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offence.
    But she still took her time demonstrating the safety procedures in front of him, lingering over the one about the overhead luggage compartments as she knew that with her arms up above her head
her breasts were at their most uplifted and must look fantastic straining against her tight shirt.
    She was sad when the flight landed in Bombay. ‘Can I do anything else for you my Lord, you know, to ease your trip?’
    ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Come with me.’ So she followed him to his hotel in India and cleverly remained chaste during their stay, although she relented a little when he asked
her to put her uniform back on and point out the emergency exits for him while he pleasured himself. Then, at the moment of climax he liked her to assume the brace position.
    Afterwards they returned to Willowborough Hall, where he painted her on horseback. That painting remains, to this day, Lord Bridges’ most well-received piece. Critics hail the
extraordinary look on the rider’s face as an artistic coup: she appears unsure yet deliriously happy, beautiful but wretched; with an impenetrable smile like that of the Mona Lisa.
    With her family’s approval Hugo asked for Tina’s hand in marriage. Despite their backgrounds being worlds apart, Tina was so impressed by his title, confidence and family home that
she ignored his paunch, his condescension and his drinking habits and jumped at the chance. Likewise he, hopelessly excited by her young and nubile body and her naive devotion to him, did his best
to forget that she’d had a strong Liverpudlian accent when they met, had not been educated at a ‘decent’ school, and could not tell the difference between a Mondrian and a
Modigliani. In this way the couple had limped along for twenty-three years. But for some time now, the cracks had been beginning to show.
    Luckily, given the Wittstanleys’ financial situation, Tara had managed to secure scholarships to her expensive boarding schools, where she excelled effortlessly. Her haughty looks and her
witty, if also bitchy, tongue ensured that the other girls admired her; a few also feared her. In her adolescence she grew prone to extremes of feeling and behaviour. Or, as her detractors put it,
she could be a complete drama queen. By the age of twenty-two she had already checked herself in and out of different rehabilitation centres and a psychiatric hospital for a range of modern
conditions from exhaustion to body dysmorphic disorder. At heart, though, she was a kind person whose prickliness masked a deep-rooted feeling of unlovableness and inadequacy, brought about by her
overbearing yet needy, neglectful and self-absorbed parents. To the few people Tara deemed interesting and glamorous enough, she was a loyal friend. One of those was her dear friend Abena, whom
she’d met at Oxford.
    Initially Tara had had no interest in getting to know other girls and concentrated on stalking the Bullingdon boys in search of a privileged sponsor for her rampant partying. The Bullingdon was
the university’s most exclusive gentlemen’s drinking society, whose members rollicked around Oxfordshire starting food fights and smashing up smart establishments so that they would
have something to spend their inheritances on when the repair bill arrived. It seemed this was excellent training for going on to run the country. But, having slept her way through almost the
entire society, Tara came to the sorry conclusion that the Bullingdon boys were pitifully overrated in virtually every way imaginable. Disillusioned with anything the students had to offer, she
turned to the celebrity speakers who regularly descend on Oxford to address the Union, the university’s historic debating society.
    One evening, determined to leave with the handsome deputy prime minister of a small Balkan state, Tara had dressed up in her best ‘political wife’ outfit of a plain and decent-length
fitted black dress, a cashmere cardigan and a string of fake