Christine, a showgirl with legs like a Cold War ceasefire, had John Profumo, War Secretary, in a spin. Their poolside meeting at Cliveden—her nude swim a diplomatic incident—left him dizzy. Her wink was a classified document, her curves a national security risk. They met in secret, his briefcase forgotten for her perfume.
One sultry evening, Christine lounged in his flat, her voice husky. “John, dance with me,” she teased, swaying to Sinatra. He obliged, tie askew, imagining her in his Commons office. But she was also cozy with a Soviet attaché, Yevgeny, and London’s elite whispered of spies. John’s lust was a ticking bomb.
At a gala, Christine’s laugh drew eyes, and John dropped his champagne flute, shattering his composure. “You’re reckless,” she giggled, brushing his lapel, her touch electric. He stammered, picturing headlines. When MI5 sniffed espionage, the press pounced. Christine’s fling with Yevgeny was no secret, but John’s was Parliament’s ruin.
He resigned, tail between legs, as Christine posed for tabloids, unapologetic. “He was fun,” she shrugged, her smirk a dagger. John, holed up in Mayfair, nursed whiskey and regret, knowing one dance had cost him everything—except the memory of her hips.