‘It’s six o’clock already.’ Rain drips from the points of her umbrella as Jasmine checks her watch and tries to move faster through the Friday evening crowd.
Despite the weather, her mouth turns up at the corners. She does a little skip over the next puddle, dreaming about her coming flight and Brendon’s plans for their weekend in Paris. His emails were necessarily brief and vague, sent from his computer at work to the computer at the boutique where she sells high fashion garments to wealthy women living and working in the West End.
Never mind the lack of specific directions, he’ll be at Orly Airport to meet me, she re-assures herself while jostling with the other sardine shufflers making their way through Knightsbridge Underground Station. She squeezes into the carriage and manages to claim a small section of rail to hang onto.
‘You’ll catch your death love.’ The elderly woman sitting in front of her, points to Jasmine’s soggy boots.
Jasmine looks down at the brown suede boots which she had bought to wear on the flight.
‘I’m okay. Thanks.’ She turns away, suppressing a grin. Well, I’m sure Brendon will love my underwear. She sees herself taking off her coat, jumper and skirt. A shiver ripples up her spine as she imagines Brendon slowly removing the black stockings and suspender belt, the lacy French knickers and the deliciously naughty new bra which she discovered in her lunch break.