Creaming the Coconuts

Darlings, the opening lines from my new steamy racy novel.

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As the morning cracked through the crisp white silk and linen shell of the night, it filled the room with the sparkling diamonds of a kaleidoscopic dawn; blue, white, and yellow rainbow beams bouncing excitedly across the walls and celing, dappling an ever new pattern as it broke the dark fast.

I was still only half awake when he called. He was in Monte Carlo again. Jacqueline Bisset had hosted yet another of her legendary soirees, all of which end up with him naked in her swimming pool playfully rutting with Mario Testino's latest muse.

He was still flirtatiously drunk and whispered the soft half-awake pillow talk spanning the warmth of the morning bed sheets which stretched across the continent, lying next to me whilst being so far south in the same dream like moment.

He rang so I could remind him of the details of his flight. We may no longer be together; if we ever were, but he still has his assistant courier me all his travel details so that wherever he is - drunk, stoned or in flagrante, whatever the time zone or prevailing political wind of his waking and whosoever's love soaked bed his body is caressing, he knows someone, somewhere will be able to remind him which flight to get and how to summon his car service.

The collection of blue Smythson leather portfolios containing the intricate details of his hotels, drivers, engagements and seat numbers (always 3A) fill the shelves of my study like ripples in an emerald sea. Sometimes in the evening if I am restless or missing the sun, I flick through this library and dream of far-away shores, bronzed and warm, washed by a soft breeze, and I imagine the sweet smell of oiled muscles, and the taste of salt in the air from the crashing break. There is a promise in these dreams and a hungry, delicious ache for times and places still to come.................