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Father & daughter share a different relationship.

She motioned forward with her briefcase. "Well are we getting on board or are we going to die of the cold here?"

The coffee cup was still in my hands, and risking all consequences I took a long sip as I started back for the ramp and tunnel back up to the plane. I tried to let her walk beside me rather than ahead or clearly behind. I guess it was rather a question of feeling, or trying to feel, like a colleague. Like a freezing, shivering, colleague.

I chucked the half empty cup into the metal bin near the airplane side-door, having had a couple more swigs of the contents along the way up the long ramp. The flight attendants and cabin crew rapidly shut the doors behind us.

"Why did you drink the coffee?" She asked astutely as we settled into the Marc Newsome-designed long leg-room seats.

"Being stupid again, I think. That, and I'm also a coffee addict."

The electric starter system went into high drive and the plane began moving, turning around to the right first, and then rolling a short way up the taxi-ing lane before stopping briefly, until the turbines were spinning into gas compression velocity, quickly screaming the aircraft forward with urgency and intensity, and then faster and faster until the big wings lifted the plane's wheels off the ground, and we went up, up into the sleeting darkness, undercarriage methodically whining back into fold-in position, and the in-cabin sound-baffled take-off roar now changing to a soft hum.

This year Lanvin was doing body-hugging but fluid electric, metal-coloured taffeta and lam__ cocktail dresses this year. Really, really beautiful stuff. Daphne Guinness was doing tight, short black skirts and flesh-coloured fishnets and collaborated Louboutins. You could press your thighs together hard and make a surreally erotic display of how tightly closed up your fanny - if you were rich British - was.

The gloss-paper photos of recent runway shows by the main high fashion branded houses, that had come from the super rich Russian girl's brief-case, covered a range of styles.

The latest Balenciaga collection contained a contemporary re-iteration of an original 1951 Balenciaga evening gown. The pastel peach satin lining under wavy ruffled black skirt edge was highly formal, severely contrasting, austere and stark on the outside, announcing the fleshy, the subdued, and the yielding within.

The flight back to London was long and smooth. The cabin lights went down, the air was somehow both cool and warm at the same time because of those strategically-positioned temperature control blowers, and the engines hummed on outside. Little droplets of moisture appeared and flew away on the external surface of the glass windows that looked out into the black night. Strange juxtaposed spicy flavours drifted in my mouth across the First Class menu airline food lubricated by Nebiolo red wine. I noticed that my armpits were beginning to feel that slight moist hint of clean watery unstressed adrenalin sweat - even in the cool dry air atmosphere of the aircraft cabin at high altitude - that predicates expectation of new sex. It wasn't the same as the adrenalin sweat from high-pressure stock-trading.

I didn't really know the girl at all well.

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