Isobel and Armand would be amused if they knew that I had been seeing a 'shrink'. They always used to think me such a strait-laced, even bourgeois little girl: a perfect English rose. But they shouldn't be so surprised because it was they who set me on the path that led to Dr Damon's door. And often, as I'm lying on his couch, sharing with him my innermost feelings about life and love and relating to him my dreams and fantasies, I often say a silent prayer of thanks to them.

It is three months since the doctor and I first met. Our meeting resulted from a recommendation by a mutual acquaintance. Such is the doctor's esteem and so distinguished are his clients – he abhors the term 'patients' – that I was surprised that he wanted to see me. But he did, and soon each Wednesday's visit had become the keystone around which I built my week.

I always arrive early for my session with the doctor. A visit to his consulting rooms is a joy in itself: the building is a sumptuous homage to an earlier age. The drawing room, which serves as the clients' waiting room, has a high vaulted ceiling, a magnificent fireplace, fine furniture and chairs so soft that one sinks into them. Impressionist paintings adorn the walls and hand-woven silk curtains fringe the windows that look out onto a delightful courtyard. But more importantly than these comforts, I like to take a few minutes before my appointment to compose myself.

Yesterday that proved especially difficult. The doctor had recruited a new receptionist: a delectable young woman of maybe nineteen or so. I could barely tear my eyes from her. Silvery blonde waves of hair lapped against her cheeks and framed her innocent, child-like face. Her eyes were deep pools of blue and her mouth... Oh, her full, red mouth yearned to be tutored in the giving of delights that only a woman can enjoy.

Glancing up from an old copy of Vogue, I caught her gaze upon me and gave her my prettiest smile. She looked down guiltily but, smiling to herself, slowly wetted her lip with her tongue tip. I wonder if she wants to play, I thought.

From the neck down, there was nothing child-like about her beauty. A tight, V-necked sweater revealed a graceful throat, an even lovelier, fulsome bosom and two stiffening nipples that peeked tantalisingly through the thin fabric. Her left breast bore a badge that said 'Juliet'. Mischievously I speculated what her right breast was called. Romeo?

I closed my eyes and imagined suckling and nibbling her strawberry-tinted nipples. First Romeo and then Juliet. Romeo and Juliet. I could feel my own nipples hardening at the prospect.

Luckily, the purring of her telephone roused me from my daydream.

'Miss Warwick, Dr Damon will see you