He admitted that Freddie had been right when he had stated he was cosseted and pampered and that he had grown to take it all for granted.
Fine linen sheets on beds that were soft as a cloud, superlative food which was served up by his chef at every meal, claret that was bought by his Agents from the finest vineyards in France, which once again were in production after the devastation of war, were part of his routine of life and taken for granted.
Then, of course, there was the softness of white arms around his neck, red lips raised willingly and usually hungrily towards his.
‘It’s not really a man’s life,’ he told himself, ‘as I should have discovered sooner. Perhaps Freddie is right, this will be an adventure in living. All the same, I doubt it!’
He could not help acknowledging, howev
