The Emporium of Illusions (3/8) By Andy Bilton

(1/8), (2/8), (3/8), (4/8), (5/8), (6/8), (7/8), (8/8).

I arrive at a quarter to eight and the restaurant is already getting quite full and a little noisy and I start to wonder if this was such a good choice for a first date but a smartly dressed waiter comes over to me, greets me with a beaming smile and introduces himself as Mario and asks me if I have a reservation. "Yes," I say, "table for two, booked in the name of Peacock." "Super," says Mario, "would you like to follow me, sir?"

He leads me to a small circular metal table in the corner that is not unlike the table I used to have outside on my patio at home, the same shade of lush vegetation green. "Would you like a drink while you're waiting for your guest Mr. Peacock?" asks Mario.

"Sure I'll have a Peroni please," I say. "Would you like a bottle or a pint?" "You have it on draft?" I ask. "Oh yes sir," says Mario. "I'll have a pint then," I say, unable to restrain a smile. Peroni on draft always puts me in mind of our honeymoon, which was, I always maintain, one of the best, most magical times of my life.

Helen was a dead ringer for Demi Moore in her 'About Last Night' period. Not only did she have the sultry looks with the long raven hair, but she also had the voice. That coarse, sexiness that got me instantly hard the first time I heard it as she called out my order for a fish and chip dinner when she started at The Golden Haddock.

Three months of cinema visits and meals out and midnight fumblings in my mother's Ford Escort at the seafront at Paull and we were married at the local registry office - neither of us being church goers - and I found myself lying next to her in a lounger, by the side of the rooftop pool of the Hotel Panorama in Naples, the backdrop of the sun screaming down on Vesuvius behind us. Her in her brilliant white two piece, the top pushing her breasts together and up making them appear fuller then they actually were. Me in my black Speedos and drinking Peroni from a pint glass with a handle, the drops of ice cold condensation rolling down the side of the glass and dripping onto my chest - a not unpleasurable sensation - as I drank.

I felt like Sean Connery in a Bond Movie, like I had made it and everything, though hot, was cool.

Michelle enters the restaurant and she looks great in a cream, scoop neck dress that stops just above the knees of her tanned legs. Immediately she is mobbed by three of the waiters, one of them even leaving a table where he was in the middle of taking an order to greet her. As she approaches I get up from my seat and smile and pull her chair out for her. "Ta," she says, running her hands along the backs of her thighs, straightening her dress as she sits.

I sit back down opposite and Mario, who has now dismissed his obviously subordinate colleagues and taken charge, gives us a menu each and asks Michelle if she would like a drink. "I'll just have a slimline tonic please," she says. "Are you sure?" I ask her. "Yes thanks," she says, "I don't drink."

Continued...Next Page (4/8)

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