Glamour 1

'I had an amazing time last night.'

'Me too,' I reply. That's fair, I think. The three used condoms in my bathroom bin can vouch for that. Still, it's now the morning after, and I'm looking forward to a Saturday to myself as I walk the girl down the stairs of my building and across the foyer.

'So, when can I see you again?' she asks.

'Well, you know I have this thing to do, so it will be a couple of weeks, I guess. I'll call you when I get back. We can pick up where we left off last night.'

Her face lights up, and I feel a momentary pang of guilt for what will probably turn out to be a lie. We had a nice night, but at 23 she's almost exactly a decade younger than me, and I'm not sure that we have the same sort of future relationship in mind. I can tell that she's already mentally picking out wallpaper for our new home together, while I'm just wondering what positions I might fuck her in if we meet up again.

We stop by the mailboxes and kiss goodbye. There's a woman with her back to us, going through her post; I don't recognise her so guess that she's the new tenant in the penthouse, directly above my apartment. The building's been awash with chatter about her, although no-one seems to have any solid information to share.

'I'll miss you,' the girl says, waiting a couple of heartbeats for the sentiment to be returned. When it's not forthcoming, she turns and skips from the building and out into the early October sunlight.

'So that's who was making all the racket last night,' I hear someone say, and it takes me a moment to realise that it's the woman checking her mail. She turns to face me, and I instantly recognise her from somewhere, although from where exactly I can't tell. She's lovely, whoever she is; a little older than me, perhaps in her late thirties? Thick blonde hair falls in loose curls around her shoulders. Her clothes are the very definition of "smart-casual"; a dark blazer over a white t-shirt, tight blue jeans, and a pair of bright red high heels. The V-necked collar of the t-shirt dips low enough to give a fantastic view of her impressive cleavage.

I hear a gentle cough and force myself to look up at her face. An eyebrow is raised sardonically but she's clearly used to the attention; I can already tell that this is a woman who has made the most of her beauty for her entire life. I look past her at the name on the mailbox she's now closing up - "Caroline Raymond". Again, there's something just below the surface of my memory struggling to announce itself.

'I figured you were either torturing her or she was having the time of her life. I didn't know whether to call the police or just ask if I could watch.'

'Well, no-one knocked at my door, so I guess you decided against both of those ideas.'

She smiles. 'Mmm. I came up with a third option.'

The woman walks past me, leaving a tantalizing wave of expensive perfume in the air behind her. Turning, she motions towards the stairs. 'Going my way?' she asks.

I nod and fall into step beside her.

'You're in the penthouse?'

'That's right. I've moved my business into new offices, and I wanted to be closer to them,' she replies.

'Oh? What do you do?'

'I'm an agent.'

An image of my new neighbour dressed like a cartoon spy flashes through my mind; the long black leather trenchcoat, thigh-length boots, trilby pulled down across one eye, and not much else. The seductive smile and a smoking pistol.

'You?' she asks, before my imagination can get carried away with itself.

'Office work. Nothing that I could explain in less than half an hour,' I reply. It's true; I have one of those 21st century jobs that are almost impossible to describe to someone outside of my own organisation. I find it's best not to try.

We arrive on my landing, and I'm suddenly conscious that my apartment is probably not fit for polite company after last night's activities. The sheets are certainly in need of a wash. Oh well, in for a penny...

'Would you like to come in for a coffee?' I ask.

She laughs. It's a good laugh, bright and friendly.

'No thanks. I'm sure you have some laundry you need to attend to.'

Dammit.

She winks and is gone, her high heels click-clacking on the marble stairs.

----

It's a few days later when I see her again. I'm travelling home from work on the Tube -- there's a small branch of the Northern Line that ends at Battersea Power Station, just a couple of minutes from my flat. Generally, I tend to zone out when I'm on the Tube -- there are only so many advertisements that are worth paying any attention to, and my journey is too short for me to bother taking something more substantial to read. As the train leaves the penultimate station before terminating at my stop, I happen to look down the carriage and spot Caroline seated no more than half a dozen metres from me.

It's worth saying again quite how stunning she is. Seriously, she's gorgeous, and as I try not to stare at her, it's clear to me that I'm not the only person in the carriage on whom she's made an impression. Some guy, I'm guessing in his fifties -- all beer belly and greasy hair, wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt that's seen better days - is holding onto one of the straps that dangle from the ceiling. The motion of the train causes him to sway, and he's making the most of the opportunity to encroach on Caroline's personal space. It's pretty gross, and I'm about to get up and say something, when I see Caroline fix him with a look that could have made the Thames freeze over. I almost feel sorry for the guy as he mumbles an apology and shuffles further down the train.

Caroline returns her attention to the newspaper she's reading -- it's a broadsheet, not one of the free newspapers. I toy with the idea of approaching her, but something -- maybe the thought of becoming the object of another of her stares -- stops me.

The train pulls into my stop, and I step off and make my way along the platform and onto the escalator taking me up to street level. About halfway up, I hear someone give a polite cough behind me.

'I thought you might have come and said hello once you'd noticed me.'

I turn and look down at the step below me. There's Caroline; breathtakingly beautiful up close. Where do I know her from?

'I thought about it, but you seemed kind of busy. You know, between your newspaper and Bruce Dickinson back there,' I reply.

She cocks her head to one side in confusion, then laughs.

'Ah, Iron Maiden t-shirt? Barely gave him a thought.'

'I have to say, that was pretty impressive -- how you sent him packing without saying a word,' I continue.

She sighs. 'I've had plenty of practice, Nick.'

Umm?

'How did you know my name?'

She gives me a mysterious look. 'I have my ways.'

Of course. 'You read the name on my mailbox.'

'See?' she laughs. 'I told you I have my ways.'

We reach the top of the escalator, and together clear the ticket barriers and walk out into the street. I wonder if she would be happy to walk with me the rest of the way to our building, and am about to say something when I realise that she's no longer beside me. I turn and see her a couple of paces behind, looking at a bar a little way down the road on the other side of the street, and clearly trying to make up her mind about something.

'Are you ok?' I ask.

She looks to me, and I can plainly see a hesitancy -- a nervousness -- that's completely out of place on her beautiful face.

'Have a drink with me?' she asks, motioning to the bar.

'Sure. Sounds good,' I reply, resisting the urge to punch the air in celebration.

----

It's a nice bar; probably a former bank or something. I've been in here a couple of times before, although I tend to do most of my drinking with my colleagues after work in pubs and bars near to our office. We order drinks at the bar -- a pint of IPA for me and a Diet Coke with a straw for her -- and look for somewhere to sit.

'Will this do?' Caroline asks, pointing at a small table tucked right out of the way at the back of the room. For the briefest moment I find myself wondering if she's ashamed to be seen with me or something, before realising that her choice of table is probably more to do with not wanting any more Iron Maiden fans making an appearance. I'm a little embarrassed, but just nod and motion for her to lead the way.

There's a little awkwardness for the first couple of minutes, but I guess that's to be expected. After all, we're almost complete strangers and at this point we know of nothing that we have in common other than the fact that we live in the same building.

'Have you lived here long?' Caroline asks.

'A couple of years. I was living in a houseshare near Clapham Common, but then my parents died. Only child. Sole beneficiary. It made sense to buy, and I like Battersea.'

'I'm sorry,' she says. 'About your family.'

'Oh, thanks.' That's it, idiot, I tell myself; keep it light. 'What about you? You said you moved to be closer to your work?'

'Mmm,' she nods. She takes a quick sip through the straw of her Diet Coke, and I am entirely jealous of that straw. 'That's right. We moved to new offices near Borough Market a few months ago.'

'Someone's doing well for themselves,' I joke. 'Offices in an up-and-coming area, penthouse apartment in Battersea.'

'Ah yes, the penthouse,' she sighs, happily. 'Living the dream.'

It's time to take a risk, I think. 'That's a big place for just one person.'

She flashes me a smile -- a smile I'm sure I know from somewhere. 'Oh, and what makes you think I'm on my own?' she asks.

'Just a guess.' Come on, Nick, go for it. 'Maybe I'm just being hopeful.'

Our eyes meet, and she holds my stare for a few heartbeats.

'You don't think that I might be a little old for you?' she finally asks.

'What? You're only a few years ahead of me. Half a dozen at the most.' It sounds like I'm being gentlemanly, but I'm pretty certain that she's no older than 38 or so.

'Let's see,' she replies. 'You're... 32? 33?'

'33. Nicely done.'

'Thank you. And "half a dozen" years on top of that would make me 39. You think that's right?'

Oh god, I think, please tell me that I haven't suggested that she's older than she actually is.

'At the absolute most,' I insist.

Caroline shakes her head, and takes another sip of her drink. Is she blushing?

'Not even close, sweetie,' she says. 'The desperately sad fact of it is that I won't see the first half of my forties again.'

What?!

'Fuck off!' I say, certainly more loudly and more assertively than I intended. An elderly couple enjoying a post-shopping coffee at the table across from us look at me disapprovingly.

'I was forty-six in February.'

I try to ignore the elderly couple and lean forward. 'No way!' I whisper.

'I can show you my driver's license, or my cellulite, if you like.'

I'm too stunned to speak. Instead, I search her face for any sign that she's the age that she says. There's none.

'So, I'll repeat the question,' she continues. 'You don't think that I might be a little old for you?'

----

We finish our drinks and walk home together. We're not saying much, but that's mostly because we both have plenty to think about, I guess. Don't ask me what I said in response to Caroline's question; it was soppy and embarrassing and entirely complimentary. Suffice it to say that I left her in no doubt that the difference in our ages meant absolutely nothing to me.

Now we're once more on the staircase outside my apartment.

'Would you like to join me for dinner on Friday evening? My place. Seven thirty?'

Fuck, yes!

'Let me think. Yeah, I can do that; sounds great. I'll see you then, Caroline.'

She pauses. 'The last person to call me Caroline was my dear-departed Nana. Everybody calls me Carrie.'

And then my memory finally kicks into gear.

----

There was a time, not all that long ago, when it was common for certain British tabloid newspapers to feature a half-naked woman just inside their front cover. These "Page 3 Girls" were nothing short of an institution. Household names. Some of them went on to have careers in acting or music, or married rich and famous men sometimes twice their age. The actor Greg Kinnear married one. So did Jeff Beck, the musician. The women were sometimes extremely pretty girl-next-door types, but more often than not they were out and out gorgeous. They invariably had magnificent bodies. And for many men, certainly in the era before the internet, these were the first naked women they ever saw.

Carrie Raymond was one of these women, and I don't mind admitting that she formed the basis of many of my earliest teenage fantasies. That was twenty years ago. A few minutes ago, she invited me to have dinner with her in her apartment. Not tonight, or tomorrow night. Friday night. One of the two nights in the week when you don't have to worry about getting out of bed to go to work the next morning. That means something, doesn't it?

These next two days will be the longest of my entire fucking life.

----

Clutching a bottle of mid-priced Sauvignon Blanc, I knock on the door of the penthouse at seven thirty sharp. My palms are sweating.

Carrie answers the door after a few moments and I'm immediately put at ease. She's wearing dark blue, loose-fitting trousers and a cream-coloured blouse. Her blonde hair is tied back in a pony-tail and her beautiful face is only very slightly made-up. The overall effect is that she looks great -- fabulous even -- but certainly not like she's out to seduce anyone. I smile awkwardly and accept the invitation to enter.

It's the first time I've stepped foot in the penthouse of my building, and I can immediately see that it's worth every penny of the eye-watering amount she must have paid for it. The open-plan living and dining area alone is probably bigger than my entire apartment, and a large sliding glass door opens out onto a balcony overlooking Battersea Park. Already, the place looks more homely - only a couple of weeks after Carrie has moved in - than my place looks after more than three years.

'Make yourself at home,' Carrie calls through from the kitchen. As I take a seat on one of two immense couches, she re-emerges with a pair of glasses and a bottle of wine which I have no doubt costs considerably more than the one I brought with me. She pours the wine and we drink. I'm itching to have a look around; it's not every day you find yourself in the home of a former glamour model.

Carrie smiles kindly. 'If you're looking for photos of me from my earlier career, I don't tend to leave those out on display. Especially not when I have guests,' she laughs.

I blush once more.

'I have to say that I didn't recognise you until you told me not to call you Caroline,' I admit.

'I'm much older now,' she says, without bitterness.

'No, not at all,' I protest. 'It's just that I...'

I pause, realising the full horror of what I was about to say.

'Had only ever seen me before with my tits out?' she finishes for me. She takes a seat next to me on the couch, crossing her legs towards me. Her arm rests along the back of the couch, almost behind me. Again, I catch the intoxicating aroma of her perfume.

'You were my favourite,' I tell her.

'Yeah yeah. I bet you say that to all the former topless models.'

'True. Some day one of them might even fall for it.'

'Maybe tonight,' she murmurs. 'The night is young.'

I'm getting an erection. There's no delicate way of saying it.

'Your agency,' I say, desperately trying to avoid making a fool of myself. 'It's for models?'

Carrie takes a sip of her wine. 'Uh-huh. There's less demand for glamour photography these days, and girls are less inclined towards proper modelling anyway. They all figure that they would do better with an Only Fans account. But there's still a need for catalogue modelling, or fashion. The girls still need looking after, and I can do that. I retired from modelling pretty early, but I know the business as well as anybody. The days of sitting in a draughty studio, in front of some half-arsed plastic plants and with a stuffed lion next to you, peeling off a cavegirl costume for the tabloids, are looooong gone.'

'I remember that cavegirl outfit. You looked stunning. There was a caption with it -- some awful pun like "we'd be lion if we said Carrie wasn't the hottest thing in the jungle".

'Oh my god. That's word for word! Fuck, tell me I haven't invited my stalker home for a drink!' she laughs.

'Like I said, you were my favourite,' I say, more than a touch bashfully.

'Ah, that's sweet,' she coos. Her left hand reaches over and rests on my knee; even something as innocent as this feels more sexually-charged than I could have ever thought possible.

'It must have been an exciting job,' I say. 'I guess you got to meet plenty of famous people. And not many people get to have a career that can be considered quite so sexy.'

Carrie scoffs. 'You think it was sexy for me, in the studio? Trying to make myself as desirable as possible, knowing that on the off-chance that I did get turned on, I'd have very few outlets for it?'

I can't believe the direction this conversation is going in. 'Very few?'

'Well, the reputable photographers were usually women or gay or married. If I got worked up, my only hope was to get myself back into the changing room as quickly as possible and take care of things myself.'

I suppress a groan. She knows what she's doing to me, and I can't help but feel that it's going to get worse.

'Do you like the idea of that? Me, alone in my changing room, all turned on and no-one to help me?'

'Uh-huh.'

'Weren't you wondering what that third option was that I chose when I could hear you fucking that silly young woman last week?'

Her hand has moved on from my knee and is now stroking the inside of my thigh. A few inches higher and she'll discover for herself quite how much I like the idea of the image she's describing.

'What about you?' she murmurs. 'Did you wank yourself off over my pictures?' She says it softly, almost shyly, and I realise with a start that both of us feels out of their depth. It hasn't occurred to me until now that this gorgeous woman might need some reassurance; that she might be nervous about making a fool of herself in front of a younger man.

I nod. 'And if I had owned pictures of you then, just as you are right now, I undoubtedly still would.'

The words are barely out of my mouth before Carrie's on me, her lips pressed against mine. We both fumble to find somewhere to place our wineglasses, then our hands are on each other. I cup her beautiful face and kiss her again and again, while she places her hands against my chest before swinging her leg over and sitting astride my lap. Her new position has her above me, and I tip my chin back and pull her face down against mine. I can taste the wine on her lips, and her perfume fills my nostrils. Carrie tips her neck back and I push my face into the soft skin of her neck, peppering her with kisses.

'Oh god yes,' she whispers, taking hold of the back of my head and dragging it forward into her cleavage. She's starting to grind herself against me. I can feel her need; the warmth and pressure of her body against me is provoking a stiffening in my trousers that she can't possibly have failed to notice.

Her skin is so soft. As Carrie holds me against her chest, it's like I'm being smothered by a satin sheet and I can't get enough of it. My lips press against her again and again, more and more and more and more until I need to break away to take a breath.

She looks down at me, my chin in her hands. I feel like she's reading me, testing my unspoken intentions, and I pray that she finds me worthy. Then she pushes herself away from me and stands up. I reach out to her, I need more, but she smiles as she steps back away from the couch.