We were on the motorway heading east for London. Our first taste of freedom since the baby arrived a little over a year ago. Toddler and baby were staying with doting grandparents and we were off house hunting for a long weekend, target somewhere in the northeast sector the other side of town, out beyond Romford, Ilford and the London sprawl. Somewhere we'd be left enough for baked beans and white toast after the mortgage provider had taken its sticky paws out of our wallets.
The sky was that not quite bluish colour, a mottled cloudy layer that meant an English summer was in progress. Hot, quite humid, and splodges of darkness that said, "Just you wait. We've got a thunderstorm or two up our sleeves." We were frisky as March hares. Getting soaked to the skin would just add to the excitement. A services sign loomed.
"Shall we stop for a coffee and a pee before we get into town?" I asked Jo.
"Good idea."
I pulled off onto the ramp and we parked not too far from the services building. Jo was fiddling with her makeup, not that she used much, so I got out and went round to the passenger door to do the gentlemanly thing. Jo clipped her bag shut and swivelled towards me as I opened the door. She was wearing an understated light grey business style suit and white buttoned blouse. The sort of outfit designed to convince estate agents we were serious. The skirt was cut a little fuller than the pencil type. Her legs were apart and I was greeted with the sight of stockings, white suspender straps and knickers under an equally white lace trimmed slip. She gave me that wee smile that told of things to come. Then got out and we headed for refreshment.
Coffee was coffee at the turn of the decade. The eighties were beckoning, but the baristas of today were still at the amphibian stage of evolution. We both drunk black, in white cups, as we looked out at the streams of traffic.
"Is there a plan?" asked Jo.
I had been promoted to a job in the London office, and Jo had now given up work to look after the children, still not uncommon in those days, though it made life tough for a while. As I was going to be doing the commuting, a big change from both of us living within walking distance of work, I was supposed to take the lead on this trip. Supposed. We all know how the real world works.
"We've got today to ourselves," I replied. "Tomorrow we'll see the agents we've been in contact with, collect a ton of bumf and then spend a day and a half driving all over the place to get a shortlist, with a plan to view on the Sunday afternoon, or earlier, if we can squeeze that in. Meanwhile we can relax. I thought a curry lunch in town at a place I know which should be pretty quiet. Then, perhaps, there's a cinema I've used in the past we might drop in on. We don't have to be at the hotel until evening and we'll only need a snack and a drink."
"What sort of cinema?"
"The sort of cinema you might quite like," I said.
"Hmmm. Curry sounds good. And then, we'll see."
We walked back to the car, hand in hand and happy. I thought the plan might have legs to match Jo's, but, as she said, we would have to see. Our timing was good, and travelling in the lull period we were soon closing on the city. Stopped at lights controlling a main junction before the easterly roads divided, a white minibus pulled alongside to our left. Jo looked up and smiled. My view was restricted but I could see it was a police van, and the chaps in the back were taking a keen interest in Jo. From their point of view her cleavage must have been a pleasant sight. Looking ahead to monitor the lights I casually let my left hand stray to her knee and gently slid her skirt and slip upwards. Then the lights changed and we were off. The van forked left and we right, but the gentlemen of the law showed their appreciation vigorously as our paths diverged. I wondered idly if they'd got our number and we were in for a series of visits from randy off-duty coppers, but probably not. The angles weren't right.
The curry house was down a side street on the route out just east of the centre, between the West End and the City. The pubs would have been busy but there was plenty of parking space on this street and we found we were the only customers in the restaurant. A fit looking young man, in a pale blue outfit probably supposed to be oriental and equally probably knocked up by the family seamstress, ushered us to a table in a corner and made a fuss of helping Jo into her seat. He took a sharp intake of breath as Jo sat. I couldn't see for sure, but it seemed she might have hitched her skirt right up. She smiled winningly at him.
"What's your name?"
"Mohandas, madam. Like Gandhi. But most people call me Mo," he stuttered.
"Mine's Jo," she replied, holding out her hand. "And this is Guy." He nodded in my direction and I nodded back. "Sorry about the leg show. But this is my only suit for the trip and curry would ruin it. Do you by any chance have an apron I could borrow?"
"Of course, madam. Right away."
He dashed off, crouching a little to mitigate a bulge in the groin area. I leant forward.
"Don't say it," said Jo.
"What?" I tried the po-face but couldn't hold it.
"I think you've got your "
"Don't say it!" So, I didn't.
He returned with menus and a clean blue apron. He had regained his composure and took the opportunity to help Jo with the apron while enjoying a delightful view of her breasts, and probably stockings or more. Jo wiggled helpfully for him. Adjusting the apron, she accidentally parted the blouse at the top and Mo hovered approvingly as he tendered the menus.
"The usual?" I asked Jo.
"Please."
"Wine?"
"A glass of white." I reeled off our order and Mo scribbled. "And otherwise just water to drink," I concluded.
"Where are you from Mo?" Jo asked.
