<strong><em>Stansted, UK, 9 a.m.</em></strong><br/>(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/c6/2003-2008_Rolls-Royce_Phantom_01.jpg/250px-2003-2008_Rolls-Royce_Phantom_01.jpg)<br/>The Rolls Royce Phantom, registration number CEO QBD, rolled through the security gate of Stansted Airport and was waved on to the private aviation, VIP section of the terminal. Quintilian Burton D'Arbyshire, professional squillionaire, his wife Victoria, and their maid and housepet Zafirah, or Zaffy for short, were looking forward to getting away from the stressful bustle of rural Hertfordshire. Totternhoe, the nearest village to D'Arbyshire Hall, was a charming little place, but as ceremonial Lord of the Manor, Mr. D'Arbyshire couldn't help attracting attention there. Quintilian gazed in horror through the windows of the main building, and wrinkled his nose at the plebeians waiting for their low-cost flights, who polluted the skies and would flood half the world some day by flying Easyjet.<br/><br/>As he looked forward to parking on board his new plane, and to make airport security even more of a breeze, Quintilian had unusually chosen to drive the car himself to the airport. It suited the informality of his planned intercontinental jaunt. Airport porters rushed to unload the luggage from the car's surprisingly cavernous boot, and Quintilian led Victoria and Zaffy into the discreet plutocrats' VIP lounge. Security was a brief and civilised affair, and consisted of the D'Arbyshire party being asked nicely if they had any drugs or weapons on them. They hadn't. In the main building, unwashed shaven louts had their beer cans confiscated, were herded through metal detectors and were forced to take off and X-ray their vulgar trainers.<br/><br/>They had about 15 minutes until their aircraft was cleared for boarding, just in time for a quick breakfast. After they were led to a secluded booth by a lounge waitress, Quintilian sat back on the plush leather seating, curled an arm around both beauties accompanying him and ordered three Full English Breakfasts and a pot of Lapsang Souchong.<br/><br/><strong>"So girls, have you got any major shopping planned for Paris? If you were planning to drag me on a spree, that's fine, but there'll be playful repercussions,"</strong>he smirked, pouring three cups of tea. He added a splash of milk to his and sipped appreciatively.<br/><br/>The interior designer's plans for his new jet had looked simply fabulous, and the tycoon was dying to see it for himself, particularly the hot tub and cocktail bar. His previous plane, a Gulfstream IV, had been disposed of as being small, stuffy and as vulgar as Paris Hilton. The centrepiece of the plane, the four poster bed designed for three in the master bedroom, held its own attractions, but wouldn't be needed for the short hop to Paris. As Paris was an hour ahead of London, they'd be landing on time for an early 11 o'clock gin and tonic. Quintilian made sure he never arrived in France before the sun was over the yardarm, as he couldn't stand the thought of setting foot in the country having without a stiff drink. Being suddenly surrounded by Frenchmen tended to come as a shock to his system.<br/><br/><strong>"So what was that little surprise you'd had the designer build into my plane, you wicked nymphomaniac? If it's another ghastly Picasso I want the time to have it removed to the Tate Modern Art Landfill," </strong>D'Arbyshire teased his wife, idly stroking his hand up her stockinged thigh,  and the other up the short skirt of Zaffy's designer French maid uniform. He preferred to grope the ladies through their fetching, £500 Agent Provocateur lingerie before he got bacon grease on his fingers.