Should women lead secret lives? A secret life where her scent is hidden, her predatory preference cleverly hidden by careful selection? I have been writing for a while, it's a way to boost my income between teaching and learning. I teach, they learn. I think I've mentioned it before. I grow older, but my demographic remains the same. Simon was eighteen when we met, dripping in the hot house summer, framed in glass, gently simmering in the heat between my thighs and hammering beneath ribcage.

 

An easy lay, an accidental brush of fingertips. An erratic heartbeat paved the way for a long easy ride, straddling his young hips. A stud farmed out for fornication. He is older now and in his second year at university. Our connection is not as strong, out of his teens and my reawakened heat bubbles for more.

 

More, please. May I have some more? I scrutinise the face of my latest pupil. He will not do, he will not do at all. I will have to surf for new. Search afresh for hot, young cock.

 

I remember the smell of Biba makeup as if it were yesterday. And yet, it is more than forty years since Barbara Hulanicki's ground-breaking products painted my face and clothed my skin. We were all Quant creatures back then, Kohl drawn eyes and wide smiles. Everyone wanted to look like Twiggy or The Shrimp; I was lucky, naturally lean and long. I don't have the angular no-waist look that is fashionable all the time. My hip to waist ratio makes me an hour glass, but I wear it well. I like to wear it well. When I find something that I like, which suits me and fits as if it is tailor made, I buy at least two. I like two. It is a perfect number.

 

As well as schooling Simon Conrad in order that he secure a place at his first choice university, I taught him the art of seduction.