. She not only looked stunningly beautiful, but she gradually acquired an expression of intense, exquisite pleasure. Mex had never seen anything like it, such an unbelievable response to his lovemaking. He suddenly found himself wanting something he had very rarely wished for; for time to stand still..

Time never does stand still, and no matter how he tried, he could not stop himself coming again inside her, after which a luxurious shiver and moan indicated that she too had reached orgasm. Mex slowly withdrew from her, then lay beside her propped up on one elbow and gently caressed the supine body with his fingertips. She whickered softly with pleasure and snuggled even closer to him. She slowly sank into a deep sleep, which came as a bit of a surprise given that he had heard her comment earlier in the evening that she was a confirmed insomniac who needed less than three hours sleep a night. He slipped out to the bathroom to perform his ablutions then returned to bed. She again snuggled into him and it seemed the most natural thing in the world that they were sleeping together.

He woke early just as dawn was breaking, with his usual good morning erection. It took a few seconds for him to take in the situation and recall the events of the previous evening. He carefully sat up and scrutinised the sleeping form beside him, who lay curled up in the foetal position. He lay back down, before rolling onto his side and cuddling up to her. He ran his fingers over her buttocks and thighs, marvelling at her silky smooth skin, before they were inexorably drawn to her labia. She quivered ever so slightly as his fingers touched them. He let them rest there for a few moments before they were involuntarily drawn inside her where he gasped at her wetness. He had read somewhere that once past the menopause, many women suffered from a complete lack of vaginal lubrication and found intercourse painful if not impossible. Anne Waring had no such problems and he effortlessly slipped into her as they adopted the “spoons” position.

“I’m still asleep,” muttered the supine body as it wriggled its bottom further into him. He initially lay quite still and confined himself to running his fingers over her back. She may have been asleep, but she was having a profound effect on Stumpie, as she was clenching and unclenching her cunt around him. It was all Mex could do to remain motionless when all his instincts wanted to thrust his entire being inside her. There were a few more mutterings about being asleep, before he ejaculated inside her, causing her to stiffen for a second or two as she too savoured the moment. After a minute or two she slipped away from him and rolled onto her back, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she did so. She smiled up at him, a good looking, but clearly a sixty something, woman.

“Oh! I do like that, waking up with a dick inside me. It means I’m a real woman, not a lonely old widow,” and he saw her bottom lip tremble as she spoke.

He leant down and wrapped his arms round her in a warm embrace.

“Nonsense, Anne, nonsense,” he said at last. “You are one of the most amazing women I have ever met. Quite unbelievable.” He meant every word of it.

Mex got up and made tea using his little travelling kettle. He had only one cup which he gave to her and gallantly drank his out of a tumbler. She insisted that he went along to her room and brought back a change of clothes. She had no intention, she told him, of being observed at this hour slipping back to her room in last night’s ensemble. He dutifully obeyed and after bathing and getting dressed she went back to her room, having first arranged to join him for breakfast. He had, of course, noted that it was Saturday and that he had two completely free days in front of him which promised to be very enjoyable.

They duly met for breakfast during which she nattered away inconsequentially about this and that. She nodded here and there and waved as her fan club passed their table and remained totally oblivious to the tongue-wagging their breakfasting together was causing. She intended to spend her morning beside the pool and asked Mex if he would mind escorting her along the beach, by way of a stroll before lunch. He readily agreed, then sat back to enjoy his post breakfast cigarette feeling strangely pleased with himself. Opposite, Anne continued her own and inimitable form of perpetual motion as if absolutely nothing had happened and seemingly without a care in the world.

She was in fact a very cosmopolitan lady, the daughter of a diplomat in the Indian Raj of the nineteen thirties, and well used to all the privileges that brought. Raised by a succession of Amas, her first language had been Hindi, and she still caused her friends no end of amusement when she swore like at trooper at careless or insolent waiters in Indian restaurants in Leeds and elsewhere. She had chosen to marry outside the diplomatic service having seen at first hand the strains such a life could impose on even the strongest marriage. She had met then married Billy Waring, a canny and very successful Yorkshire builder who had loved her dearly and kept her in some style. His sudden death, the result of a road accident stunned the whole community as well as his widow. Billy had been prudent as well as successful and she found she had been exceptionally well provided for. That was all very well but it did not make up for the loss of your best friend or living on one’s own in a large, opulent but empty house.

At his death, after more than thirty years of blissful marriage, Anne Waring had thrown herself into a variety of social activities to keep herself occupied and to try to assuage her grief, a grief she felt deeply. She had always been a forceful personality and no-one in genteel Harrogate gave her a moment's thought after the initial shock of Billy’s death had passed. It’s alright; Anne will be fine, Anne will cope, Anne will do this, Anne will do that. Anne has so many interests. Nothing could have been further from the truth and behind the façade of the confident and attractive widow, lay a deeply wounded and lonely soul. With the passage of time, a few widowers attempted some mild wooing, as, to her chagrin, did a few married men. She rebuffed them all, realising it would be all too easy in such a relatively small town to acquire the kind of reputation that led to social suicide. Since her social life meant everything to her, it had not been a difficult decision.

But she and Billy had maintained a robust and active sex life down the years and a hectic social round could not still those latent desires. She solved the problem almost by accident when she suddenly took off for a golf holiday in the Algarve. An American professor from an Ivy League university, who had recently lost his wife to cancer, did the needful and she returned to Yorkshire rejuvenated in every sense of the word. She decided that she had just discovered an elegant and discreet solution to her problem. Thus, while Mex was just the latest in a long line of vacation lovers, he had managed to arouse long forgotten sensations his predecessors hadn’t reached and Anne Waring intended to make the very most of the five remaining days of her holiday.

After an al fresco lunch together by the pool, she sat back and drew contentedly on one of her occasional cigarettes. After sipping her spritzer, she touched his arm to attract his attention and as he inclined his head towards hers she too leaned over to whisper conspiratorially in his ear pulling her sunglasses down to the end of her nose as she did so,

“Let’s go upstairs and have a siesta.”

“Your place or mine?”

“Yours. You’ve got the fridge!” she replied grinning happily. They gathered their belongings and left the pool area and a lot of wagging tongues. If anything their lovemaking was even better and well over an hour passed before they fell asleep in each others' arms.

They dined together that evening as they would do for the rest of her time there. During a lull in their conversation, Mex remembered something that had been puzzling him.

“Anne,” he began, “I once heard you say that you were almost an insomniac, that you almost never slept. How come then,” he continued, “that you always manage to sleep like a baby when you’re with me?”

“Oh bugger!” she said softly and averted her eyes from his enquiring gaze.

Mex too was finding it extremely difficult to rationalise his feelings towards what he continually described to himself as “this crazy woman”. At least twenty years older than him, she had two sons in their forties, and a daughter in her late thirties. She had five grandchildren, two of whom were older than Jamie and Catriona. Facially, she was a somewhat wrinkled old lady, who had this amazing body and those long, long legs. Behind the façade of the confident and extremely classy hostess, there co-existed in some strange semi-world a very lonely soul inside a passionate and deprived woman. But above all, she had this magnetic personality which few could resist, and in Mex she had just recruited another devoted admirer as well as a lover.

Sunday passed rather like Saturday with the exception of their siesta which had to be curtailed because she had arranged to play bridge at four o’clock. It was clear that everyone, including the hotel staff, now regarded them as an item although Mex could never quite bring himself to take her by the hand as they walked around together. Anne had no compunction about occasionally touching or brushing against him and thought nothing of squeezing his hand under the table. But she too was mindful of the social etiquette and took great care to observe absolute discretion in the public areas of the hotel.

Monday was different in that it was the first day of their liaison where he had had to go to work. It was a struggle to get out of her bed (they had decided to sleep in her room that night because of his early start) at six-thirty and return to his own room. Anne sensibly decided not to join him for breakfast at seven and they arranged to meet up for lunch at the Austrian restaurant in the centre of Banjul. They also had to forgo their siesta but arranged instead to meet for a little pre-prandial exercise in his room just after six. Not surprisingly, they were late for dinner that evening.

Monday was also different for another more profound reason. Mex found his feelings for this amazing women ran far, far deeper than he first thought and he was already concerned that this relationship was moving out of control and into dangerous and uncharted waters. He could not get her out of his mind, and while she did not yet affect his work, each time he paused he found his thoughts returning to her again and again and again. Mex had often said that one knew one was truly in love with someone when one just couldn’t get them out of one’s mind. He realised that Anne was coming perilously close to fulfilling that requirement. The really alarming part, he discovered when he tried to analyse his feelings, was that he wasn’t in the least concerned about it or the possible consequences. Fortunately for him, Anne Waring was.

After dinner they joined a crowd of Anne’s friend for drinks and a good blether before retiring upstairs. Their lovemaking had also evolved a pattern, at least the initial stage. Mex did try to introduce and element of variety later on, to which she was a very willing pupil. She took particular delight in being on top and could quite literally wriggle away for an hour or more experiencing several orgasms along the way. And such was her extraordinary powers that Stumpie too would remain erect for far longer than normal, conferring his owner with quite remarkable endurance, way beyond his usual, admittedly high, standard. Anne was amazed by this performance but tactfully kept it very much to herself. It was his increasingly lovelorn behaviour outside the bedroom that was worrying her. She resolved to raise the matter with him when she realised that it was already Tuesday morning, Mex had long since left for work and that night would be their last before she returned home the following evening. That was going to make a delicate task doubly difficult. She spent much of the day deep in thought as she wrestled with the problem.

She was in no doubt that they were both seriously attracted to each other. Anne had concluded for her part, it was because he was so damn nice, as well as being sensational in bed. She had known only two nice men in her life; her father and her late husband. The rest had been absolute bastards. Mex, she admitted to her inner self came close, or as close as a man who cheated on his wife could be, to being perfect. At least he had made no bones about it. Soon after she had brought him into her crowd that Friday, she had deftly led the conversation round to children and families and he had, to his credit, made no secret of being happily married with two offspring. But he certainly had a wandering eye and played away from home. On the other hand, she had never caught him so much as glancing at another woman since they had been an item and for a good-looking single man, the Atlantic Hotel in high season was certainly a target-rich environment.

Unusually, she spent the morning alone, giving the appearance of writing letters and postcards. This she did fact do, but in reality her mind was in turmoil which perversely resulted in her sitting motionless for lengthy periods and appearing to be half asleep, a marked contrast to her normal animated behaviour. She grew more and more nervous as the time for Mex’s arrival for lunch drew closer and then passed. It was not until a tense half hour of crept slowly past did she remember with a start that he had said the previous evening that he wouldn’t in for lunch, that he was going to the High Commission or somewhere like that. She railed inwardly at her forgetfulness, but she soon found this unexpected extra time weighed on her and she couldn’t wait to get it over with. The trouble was, she still wasn’t sure what “it” was.

She even went as far as venturing out onto the stretch of beach in front the hotel, where she was immediately pestered by a constant stream of local youths who wanted her to "be my friend!” She brushed them off with a few unladylike expletives and when that didn’t work she swore and shouted at them in Hindi after which they seemed to get the message and left her alone. She carried her sandals and now and again paddled in the warm surf but she was very careful not to stray beyond the frontage of the hotel. She eventually formulated what she thought was a reasonable and workable strategy and returned to the pool side where she took afternoon tea before going up to her room to shower and change for his return and their little tête a tête.

At precisely quarter past six she telephoned his room. He picked up the phone instantly as if he had been expecting the call.

“It’s me. Are you At Home?” she asked, knowing he was probably the only person in the place who understood the correct meaning of the phrase.

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ll be down in five. Bye-eee!” and she hung up. He stood motionless for a moment or two. He had also spent much of the day soul-searching and while he had quickly decided that while relations had to be severed, quickly and permanently, he was not looking forward to this confrontation, if that is what is was going to be, one little bit. He shook his head as though to clear his thoughts and went over to the fridge to pour the drinks. There was a soft knock at the door and she entered, closing the door quietly behind her. She looked stunning as always, yet another outfit, but her expression was uncharacteristically serious. She took the drink she offered and they raised their glasses in a silent toast before drinking. There was a long, long pause…….

“I’ve been thinking,” they started to say simultaneously, then stopped abruptly when each realised the other was speaking. As they sorted it out Mex gestured that they should sit down, which they did. Mex also believed that talk when sitting down was so much less confrontational and he rather thought a confrontation was approaching. Nothing could have been further from Anne’s mind.

“I’ve been thinking about us,” she began, “a great deal today. To tell you the truth I’ve thought of nothing else. This affair, this relationship or liaison of ours has got to stop. And stop now.”

Mex attempted to speak but she held her hand up to stop him.

“I know,” she continued, “I certainly encouraged you. I wanted you. But I think we both know that this has gone a lot further than a holiday romance. It can’t. You know it and I know it. So this evening, we will have another drink, we will join that nice couple, the Wilsons for dinner, have a few drinks and a bit of a natter and we will go to our respective rooms. That’s it, Mex. It’s finished. You’ve been, no, you are, a very, very dear boy, but there is absolutely no way that this could continue. For God’s sake, you do realise I’m old enough to be your mother?” She paused and took a sip of her drink then looked up at him, “You do understand me Mex, don’t you?”

He sat motionless for a moment, then covered his face with his hands and inhaled deeply before stretching his arms outward and upwards. He almost blew the air out of his chest then leant right back, putting his hands behind his head as he did so. He ran his tongue round his lips as he mentally rehearsed his reply. It was brief and to the point.

“You’re right. Completely, totally, and unreservedly one hundred percent right. I’d come to the same conclusion. But I needed to hear it from you. Thank you for that. By the way, and in passing, you do realise that you are the most wonderfully crazy woman it has ever been my pleasure to meet. Excepting none!”

“Why thank you, kind sir!” and she stood up and dropped him a little curtsey. “Now I must go up and powder my nose before dinner. The last one in the cocktail bar is a wimp. Bye-eee!” With that she swept out of the room.

Surprisingly, it turned out to be a very pleasant evening. The boil had been lanced, feelings and dignity preserved. But it had, as a certain Duke had put much, much earlier, been a damn close run thing. They parted company at the foot of the stairs. She held his hand for a moment, then pressed her cheek against his.

“Thanks Mex! For everything. Take care. God Speed!” She turned and went up.

They each had tears in their eyes and lumps in their throats as they made their way to their separate rooms lost in thought.

by Alexander Hugh Goudie