
WEIGHT: 59 kg
Breast: C
One HOUR:80$
NIGHT: +60$
Sex services: Oral, Trampling, Strap On, Trampling, Massage
The New Year of had come in. It was getting late and I was thinking of leaving β the party was flat and I was tired β but someone tapped my shoulder. The stranger was about forty-five and a little tipsy. I smiled politely. She put her hand on my arm and said she had something that might interest me. I was intrigued enough to meet the friend in the cafe of the British Library β a financial administrator in her late thirties, smartly dressed with sharp blue eyes and jet-black hair.
A family mystery was troubling her. Her mother, Philomena, had drunk too much sherry that Christmas and had broken down in tears. Do we all yearn to be detectives? The conversation in the British Library was the start of a search that lasted five years and led me from London to Ireland and on to the United States.
Old photographs, letters and diaries now litter my desk β the hurried, anxious scrawl of an eager housewife, tearful signatures on sad documents and the image of a lost little boy in a blue jumper clutching a toy plane made of tin.
Everything that follows is true, or reconstructed to the best of my ability. There were clues to be found and no shortage of evidence.
Some of the actors in the story kept diaries or left detailed correspondence; several are still alive and agreed to speak with me; others had confided their version of events to friends. Gaps have been filled, characters extrapolated and incidents surmised.