Free Sexual Solstice by Tracey B. Bradley Page A

agent. “Would you care to wait in the lounge Ms Pritchard?”
    “I suppose. It is late though, isn’t it?”
    “Just before midnight. But it won’t take long, I assure you.”
    Gillian wandered up to the lounge, her luggage in tow. She had packed lightly since New York was a two-day stop before heading to the Caribbean. She’d learned that the best way to pack lightly was to have a few wash-and-wear things that flattered a fit and beautiful body (although she had to muster some strength to believe she was in possession of these qualities). A few sexy flimsy dresses and that was it. Shoes were her only weakness.
    The lounge was quiet. Someone was cleaning the bar, another vacuuming a distant corner. The TV was tuned to a local news station, and headlines rolled by: Winter storms, feel good stories, Santa scandals, car accident statistics. There was nothing about a lost husband on a plane.
    Gillian looked out at the lights of a distant plane, landing, and wondered if the entire twenty years had been a figment of her imagination and that she had been dreaming, or living two lives. Some of it had seemed too good to be true: living in a home at Marble Arch, the estate in Cherry Hill, and the fact that she liked to work for a living, even though she didn’t have to. In fact it had taken her mind off the long dry season her private life had been experiencing. And it fulfilled her desire to entertain at such places as the Ivy or Inigo Jones, or lunch at Baku or Bulgari, which, in and of themselves could turn into a full day thing.
    And it seemed Edgar had encouraged the presence of friends and co-workers and co-workers wives at other dinners. They both knew it functioned as a buffer to what had come between them. But Gillian had taken to them. For the most part, the women were nice enough. Some could be snobs, but even they found her American ways refreshing and an excuse to step outside of themselves and their formal ways.
    “Ma’am?” Gillian’s reverie was broken. “Ma’am, we’ve done a thorough search of the plane and there is absolutely no sign of your husband.”
    “That’s impossible.”
    “We do follow a search protocol in these situations. We don’t take them lightly. And we have a special crew to do a thorough search. Our headcount shows that there were some inconsistencies, but we didn’t think they were with first class.”
    “So. What do I do?”
    “Normally we report it to the authorities, both here and in the country of origin.”
    “Can you call me a cab?”
    “Of course.”
     
    At the Mandarin Oriental Gillian looked down where the lights of the city gave way to the darkness of Central Park. Christmas lights lined Sixtieth Street and various windows here and there. So odd to have come from the London Streets where all the beauty was contained in the first few floors of any building, and now she was surveying the heights of New York and a different kind of majesty that relied more on lines reaching to the heavens. She had left reports with both the NYPD and Scotland Yard and now all she could do was wait. Strange this occurrence. Edgar was a self-made man, not prone to disappearing at random. Gillian sighed. Tried not to think of whether it was a stroke of luck or a curse. Just think: Edgar was probably being hijacked to some compound in Antarctica while she was enjoying having her pussy tongue-massaged by two gorgeous British Airways pilots. What could she do? She was exhausted but she was on holiday, so she ordered chilled sake, a plate of sashimi, and drew herself a hot bath. She had worked on her feet, taken jobs in bars and pubs, right up to that first meeting with Edgar, and a little beyond, and she had always appreciated certain luxuries that she more or less identified as basic human rights––a nourishing and satisfying meal, the time to eat it, and a hot bath.
    She got undressed and put on one of her silken robes, a pale peach and pink subtle floral print, that doubled as a wrap in