Mr Lonely. Eric Morecambe
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you fancy a drink?’
‘At your place?’
‘Where else? Unless you think your wife wouldn’t mind you bringing me home to have a drink at your place and, of course, we could keep very quiet and only have a soft drink.’ She laughed again. This time the laugh was like a set of poker dice being shaken in a pewter tankard.
‘Your place it is, then,’ Sid grinned. ‘I’ll get my coat and follow your car.’
‘Don’t make it too obvious, chérie. I’ll leave now and see you back at my place. Number 447. It’s on the ground floor. Bottom button.’
Fine.
‘At about twelvish. Now off you go back to your room and, incidentally, your watch has stopped.’ They both looked at each other and grinned.
Sid left her room with an extra loud, ‘Goodnight, Serina,’ that Lord Olivier would have had trouble following. He went to his own dressing-room, had a quick electric shave, splashed some ‘Henry Cooper’ all over his body, ‘Mummed’ under both arms and talcumed everywhere else. He knelt down below the sink, opened the suitcase with his key and poured himself a good glass of Scotch.
Sid stopped his car in Ballards Lane, got out and looked at the house numbers. 459. I’ll leave the car here and walk back, he decided. He looked down Ballards Lane and about six houses back saw a house with the front curtains drawn but not tightly closed. It was the only house with the front room lit. That’s got to be it, he thought. If that light goes out before I get there, I’ll break the window. He quickened his pace, looked at his watch—one minute to the bewitching hour. He found the bottom button of three, checked the number again and, with a thundering heart, pressed the button. The bell made no sound at all, not that he could hear. After maybe twenty seconds the curtains to his right in the bay window slowly opened, ever so slightly, and bright red, well-manicured fingernails tapped on the glass. The curtain closed before he caught a glimpse of the face. He stood there, knowing how the Boston Strangler must have felt. At the back of the door bolts and locks were heard to be working. The door opened and Serina pulled Sid in.
She closed and rebolted the door, looked up at him and smiled. ‘You must have had your watch repaired. Give me your coat and go in there,’ pointing to the door leading to the front room. She left him with an, ‘I’ve only just come in myself.’
Sid heard voices coming from the front room. Oh, hell, he thought. That’s ruined the evening. He gently pushed the door open and in the far corner Ginger Rogers was telling Fred Astaire that she didn’t love him in the least. Except for Sid, Fred and Ginger, no one else was there. The room itself was very nice, tasteful and comfortable. He sat down on the settee in front of a coffee table with a coffee percolator in competition with Fred and Ginger singing ‘Change Partners’. There were a few photos in frames on a sideboard. One in particular took Sid’s eye: Al and Manny Keppleman with Serina, taken at a party.
Serina came into the room carrying a tray with two coffee cups, two glasses and a bottle of champagne on it. Style, thought Sid. She had also changed into the inevitable ‘something comfortable’. Hell fire, he thought, she either really fancies me or she thinks I know where the bodies are buried.
‘Do you like those old films?’ Serina asked. ‘I do. What I like about them is—you can watch the last fifteen minutes and still pick up the story.’ She put the tray down. ‘Next week, it’s The Fleet’s in. Coffee?’
‘I’ll do it. You watch the film.’
‘Turn it off,’ she said. ‘Fred gets Ginger; Sid gets …’
‘What?’
‘Coffee?’
He walked towards the television set. ‘Which is off?’
‘The white one.’
He pressed the button and Fred and Ginger left the room.
‘Come and sit next to me.’ She held her hand out and guided Sid next to her. As he sat down, Serina got up. That shook Sid a little. She turned out all the lights except the glow of the electric log fire. She switched on a tape of romantic music as if it had all been arranged, then stood in front of the glow from the electric fire. Sid could, or thought he could, see through her négligé. The tape was playing a very slow ‘Girl from Ipanema’. Serina put both her arms out towards him. He got up and they danced very close together. They did not actually dance, they stood very close together and swayed to the music. Fred and Ginger danced, Sid and Serina swayed. She put her arms underneath his open jacket, kicked off her slippers and immediately dropped about three inches. She was tiny, top weight five foot, while Sid was a good six foot odd. His only worry was, as her head rested against his lower ribs, that she didn’t think the noise of the coffee still percolating was coming from the region of his lower ribs. She very deftly took off his jacket and let it drop to the ground. Sid thought, I hope she doesn’t dance on that jacket—my reading glasses are in my top pocket. She gently pulled down his head and with soft lips she munched his ear-lobe. Her mouth slid from his ear towards his mouth. He hadn’t been kissed like that since the party where a drunken Swedish masseuse had tried to swallow him whole. I’ve still got her card in my pocket, he thought.
Serina now, with her small, strong body, started to push Sid back towards the settee. I’ll have to lift her over the jacket, he thought. He tried but the négligé she was wearing was satin and she just kept slipping out of his grasp. His foot was now in one of his jacket sleeves. As he slowly went back, so did his jacket. Gradually he made his way back towards the settee, until the backs of his legs touched the upholstery. He tried to sit down slowly but she was still kissing him and she gave him one final body push. Sid went backwards, their lips parted, but not their bodies. Serina was now on top of him on the settee. Her last push took him by surprise. He lost his balance, his legs went up in the air and the jacket left his foot, flying upwards over her shoulders. He saw the jacket land on the small chandelier above them. The top pocket of his jacket was now facing downwards. Slowly, through the swaying of the chandelier, Sid’s thick, library-type reading glasses were slipping out. Serina’s lips were searching hungrily for his. The percolator was going berserk. His glasses dropped. He tried to catch them before they hit the back of her head but he failed as he could not see them without his glasses. They landed, both arms downwards, on the back of her blonde hair. She felt nothing, her hair having so much lacquer. The glasses were trapped and were now looking upwards towards the jacket on the small, almost stationary, chandelier. Her emotions were still high. Sid tried to reach the glasses with one hand but as he touched them she left his lips to moan, ‘Don’t touch my hair, Sid.’
‘Heh?’
‘Not my hair, darling.’
‘Heh?’
‘Anywhere else but not my hair.’
His hand drew away while her lips tried to find his mouth again, like a month-old piglet looking for the teat of its mother. The percolator was almost dancing on the table.
Sid freed his mouth and said, ‘Do you fancy a coffee?’
‘Turn the bloody thing off.’
‘How?’
‘It’s electric. There’s a switch. I’ll do it.’
She got off Sid and flicked the switch at the bottom of the percolator to the down position. Sid was still lying on the settee. She looked down at him and through a pouted mouth said, ‘Would you like to see the rest of the flat?’
‘Pardon?’ Sid said.
‘The rest of the flat. Follow me and bring the champers.’
She turned to leave the room, still wearing Sid’s reading glasses on the back of her head. He picked up the bottle and said to his now receding glasses, ‘The percolator is still percolating.’
‘Leave it,’ she whispered breathlessly. He followed her out of the room. ‘Don’t forget the glasses,’ she added.
‘You’ve got them. Oh,