Note: Whilst Gwendolyn refers to Whittaker as her uncle, they are not blood relatives. This is all part of the game to them. Both are well above legal age.
The room was stifling hot, a fire that had lain dormant all day, was now purring contentedly in the grate and the heat made the smoke curling from Whittaker’s cigar hang thickly in the air. He was facing the window, his back to her, watching the late evening lovers take the air.
“Did you have a pleasant evening?” He didn’t turn around.
Gwendolyn took off her jacket and shoes. “Quite.”
“Did he try anything?”
She laughed and made her way through his tightly-packed office to the window, whose ledge was just wide enough for her to perch on.
“He was a gentleman – he was the gentleman he was paid to be.” Here she reached forward and took the cigar from his hand. She took a long drag and when he took it off her, blew languid smoke rings into the air, kicking her feet into his thigh. He caught one and held it as he smoked, her toes contained in his fist.
“You’re drunk.” he said after a while.