Читать книгу The Confessions Collection - Rosie Dixon, Timothy Lea - Страница 53

Sidney is very upset the next morning, when he calls me into his office, and it takes a long time before I can make him believe that coming round to his room was not my idea.

‘She said I was your protégé,’ I tell him.

‘Dirty old faggot. She should mind what she says,’ explodes Sid. ‘You can end up in court saying things like that. I’ve never fancied a fellow in my life.’

‘She probably realised that when she saw you with Sandra,’ I comfort him.

‘Yeah. What were you up to, then?’

I tell him about June, Audrey and Carmen and I can see his face cloud over immediately. Sort of a green cloud, it is.

‘You want to watch out,’ he says finally. ‘Two last night. Three tonight. Where’s it all going to end? How long before you’re dragging your mattress down to the telly lounge?’

‘Give over, Sid. Most of them are old enough to be my grandmother. And what about you, anyway?’

‘I’m cutting back. Only one last night. Anyway, it’s different in my case. In my position it’s practically staff relations.’

‘Any truth in the rumour that you’ve got Miss Ruperts lined up for tonight?’

Sid shudders. ‘Do me a favour, I’ve never fancied myself in jodhpurs. Still, I’d better do something to sweeten her up, hadn’t I?’

‘Why bother? Give her, the riding boot, Sid.’

‘No, I can’t do that. I still think she could be useful.’

‘You’re barmy, Sid.’

‘Watch it, Timothy–’

Whenever he calls me Timothy, I know he is rattled.

‘–remember who’s in charge. About time you were down in the kitchen, isn’t it?’

‘How much longer do I have to stay there, Sid? The heat is sapping my strength.’

‘Not enough, by all accounts. You give it another two days, and we’ll see if you’re nearly ready for waiter service.’

‘But, Sid–’

‘No buts. Now push off. I’ve got to see Miss Ruperts.’

So I go down to the basement to find that one of the sous chefs has resigned and the Chef Tournant–he turns his hand to anything, see?–gone to hospital. The two occurrences are not unconnected because the Sous Chef has resigned by pouring a pot of coffee down the front of the Chef Tournant’s baggy trousers. Very nasty! Passions do run high in the kitchens and with the heat and the foreigners you feel you are working in the middle of a jungle clearing sometimes. Only ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed’ holds us all together.

For some strange reason Mrs Caitley seems to take a fancy to me and gives me a friendly bash on the shoulder once we have provided the Chef Tournant with half a pound of lard to slide down the front of his pants.

‘I hear you were a naughty boy last night,’ she says gruffly. ‘Take my advice. Don’t get mixed up with any of the fillies in this place. Rotten little scrubbers most of them. Find yourself reporting to the vet in no time.’

She is putting it a bit strongly but there is no doubt that the staff in the Cromby–both male and female–have considerably more sex-drive than your grandma’s tabby. To wander about the upper floor of the hotel after ten o’clock at night you need to be fitted with bumpers. Luckily my room mate comes back from holiday and he is so repulsive that not even the randiest bird in the place wants to get through the door.

It is not until I progress from the kitchens to becoming a waiter that I have what you might call my first brush with one of the paying customers. To be exact, I become a commis waiter. This is the humblest form of life in the dining room and is the bloke who brings the grub from the kitchen and puts it down on the table for the Chef du Rang to slap down in front of the customers. After a few days of doing this you may be allowed to serve a portion of vegetables as a special treat. A Chef du Rang is a senior waiter who looks after a few tables, and aspires to eventually become a maitre d’hotel. Fascinating, isn’t it? No? Oh, well, please yourself.

One morning, as I go into the dining room, I get an elbow in the ribs from Petheridge the night porter, who is just going to turn in after his labours. He, you may remember, is the gentleman who was spread out starkers on Audrey’s bed and is no stranger to a spot of the other.

‘Couple of right little love birds flew in last night,’ he says with a leer. ‘Table Six.’

‘They up already?’

‘About half a dozen times, I should reckon.’ He gives me another nudge. ‘No. I expect they couldn’t sleep for the excitement. Hey, that Carmen’s a one, isn’t she? I’ve heard of Carmen Rollers, but she’s ridiculous. Damn near broke up my set.’

Petheridge is a big, strapping bloke with a jaw line that makes Charlton Heston look like a nancy boy. The thought of him and Carmen on the job is enough to keep the blue movie industry in ideas for years.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Very nice. Sleep tight, Peth.’

He ambles off scratching the front of his trousers and I go into the dining room. Table Six. Oh yes! At first I can hardly see them because they are so small but there sit this teeny couple with honeymoon written all over them. The bloke is wearing his short-sleeved multi-patterned holiday shirt with matching scarf and has a camera on the table in front of him so he can rush out and start snapping everything that moves and the girl is all scrubbed and virginal with her hair pulled back from her face and her skin glowing with health and expectation. She blushes like fury when the bloke asks her whether she would prefer tea or coffee and goes berserk pouring it out for him. Not like the other married couples in the room who just stretch out their hands for pieces of toast from behind spread newspapers.

‘Do you know what the weather forecast is?’ says the bird brightly when I bring them some more marmalade. The bloke loves his marmalade.

‘I think they said we were in for a fine spell.’

‘Oh, goody. Did you hear that, Roger? Lots of lovely Dickies.’

She turns to me. ‘My, my–husband is very keen on photography.’

‘Not very good, though,’ says hubby bashfully.

‘Oh, darling! You’ve won the club trophy two years running. And what about that photograph you had published in Camera News? “The Old Forge by Moonlight”.’

‘It was very dark.’

‘That was the way they printed it, darling.’

She turns to me again. ‘Don’t you listen to him. He’s awfully good, really.’

What a nice kid! I think to myself. Ain’t love grand? Nice to know that there are still a few pleasant, uncomplicated people about. I avoid Carmen’s glance as she sneaks into the dining room. One thing you can never tell about her is whether she has dark rings under her eyes.

In the days that follow, I begin to take a special interest in love’s young dream and it is therefore a surprise when, one morning, only Roger appears at the breakfast table. He is looking strained–a condition which does not totally surprise me–and fiddling uneasily with the cord of his Leica.

‘Shall I wait for modom?’ I say thoughtfully.

‘No. She’s having breakfast in her room today. Just a cup of coffee for me, thanks.’

A cup of coffee? That is hardly the stuff to give Wee Georgie Wood the strength to blow up a couple of balloons for a kid’s birthday party. What ails our boy? Whilst others bosh back their sausage and egg, Roger gazes glumly out of the windows towards the oil tankers which are leaking slowly across the horizon. When he eventually departs, his coffee is cold and untouched and there is no sign of wifey. I watch carefully and he does not go upstairs but leaves the hotel and walks slowly along the promenade. He is not heading for civilisation, but open country. For the first time that I can remember he has not taken a picture of anything before he disappears from sight.

What is up? A lover’s tiff? I wonder what wifey’s mood is at this moment. To find out I ask the waiter who has taken her breakfast up. Tear-stained and without appetite, are his comments and he has an untouched tray to prove it. Mrs Richards does not come down until eleven o’clock and sits by herself writing postcards until lunch time when Mr R. returns and they go silently in to lunch. After lunch they go up to their room and then it is Mrs R. who emerges, her eyes wet with tears, and goes off by herself.

The next day they are down to breakfast together but there is an air of crushing silence about them that makes me clear my throat every time I decide to speak. They spend the day together but in the evening it is Mr Richards who eats alone in the dining room while his wife takes her meal upstairs.

On the third day I become elevated to floor service and see neither of them but the fourth I am told that there is a breakfast to be taken up to Number Six. One breakfast! I tap discreetly on the door and a voice so low I can hardly hear it tells me to come in. Mrs Richards is propped up on a couple of pillows and, as far as I can see, is alone. Again, she looks red-eyed with crying.

‘Are you going to have it in bed, modom?’

She looks at me for a long moment and then her lower lip starts trembling.

‘Now come on,’ I say. ‘Don’t–’

But it is no good. She bursts into floods of tears and throws herself face down on the bed.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she moans.

‘Come on, cheer up,’ I say. ‘Look, I’ve brought you a nice kipper.’

I feel a right berk saying that, but what can you do in the circumstances? ‘Shall I fetch the doctor; I think he’s sobered up–I mean up and about.’ Stupid slip, that, but like everyone else in the place, Dr McDonald seems partial to his ‘wee drappy’.

‘No. I don’t need a doctor. No, I’m sorry. Leave the tray. I’ll see if I can face something later.’

‘Shall I find your husband?’

At the mention of the word ‘husband’ she starts sobbing twice as violently and buries her face in the pillow. I try and comfort her but she waves me away and in the end I find myself shaking my head in the corridor.

I see neither her nor her husband for the rest of that day and imagine that they must have checked out. It is therefore a surprise when, next morning, I am told to take breakfast to Room Six. Again, just one breakfast.

This time there is a more cheerful response to my knock on the door and I notice that Mrs Richards is wearing a frilly nightdress and a trace of make-up.

‘Morning,’ she says brightly, before I can open my mouth. The sparkle in her eyes may be the remnant of a tear or a return to the mood she was in when I first saw her.

‘Morning.’

‘I’m sorry about yesterday. I was very down in the dumps. I don’t know what came over me.’ While she is talking her hands are gripping the edge of the counterpane and she looks into my eyes as if trying to find something.

‘Don’t worry. I expect you felt a bit strange, being married and all that.’ I know Peter O’Toole would have put it better, but he had the education.

‘You’re very understanding. Do you often get women who burst into tears all over you?’

‘Not so far. I’ve only been doing this job for a week.’

I give her a quick rundown on my curriculum vitae–no madam, it does not mean what you think it does–and she nods understandingly.

‘So you’re new at it, too?’

I am not quite certain what she means, so I give her a sympathetic smile–at least, I hope it is sympathetic–and keep my mouth shut.

‘I’ve brought you some nice grapefruit segments,’ I say eventually, as her eyes continue to follow the passage of the blood round my body.

‘You’re so kind, you always try and bring me something nice, don’t you?’

‘It’s all part of the service.’

She is a very appealing bird, this one, and I can feel myself getting my guinea-pig stroking syndrome (I got that word from ‘It Pays to Increase Your Word Power’. Thank you, Reader’s Digest.)

‘Roger said you were kind.’ Her lip starts to tremble. Oh, no! I can’t stand this again.

‘Shall I open the windows?’ I say hurriedly. ‘It’s a lovely day again.’

‘It’s all right. I’m not going to cry. I’m sorry.’ She puts down the bedclothes and smiles up at me. ‘Are you married?’

‘Blimey no. I mean, I’ve nothing against marriage of course. It’s just that I don’t think I’m ready for it.’

‘I should think you’re more married than I am.’ I don’t know what she means and my expression telegraphs it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she continues, ‘I wasn’t trying to be abstruse.’

Just as well, I think, because I don’t know what it means.

‘I mean,’ and then she pauses.

‘Yes?’ I say helpfully.

‘My marriage hasn’t worked out quite the way I thought it would.’

‘Oh well, it’s early days yet. I’ve heard it takes a little getting used to. They say the first ten years are the worst.’ Her lip starts to tremble again. ‘I was only joking, of course.’

‘Sex.’ The word comes out of her mouth like a bullet.

‘Would you like it on your lap?’ I swallow hard. ‘I mean, the tray, of course.’

‘I haven’t. We’ve not–’

‘I’ll pour you some coffee, shall I?’

‘He’s always taking photographs.’

‘I’ve noticed. Careful, you’re spilling your grapefruit.’

‘He said he respected me.’

‘That’s very nice.’

‘I’ve never–’

‘That’s not so unusual. I mean–’

‘Neither has he.’

‘Oh.’

The juice from her grapefruit segments has leaked on to the toast and she is looking out of the window as she talks as if speaking into a tape recorder.

‘I’d better take that before you spill everything.’

‘Oh, sorry. I don’t really feel hungry anyway.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Roger?’

‘Yes.’

‘It sounds stupid but I think he’s gone home to mother.’

‘He’s left you?’

‘Not permanently. No, he was upset. We were both upset. I am upset. He’s coming back, I think. Oh, I don’t know.’ She looks as if she is about to burst into tears again.

‘Because you can’t–er–I mean, because you–er–haven’t got it together yet?’

‘ “Is there something wrong with us?” I’ve read books about it. Every magazine you pick up is full of articles about it.’ She suddenly looks me straight in the eyes. ‘I’m sorry. You must think I’m mad talking to you like this.’

‘No, no. That’s fine. It must be very trying for you.’

‘I feel that if I don’t tell somebody about it, I’ll go mad. I can’t talk to my mother. She wouldn’t understand and it would make her unhappy.’

‘You’ve talked to your husband about it?’

‘I’ve tried to, but you see, it’s difficult, because–he can’t, he hasn’t been able to.’ She blushes furiously.

‘It’s probably nerves,’ I say. ‘There have been times when I was all tensed up and I couldn’t–er–you know–’

‘Get it together?’ She manages a smile.

‘That’s right.’

‘But–forgive me asking this. You can tell me to mind my own business if you like–the first time you made love, was it so difficult? I’m assuming that you’re not a virgin.’

‘No, I’m not,’ I say looking at the ceiling. ‘Well, let me see. It was a bit different for me because the bird I was–I mean, the lady in question was what you might call experienced.’ You might also have called her a raving nympho but I don’t want to labour the point. I can still remember us writhing amongst the potato peelings, the rain bashing down outside the kitchen window, my squeegee propped against the broom cupboard–happy days! ‘I don’t imagine,’ I go on, ‘that you have ever? No, of course, you said you hadn’t. And probably not, how shall I put it, fiddled about much either?’

‘My hymen has never been ruptured.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ I say. I mean, it does sound nasty, doesn’t it? My Uncle Harry had a lot of trouble when his–’

What I’m trying to say is that I am still a complete virgin,’ says the bird.

‘Oh. Yes. Well that can be a problem. I don’t think I’ve ever–er–had the pleasure with a virgin, if you know what I mean.’

‘Never?’

‘No, not never. Your husband is one, too, isn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very ticklish. Like you say. You get the idea there aren’t many around these days. I know that’s wrong, of course. I’ve read those surveys in the Sundays. Most girls are still virgins when they get married, aren’t they? It must be the circles I move in, I suppose.’

‘So you can’t help me?’ Her face goes even redder. ‘I mean, with advice.’

‘Not speaking from experience, no.’

Suddenly, I get an idea which would have occurred to any sane bloke about ten minutes before. I sit down on the bed and put my foot in her saucer of marmalade. That was not the idea, I hasten to add. Just a typical bit of Lea misfortune. I push the tray under the bed with my heel and rub the gunge off against the side of the bedside table.

‘I would like to help you, though,’ I say. ‘I don’t think it would be very difficult, really I don’t.’

I look into her soft, brown eyes and she turns her head away.

‘If you mean what I think you mean, I couldn’t. It would be adultery. I couldn’t commit adultery on my honeymoon.’

‘Don’t look at it like that,’ I say hurriedly. ‘What I’m suggesting is a step towards a complete marriage. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but it seems so underhand.’

‘There’s nothing underhand about it. You’d be doing it for him, really.’

The more I think about it, the more I am convincing myself that it is a marvellous idea. She is a very cute little chick and there is only one of her. Sidney is right. I am getting a bit brassed off with all this group activity. Also, I would be performing a public service–in a manner of speaking. That’s always a nice way to wrap up a bit of in and out.

‘But me being a virgin. That’s not all the trouble. He doesn’t seem to be able to–’

‘First things first,’ I say comfortingly. ‘Let’s get you sorted out then we can think about him. I’m certain that once you know what it’s all about, you’ll be able to help him.’

It sounds such good sense doesn’t it? I wonder if I could volunteer to give it away on the National Health?

‘But I don’t know you. I mean you’ve been very kind and nice but–’

‘What could be better? You don’t want to know me. Just look on me like some kind of doctor who’s about to give you an examination.’

I squeeze her hand tenderly and pull her towards me. ‘You make it sound so convincing,’ she says apologetically. ‘Oh, I did look forward to it so much before we got married.’

‘It’s not always easy at first,’ I say, kissing her gently on the cheek. ‘It’s like learning to ride a bike. You have to be prepared to fall off a few times.’ On reflection that does not seem the best way I could have put it but it is too late to rephrase it now.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘You’ve got a hairy chest. Just like Roger.’

‘Just think of me as Roger,’ I purr, sliding my arm round her waist. ‘Close your eyes and imagine that he’s come back and is sliding into bed beside you.’

‘Do you mind drawing the curtains a bit?’

‘Nobody can see.’

‘I know but I feel happier when it’s a bit dark. I’m shy, you see.’

She is sitting there obediently with her eyes closed so I half draw the curtains, turn the key in the lock, and whip my clothes off so quickly that one of my fly buttons rolls under the wardrobe.

‘That’s a very pretty nightdress,’ I murmur as I slide in beside her. ‘Very pretty.’

‘I made it myself. Can I open my eyes now?’

‘Of course. How do you feel?’

‘Frightened.’

‘That’s nothing new, is it?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Well, I’m not frightened, I’m excited.’ I take her hand and guide it down the front of my body. ‘Feel.’

She touches me gingerly as if trying to remove a piece of cheese from a mousetrap.

‘It’s huge,’ she says.

I shake my head sadly. ‘I wish you were right. It just feels like that because you’re not used to it and you can’t see it.’

‘I could never get that inside me.’

‘Let me worry about that,’ I kiss her gently on the lips and slip my hand under her nightie.

‘Relax. Don’t stiffen up. Come on, you’re very pretty.’

Slowly but surely her tongue darts out and stays pinned between her teeth. Her small breasts seem to grow beneath my hands and her hard nipples quiver expectantly.

‘You like that, don’t you?’

‘Um. Lovely! You have very gentle hands. Are you going to touch me there?’

‘In a minute. There’s no hurry.’

This is not strictly true but I have left the key in the lock in case somebody comes to see what’s happened to me.

‘Oh, that’s heaven.’

I run my fingers over her belly and lightly brush against the soft hairs that nestle below it. Tiptoe to the two lips, in fact. Very gently I plough the moist furrow and–

‘Oh, be careful.’

‘This doesn’t hurt, does it?’

‘A little.’

‘I’m going to move my finger about a bit. How’s that?’

‘Alright. In fact it’s quite nice, really.’

We go on like this for a bit and I am beginning to feel fruitier than Covent Garden. There is a nice pink flush in her cheeks and her eyes are closed contentedly. It must be chronic, if you can’t get your end away, mustn’t it? You forget what some poor devils have to go through–or not go through as seems more the case.

‘I’m going to try it with two, now,’ says kindly Doctor Lea .’Try and grin and bear it. Remember it’s in a good cause.’

‘Think of Roger.’

‘That’s right. Think of Roger.’

‘Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?’

‘Positive. Anyway, it’s a bit late to worry about it now, isn’t it? Now, we’ve got this far.’

‘Ouch!’ Her hands close around my wrists. ‘This is the bit that always hurts.’

‘I know. But we’ve got to do it. Come on. Think how nice it’s going to be later on.’

‘I hope you’re right. Ouch!’

I pull her close to me and make her move her legs around while I offer encouraging noises. It is all a bit clinical for a bloke of my tastes and I can feel J.T. Superstar beginning to get perplexed. It would be a disaster to do a Roger, wouldn’t it? The very thought sends cold shivers down my spine. Luckily, the bird is far from passive as far as the old moaning and groaning goes and this helps to keep me on the boil. I can’t stand the ones who lie there as if they are wondering what shade of brown to paint the ceiling.

At last I reckon the time has come to do some real plumbing and I gently lever myself between her legs. Such a tiny bird, she is. Her nose is practically pressing against my belly button.

‘Here we go,’ I say. ‘Stand by for blast off.’

For some reason I think of one of those old-fashioned costume movies with a battering ram being positioned outside the gates of the castle. At least nobody is pouring boiling oil down my neck.

‘Ouch! Oh, no! Oh!’

‘Hang on, we’re nearly there. There!’

‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ Her voice rises in a series of shouts progressing from the pained to the triumphant. ‘Hurrah!’

‘That wasn’t too bad, was it?’

‘Wasn’t too good, either, but thank you very much. You don’t know what this means to me.’

She puts her little hands around my big end and hugs me to her.

‘It’s nothing. All part of the room service.’

She kisses me warmly on the mouth and together we engage full revs and rocket off into the stratosphere–well, would you believe the bed hopped six inches from the wall?

Yes folks, another satisfied patient learns to live again. Just whistle the Dr Kildare theme while I put on my Y-fronts.

Despite the fact that I only did it out of sheer goodness of heart, I am a bit choked when her old man rolls up around tea-time. I had anticipated that the patient might need a bit more treatment that evening. I see them sitting there in the lounge with half a plate of digestives, and their little hands creeping into each other, and I think: that’s it, Lea, close your casebook, zip up your fly, it’s ten bob to a tin of Vaseline that things are going to be alright from now on. Just sit back and wait for your Duke of Edinburgh award.

But, not for the first time in my life, I am wrong. Mrs R. has a strained expression by supper time and at the breakfast table next morning, there are definite signs of tears. Roger is fiddling with his camera strap. Oh dear. It looks as if all my hard work has gone by the board–or bored maybe. No? You’re probably right. Anyway, later that morning Mrs R. approaches me as I am subjecting the silver to a spot of spit and polish in the deserted dining room.

‘No good, huh?’ I say, reading her face.

She shakes her head. ‘If you’re like other men, he’s not like you. Do you think there’s something wrong with him? Maybe he should see a doctor?’

‘Don’t suggest that to him. That’ll turn him right off. No, he just needs a bit of a boost somehow.’

As I speak my eyes wander down to the end of the room to where Carmen is bending over to adjust a table leg. Yeah. That chick could defrost your refrigerator by brushing against it. At the back of my horrible little mind an idea begins to lurch forward.

‘Banging away with his camera, is he?’ I ask.

‘Yes, it’s the–’ she bites back what she was going to say and gives a resigned little shrug. ‘How long is this likely to go on for?’

‘It’s only temporary. I’m sure of that, but–’

‘But what?’

‘Well, just to be on the safe side, we ought to give him a feel-up, or whatever it’s called.’

‘A fillip?’

‘Precisely. I mean, you’re only here for two weeks, I suppose. You don’t want to hang about any longer than you have to.’

‘But surely you can’t do anything to him–I mean physical?’

‘Blimey no. What kind of bloke do you think I am? No, there are pills and stuff like that but I don’t recommend them. They can get a bit out of control if you know what I mean.’ I think of the Shermer Rugby Club and my blood runs colder than an Eskimo’s chuff.

‘So, what then?’

‘I haven’t quite worked out the details yet, but I think he needs a bit of mental stimulation. He’s concentrating on you so much he gets uptight every time he lays a finger on you. If we can broaden his horizons a bit–’

Later that day I get Carmen, June and Audrey on one side and fill them in on my plan of campaign. Being the kind of gay, fun-loving girls they are, they express themselves as being only too glad to oblige. My real stroke of luck is when I find that the apartment next to the Richards’ bedroom is falling vacant the following morning. Not only that but there is a connecting door between the two suites and it opens into the Richards’ bedroom. My cup over-runneth!

A spot more organisation and next morning finds me gliding up behind Mr Richards as he makes for the front entrance clasping his Leica as if it is the only thing left in the world.

‘Oh, Mr Richards. Sorry to trouble you but I wonder if I could ask you something?’ He shrinks away from me as if the only thing I could be asking him is ‘Why can’t you get it up your old lady?’ But luckily my up-bringing has protected me against such crudity.

‘I remember your wife talking about your success as a photographer, and I wondered if I could ask you to give us a few tips. When I say “us” I mean the Cromby Photographic Club. There’s one or two of us very interested in still lives.’

‘Well, that’s very flattering. I don’t see how I can refuse.’ Richards looks happy for the first time in days. ‘Don’t get any ideas about me being a great performer, though. Daphne is inclined to exaggerate.’

‘Daphne?’

‘My wife.’

‘Oh, of course. It’s lighting that is the trouble with us. Use of flash. All that kind of thing. If you could give us a few hints on positioning models. I’ll get one or two of our members along.’

‘Delighted. What time would you like me?’

‘Let’s say midday. Then you can join us for a little drink.’

‘Delighted. Absolutely delighted.’

At five minutes to twelve I have June, Audrey and Carmen draped around the semi-darkened apartment. Audrey is wearing a bikini that looks like two elastic bands with three knots in them and heels so high you could use them for planting potatoes. June is sporting a sheet–cot-size so it does not conceal the fact that she is starkers–and Carmen is wearing a dab of Chanel No. 5 behind the knee caps–nothing else to distract you from her manifold charms. I get her standing in the darkest part of the room and pour half a bottle of brandy into the half bottle of sherry I have nicked from Dennis the barman. If this lot does not get him going, nothing will. Tap, tap! ‘Come in, Mr Richards. Very kind of you to come. Is Mrs Richards joining you?’

‘In a minute, I hope. She’s suddenly decided she wants to change her dress. Very dark in here, isn’t it–Oh, my God!’

I bend down and give June her towel back. ‘Don’t overdo it, dear,’ I hiss. ‘Let’s get a few drinks inside him first.’ I turn to Richards. ‘We’re very keen on life work as you can see. I did mention that, didn’t I?’

‘I can’t really remember,’ says Richards, who is now grabbing an eyeful of Audrey’s knockers.

‘Drink?’

‘Yes please.’ His hand shoots out and he downs a mixture of sherry and brandy–randy shandy I call it–before you can say Cecil Beaton.

‘My goodness me.’ He gives a little laugh and shakes his head like a boxer trying not to let on that he has been hurt. ‘Interested in flash work, are you?’

June is giving him a flash already and it is obvious that she has been at the booze while my back was turned. I will have to watch them because they are quite capable of taking what is meant for another.

‘Get the flash bulbs out, will you, Audrey?’ I say nonchalantly. ‘I’ll start oiling Carmen.’

‘You’ll what?’ Richards is clearly interested and I give him another slug of randy shandy.

‘It brings the body tones up a treat. We’ve had some wonderful results. This is Carmen, by the way.’

The noise made by Richards is like air being sucked into a jet engine. I pick up a bottle of olive oil and pour a little between Carmen’s massive knockers. Richards is now making choking noises.

‘Do you think I’m standing the right way?’ asks Carmen. I think she comes from Walsall and she has a very flat voice–the only thing about her that is.

‘Well, I-er-um-er think it’s er-um, really a-um a question of um-er-lighting.’

‘You get on with this,’ I say pushing the bottle into Richards’ hand. ‘I’ll go and check the equipment.’

This is not going to take long, because we only have one Instamatic and a roll of black and white film, but I don’t tell him that. He is dabbing at Carmen’s body like he is varnishing a butterfly’s wing.

‘Let me fill up your glass,’ Audrey closes to his side and June brings up the rear–one of the best in Hoverton, I might add.

‘I don’t know if I should.’

‘Oh, go on, be a devil. Can you put some on me? No, the oil, I mean.’

Richards is starting to pour his drink down the front of Audrey’s bikini. He is going even faster than I had expected. Too fast, maybe. We want to leave something for his missus. I try and gently remove his drink, but he avoids my hand and takes another giant slug.

‘Remarkable brew, quite remarkable.’ He empties his glass and slams it down on the table so hard that the stem breaks. But does he notice? Does he fucia! ‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ he yodels. I think he might mean photography but my worries are groundless. He swills olive oil on his mitts and goes at Carmen’s knockers like he is trying to smooth out her chest to plant radishes.

A few moments later he is looking around for more customers. ‘Next!’ he hollers. Audrey’s bikini is torn away as if by a great hurricane and all the girls start giggling and closing in for the kill.

‘You’ve got to get your exposures right, eh?’ Roger nudges me in the ribs and obviously reckons it is the funniest thing anybody has ever said. ‘Who cares about the ball, let’s get on with the game. To think, that for all those years I was concentrating on my camera.’

June has taken umbrage at being left out of the action for so long and presses forward, her mouth an inviting inch from Mr Instamatic. But not for long! Like a lost piglet catching up with its milk supply, he launches himself on to her lips and I can see that in a couple of seconds the whole point of my carefully laid plans will be blunted in another gang bang. Carmen is already beginning to undo Richards’ belt and dear, loyal Audrey is fiddling with mine. Get orf! ‘What about Mrs Richards?’ I pipe above the uproar, pulling her old man off June before they can get any closer involved.

‘I thought she was joining us?’

‘Oh, yes. Yes, so she was.’

He tries to turn back to June but I grab her by the shoulder. ‘You’d better find out what has happened to her,’ I say, dragging him towards the door that joins the two apartments. Before he can say any more I have flung it open and bundled him through. There, strictly according to instructions sits Mrs R. filing her nails on the edge of the bed. She is wearing a black bra and panties set with suspender belt and black silk stockings. Gor!! I am on the point of throwing back Mr R. and going myself. Luckily, my native sense of decency gets the better of me and closing the door on my impulses I drop to my knees and peer through the keyhole. Well, I want to see that everything is alright, don’t I? I need have no fears. Mr R. falters for a moment, and then his eyes light upon the goodies spread out for him. In three strides, he has swept wifey back on to the bed and is fighting his way out of his trousers like an angry ferret escaping from a paper bag. Mrs R’s panties whip over her heels and like a bee late for an appointment with its queen he whips into the hive before you can say honeypot.

I would like to watch more, but you have to draw the line somewhere, don’t you? I wish someone would tell that to Carmen, Audrey and June. Regretfully, I turn away from the keyhole to see Carmen tilting the Randy Shandy bottle to her lips. Oh, no! If they have that lot inside them–I spring to my feet and sprint for the door.

‘Oh no you don’t!’

‘But girls–’

‘Getting us all excited and then ratting on us.’

‘Yes, but. Put me down! Stop doing that!’

‘If you’re not a good boy, we’ll go next door. We’ve got a fan there.’

That was the argument that clinched it. I mean. I could not allow my scheme to be spoilt at the last moment, could I? Let Mr R. get used to one bird first of all. Then he can build up later.

‘Is there anything left in that bottle?’ I say, as my jeans hit the carpet.