I had always had a thing for older couples. My first threesome was with my boss at a weekend gig waiting tables, she wanted to give her husband an anniversary gift and they both had a soft spot for redheads. Moving in next to Claude and Amy was what my slutty little dreams were made of.
A professional couple in their late 40s/early 50s, he was French and worked in advertising, she taught yoga and baked. Everything about them seemed so cool, I would see them sitting out on their little balcony drinking wine every night during the summer, and sometimes in the winter too, albeit it with jackets and cigarettes keeping them warm. Him with his salt and pepper beard, chiselled jaw, and balding head showing the classic handsomeness a distinguished and fashionable man achieves effortlessly as he grows older. She was beautiful too, a short blonde bob, stunning blue eyes, and bold red lips, almost always wearing a light silk scarf. They were the dream European fantasy, and very much my fantasy.
We'd got to know each other a little over the first few months of me living next door to them. The occasional mis-delivered parcel, nods from the balcony, spotted in line at the coffee shop round the corner. It was early June and I spotted Amy struggling to open her door whilst juggling some groceries, I took a bag from her to help her out, and she looked up at me with those beautiful eyes, and smiled with her classic red lipstick. I melted. She thanked me and mentioned off handedly they were throwing a barbecue that night for a few friends and invited me along.
I was probably the youngest there, which is not something I felt often as I was about to approach 30, but I got on with all their friends. It turns out I had worked for a few of Claude's friends, and he said he had some design work I'd be good for. I got to talk with him about Serge Gainsbourg and the sexiness of French pop. Me and Amy traded some bread recipes and she offered to teach me yoga, something I maintained I didn't have the patience for. The more I got to know them and be friends with them, the more I was crushing on them.
I'd attend some of Amy's yoga's lessons, some private ones in her living room too. I did some work for some of Claude's clients and would sometimes meet them and him for drinks. We became firm friends, I'd see them a few times a week, often having dinner at theirs once a week, with excellent wine and an easy walk home. The perfect date if for the lack of romance. We spoke candidly about work, friends, love lives (or lack of in my case). They'd mention how pretty I was and offer to set me up with people, but never them. I wanted to make a move but was scared I was projecting my own views of sexuality and free-spiritness on them, and I didn't want to risk our budding friendship.
However my love life did take a turn thanks to them in late July. It was a Saturday afternoon and we were all drinking in their garden. Me in a floral summer dress, low cut, flirty, sunny. Amy was in her classic mom jeans and breton striped tee with a peach scarf loosley and artfully draped round her slender neck. Claude had some navy trousers on, he never wore jeans, boat shoes, no socks, and a crisp white shirt with the top three buttons undone. He's the only man I've known in real life who can pull off aviators. We heard their front door go and a few moments later into the garden walked their daughter, Emily.
She was 19, stunning, the way Hollywood portrays 19 year olds. Bright yellow culottes, a crisp white man's shirt too big for her, tied at the waste, a long straight brown hair, a large black sunhat, her mother's blue eyes and distinct lipstick. I'd never met her before, I'd seen photos but most were a few years old and she seemed to have really blossomed into her self. No longer looking like a child trying to seem grown-up, but a chic sophisticated adult all of her own.
