Mother and daughter

The longer he looked, the more taken he was, by both of them.

The dark red hair marked them as mother and daughter, Paul thought: they could have been wearing wigs grown and harvested from the same head. But in all else they differed. The mother, about 45, was impressively busty, shown to advantage by her V necked top. Her body was middle aged but not fat, her waist still trim, her hips wide. The girl, the daughter, seemed about 20, thin and frail. She wore a patterned dress: being high-collared, it modestly concealed her dead-flat chest; being sleeveless, it revealed her smooth slim arms. At 27 years of age, he thought, he might be just suitable for the girl, at a stretch. Was it the girl he wanted, though?

The pair sat in the outdoor courtyard of a café, tucked well away from the road, bordered on three sides by flowering vines. The pearly sky brought a glow to the leaves and flowers, and to the women's hair. Paul sat by a wall, empty tables between him and them. Mother and daughter had each glanced at him, at different times. Aware. If I keep looking at them in this stupid way, he thought, the mother will glare: it was time to act. Did he have the nerve? He hoped the mother had noticed the expensive cut of his clothes.

Here goes nothing, he thought. He called a waitress over, and asked her to tell the mother and daughter that he'd pay their bill if they allowed it. "And say they can order anything else they want, it's on me," he added.

He would have loved to bring this off in a confidant, a man-of-the-world way, but he blushed furiously. It felt like he was trying to do something from an old movie, something that just wasn't done. His heart raced.

The waitress, Eastern European, did not seem to understand his request. He repeated it in different words, pointing gently but repeatedly toward the two women. This drew the mother's frowning attention; it was all turning to crap. But then a waiter came up, understood at once, and spoke to the waitress in her own language, at which her puzzlement turned to interest, merriment, and a hard amused stare his way; and all this drew looks from other tables. Paul considered walking off then and there. But the waiter took command of the situation: he gave Paul a reassuring touch on the shoulder, and delivered his offer to the two women, with dignity. They received it quietly. What would happen?

What happened was that the mother came his way, bent down and smiled. She brought with her a waft of perfume. He remembered what a girl had once told him: a woman does not always use perfume for allure. She might use it just to lift her self-confidence, or else, to dominate her environment.

The woman was talking to him. Inviting him to join them. Behind her, the daughter was looking down, blushing. She'd folded her hands in her lap.

At the table it was all small talk at first. And introductions: the mother was Ava, the daughter Emily. Ava's breasts constantly demanded attention: it was like having an additional person to deal with. They were like a floodlight, he thought, which a guy just had to ignore. Or pretend to ignore. That was impossible, of course. He glanced at them now and then, just one split-second at a time, but he knew those glances were tracked by both women, just as surely as a computer tracks your momentary flick onto a porn site.

The answer was to look at the rest of Ava, and at Emily. Yes, they had the same skin too, though the girl's was paler, and of course fresher, her freckles less defined. Emily's eyes were green, soft, while Ava's were a bright blue blaze, startling against her red hair. Some women's faces have an impishness that survives into midlife, and Ava was one: she was full of pizzazz. Emily was quiet and withdrawn, but Paul was stirred by that too, in a different way. He noted the hollow between her shoulders and breasts: what a delicate thing.

Ava's gaze fell on his jacket and shirt, taking in their cost and quality, just as he'd hoped. But always -- he sighed inwardly -- her breasts were there. Before long he was semi-hard. And then hard. Ava's perfume commanded the air; Emily wore none he could detect. What a pair of females he thought, amazed at what they were doing to him.

If any sexual interest was in play, respectability demanded that it go toward Emily not her mother. He tried a few conversation starters, which she barely responded to, whether from shyness or limp indifference could not tell. But to his surprise, Ava intervened quickly each time, bringing his attention back on herself. And it wasn't just words: she had a way of fingering her dress above the shoulder, yes, and the bra strap beneath, lifting one breast, the merest fraction, and shifting the other's shape a little.

Part of Paul knew how his male peers would mock this cougar; and knew how far he'd fall in their eyes if they saw him ogle her. But he also knew the sort of hard-plastic, kick-ass girls who these guys found hot, and whom he despised. He loved to see an older woman, or any woman, draw attention to her sexy body, even when they were clumsy about it -- just as he enjoyed seeing girls in too-heavy makeup, or girls struggling in heels, or women who'd had work done on their face and it hadn't turned out quite right. It was their mindset he loved. He smiled. Ava was bringing him to life, and doing it at a thousand miles an hour. The damp patch in his pants grew -- dark pants, thank god.

"Now tell me your story Paul," she said, studying him closely, her gaze shuttling quickly from eye to eye. That was a relief to him. It was a move to solid ground.

Here he was in the year 2009, a sparkling, astonishing success, as the financial world fell to pieces around them. Even at school he'd always had a way with figures. And at the tender age of 21, he'd thrown an inheritance into the raging stock market, riding it. Soon he was borrowing fortunes from banks willing to lend ever more money to this young man who seemingly could do no wrong. Until suddenly last year, mid -2008, he'd panicked at the dizzy heights he'd reached. He sold off, cashed up, all of it -- just before the Global Financial Crisis. Then he slowly bought back into dirt-cheap stocks as they began their long climb back, and this time he diversified into property too. At 27 he was set for life.

He watched closely for Ava's reaction, but was at first disappointed. Instead of raised eyebrows and admiring smiles her face fell, became almost stern. Only later did he learn that this came from her longing to have Paul, to secure him; and from her fear that he'd slip away.

As he talked on she sometimes folded her arms under her boobs, lifting them slightly, or else one hand would rub the other side of her chest, subtly reshaping the nearby breast. These images returned to his mind later, along with memories of her gold hoop ear-rings, the faintest bronze hair on her upper lip, and the cerise lipstick below.

Emily meanwhile, sat very still, looking down at the tabletop to one side, but clearly she too listened closely.

He continued his story. The problem was, he said, that he'd discovered he didn't like other rich people, or their lifestyles. He sought out ordinary folk. Women. But even then, he admitted, he was uncertain of his ground; he was no man of the world.

"You're man enough for me," Ava declared. Then she burst into laughter as her hands flew to her face. "Oh, how awful, that came out all wrong!" She leant toward her daughter, staring at her for support. Emily smiled back -- with a kind of gentle gaiety, Paul thought.