Confessions of a Lady Courier
BY ROSIE DIXON

Contents

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

About the Author

Also by Timothy Lea and Rosie Dixon

Copyright

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

You can imagine my feelings when I discover that it is Geoffrey Wilkes on top of me – well, you could if you had read Confessions of a Night Nurse, Confessions of a Gym Mistress or Confessions from an Escort Agency. I am quite overcome. The surprise for one thing. The last person you would expect to find taking advantage of you at a masked ball for a seminar full of American businessmen in a posh country house, would be your own homespun boyfriend, wouldn’t it? It makes you wonder what he gets up to the rest of the time. Not of course that Geoffrey is really my boyfriend. More a long-standing admirer. He’s always there when you don’t need him, if you know what I mean.

I think the shock must be too much for me because, when I next open my eyes, Geoffrey has gone and the sunlight is streaming through the casement windows. I look down at the ruckled sheets and my own naked body bruised by a night of unspeakable lust – or, what I imagine must have been a night of unspeakable lust – and feel a sense of grave disquiet. Although no blame can be attached to me, I feel somehow tainted by what has taken place. That is the worst of these involuntary fits of passionate ecstasy that I sometimes become involved in. They do take their toll of your moral equilibrium – I don’t quite know what it means either, but they mentioned it in the Cosmopolitan I was reading at the hairdressers and I thought it sounded rather good.

Geoffrey has left his mask on the bedside table and tucked into one of the eye slits is a piece of paper. It must be a note to me. No doubt apologising for his inexcusable behaviour. The more I think about it, the more amazed I am that I did not recognise him before he took his mask off. It just shows how many Babychams he must have forced me to consume – and all that stuff about the brandy chasers helping to settle my stomach. A girl has to be very careful these days. I pick up the note. ‘Mr Sweeney rang. There was no Spam left so I got you corned beef. They are in the top drawer of the filing cabinet.’ How very strange. I can’t remember anyone called Sweeney. There was a terrible man called Doctor MacSweeney who behaved in a very unprofessional manner towards me when I was pursuing a nursing career but it could hardly be the same person. Furthermore, there is no sign of a telephone in the room. Nor, for that matter, a filing cabinet. And why should Geoffrey think that I wanted a Spam sandwich? I don’t like Spam. It is all very mysterious. I turn the piece of paper over.

‘Dear Rosie,’ I read. ‘When I woke up this morning you were still asleep and I did not have the heart to wake you up. Last night will live in my memory for ever. It was even more exciting than that time after the tennis club dance –’ That was another terrible occasion which I try to keep shrouded in the mists of iniquity. Geoffrey plied me with punch and unwanted information on how he had strengthened his wrists for his backhand volley and the night air made me feel all dizzy. Something unpleasant might or might not have taken place behind the heavy roller. You know what it’s like when you’ve had too much to drink – or rather, you don’t know what it’s like when you’ve had too much to drink.

‘I never knew you were so passionate,’ I read. ‘I thought I was going to die of pleasure when you –’ Did I do that!? I feel myself blushing to the roots of my hair. There must have been something in the drink other than a large quantity of alcohol. I would have to be drugged even to think of doing a thing like that. In fact I am not so certain that this is the first time I have ever heard of it. Oh dear, I do hope that I am not some kind of Jekyll and Hyde-type character who can change her personality and act in a manner totally alien to her true fresh, pure, untainted self.

Perhaps it is something to do with the job. I thought that working for the Nicetime Escort Agency would bring me into the company of refined and amusing men dripping with savoir faire and all that kind of thing. That’s what managing director, Sammy Fish, told me anyway, and I wanted desperately to believe him. In fact, the reality was something else. The men’s minds were so one-track that they might have been running on monorails. None of them were interested in what I call companionship. They might have been taking part in a race to see how fast they could take my knickers off. After a while it gets you down.

I put down Geoffrey’s note and gaze out across the wide acres of pasture land that comprise but a fraction of Chedworth Place’s vast natural amenities – as it puts it in the brochure. Maybe I should face up to the fact that I am not cut out to be an escort. I am too easily shocked.

I pick up the note again. ‘I look forward to seeing more of you in the next few days (!) Please excuse scribble. This note from my secretary was all I could find to write on. Love, Geoffrey. P.S. I think I liked it best of all when you –’ No! It is too much. He must be imagining things. I could never have done that! I crumple the piece of paper into a ball and throw it towards a fabric-covered waste paper basket – the place is beautifully furnished, I will say that for it. As always happens in such cases, the paper hits the rim of the basket and bounces back towards the bed. I bend down to retrieve it and – click! The bedroom door opens. Conscious that I am revealing a not altogether inconsequential amount of tolerably shapely flesh, I jerk myself to an upright position and find that I am staring into the fast-glazing eyes of my employer, Sammy Fish. His eyes are not staring into mine. For those of you who have not read Confessions from an Escort Agency I feel I should point out that Sammy is not a tall man. In fact, he makes Charlie Drake look like a natural for the next Tarzan film – not that Sammy couldn’t get into the picture. He would make a great Cheetah.

‘Mr Fish. Please!’ I say, quickly snatching up a sheet and holding it in front of my naked body – I can read the expression on my employer’s face like one of those magazines the police confiscate in large numbers.

‘You don’t have to beg, baby,’ says Mr Odious, advancing towards the bed at a speed that disturbs me. ‘Looking like that, I’d give you a going over for nothing.’

‘That’s very flattering,’ I splutter. ‘Don’t you ever knock when you go into a lady’s bedroom?’

‘Not unless the door’s locked. No point, is there? You don’t want to be ashamed of your body, darling. It’s a work of art. If I had a body like that, I’d want people to see it. In fact, it’s a crime to keep it to yourself. If Wedgwood Round the Bend saw that lot he’d nationalise you tomorrow.’

‘Thank you very much,’ I say. ‘Now please, do you mind? I want to get dressed.’ The minute I have spoken I realise that I have not expressed myself very well.

‘I don’t mind at all, darling,’ says Mr Fish, scrambling on to the four-poster and making rapid progress towards me on his hands and knees. ‘In fact I’d be delighted to see fair play.’ His podgy hand reaches out and tweaks one of my boobs. In my present mood this is not a course of action calculated to meet with approval.

‘Stop that!’ I snap. ‘I’ve had enough of your leering and pawing. Get out of here and go back to your friend next door.’

I am referring to one of my fellow employees called Sonia who has clearly been the recipient of Sammy’s carnal attentions, as anybody forced to listen to the noises coming through the wall would have no difficulty in telling their ear specialist.

Sammy looks hurt. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I have just slapped him round the kisser. ‘Hey!’ he says. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘I wasn’t doing anything,’ I say. ‘I was just giving you an example of what can happen when you push a girl too far. Frankly, I’ve never had a customer who’s come within half a mile of you when it’s boiled down to a crude pass.’

‘Crude pass?’ says my boss, managing to sound surprised and outraged. ‘I just want to share something beautiful with you.’

‘What have you got that’s beautiful?’ I say. In retrospect, this is also a silly question, but at the time I had no idea that he would react as he did.

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ leers my tiny employer. ‘How does this grab you?’

Before I can cover my eyes or faint, the dirty little man whips open the front of his trousers and produces something like one of those things you hang on to in the tube. I don’t mean an arm-rest though it is quite disproportionate to the size of the rest of him.

‘Put it away, please!’ I say, not knowing where to look.

‘That’s just what I’d like to do,’ says Mr Fish, shuffling towards me. ‘I know just the place to put it, too.’

With Olympic swiftness I detach myself from the bed and retreat towards the windows, holding a sheet in front of my threatened person. Sammy attempts to follow me but falls flat on his tiny face. His trousers are round his ankles. I am now pressed against the window which I realise is a bad idea when I hear an appreciative shout from beneath me. A crowd of men are staring up at the window and whistling and jeering. I try and wrap the sheet completely round my body and hobble towards the door. Sammy has now removed his trousers and shoes and is revealing that he wears suspenders on his socks. If he did not have a lot of other things going against him, this alone would be enough to put me off.

‘Don’t be like that,’ he pleads. ‘Let’s have a nice time. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? You and me could make beautiful music together.’

‘You and me couldn’t make Ba ba, black sheep on a set of dustbin lids,’ I tell him. ‘Now, step away from that door.’

Sammy Fish decides to change his tack. ‘Oh! Hoity toity, are we?’ he sneers. ‘May I remind you that I am your employer, young lady. You might like to consider your future before you repulse my offer of a meaningful relationship.’

‘It’s you who is doing all the repulsing,’ I say. ‘You’re the most repulsive little man I’ve ever seen.’

Sammy clearly does not care for my words. ‘How dare you!’ he says. ‘Beautiful women everywhere find me irresistible. You must be frigid.’

‘Frigid?!’ I say.

Sammy sees a glint of hope. ‘Come on the bed and I’ll show you what you’ve been missing all these years.’ He grabs hold of my wrist and starts trying to drag me towards the four-poster.

Mounted on the wall is one of those old-fashioned spears with an axe on the end. I try to cling to it to prevent myself being dragged away. There is a sound of two rusty nails separating from the wall and I find that I have armed myself. Quite by accident, the axe blade sweeps dangerously close to Sammy’s nut and he lets go of my wrist hurriedly.

‘Hey, steady on!’ he says.

Quickly adjusting my grip on the weapon, I jab the sharp end towards the evil menace of Sammy’s rampant pussy pummeller. ‘Back!’ I hiss.

Normally, I am a girl of a very retiring disposition but now that I have Fish on the retreat I find it impossible to resist pressing home the advantage.

‘I was just having a bit of fun, darling,’ pleads my employer. ‘Put that thing down. I didn’t mean what I said about giving you the chopper – I mean chop.’ He takes another step backwards and sprawls across the bed.

Now he is completely at my mercy and my halberd hovers over his chest. It is a very heavy thing to carry and I don’t think I would have been a big asset to Queen Elizabeth I’s army. Sammy clearly agrees with me.

‘For gawd’s sake!’ he squeals. ‘Are you trying to castrate me? Mind what you’re doing with that thing!’ I must say that my weapon is now waving over his wiry willy in a manner calculated to strike terror into the bravest heart. ‘If I offended you, I’m sorry,’ he squeals. ‘I get a bit carried away sometimes.’

‘My wrists,’ I groan. ‘I can’t hold it much –’ With what is, by my standards, a superhuman effort I manage to jerk the halberd into the air and start to swing it away from the stricken form on the bed. Unfortunately, for Mr Fish, I have reckoned without the canopy. This article has become so full of the plaster that has dropped off the wall and ceiling – mostly due, of course, to Sammy’s exertions with Sonia next door – that it sags down over the bed like a bloated belly. Sammy makes a grab at me, the halberd snaps the canopy, and – ‘Yoooowgerfiumf!!’ There is a ripping noise and a shower of plaster buries the upper half of Sammy’s body. His dongler points at me like a huge, accusing finger and then droops pathetically. A cloud of dust fills the room.

The door bursts open and my friend and fellow employee, Penny Green, comes in. Her father owns Chedworth Place and it is she who first introduced me to Sammy Fish. She is very nice but rather forward and outspoken.

‘Great jumping gonads!’ she exclaims. ‘What on earth is happening? Did he come through the roof?’ She gazes down at the submerged Sammy. ‘Good heavens! It’s Sammy Fish.’

‘You recognise him like that?’ I say.

‘I’d know that private collection, anywhere,’ says my forward friend. ‘When his mother was carrying him, they thought he was twins.’

Sammy starts to splutter into an upright position and I breathe a sigh of relief. When his willy wilted I thought it might signal the end. ‘You – you!’ he accuses.

‘He looks just like Harpo Marx, doesn’t he?’ says Penny.

‘Harpo Marx never spoke,’ I say.

‘You’re fired!’ shouts Sammy. ‘You tried to kill me.’

‘You can’t fire her for that,’ says Penny calmly. ‘Most people would give her a medal.’

‘You’re fired, too,’ snaps Sammy. ‘I’ve had enough of the both of you.’

‘Very well, you can leave my father’s house forthwith.’

‘You’ve no right to tell me what to do. I signed an agreement with your father.’

I turn away from this scene of accusation and recrimination and sigh a deep sigh. How unpleasant it all is. I am only too happy that Sammy has decided to dispense with my services. It saves me the trouble of resigning. I have had enough of all these sophisticated people with their depraved ways and one track minds. I want a job where I mix with ordinary people.

Sammy is still screaming and shouting and I pull my panties on under my dressing-gown. I always think better with my panties on. Sammy looks like one of the Spillers Home Pride flour men and every time he shakes his fist another cloud of dust rolls across the room. He and Penny are arguing about who has the right to tell whom to get out of my room. I am about to involve myself in the discussion when the door bursts open. It is Penny’s father carrying a shotgun. He takes one look at Sammy and the gun leaps to his shoulder.

‘My God!’ he shouts. ‘It’s the mad imp of Munchampton. Stand back, m’dears!’ So saying, he discharges his weapon into the ceiling and another cloud of plaster falls down.

Sammy is quick to realise that it is he who is being addressed and dashes for the window as the second barrel removes the frame and forty-eight panes of glass.

‘Daddy!’ screams Penny. ‘Calm yourself. That’s Mr Fish.’

Mr Green seems unconvinced and pushes two more cartridges into the breech. ‘Don’t be deceived, m’dear. That hobgoblin devil is a past-master at taking on almost human form.’

‘Do I look like a hobgoblin?’ says Sammy pitifully, throwing one leg over the window ledge.

‘Dadd –!’ BANG!!!

The explosion makes me close my eyes and when I open them, a whole piece of the window-sill is missing as if taken out by a giant bite.

‘You’ve been at cook’s elderberry wine, haven’t you, Daddy dear?’ I hear Penny saying.

I cross to the remains of the window and look out to see Sammy Fish hobbling towards a line of privet hedges.

‘Fetch my elephant gun!’ shouts Penny’s father.

Something tells me that I will definitely need to start looking for a new job.

CHAPTER 2

When I return to Chingford, or West Woodford as Mum calls it because it sounds posher, it is with a heavy heart. I know that my decision to change jobs will not pass without unfavourable comment from Dad and that my man-mad younger sister, Natalie, will do all in her power to pour troubled waters on troubled waters. Natalie and I are not as close as sisters are supposed to be and if she was one of my friends I would hate her. The situation is not helped by the way that Dad always favours her when it comes to the pinch – eg when she pinches my tights, make up and boyfriends. Yes, distressing as it is to relate, Natalie did manage to inveigle the susceptible Geoffrey Wilkes into her baby doll clutches. The man has a lot to answer for.

Incidentally, I did not see him before I left Chedworth Place because he was attending a lecture on his ‘Whither Capitalism?’ course. I did see Sammy Fish again, but only for a second before the ambulance doors closed on him. He was taken to hospital suffering from severe shock. I think the shock got worse when he opened his eyes and saw Mr Green lying on the stretcher opposite. He took a shot at himself in one of the mirrors and got cut by the flying glass.

It is early evening when I arrive at 47 Pretty Way, and the family are preparing to do justice to Mum’s spaghetti bolognese. She has already dished it out and they are waiting for the parmesan with forks and spoons poised. I say that I will happily settle for a cup of tea and a couple of digestives but Mum won’t hear of it.

‘We’ll all give up a little bit,’ she says cheerfully. ‘Come on, Harry, Natalie.’ She holds out a plate and in no time the middle of the table is a mass of spaghetti. It is very difficult stuff to move around in mid-air.

‘I don’t want mine, now it’s got all the fluff from the tea cosy on it,’ whines Natalie.

‘I wish you’d come in before your mother put the mince on it,’ says Dad.

‘I told you not to go to any trouble,’ I say.

‘Just home for the weekend, are you?’ says Miss Sourpuss, evilly.

I take a deep breath. ‘I’ve decided that you were right about that job,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t very nice, really.’

Dad puts down his spoon. ‘You haven’t chucked in another job? Blimey! How many is that?’

‘That’s the third,’ prompts my ever-loving sister.

‘Precisely three more than you’ve had,’ I say.

‘What does that mean?’ says Natalie. ‘I’m still at school, aren’t I? How can I get a job?’

‘I’m very glad that Rose has decided to change,’ says Mum. ‘I was never happy about her in that line of work. You read such nasty things, don’t you?’

‘You read such nasty things,’ says Dad. It is a fact that Mum keeps a watchful eye on all published material relating to white slaving, drugs, and allied forms of human bondage.

‘Have you thought what you’re going to do next?’ asks Natalie.

‘Why? Do you want to move into my room?’ I ask.

Natalie looks at Mum, who looks at me nervously. ‘We thought – since you were away, you wouldn’t mind –’

‘She has moved into my room!?’ How typical. I only have to turn my back for a few weeks and I am practically homeless. ‘You might have asked first.’

‘I didn’t know where you were.’

‘That’s not true –’ I began.

‘Don’t let’s have an argument about it,’ says Dad, sucking in a huge mouthful of spaghetti. ‘It’s done now.’

‘Your father’s going to redecorate Natalie’s room – I mean, your room, aren’t you, Harry?’

‘When I can find the time,’ says Dad.

‘Don’t bother, Dad,’ I say, coldly. ‘I can take a hint. I should be able to find some job that will prevent me being a strain on you all. What a pity the French Foreign Legion doesn’t take women.’

‘Rosie, dear. Nobody wants you to leave home.’ Mum stretches out an arm to pat me on the wrist. Unfortunately, she rests her elbow on the plastic tomato that contains the ketchup and it squirts all over Dad’s lap.

‘I want to leave home,’ I say. ‘I want a complete change of scene.’

Nobody takes any notice because they are all hopping about trying to sponge the front of Dad’s trousers. Dad hops about more than most when Natalie inadvertently holds a Spongelette under the hot tap and applies it to one of the more sensitive areas of his anatomy.

‘I might even join the WRACs,’ I say, seeking to strike terror into their hearts.

Dad pours a milk bottle full of cold water down the front of his trousers and I start rifling through a pile of newspapers. ‘There’s usually an advertisement in here,’ I say, very matter of fact.

‘Are you all right, Dadsy?’ simpers Natalie.

‘Ruined!’ says Dad. ‘Ruined!’ I think he is referring to the trousers.

I have just found an advertisement saying ‘It’s a man’s life in the WRAC’ when I notice a much smaller announcement below it. It says ‘Girls! See Europe in style and get paid for it. Climax Tours want lady couriers. Foreign language an advantage but not vital.’ I put down the paper thoughtfully. This could be just what I am looking for. I don’t speak any foreign languages but I have had lots of experience with people – I mean, of course when I was a nurse, gym mistress and professional escort. All this should stand me in good stead. Working abroad would be wonderful too. I like Britain but it does get a teeny bit gloomy sometimes, doesn’t it?

‘Oooooooh!’ Dad’s soaked trousers are clinging to his legs and he is clearly in no little discomfort.

‘Take them off, dear.’ Mum proffers a tea towel which Dad snatches and starts to peel off his C&A lightweight special summer offer. Unfortunately, he meets more resistance than he bargained for and sits down on the plastic waste bin which shatters with a noise like a small explosion. Tea leaves spread across the floor and Dad’s face registers pain which may, or may not, be caused by the fact that his trousers have split down to the knee.

‘Are you all right, dear?’

Dad does not answer but feels between his legs and produces an empty tin of cat food – ‘Pussy loves it’ emblazoned across the label. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Would you children mind leaving the room?’

We leave Mum inspecting the damage and it does not take Natalie long to start apportioning blame. ‘It’s always the same, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Whenever you turn up, there’s trouble. It’s been lovely and peaceful here up till now.’

I am about to say something very unsisterly when there is a loud scream and the telephone rings. The two events are not connected. I think the scream has something to do with Mum ministering to Dad’s predicament.

I pick up the phone. ‘Rosie?’ says a familiar voice. ‘Penny here. I just thought I’d ring up to see if you’d got home safely.’

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘How is Chedworth Place?’

‘Very quiet at the moment,’ says my friend. ‘Daddy has given Sandra the boot and moved in with Sonia. I don’t give her very long. I should think that the last Nicetime employee will be off the premises by tomorrow. I’m bored already. If it wasn’t for all those men I don’t know what I’d do. It’s such a drag competing against your own stepmother, though.’

Harriet Green is the latest in a long line of Mrs Greens and seems to have much in common with her old man when it comes to instant relationships. I am glad I don’t have a mother and father like that. Natalie is the nearest to what you might call being promiscuous in our family.

‘I know just what you mean,’ I lie – Penny is so ‘with it’ that I don’t want her to think that I am as natural and unaffected as I really am. I am certain that she thinks of me as being very dull. ‘I’m finding it very boring here,’ I say. ‘In fact, I’m already thinking of becoming a lady courier.’

I do not expect Penny to be very enthusiastic but she jumps at the idea. ‘Sizzling privates!’ she exclaims. ‘What a top hole wheeze. Give me the particks and I’ll flash them my credentials. Mumsy was always bemoaning the fact that I never did anything with my French.’

‘You speak French?’ I say, wishing that I had kept my mouth shut.

‘Only fluently,’ says Penny modestly. ‘It’s not as good as my Italian. I was finished on the continent, you know. In fact, I started there. Did I ever tell you about the man who rented out the parasols at St Trop?’

‘The one with the hairy wrists and the big – er, the big –’

‘Yes, that’s the one,’ says Penny cheerfully. ‘Beginner’s luck I always called it – though I wasn’t so certain at the time. It comes as a bit of a shock when you’re thirteen. Just as well I’d done a lot of riding.’

‘Quite,’ I say. Thirteen! Just think of it. I was eighteen when Geoffrey Wilkes first took advantage of my condition behind the heavy roller – or tried to. I’m still not quite certain what really happened.

‘Why are you blushing?’ hisses Natalie at my elbow. ‘Is it an obscene telephone call? Just breathe right back at them, that’s what I always do.’ In the end, I give Penny the particulars and rush upstairs to make quite certain that my letter of application gets in the post first. I am a little surprised that Climax Tours operate from Dalston High Street but I suppose that they can’t all have smart West End offices. Probably just as well when you think about it. It could be why so many of them go bust. All these overheads and ritzy brochures and things.

Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg is the name of the man I have to write to and I find it very reassuring when I see it written on an envelope. He sounds like a real gentleman, doesn’t he? I expect that he has travelled extensively and visited all the hotels we will be staying at. I don’t want to sound too unkind about Sammy Fish but he was not what Mum refers to as ‘being out of the top drawer’. I must take after her, I suppose, because I always have this hankering after someone smooth and well bred who will sweep me off my feet and introduce me to a world of elegance and luxury. Maybe Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg will turn out to be the ‘Mr Right’ I have been saving myself for – spiritually, that is. As I have said many times, virginity is a state of mind and nothing that happens to the body can affect one’s untainted status provided that one’s will is not a party to it. I have found myself in many unpleasant predicaments but never one, thank goodness, in which I have felt my Everest-high principles to be in danger of compromise. I pop the letter in the post and spend a couple of nerve-racked days waiting to see what the reply will be. I should think that such a glamorous sounding job will encourage a lot of girls to write in and my fear is that quite a few of them may share Penny’s proficiency in foreign languages. I carefully study the parts of the sauce bottle label that have not been obscured by Dad’s sloppy pouring – ‘cette sauce est de haute qualité. Une mêlange, etc’ – but in my heart of hearts I know that I have left it too late.

On the fourth day the appearance of a lilac-coloured envelope on the front doormat coincides with the sound of our neighbour’s dog trying to rip the back out of the postman’s trousers and I know that the moment of truth has arrived. With faltering fingers, I tear open the envelope and dart my eye over its contents: ‘Thank you for … letter. Hope you can … attend … interview. … 11.15 Monday. Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg.’ My heart leaps. The first hurdle overcome. Now all I have to do is make a good impression at the interview.

On the appointed day I take a bus down to Dalston and make my way along the High Street. It certainly gives you a reassuring feeling of ordinariness. There is nothing sharp or flashy about it. I am wearing my blue wool interview suit with a yellow blouse that has just the trace of see-throughs about it. I don’t want to be brazen but on the other hand, my breasts are one of my best assets. There is no point in being over-prim. I have no difficulty at all in seeing the ‘CLIMAX’ sign. It projects out into the street and flashes on and off. Mr Rafelson-Bigg is obviously switched on to the benefits of advertising. Below the sign is a large expanse of coloured glass with the drawing of a man and a woman on it. They are stretched out in a position that can best be described as horizontal and don’t appear to be wearing any clothes. I suppose they are meant to symbolise the sense of freedom you experience when you book a Climax holiday but it does seem a bit near the knuckle.

I take a quick look at myself in the mirror of my compact, make a few last minute repairs, and push open the door. The interior is not what I had been expecting. There are a lot of counters and at first glance it looks like the interior of a rather posh Woolworths. Perhaps Mr Rafelson-Bigg shares the premises with another firm.

‘How can I help you?’ The voice at my elbow is warm and reassuring and belongs to a pleasant-faced woman of about thirty.

‘I’m looking for Climax,’ I murmur.

The woman shakes her head admiringly. ‘If only everyone could be so frank. It would be so much easier to help them.’

‘Yes,’ I say, wondering what she is getting at.

‘Do you want something you can use with your partner?’ She moves towards one of the counters and I follow her, feeling more and more confused.

‘I don’t have a partner,’ I say. ‘There is my friend, Penny. She may be coming. I’m not quite sure.’

The woman stops and looks at me strangely. ‘Penny?’ she says after a pause. ‘I see. And you’re not quite certain whether she’s coming. Have you asked her?’

‘Not in so many words,’ I say. ‘I sent her all the particulars in a letter. She was very interested.’

‘That’s half the battle,’ says the woman. ‘But you must be careful. If you get too interested, too overwrought, then tension can set in. You must try and maintain a balance between freedom and control.’ She smiles at me sympathetically and I gulp. What is she talking about? She picks up a box from one of the counters. ‘Have you ever thought about a Cosiprobe Vibro-Massager?’ The woman is obviously labouring under some misapprehension about the purpose of my visit.

‘I’m – er looking for – er something – Bigg,’ I splutter. I always forget names when I get flustered.

‘Something big!?’ The woman’s face registers amazement. ‘This is the biggest we do. I don’t think there is a larger size. Maybe if you teamed it up with one of our slip-on Sensation Builders? Have you ever tried the Tweaker? Or the Stroker? Or the Squidger?’ She holds up something that looks like a finger stall with varicose veins and I take a step backwards.

‘I’m looking for the Managing Director of Climax Tours!’ I say, noticing that a degree of strain is creeping into my voice. ‘Can you please direct me to him. I do have an appointment.’

‘Climax Tours?’ Now it is the woman’s turn to look bewildered. ‘You’re looking for Climax Tours?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You mean, I’ve come to the wrong place?’

‘This is Lovecraft,’ says the woman, shedding the charm like it is an old skin. ‘You want the top floor flat next door.’

‘Lovecraft!?’ I squeak. ‘You meant that – oh no!!’ I start to retreat towards the door and knock over a pile of books entitled Eros Blows His Horn. The picture on the cover is – well, I just can’t bring myself to describe it. It certainly has nothing to do with playing the trumpet. When I get out on to the street I am still blushing. How silly of me not to notice the big sign saying Lovecraft. It is certainly a lot easier to see than the dog-eared card pinned under one of the bell pushes next door. ‘Climax Tours’ it says, plus the name of an outfit called ‘Sunfun’ which has been crossed out. There are also two other names beside that of Rafelson-Bigg which have an untidy biro line through them. I can’t really be certain but one of them looks like Sidney Noggett. Changes have obviously been made in the organisation since the cards were printed. Whilst I look and ponder, two figures appear beside me and start to scrutinise the column of names eagerly.

‘That’s him, Henry!’ says one of them triumphantly. ‘You get up there and sort him out.’ The speaker is a large suntanned woman wearing a plastic mac and a determined expression. Her companion is male and less forbidding, but equally suntanned. He stretches out his hand, gulps, and presses the bell.

‘Don’t do that, you fool! You don’t want to let him know you’re coming.’

‘I’m sorry, Edna,’ says the man, meekly. ‘Don’t you think it would be best to try and achieve retribution though the medium of a solicitor?’

‘Don’t weaken, Henry,’ says the woman, seizing him by the elbow. ‘That’s not what you were saying in Timbuktu. You were going to tear him limb from limb.’

‘I know, dear. But I was a bit overheated.’

‘I’m not surprised, it was a hundred and twelve degrees in the shade!’

While the couple argue, I wonder about the reason for their suntans and the fact that the man is wearing one of those burnous things that Omar Sharif used to dress up in before he became an all-round entertainer. Could it be that they are dissatisfied customers of my, hopefully, future employer?

‘We were told not to leave the camel train,’ says the man meekly. ‘I never thought that there was going to be a short cut across that desert.’

‘Don’t weaken, Henry!’ says the woman. ‘We would never have had to go on those camels if the coach hadn’t broken down. The only thing that kept me trudging along under that merciless sun was the thought of this moment. Now, get up those stairs!’

Henry is still protesting as he makes his way up the narrow staircase but he clearly knows who wears the baggy trousers. I follow, eager to catch my first glimpse of Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg and see how he deals with what could, potentially, be a ticklish situation. The staircase winds up and up and I am quite exhausted by the time I see the fanlight. Edna and Henry have obviously been hardened by their experiences and their breathing shows no signs of having quickened as they pause by the final flight of stairs. At its head is a door with a frosted glass panel bearing the legend ‘Climax Tours – where the other people don’t take you’.

‘You can’t argue with that,’ says Henry, wryly.

‘Don’t just stand there,’ says Edna. ‘Get in there and have it out with him. We want our money back and compensation for all the hardships we’ve suffered.’

Henry swallows hard and edges his slight frame towards the door, brushing the pyjama cord round his burnous out of his eyes. I shrink back into the shadows.

‘Miss Dixon?’ The voice is barely a whisper and comes from directly behind me. I turn and see a sign which says ‘Please leave this toilet as you would be amazed to find it’. The suave, upper crust whisper has come from behind the door which is slightly ajar.

‘Yes,’ I murmur. ‘What –?’

‘Sssh!’ A jacketed arm revealing one and a half inches of crisp white cuff appears round the door and a long finger oozing character and decisiveness beckons to me. I watch Edna follow Henry through the door of the Climax office, and do as the finger bids me.

Standing in front of the toilet is a tall, elegantly dressed young man carrying a briefcase. I am glad to be able to report that everything about his clothing is as it should be. He draws me towards him and closes the door.

‘Sorry about this,’ he says. ‘I’m Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg. It must seem a bit strange, interviewing you in the loo.’

‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘That’s quite all right. I mean, well – I suppose it is a bit unusual.’

‘Going through a very trying time at the moment,’ says Jeremy, offering me a cigarette and nonchalantly tapping one against the cistern. ‘The trouble with this business is that you’re at the mercy of other people. Hotels, drivers, mechanics –’ he pauses and looks me up and down – as much down as he can in such a confined space ‘– couriers, even. It’s a swinish responsibility trying to tie up all the loose ends.’

‘It must be very difficult,’ I say.

‘And of course, you know who carries the can? Old muggins, yours truly. Sssh!’ He applies a cornflower blue eye to a crack in the door. ‘They’re still up there.’

‘Who are they?’ I whisper.

‘Our North African tour. They’re the first ones back.’ Jeremy shakes his head. ‘I suppose it was a bit ambitious really. Forty-eight tribes in seven days. Half of them had blood feuds against each other. I got a ransom note the other day.’

‘How awful!’ I murmur. ‘Are the family going to pay?’

Jeremy taps his briefcase. ‘They already have. I’m going to handle the drop myself – eventually. That’s why I’m in here. I don’t want anything to happen to the money.’ He nods towards his office. ‘Of course, I have tremendous sympathy with those people but I think my first duty is towards Abdul Ben Schmuk.’

‘Abdul Ben Schmuk?’ I say. ‘That sounds like an Arab name.’

‘It is an Arab name,’ says Jeremy. ‘He’s the one whose being held to ransom. Some of the people on the coach turned very nasty and said that they wouldn’t give him back unless we flew them home. We get some shocking troublemakers, sometimes, you know.’ Jeremy brushes the hair from his eyes and I feel really sorry for him. It must be a terrible responsibility running an organisation like this.

‘I know I’m very stupid,’ I say. ‘But how does the ransom money get to be in this country?’

‘It’s all invested here,’ says Jeremy, peering through the crack again. ‘It’s oil money. A lot of the Arabs invest over here, you know. Damn! They’re still not going. We’ll have to climb out of the window.’ He turns to me almost as an afterthought. ‘I take it you want the job?’

My heart leaps with excitement. Can he be serious? Jeremy misunderstands the reason for my hesitation. ‘You won’t have to go to North Africa. I was a fool to try and compete with those safari boys – especially with a double decker bus.’

‘It must have been very handy for looking over the sand dunes,’ I say.

Jeremy shakes his head admiringly. ‘I believe it was,’ he says. ‘Damn clever of you to pick up on a detail like that. You’d be a real asset to the company. It’s not often one comes across your mixture of extravagant beauty and stunning brainpower.’

I blush and look down into the toilet bowl before raising my eyes swiftly. Nobody has ever paid me a compliment like that before. I warm to the man immediately.

‘I’ll have to think it over,’ I say, ‘But I’m very interested.’

‘Capital!’ says Jeremy. ‘Stand on the seat and I’ll help you out on to the ledge. The fire escape is just round to the left. Don’t look down and mind out for that thing the window catch slots on to – oh, sorry!!’

CHAPTER 3

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.

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