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It is my first week at Downton Books. I have spent three days working in the stock room, unpacking deliveries, logging new arrivals, and then stocking shelves. But now Christina has promoted me to join Austin at the front counter.

‘Mrs da Silva,’ Austin mutters. And he nods in the direction of the smartly-dressed woman with silver-streaked hair who has just entered the shop. ‘Watch this,’ he says. ‘She will go and inspect the New Arrivals; taking one or two books from the stack; opening them at random; peering at whatever is before her. But she won’t buy any of them. She never does. Never. Not once in the whole time that I have been here. And then, when she thinks no one is watching, she will scuttle over to Adult Entertainment and select a paperback from the Purple Lace collection. Or something similar.’

‘So?’ I say. ‘What’s the harm in that? They’re all books. They’re all for sale. Aren’t they?’

‘A woman of her age,’ Austin says.

Austin is of the school that believes that books should be ‘good for you’. And ‘good for you’ means good for the better you. In Austin’s world, a middle-aged woman should not be buying books that she can read with one hand.

‘Ah, Mrs da Silva,’ Austin says as Mrs da Silva approaches the counter. ‘And how are you today?’

‘I am very well, thank you, Austin,’ Mrs da Silva replies. She reaches into the bottom of her large expensive-looking black leather handbag and produces a small dark red wallet containing several plastic cards. She frowns briefly. I’m not sure why. And then she hands over a plastic bankcard. ‘You can do it,’ she tells Austin.

It’s a week later, almost to the hour, when I next see Mrs da Silva. Austin is taking a few days off. Visiting his sister in Cornwall. Mrs da Silva goes through her usual routine. Except, this time she selects a re-issue of Henry Miller’s ‘Quiet Days in Clichy’.

‘Ah. Henry Miller. Paris. Paris when Paris was the mecca. It’s nice to see some of the classics being re-issued,’ I say.

Mrs da Silva does the faintest of double takes.

‘There is a rumour,’ I say, in my best conspiratorial voice, ‘that some of Linda Yeoman’s early works are also going to be re-issued.’ And I smile.

For a moment, Mrs da Silva frowns. But then she too smiles. And she nods. ‘Linda Yeoman. Interesting,’ she says.

It is a week later. Austin should be back. But he isn’t. He has phoned to say that he is unwell. Apparently there is some bug afoot in the South West. He claims that he doesn’t want to bring it back to London and pass it on to the rest of us, and so he is going to stay down in Cornwall for a few more days.

It is raining in London and, from my spot at the counter, I see Mrs da Silva shaking the raindrops from her umbrella before she comes into the shop. ‘It would seem that the drought has broken,’ I say as Mrs da Silva saunters up to the New Arrivals table. Mrs da Silva looks at me and smiles but says nothing.

One of the new arrivals is Sally Clarkson’s ‘Below Stairs’. The front cover poses the question: ‘What is an innocent young girl to do?’ And the back cover proclaims that, between the covers, the reader can expect to find ‘the season’s sizzling sensation’. Mrs da Silva picks up a copy and allows it to fall open at a random page. She starts reading. She smiles. And she nods in a manner that I take to mean: ‘Yes. This will do nicely.’

‘Where is … umm … Austin?’ Mrs da Silva asks when she brings her purchase to the counter.

‘He is down in Cornwall,’ I tell her. ‘He went for a few days of rest and recreation. But he seems to have picked up a touch of ‘flu or something, and so he is staying on for a few extra days.’

Mrs da Silva nods.

‘And how are you, Mrs da Silva?’

‘I am very well, thank you …,’ — she peers at my name tag — ‘Jeremy.’

‘That’s good,’ I say, as I scan her purchase and slip it into a recyclable carrier bag. ‘Alan Bennett,’ I say. ‘Are you a fan?’

‘Umm … yes. I do enjoy some of his work,’ she says.

”Smut’ is a rather jolly little read,’ I say.

She frowns. ‘Smut?’

‘Yes. That’s the title. It’s also the … umm … theme.’

‘Oh. Esentepe Escort Gosh. No, I haven’t read that,’ she says.

‘I’m afraid I sold our last copy yesterday,’ I tell her. ‘But we have another couple on order. Would you like me to put one aside perhaps?’

‘Umm ….’ She hesitates. But only for a moment. ‘Thank you, Jeremy,’ she says. ‘That would be very kind of you.’

Austin has still not returned when Mrs da Silva calls in the following week. He claims that the doctor has said that he must rest for another week. My personal opinion is that he just a malingering little shit.

‘Did Mr Bennett’s book come in?’ Mrs da Silva asks.

Mr Bennett? Oh, yes. ‘Smut’. Yes. Of course. It was on back order. But I can’t recall seeing it. I go to the computer and consult the stock list. ‘Umm … no,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs da Silva. According to this it is still on order. Has been so for more than a week. Let me phone the warehouse. See if I can find out what’s happening.’

‘Oh, I don’t want to be any bother,’ Mrs da Silva says.

‘It’s no bother,’ I tell her.

The woman at the warehouse says that we are down for the first delivery the following morning.

‘Oh …,’ Mrs da Silva says. She seems a little disappointed.

‘Where do you live?’ I ask. ‘Somewhere nearby?’ I don’t know why I feel that she may live nearby, but she gives the impression of being a West End local.

She nods. ‘Just over in Mayfair,’ she says. ‘It’s all right. I can come back tomorrow. What would be a good time?’

‘Or I could drop the book over to you,’ I say. ‘Just give me an address.’ And I give her a pen and a notepad.

Mrs da Silva writes down an address. Her handwriting is from another era. Copperplate is a word that springs to mind. ‘It’s the red door to the left of the watch shop,’ she tells me. ‘My flat is on the first floor.’

I tell her to expect me at about five o’clock.

The watch shop is still open when I arrive at Mrs da Silva’s address. I am tempted. I have a bit of a weakness for watches. Yes, I know that mobile smartphones can give you the time accurate to the last millisecond, but it’s the art and craft of a well-designed well-made watch that appeals to me. Nevertheless, I steel myself and press Mrs da Silva’s doorbell.

A light comes on. ‘Ah. Jeremy. Yes. Please come in,’ a voice from the tiny speaker next to the doorbell says.

There is a click, and I push the door. Directly in front of me is a staircase. Mrs da Silva is waiting on the landing above. She is wearing a garment that could be a robe from a Shakespeare play. Or it could be a smart dressing gown. ‘It’s nice to see you,’ she says. ‘Welcome.’

I am ready to hand over the book — which I have slipped into one of the bookshop’s recyclable carriers — and leave. But Mrs da Silva makes it clear that she wishes me to come inside.

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Thank you. You know, this is very kind of you.’

‘The pleasure is mine,’ I tell her.

‘In here, I think,’ she says. I follow Mrs da Silva through a pair of double doors into a surprisingly spacious 1930s-style drawing room with a slightly Italianate feeling.

‘This is very nice,’ I say.

Mrs da Silva frowns slightly and looks around the room as if she is seeing it for the first time. ‘Yes,’ she says, cautiously. ‘I like the tall windows. Unfortunately, the view is only of the building across the street. But that’s Mayfair. You can’t have everything, can you? Now … I like my gin and Dubonnet made with equal measures of gin and Dubonnet. Will you join me?’

I am not quite sure what to say. But Mrs da Silva does not appear concerned. She takes my hesitation as affirmation.

‘Her Majesty the Queen — among others — is reputed to favour one part gin to two parts of Dubonnet. But I prefer mine a little drier. I also think that it tastes best made with Tanqueray. I have tried Plymouth gin, but it’s not the same. A little too oily perhaps. I will just go and get some ice.’

In one corner of the room there are two tall bookcases. As a bookman, I am, understandably, drawn to them. Esentepe Escort Bayan Many of the volumes appear to be leather bound. I can’t help wondering if an interior designer has purchased them by the yard. But a closer inspection reveals a representative selection from the cannon, from Shakespeare and co right up to the 1950s. And interspersed with the classics there appears to be a good deal of smut dressed in its best.

‘Impressive,’ I say when Mrs da Silva returns with a tray on which there is a small bowl of ice, a lemon, and a small wooden chopping board.

Mrs da Silva smiles. ‘My late father was a … collector,’ she says. ‘I have just continued his work.’

‘It’s the first time that I have seen some of these works dressed in leather,’ I tell her.

She nods. ‘I have a man,’ she says. ‘Down in Kent. A true craftsman. And very reasonable. All things considered.’

‘May I?’ I ask.

‘By all means,’ she says.

I carefully remove a copy of ‘Nights at the Lighthouse’ by Henry Zalewski. It’s a comparatively recent reprint of the second edition that has been re-bound in dark green buckram and leather. On the outside it looks all class. But on the inside, it is, of course, pure erotic filth.

‘Try this,’ Mrs da Silva says, and she hands me a crystal tumbler with glistening ice cubes and a slice of lemon floating in a light reddish liquid. ‘See what you think.’

‘Thank you. Cheers,’ I say. The glass is only halfway to my mouth when the aroma of slightly bitter fruit with juniper and alcohol hits my nose and expands my brain, pushing it out against the interior wall of my skull. I take a sip. More pungent fruit. More juniper. A hint of liquorice. And the ever-so-pleasant burn of what seems like pure alcohol. ‘Gosh,’ I say. ‘Gosh.’

‘There’s something about those first few sips, isn’t there?’ Mrs da Silva says. ‘Before the ice has a chance to start diluting everything.’

I know what she means. ‘It’s very nice,’ I say.

‘Have you read ‘Nights at the Lighthouse’?’ Mrs da Silva asks.

‘I have … umm … dipped,’ I tell her. ‘And you?’

‘Jeremy, despite what some people may think, I am not a woman who buys books just for decoration,’ she says. And then she adds: ‘And what did you think?’

‘About the book? Well … of its genre,’ I say, ‘it’s quite good. It certainly does what it says on the tin.’

Mrs da Silva smiles and nods. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’

We both take another sip of our rocket fuel masquerading as cocktail.

‘Tell me, Jeremy, do you enjoy masturbating?’

For a split second I wonder if the gin has done something to the wiring in my brain. Did Mrs da Silva really say what I thought she said? I take another sip of my cocktail — but I’m not sure that that helps a great deal. ‘Well … doesn’t everyone?’ I say. ‘I mean everyone who masturbates. If they didn’t enjoy it, they probably wouldn’t do it. Would they?’

‘So I take it that that means yes,’ Mrs da Silva says.

‘I suppose so,’ I say.

Mrs da Silva nods. ‘May I watch?’ she says.

‘Watch?’

‘Yes. May I watch you masturbate?’

‘Now?’

‘Now would be good,’ she says. ‘I have material — if you need help to get started.’

I have no doubt that she ‘has material’. I have already seen her library.

Put it down to the alcohol, but I am suddenly feeling uncharacteristically cheeky. ‘Could I watch you masturbate?’ I ask.

‘If you want to,’ Mrs da Silva says. ‘If that would help. Yes. By all means. We could watch each other.’

It is almost as if Mrs da Silva has been waiting for me to ask and is now worried that I will change my mind. She puts down what is left of her drink and unties the tie on her robe. Beneath her robe she is dressed — or should that be undressed? — in soft greyish-blue satin and lace. Even her stockings are a soft greyish-blue colour.

Mrs da Silva picks up her glass again and raises it in a toast. ‘Here’s looking at you, kid,’ she says. And then she puts her glass down and slowly, provocatively takes off her robe and drapes it over the arm of Escort Esentepe one of the sofas. ‘Your turn,’ she says. And she sits on the edge of the sofa and straightens her stockings. At least that’s what I initially think she is doing. But after due consideration, I suspect that she is really just taking the opportunity to caress her elegant legs. She starts near the ankle and progresses upward, continuing beyond her stocking tops. First her left leg, and then her right leg. And then ….

Mrs da Silva’s knickers are of a style described by purveyors of such garments as full briefs. From behind they are plain and satiny; from in front they are attractively lacy. Mrs da Silva spreads her legs slightly and, with a well-manicured finger, traces slow circles on the satiny panel that covers her cotch. ‘Do you need my help to remove your trousers?’ she asks.

I thank her for her kind offer, but tell her that I think that I can manage on my own. Mrs da Silva smiles and nods.

I take another sip of my gin and Dubonnet, and then I unfasten my belt and lower my zip. My cock is already growing. It does not seem that her ‘material’ will be required. Mrs da Silva is material enough herself.

As I lower my trousers and carefully put them to one side, Mrs da Silva pushes the gusset of her knickers to one side. Her vulva is generously thatched with dark hair, although there are a few streaks of silver, and it reminds me — excitingly — a of a black and white photograph from a 1950s porn mag. She dips a finger into her nearby cocktail and then traces it along her cuntal valley, freeing her pink butterfly-like inner lips.

I take my cock in hand. It is fattening nicely and its purple-pink helmet head has already emerged from its partial hiding place. I pump it a few times and it grows still further.

‘Yes. Very nice,’ Mrs da Silva says. ‘A fine fellow indeed.’ And she briefly stands up and removes her knickers. ‘There,’ she says. ‘Now we can work unobstructed.’ She sits down again and adjusts her satin and lace suspender belt before returning her fingers to her fleshy pink crevice.

‘I see that you favour the full hand technique,’ Mrs da Silva says.

‘Full hand?’

‘Yes. My late husband used to favour two fingers underneath and his thumb on top. It worked for him.’

‘Oh. I see what you mean,’ I say. ‘Yes. A full hand. I suppose so.’ I am not sure what it is about the situation, but I can already feel my heartbeat sneaking higher and my breath shortening. Something to do with the gin and Dubonnet perhaps? Or is it just that Mrs da Silva is so unexpectedly sexy in a strange sort of way?

‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs da Silva says — as if answering my unasked question. ‘Oh. Oh. Oh, yes. This is working,’ she says. ‘This is working.’

‘It is indeed,’ I confirm.

We continue for another few minutes, and then Mrs da Silva bids me come closer. ‘I want to feel your spunk on me,’ she says.

I move closer and I can already feel an electric tingle building in the root of my cock. Oh, yes.

Mrs da Silva’s magic fingers are now working at full speed. ‘Oh. Oh, Oh, yes. Oh, yes.’ And then her head goes back and her words turn into primitive animal sounds. ‘Ah. Uh. Uh. Arghhh. Oh, yes!’

I try to delay. But the electric tingle is already taking over the full length of my cock. A few more full-hand pumps and we have lift-off! My cum glistens on Mrs da Silva’s belly and mixes with her delicious silver-streaked cunt-thatch.

‘Well,’ Mrs da Silva says. ‘Well. That was jolly good fun, wasn’t it?’

Jolly good fun? Yes. It was indeed.

Austin returns to the shop on the following Monday morning. For a man who has been lying at death’s door, he looks remarkably tanned and relaxed. Christina calls him into her small office. Voices are raised and, after about ten minutes, Austin storms out of the shop, his coat in hand.

Shortly before midday, Mrs da Silva comes into the shop. She doesn’t even bother with the New Arrivals table. She walks straight to the Adult Entertainment section and selects a paperback re-issue of four Anaïs Nin short stories.

‘And how are you today, Mrs da Silva?’ I ask when she brings her purchase to the counter.

‘I am very well, thank you, Jeremy. Very well indeed.’ And then she asks: ‘And at what time will you finish this afternoon.’

‘All going well, about five-thirty,’ I tell her.

She nods. ‘In that case, shall we say gin and Dubonnet at six?’

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