Sloane Square: Midland Bank to change the coin, which weighed a ton, into folding money. Peter Jones Dep't Store for toilet articles, a mac for Glory, and a turtleneck for me. It was a cold June. Heard snide remarks about me not being in the service and in uniform. Glory cooled that. She said conspiratorially, "He's M.I.5."
Eaton Terrace: The Antelope for drinks and dinner. Formerly the hangout of the vintage car crowd. Now all that was left was a magnificent boat-tailed Rolls two-seater parked in front. Nice old lady in the private bar told us it'd been used by Lawrence of Arabia during one of his London visits. I believed her.
Brandies lessened the pain of dinner. Glory put the minibottle on the bar in front of us—she'd displayed it everywhere without getting any reaction—but this time she got a response.
A handsome young RAF major came up alongside her, grinned, and said, "Well, well. Another souvenir from Victoria. Had no idea Madame Toussaint was still open for business."
Glory smiled. "Major, do help me. Our father—this is my brother—gave me this for a good luck token when he left to join Monty's staff. I've never been able to ask him what it is or where he got it."
Brother! But I suppose availability is a part of charm.
We nodded to each other. The handsome major smiled.
"Looks like a piece from Madame Toussaint's miniature display at Victoria Station. I'd thought it closed down. Perhaps it is, and she's selling it off piecemeal. Pity. It's an entertaining thing to see once. Educational, too."
He picked up the tiny bottle and stared at it. He replaced it before Glory.
"I'll bet that's where your dad got it."
He raised his eyes then, staring into the deep pools of her own.
"Might you be free later this evening?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"I'm afraid I've an engagement."
"It's just that it's my last night of liberty. I'll be shipping out tomorrow, without much opportunity to socialize."
"The night is still young," she told him, rising. "Good luck. And thank you."
He nodded.
"Enjoy the show."
We made our way back to Sloane Street, wanting to be in our suite before the blackout began. Passersby moved quickly, often glancing skyward. A damp breeze followed us, hinting of rain to come.
We held hands as we mounted the stair, and I brushed her lips with mine outside our door. I thought I felt the momentary flick of a serpent tongue as I did so.
Within, we secured the door, and she unslung her purse, took out a bottle of cognac, offered it, and said, "Here. Clobber me with it or drink it, preferably both."
That broke me up. Enchanted by the Medusa yet again. We shared a few happy cognacs while we relaxed and complimented each other on our search. We shared a few more. All in the soft light of a single lamp. The blackout had begun and we were taking no chance of the full suite lights showing through the heavy curtains. We'd be questioned, which was the last thing we needed.
We were sprawled lazily on the bed. The rose highlights on Glory's new skin flickered and glowed as she reached over to untie my ascot. She unbuttoned my shirt and began undressing me, me protecting the bottle but not protesting. Her hands were cool, deft, gentle, and, my God! exciting. I had to cork the cognac fast. Then it was my turn.
She was beautifully strange, strangely beautiful. She had no breasts, not even nipples. She had no navel. From neck to hips her body was liquid smooth, rounded, supple, glowing with splashes of rose that changed with every motion, almost like a language I couldn't read.
Her vulva was the tip of a flower bud which pulsed as we entwined, mouthed, tongued, body to body, head to head, head to toe, savoring, engulfing. She'd been hissing gently, melodiously, in her own love language. Suddenly she gasped, cried out, and the bud opened into a crimson flower which drew me into it. I made that first deep thrust and then the flower, her body, and her voice began resonating to our passion and joined the loving with trembling sonar spasms that produced echoing vibrations in me. Too soon, too soon, we reached our climax.
And we lay entwined, she still cool, me hot and bathed in her, and at last I was able to whisper, "Dear love . . . Sweet love . . . Never . . . Never ..."
"Shhh. Shhh. Shhh. Don't move. Wait."
So we waited.
Then I became aware that all hell was breaking loose in London outside: warning sirens, heavy explosions, thunder and lightning. And inside, distant knocks on doors, approaching, and a creaky voice, also approaching, calling, "Air raid, ladies and gentlemen. Air raid. Deep emergency shelter in South Ken underground station. If so desired."
The warning reached our suite and passed on. We paid no attention; what we desired was right here. The tip of her darting tongue was exploring my eyes, ears, face, and mouth. Her sinuous body was undulating and her smooth, glowing skin glided against mine while the flower petals fluttered, tingled, and teased me back into power and yet another thrust. And this time it was a forever exaltation.
Then we stroked, smiled, murmured, nestled, and at last slept.
When we awoke we both thought it would be love again but the All Clear began to sound, reminding us of why we were in '44 London. We laughed, shrugged, and got ourselves together to continue to track down the perpetrator of that preposterous S.O.S. I was betting on a freak literate mouse with a tiara and a sense of humor. Glory was for one of those jokers who can inscribe the Lord's Prayer on the head of a pin. She was right.
No cabs that early in the morning, so we walked it—to Sloane Square, down lower Sloane Street, left on Pimlico Road to Buckingham Palace Road (the locals call it "Buck House Road") and Victoria Station, grim, grimy, battered, a memorial to the incredible taste of the Victorian era.
It was quite dark inside, very few lights, yet busy with the morning arrivals of commuters and shoppers who seemed to know their way about in the gloom. Just as well. The London crowd really hustles fast and we had to do some fancy dodging as we explored until we finally found:
MADAME TOUSSAINT'S
LILLIPUTIAN LONDON
LILLIPUT LONDON
lilliput london
The sign hung over a gilt door on which was painted a smaller door on which was painted a smaller door on which etc. etc. And across it was whitewashed, close.
We looked at each other, dismayed and laughing, then crossed to the cloakroom and questioned the uniformed woman in charge.
"Ow yus," she said. "Been shut down since the 'lectric failed and didn't start again when the power come on again. Madam Toos? Ain't 'round much. Usual drownin' of 'er sorrows in the Pirn Pint & Piney-apple. You might give it a shot. It's jus' 'round the corner. Can't miss it."
So around the corners of Belgrave, Eccleston, and Elizabeth Streets until we found the Pimlico Pint & Pineapple Hostelry in Semley Place, SW 1, Westminster. Just as well. No complaints. If we hadn't used up so much time we wouldn't have found it open for business. Their lunatic licensing laws! Now it was bustling, and Madame Toussaint was pointed out sitting alone at a back table a-drownin' of 'er sorrows with a pint of mild and bitter.
She looked like a two-hundred-pound Lady Macbeth, wearing some sort of black, flowing schmata and outrageous makeup. There were neat stacks of shillings and sixpences on the table alongside her pint. As we sat down opposite her I tucked a pound note between the two stacks.
"Is this a dagger I see before me?" she asked in a deep fake-cultivated voice. Right. I know a failed actress when I see one. "And whom are you twain?"
I gave her the theater shtick. "Colleagues, Madame. My name's Noyer, a producer from the States. This is my A.D., Glory. We've heard about your marvelous show and made a special trip to catch it."