I watched the heavy sway of her pale buttocks as she padded across the roof and slipped in through the door. There was still enough moon and street light to see that the top of the terrace had been converted into a roof garden and a good professional conversion it was too, with solid flags underfoot and waist-high iron railings. Wooden tubs stood at the four corners, each planted with something that was either a really big plant or a very small tree. The mattress I was lying on was actually a proper outdoor seating cushion with a water-resistant PVC covering. It was cooling off under my naked buttocks and so was I.

From below came the muttering, shouting party noise of another Soho evening. I became very conscious of the fact that I was lying stark bollock naked on top of a roof in Central London. I really hoped the guys at air support weren’t called into a patrol, otherwise I could end up on YouTube as that naked dickhead on the roof ROFL.

I was seriously considering looking for my clothes when Simone arrived back with a duvet and an old-fashioned picnic hamper with F&M stenciled on the side. She dropped the basket by the mattress and flung herself and the duvet around me.

“You’re freezing,” she said.

“You left me on the roof,” I said. “I nearly froze to death. They were scrambling the air–sea rescue helicopters and everything.”

She warmed me up for a bit, and then we investigated the hamper. It was a real Fortnum & Mason picnic hamper complete with stainless-steel flask of hot chocolate, a bottle of Hine cognac, and a whole Battenberg cake wrapped in grease-proof paper. No wonder it took her so long to come back.

“You just had this lying about?” I asked.

“I like to be prepared,” she said.

“Did you know Casanova used to live around here when he was in London?” I said. “When he went out for an assignation he used to carry a little valise with eggs, plates, and a spirit stove in it.” I slipped my hand around the warm heavy curve of her breast. “That way wherever he ended up he could still have a fried egg for breakfast.” I kissed her—she tasted of chocolate.

“I never knew Casanova was a Boy Scout,” she said.

We sat under the duvet and watched the moon setting behind the roofs of Soho, we ate Battenberg cake and listened to the police sirens whoop up and down Charing Cross Road and Oxford Street. When we were suitably refreshed we had mad sex until what passes for the dawn chorus in Soho was welcoming the first blush of the new day.

I like to think old Giacomo would have approved.

Chapter 7 - Almost Like Being in Love