It was on a flight into Singapore, over char-grilled Tasmanian salmon and a glass of British Airways Sauvignon Blanc, that Tom met the very beautiful Gisella.
This fabulously exotic woman apparently crossed the globe to meet the personal needs of a particularly high-powered global businessman.
"A sort of PA?" asked Tom, innocently. "A personal assistant?"
"Only
very
personal," she drawled archly, with a long look that reduced most of Tom to jelly even as it caused an alarming hardness in one small part of his anatomy.
"I see," said Tom.
"You could see more." She said it casually and seemingly innocently, but the glance she gave him from under her long lashes gave Tom the distinct impression that her enigmatic throwaway line could be an invitation if Tom chose to take it that way.
She was an intoxicating woman, all long legs and elegance. The very thought of what might follow - what it might be like to experience her
very
personal services - made Tom's head swim.
"When we land in Singapore," he asked as casually and as playfully as he could under the circumstances, "Do you think that you would be able to meet
my
very personal needs?"
So far, this was only Tom's fantasy, which he had been writing on his phone. It was not all fantasy, however: he really was flying into Singapore, in the premium economy section of a Boeing 787 'Dreamliner' operated by British Airways, who referred to this slightly upmarket compartment as 'World Traveller Plus'. It was a long way below Business Class (let alone First Class) but perhaps it had just enough class to give a man exalted ideas. Or maybe that was down to the Sauvignon Blanc that he had indeed enjoyed with his char-grilled Tasmanian salmon. Certainly, the cabin was roomy enough for him to see that the woman beside him - who undoubtedly had a faintly exotic look and carried herself with admirable elegance - truly did have delightfully long legs. She really was, Tom thought, quite intoxicating.
Whether it was the woman herself, or the wine, or the circumstances of exotic travel, or simply the joy of being homeward bound after a long trip, it was at this point that Tom took the plunge and proffered his phone (and his fantasy) to the woman beside him. She looked up inquiringly, then laid aside her magazine and took the phone. She scrolled up to the start of the story, and read down to Tom's question.
"Oh yes," she typed, "I think I could slip away and squeeze in some time to fit you in too." She handed the phone back to him with a sly smile.
Tom nearly went into meltdown at the thought of this gorgeous specimen of womanhood fitting him in and squeezing. Perhaps he had read what he chose to read, and wildly extrapolated it until two-plus-two made at least seventeen, but in any case he was glad that his meal tray was concealing the struggle he was having underneath it.
By the time the meal was cleared away his equilibrium had been somewhat restored, but then she stood up - presumably to make her way to the toilet - and Tom could hardly take his eyes off her. Her business suit could in no way be described as revealing (her skirt was a little tight around her superb bottom, perhaps, but overall it was hardly daring) and yet its very dignity and restraint screamed aloud her elegance and sexiness.
As she adjusted her clothing with competent hands and long, sensual fingers, some adolescent part of Tom's brain wondered if she were going to invite him to join her in the toilet for some mile-high action, but he instantly dismissed the unworthy thought. She was an exalted creature who would not sully herself with such undignified behaviour. The rest of the flight passed without any further impropriety; apart, that is, from the salacious maelstrom inside Tom's head and occasional stirrings in his nether regions.
Fortunately for his sanity, there were some distractions as the flight continued. Although it troubled his environmentalist conscience, he enjoyed flying; as an engineer, he loved to watch the plane at work. His favourite seat (all else being equal) was a window seat behind the wing, where he could watch the awesome transformation of the wing as the flaps extended, see the undercarriage lock down, and get the most out of the dreadful moment of first contact as the tyres hit the ground and burnt rubber blew off in a puff of smoke as the protesting wheels struggled to accelerate to 120mph in a split second. To see that drama, he had to be further back in the plane, halfway down the Economy cabin: with the view he had now, all he could do was marvel at the flexing of the long, sleek wings as they carried the dead weight of the body of the plane between them through the impossibly thin air. Or, of course, he could return to the contemplation of the long, sleek legs of the woman beside him. Had she been just teasing, or would she really...?
Perhaps it was only a tease, a passing amusement to enliven the tedious flight, doomed to be forgotten when the tide of real life surged back in to end this strange scene. But what if he had unwittingly hit upon something, and she really were to take him up on it? It would be awesome, he knew. She was about his own age, and he felt an aura about her, a beauty built of confidence, competence, dignity and style that went far beyond her natural assets and quality clothes. Classy, that was the word. And, presumably, experienced...
He felt the moment when the engines were throttled back and the plane began its long descent into Singapore and his hoped-for assignation. Tom indulged in his fantasy a little further as they sank quietly through the sky. It would be when the plane had landed and was taxiing to the stand that she would speak to him again. "So where are you staying?" she would ask, politely but without any very apparent interest. "At the Crowne Plaza, on the airport," he would reply, matching her dignified cool. And then, greatly daring, he would say, "I must give you my card;" and she would glance at it briefly before tucking it away in her elegant handbag.
No, not a bit of it. There would be no further word of their rendezvous. If she were serious, it wouldn't take a woman of her calibre long to find him. If she were half the woman he thought her to be, she would know how to access passenger lists and smooth-talk or browbeat hotel receptionists to tell her all that she needed to know.
Back in reality, their approach to Singapore became more urgent. There were some distant, heavy clunking sounds as the flaps extended; there was a perceptible deceleration and the roaring sound of their passage subtly changed, and the familiar routine began. The captain came on the PA to tell them about the time and the weather conditions on the ground, and the cabin crew began clearing away the accumulated rubbish of the snacks and drinks of the last few hours. The plane bumped and shuddered slightly as they came down into rougher air. Then came the ping as the seat-belt light came on, and it all became very serious. Stewardesses checked for loose luggage, closed stowage doors, made sure that seat-backs were raised, and eyed laps suspiciously as they checked that everyone was wearing their seat belt. Then the crew all vanished to their own seats, and everyone was left to their own thoughts. Tom wondered if his fantasy - even assuming it had taken root at all - would survive the stern realities to come, or be lost in the tension of the landing, the frustrations of the queue at Passport Control, or the anxious searching of the conveyor in Baggage Reclaim.
Tom saw lights on the ground, felt the thump as the plane touched down, heard the sudden roar of reverse thrust. The braking procedure was probably all under computer control these days, yet the visceral effect of the tremendous deceleration, amid the vibration from the engines and the various rattles induced by any slight bump in the runway, still gave Tom the feeling of a coachman pulling madly on the reins of his team as they galloped towards the precipice. Then, suddenly, they were rolling sedately along the runway and turning off in search of their stand, and all the subconscious tension drained away.
Eventually, the plane came to a stop and the seat belt light went out. At once, the orderly in-flight status quo of the last few hours collapsed and almost everyone stood, as people always seem to do even though many of them instantly regret it as they stoop under the overhead lockers with little chance of getting to the aisle for some time.
He rose with her; having bagged the window seat, he could have been one of the regretful ones, but his mind was buzzing with lascivious thoughts of her and he barely noticed the inconvenience. In fact, thanks to the extra space that he had paid for with his World Traveller Plus ticket, he was not stuck for very long. She was away by then, heading for the exit door. Any man would stand back for her.
The next hour was taken up with the serious business of entering a sovereign state that took its security very seriously. Changi Airport is quite a place. He was accustomed to being in airports where grim policemen in bullet-proof jackets heft submachineguns as their unsmiling eyes pass over you, but here there was more. Posters that warned would-be drug traffickers of the death penalty added a particularly grim note, especially as there had been chilling stories in years past of travellers being picked up because they were carrying some cold remedy, innocently bought over-the-counter in the UK, that happened to contain Codeine. Even if it all got sorted out the next day, one night in the infamous Changi gaol was one night too many; it was enough to make everyone tense. Then Tom found that he had to have his thumbprints photographed as part of the entry process; presumably, that was simply to make sure that the person who left with his passport would have the same thumbs as the person arriving with his passport, but it felt uncomfortably like being fingerprinted. There was little time or mental energy for fantasies about enigmatic beautiful women turning up in his bedroom, but Tom found some anyway.
He found his hotel without difficulty - this 'airport hotel' wasn't just somewhere within the airport perimeter, it was slap-bang in the middle of the airport, right by the terminal building. He checked in and took the lift up to his floor. He was surprised to find himself walking along a corridor that was almost a balcony, its large, unglazed windows overlooking a central quadrangle that was open to the sky. Large, exotic plants grew in the quad below; spiral staircases, also open to the sky, and lit with a strange but somehow appropriate green light, rose up from it. Welcome to the tropics.
The room was spacious and well appointed, and delightfully cool: Tom had had no idea of just how hot and humid the evening was until he walked in to that air-conditioned sanctuary. He made himself at home and had a shower.
Insofar as he had worked out the real possibilities of a sexual encounter with his exciting flight companion, Tom had contemplated her appearance at his door (having twisted the arm of some unfortunate concierge to reveal his room number) in some exotic evening dress or, at worst, the dignified business suit she had been wearing on the plane. It all seemed rather unlikely now.
He came out of the bathroom refreshed by his shower but resigned to the fact that all his fantasies had probably been as heated as the evening. Yes,
he
