The car nosed slowly through the early evening London traffic. By my side my wife, Susan, pulled her kid skin evening glove up to her elbow. She pushed a hair that had escaped from her french plait behind her ear and smiled at me, genuinely happy at the prospect of the evening ahead. I am not sure why Susan had insisted we come.
On the dash laid the gold edged, embossed invitation:
'Lady Marjorie Blanefield requests the pleasure of the company of Mr & Mrs...'
Susan was a member of a women's literary group. Lady Blanefield led the group. I could picture her in my mind - a redoubtable, if tweedy, lady, probably a stalwart of the Women's Institute. Still Susan clearly enjoyed the group as she passed several afternoons a month in their company.
"The Blanefields throw REALLY enjoyable parties," Susan entreated me, "Trust me, you'll be surprised." With that she opened the vanity mirror to check her lipstick. Susan's lacy black dress rustled, providing a flash of cleavage and a hint of her complementary black lace bra. I couldn't help feeling her outfit was somewhat racy for a tweedy London dinner party. Even after twenty years of marriage Susan still had an appealing and feminine figure and I very much had the hots for her.
As the tyres crunched on the gravel drive, we arrived at the Blanefield's Victorian Holland Park town house, I was dressed in black tie evening kilt as requested. At the door, I recognised Kate and Ian.
"How is academia?" I asked Ian.
"Same old, same old - corduroy jackets and ungrateful students," Ian replied.
"God bless grandpa, saved us from a life of borderline penury," Kate's eyes and personality sparkled as she spoke. Grandpa had invented some widget that revolutionised the oil industry, leaving the whole family comfortably provided for. Lecturing was a passion rather than a necessity.
"Are you looking forward to this evening?" Kate addressed Susan and took her arm.
"Very much so, Lady Marjorie was so right to involve our partners in the literary circle's activities," Susan replied as we all entered through the imposing black front door opened by Hall the butler. Kate whispered in Susan's ear. Susan nodded affirmatively. Ahead, a green silk dress shimmered as a willowy blonde with porcelain skin came towards us.
"Hi, I am Victoria - call me Vicky. This is Paul," Vicky held out a slender arm. I kissed her delicate hand. Vicky was a lawyer, so was Paul. They acted as if they were married, but perhaps not to each other. Both Kate and Susan, checked the bulge in Paul's trousers, hinting at significant endowment in the cock department. Less attention was paid to Paul's well fitted double breasted dinner jacket.
"Where IS Anna?" announced Lady Blanefield with voice that demanded attention. From the top of the staircase a set of black heels emerged, then long stockinged legs, a black velvet dress with matching evening gloves followed. Black seemed to be the theme of the evening. A simple string of pearls danced around a tanned neck. Red bobbed hair and green eyes completed the reveal.
"There you are," Lady Blanefield took charge, "Anna is just down from Oxford, she won a rowing blue".
"Aunty, sshh," Anna protested vainly.
Anna smouldered sex. I saw Susan eyeing her up. I smiled to myself and wondered if Anna had any idea of Susan's bi proclivities. My wife, as well as being a soul mate, is a bit of a sexual adventuress, with a taste for pussy that nearly matched my own.
Dinner was announced by Hall and we were seated quickly. Over a sumptuous meal the conversation ranged widely. Ian extolled the merits of rare malt whiskys. The ladies whispered conspiratorially throughout. Finally, the conversation turned to the comparative values of ancient Greek and Roman society and to what extent women controlled those societies.
"Ladies, shall we withdraw?" - more of a command than a question. I was a somewhat stunned when Lady Blanefield suggested that the ladies withdraw to the drawing room. I hadn't been to a dinner where that had happened for thirty years. But the ladies were up and out of the dining room before I could raise the first gasp of a post-feminist protest.
After a further round of the usual after dinner drinks: port, XO brandy and malt whisky. A little later, Sir Richard Blanefield stirred from his brandy, "Thank you, Hall, the staff may leave for the evening." With that Hall left. The door closed behind him and with an almost imperceptible click locked - discreet and understated, just like the rest of the evening. Sir Richard checked his watch.
"I suppose we should think about rejoining the ladies," said Sir Richard generally and to me, "I think Anna wanted to show you something in my book collection about your discussion of classical life. She'll be in the library." He indicated a door at the far end of the dining room.
I entered the library. Dark oak shelves from floor to ceiling were filled with leather bound books. Subdued lighting gave the effect of candlelight. At the far end was a ladder to reach the higher shelves. There, bathed in a pool of light, stood Anna leant against the ladder. The soft lighting accentuated her tanned skin and feline figure.
Anna beckoned me, "you may find this interesting," as she pointed to a book on a stand just to her right. The title was in french: 'Manuel d'érotologie classique'.
