FIFTEEN
John Sexton had his arm all the way around her narrow waist, inside of her raincoat, which flapped in time with their running. He allowed his hand to frequently slip, to fondle the buttocks of his secretary, mutually enjoying the excitement and even the heavy rain; she giggled, she liked it when he paid this sort of attention to her. He was taking her to Pomerol’s old place for a liquid lunch and she was looking forward to it. It was tipping it down but it was just a short distance along Cheapside and just up from the Thames. They ran, giggled and jiggled as they skittered and splashed in the City of London streets, eventually reaching the door of the wine bar, only to find it was closed.
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘That’s unusual,’ he said, picked his phone from his pocket and speed diall
