Читать книгу Confessions of a Lady Courier - Rosie Dixon - Страница 6

When I think about it later, I must have been mad! But Jeremy does have a very strong personality. You need one in this business.

‘Now where?’ I say when we get to the bottom of the fire escape.

‘The Jag’s parked in the alley over there. You’d better come back to my place so I can show you the ropes.’

‘We could have done with some of the ropes just now, couldn’t we?’ I say.

Jeremy laughs agreeably. ‘You’re a funny little thing, aren’t you – well, not so little really.’ He looks at my boobs and I feel myself blushing again. If only I could take this kind of thing in my stride like Penny. Penny. I wonder if she has been in touch.

‘Has a girl called Penelope Green contacted you?’ I ask.

‘Saw her on Saturday,’ says Jeremy, gripping his briefcase tightly and striding purposefully into the alley. ‘And a bit of Sunday, too. Are you like her?’

I am so taken aback by the speed at which Penny has moved that I don’t answer for a moment. There is something almost underhand about it, considering that I saw the advertisement first. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Well – er, in some ways. We have worked together before.’

Jeremy nods. ‘Amazing girl. Very open. Refreshing attitude of life and what you can get out of it.’ He looks me up and down quickly and runs his tongue along his top lip. ‘I’m thinking of hiring her.’

‘Oh, good,’ I say, wishing that I could make it sound more sincere. ‘How many girls do you have altogether?’

‘It varies a lot,’ says Jeremy, stopping beside an immaculate scarlet XK12. ‘There’s a big turnover in staff in a business like this.’

I nod and look at the car. After the fairly ordinary office, I had not been expecting anything quite so glamorous. Of course, I am not the kind of girl whose head is turned by mere possessions but I can’t help being a little bit impressed.

‘What do you have in mind for me?’ I ask.

Jeremy looks deep into my eyes and produces an ignition key which he sheathes between finger and thumb. ‘Very much the same as for your friend Penny,’ he says. ‘Hop inside and I’ll tell you about it.’

Almost trembling with excitement, I steady the door that is held open for me and settle into one of the sculptured leather seats. I have read about thick pile carpets and walnut fascias in the advertisements but it is not often that I am exposed to them. ‘It’s lovely,’ I say.

Jeremy smiles and shrugs. ‘Not a bad old bus. It will do until the Citröen Maserati shows up.’

‘You must be doing awfully well,’ I say. ‘I would have thought that business was bad with all these tour operators going bust. Do the public still have confidence?’

‘It’s a question of pricing,’ says Jeremy, revealing lean, hairy wrists as he slips the Jag into gear. ‘A lot of people were sceptical about the cheaper holidays. They didn’t think we could do it for the money.’

‘So what did you do?’ I say.

‘We doubled the prices,’ says Jeremy cheerfully. ‘People felt much more secure once they were paying more.’

‘But it was the same holiday?’

‘Absolutely.’ Jeremy smiles at me and narrowly misses an old lady who is pushing a basket on wheels across a zebra crossing. ‘I hope you don’t mind me telling you all this? It’s just that I like to be totally frank with my staff – with everyone, in fact.’

‘It’s a very good policy,’ I say. ‘Are you going to have to deliver the ransom money today?’

‘Ransom money?’ Jeremy’s features perform a few gymnastics as he registers puzzlement quickly followed by distress. ‘Oh dear. I left the address in the office. I’ll have to do it tomorrow. I don’t expect another twenty-four hours will make a lot of difference.’ He smiles his perfect smile and I find it easy to agree with him. ‘Now, tell me. What are your languages like?’

Oh dear. This was the question I was dreading. ‘I speak a little bit of French,’ I say. ‘Un petit morceau.’

‘What?’

I feel myself blushing again. ‘Un petit morceau. A little bit.’

Jeremy’s face lightens. ‘Is that what it means? Jolly good! I don’t speak any of these foreign lingos myself. If these chaps want to do business with us, I reckon it’s up to them to learn English, what?’

I nod thankfully. ‘You don’t think languages are going to be a problem, then?’

‘Not at all. Ninety-nine per cent of the customers are going to be British, aren’t they? They’ll be able to understand you. Have you ever been abroad?’

I shake my head. ‘No. I was going to Paris with my school but I got measles.’

‘That’s bad luck,’ says Jeremy sympathetically. ‘But don’t worry about it. I mean, not having been abroad. It’s probably quite a good thing really. You won’t be blasé, will you? Everything will come as a surprise and your enthusiasm will convey itself to the punters.’

What a sympathetic and understanding man, I think to myself. So different from the pushy Sammy Fish. I really think I could be happy at Climax. ‘I hope you’re right,’ I say. ‘I’d certainly try very hard. I’d look up everything in a book.’

‘Capital,’ says Jeremy. ‘You can’t ask much fairer than that, can you? When could you start?’

‘Er – almost immediately,’ I say. ‘Notice won’t be any problem.’ I don’t like to say that I am out of work.

‘That’s fine,’ says Jeremy. ‘I’m just putting together a package at the moment. “A European Whizaround”, Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, and – get out of the way you half-witted bastard!’ The last remark is directed at a cyclist who has swung out in front of us ‘– and France.’

‘That sounds marvellous,’ I say. ‘Tell me, what do you mean “put together”?’

Once again, Jeremy shakes his head admiringly. ‘You don’t miss a thing, do you?’

‘I wasn’t trying to be nosy,’ I say.

Jeremy touches the back of my wrist reassuringly. ‘I know, I know. I was complimenting you. We need people in this business with sharp, agile minds.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Let me try to explain it to you. I want to make sure that every coach we hire is going to be full.’

‘Hire?’ I say.

‘Oh yes. I want all my capital assets utilised to produce maximum liquidity. Coaches are expensive and they’re even more expensive if they’re standing about empty.’

‘Quite,’ I say, trying to look intelligent and wondering what he is talking about.

‘Every prospective customer has to give a choice of three dates. In that way I’m virtually certain of being able to fit sixty people into one period. Then I hire the coach.’

‘What a good idea,’ I say.

‘It’s no more than common sense,’ says Jeremy. ‘It’s more profitable to run one full coach than three half empty ones.’

‘What about the people you can’t book in?’

‘I write and tell them that owing to unprecedented demand we’re completely booked up. It makes them twice as keen to get in early next time. Ah, here we are. It’s not much but it’s home.’

We have glided into the forecourt of a small block of luxury flats. You can tell that they are posh because there are no icecream wrappers on the grass, only the statue of a naked athlete about to throw a stone through the front door.

‘That’s Fred,’ says Jeremy, seeing me looking at the statue. ‘Small but beautifully marked.’

‘I don’t think he’s small,’ I say. ‘He looks pretty big to me.’

‘Really?’ says Jeremy, turning on his pleasant smile. ‘I think we can do better than that.’

‘You’ve got a bigger one inside, have you?’ I say, not, quite certain what he is talking about.

‘Come and find out,’ says Jeremy softly, spinning the wheel so that we dart into a convenient parking space.

A few minutes later I am gliding upwards in one of those whisper-quiet lifts and feeling small shivers of excitement pass through me. I am going to visit a man’s flat. It is only a business visit, of course but I am still nervously tense. It is because I find Jeremy so attractive, I suppose. The lift stops on the top floor – just as well really! – and the doors slide open to reveal a roadway of carpet stretching away between wood-panelled walls.

‘It’s a fantastic place you have here,’ I say.

Jeremy gazes at my body thoughtfully. ‘Uum,’ he says.

‘Wonderful views.’

‘Absolutely,’ breathes Jeremy.

‘I still haven’t seen that statue of yours.’

Jeremy looks confused. ‘Statue?’ he says. ‘I find it very difficult to keep up with you sometimes.’

I decide not to press the matter and follow him down the corridor. When a confusion arises I always find it better to pass on to something else.

‘Here we are. Sixty-nine.’ Jeremy holds my eye and winks and I wink back. I find his cheerful, down-to-earth approach very refreshing.

Jeremy turns the key in the lock and ushers me in before him. I had been expecting a luxurious apartment and I am not disappointed. The furniture is very modern and uncomfortable looking and there are a number of those chairs that look like half-filled bags of cement. The lights hang in clusters like runner beans.

‘It’s very nice,’ I say.

‘Not bad, is it? What would you like to drink?’ Immediately he speaks, a warning bell rings in my ear. I have a notoriously weak head for strong liquor and attempts to be sociable have, in the past, led to incidents which can best be described as unfortunate. Experience has shown me that there is a certain type of man who sets out to achieve his way with women by getting them into a state of intoxication where they find it difficult to resist his blandishments.

‘You do drink, don’t you?’ A note of unease creeps into Jeremy’s voice. ‘Your job will require a fair amount of socialising with the punters and our continental contacts. If you’re teetotal I think we’d better forget the whole thing straight away.’

‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘I was just thinking what I would like. Do you have any cider?’

‘Cider!? They don’t drink cider on the continent – well, a bit in Normandy, maybe, but not very much. You want to choose something sparkling and zestful.’

‘A Babycham?’ I say, hopefully.

Jeremy closes his eyes. ‘That’s not what I had in mind,’ he says with a sigh. ‘I think I’ll have to take you in hand. As a Climax representative you’ll be expected to introduce the punters to all the local drinks. It makes for good relations with the hotels, as well. They’ll be more favourably disposed towards us if they’re making a good profit in the bar. They might even give you a slice of the action. In France for instance you can ask for a “blanc cassis”, that’s a drop or two of blackcurrant liqueur topped up with white wine. It’s also known as a kir. Hang on a second and I’ll make you one.’

Jeremy goes over to a trolley full of drinks and I think how kind of him it is to go to all this trouble. In the circumstances it would be very rude of me to turn my back on his advice.

‘It looks just like vin rosé,’ I say, when a glass of the sweet but pleasant mixture is put in my hand.

‘That makes a very good aperitif, too,’ says Jeremy, picking up another bottle. ‘I’ve got a very dry little number here that pops up just near St Trop. Knock that back and I’ll give you a snort.’

‘I’ll have to be careful,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to get tight.’

‘This kind of thing can’t hurt you,’ says Jeremy. ‘The French drink this all day and never come to any harm.’ His face becomes serious. ‘If you’re seriously worried about your ability to withstand the effects of a few social drinks, I suggest we abandon –’

Quick as a flash, I pour the contents of my glass down my throat and stretch out a hand for number two. There is no point in becoming obsessive about my past experiences. A little more practice is probably just what I need. It may be because I drink so little that I get drunk so quickly.

‘Delicious,’ I say, taking a sip of the rosé.

‘There’s a suppressed fizz, isn’t there?’ says Jeremy. ‘A hint of high-spirited nuttiness that might bubble over into a froth of frivolity at the drop of a grape.’

‘The grapes of froth,’ I say, trying to show him that I have a sense of humour.

Jeremy winces and I wonder if he understands my joke. ‘Then there’s schnapps,’ he says. ‘Very popular in the Low Countries. You know what Bismarck said?’ I am forced to shake my head. ‘Red wine for children, champagne for men, schnapps for generals.’

‘What about women?’ I say.

Jeremy takes my empty glass and presses a small one full of a colourless liquid into my hand. ‘What about women, indeed!’ He makes a low growling noise and parts my hair with his nose. I am so taken aback that I nearly spill the contents of my glass. ‘I wish I found it easier to conceal my feelings,’ continues my prospective employer as if talking to himself. ‘You’re so overpoweringly beautiful that I just can’t control myself.’

I feel sorry for the man immediately. What might have been construed as a crude pass takes on another meaning when allied to his confession of honest impetuosity. If he finds me attractive, can I really blame him? After all, I do feel drawn to him myself. The best thing is probably not to say anything about the incident.

‘It’s strong, isn’t it?’ I say, taking a sip from my glass. ‘A bit like gin.’

‘How perceptive of you,’ says Jeremy. ‘My goodness me, you are a find. I can’t wait to try my Bols on you.’

‘I beg your pardon!?’ I say.

‘Another favourite with our Dutch friends,’ he says, holding up a bottle. I read the label and feel guilt sweep over me. I am becoming almost paranoid in the way that I allow suspicion to prey on my mind. This friendly, open man is looking for assistance in running a highly complex and demanding business and I am treating him as if he is some kind of sex maniac. Shame on you, Dixon!

‘Leave the schnapps if it’s too much for you,’ says Jeremy, helping to make further mock of my unjust suspicions.

‘Waste not want not,’ I say, showing the bottom of my glass to the ceiling. Jeremy draws the empty glass from my fingers and switches on a smile that warms up his face like the bars of an electric fire. ‘I hope you don’t have the same effect on the customers that you have on me,’ he says. ‘If you do they’ll ask for their money back.’

‘What!’ I say, taken aback. ‘Surely I’m not that bad?’

Jeremy laughs and takes my hand. ‘They’re paying for a sight-seeing tour of Europe. If I was one of them I’d spend all my time looking at you. I wouldn’t see a single sight.’

‘You are kind,’ I say. ‘I’m certain you don’t mean a word of it. You’re just trying to boost my confidence.’

Jeremy kisses me lightly on the side of the cheek. ‘I mean every word I say. As surely as my name is Justin Cartwright.’

‘Justin Cartwright?’ I say, taken aback. ‘Your name is Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg.’ Jeremy snaps his fingers in irritation. ‘Of course it is. How stupid of me. I was using a pen name for a book I was writing and I got confused. You must think I’m mad.’

‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘I know you’ve had a lot on your mind lately. It’s easy to make mistakes.’

‘How understanding you are.’ Jeremy slips another glass into my hand. ‘Here’s your Bols. I hope you’re going to remember all this.’

‘Every moment of it,’ I say sincerely. It is strange, but a delicious honeyed warmth is spreading through every fibre of my being. I sip the drink and – oooooh! It does funny things to me. The smell of Jeremy’s after shave lotion takes on an almost physical personality and my knees tremble.

‘Are you all right?’ There is a censorious note in Jeremy’s voice and immediately I try and pull myself together. It would be terrible if I lost the job because I could not hold my – ‘Mind out! You’re tilting your glass.’

‘Clumsy me,’ I say. ‘Well, here we go. Cheers, bottoms up, down the hatch! Uuum! I like your balls.’

‘Bols,’ says Jeremy, taking my glass.

‘No, I meant it,’ I say. ‘It was very nice.’

‘You’re the nicest thing about here.’ Jeremy suddenly seizes me in his arms and ruckles me against his chest. Oh dear. This is going to be difficult. If I resist too violently he will probably think that I am drunk and unsophisticated.

‘Mr Rafelson-Pig,’ I say. ‘Do you really think that this is a good idea?’

‘Yes,’ says my prospective employer, putting his hand up my skirt.

This answer is not unexpected and does not help my situation very much. I have obviously got to do some fast thinking. Should I jeopardise my career by breaking free and lurching from the room that is now beginning to revolve slowly or should I make use of this opportunity to take a respite from the stream of intoxicating liquid that has been pouring down my throat? Upon consideration there seems only one thing to do. Jeremy’s long aristocratic fingers have already clambered inside my panties and are tugging gently at my minge fringe. It is better that I submit and comfort myself with the knowledge that I am doing this with my body and not my heart. My principles will not be compromised. With a vague feeling of unease I listen to the sound of someone moaning with pleasure. The unease is heightened when I realise that the person is me.

‘You like it, don’t you?’ breathes Jeremy, playing my passion valley as if it is a violin. His digits dart down with his slowly circling palm pressing against my furry knoll and I have to confess, silently, that, in the right circumstances, the sensation could be pleasant.

‘I promised you something that could beat that thing outside, didn’t I?’ murmurs Jeremy, deftly dunking his digit in my dilly bag.

For a moment I can’t think what he is talking about. Then it comes to me. ‘Oh, you mean the statue,’ I say. ‘Where is it?’

Jeremy draws me closer to him and brushes his mouth against mine. ‘You little wanton,’ he says. He has one hand on the small of my back and the other leaves my love cave and moves swiftly to the front of his trousers. There is the noise of a zip moving in a southerly direction and – ‘Look.’

Nervously, I cast my eyes down and – oh dear, I now realise that Jeremy was not referring to the whole statue. He has exposed a love truncheon of quite hideous aspect. Though practically a stranger to the weapons of amorous war I have had some experience of them – when training to be a nurse and in a purely professional capacity, of course – and I can truthfully say that this is one of the largest to draw a blush from my outraged cheeks. It is exactly the same shade of purple as Mum chose for the bathroom curtains.

‘Not bad, eh?’ says Jeremy proudly.

‘Er – very nice,’ I say. Actually, I don’t think it is very nice, though I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Men’s ‘things’ never do a lot for me – I mean, of course, beauty-wise – and every other-wise. They just are not pretty, are they? I don’t mind the statues, when they’re nestling there under a tastefully arranged leaf, but fully rampant they remind me of lizards and snakes and melting candles and cabbage stalks with a couple of sprouts attached to them. Nothing that you might call romantic.

‘Let’s go into the bedroom and get better acquainted.’ Jeremy presses his body against mine and I wonder whether the time has come to make a stand.