Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea
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if I was dead?”
“That kind of thing.”
“You’re a liar.”
“That’s right.”
She looks out to sea again and slowly releases a hand full of sand on to my stomach.
“It’s a pity,” she says slowly.
“What is?”
“I don’t think I should tell you.”
“Go on.”
“I have a favourite fantasy in which I’m lying on a small, secluded beach and the sun is shining and the sea is sparkling and—”
“And what?”
“I don’t think I should tell you.”
“Go on.”
“And a beautiful man appears from nowhere and …”
“And?”
The sky is very blue above me and there is a solitary seagull circling lazily as if keeping a watchful eye on us. Marcia’s face appearing above mine blocks it out and I refocus on her blue eyes.
“—we make love.”
“I’m not beautiful.”
“You’ll do.”
I raise my head as if her mouth is the lowest of a bunch of grapes dangling above me and we kiss gently. It is very pleasant that kiss, so we do it again, putting a little more feeling into it. Her back is warm and I dust the sand from it, pulling her down so that we are lying side by side and I can smell her hair and run my tongue along her eyelids. She tugs at my T-shirt and starts to knead the flesh around my waist.
“Ouch,” I say. “That hurts.”
“You look as if you can take it.”
Her hand moves smoothly down to my thigh and she pushes it up the leg of my shorts.
She is biting her lip just as she was when we were watching Grunwald and the girls.
“That’s nice,” she says. “Oh, that is nice.”
And quick as a flash she rolls away, arches her back and slips down her bikini bottom. I don’t have time to help, she does it so fast. I kick off my sandals and do the same and her hand comes back immediately, inquisitive and greedy.
“Take off your shirt,” she hisses. “I want to look at all of you.”
By the time I have pulled it over my head, she has shaken off her bra and starts running her fingers over me and darting her mouth down so that her kisses fall on me like isolated drops of rain heralding a storm. Her head taxis down my body and—o-o-o-o-o-h! I dig my hands into the sand and screw up my eyes against the sunlight and the ecstasy.
Far above me through the haze I can see a man standing on the rocks watching us. He has a beard and a hairy chest and a fat hairy belly and he is naked. The expression on his face could be a smile. Grunwald. O-o-o-o-h!! Good luck to him. I close my eyes momentarily and draw Marcia’s quivering body underneath my own.
“Go on! Please, please, please!!” The muscles on her face are twitching and quivering and her mouth hangs open as if about to bite into an apple.
“Go on.”
I don’t look up at the rocks. I rise up above Marcia’s shuddering body, shrug off her unnecessary fingers and dive into her as if from ten thousand feet. At a moment like this, I wouldn’t care if Grunwald was up there selling tickets.
When I next look up, Grunwald has disappeared. I don’t mention him to Marcia because she might get all up-tight about it. You know how funny women can be. We have a little swim and I am all ready for another bout of belly-bashing but unfortunately Marcia says she has to be getting back in case Sid wants her for something. Probably the same as what I want her for, I think to myself, but I don’t say anything. Marcia takes my hand as we walk back, which is very nice and romantic – until we bump into Sid coming round the side of the Candlelight Casino.
“Where have you been?” he snarls.
“Looking for Grunwald,” I say. “I think I—”
“Get round to the office—” he is talking to Marcia. “I’ve been waiting all afternoon to give you some letters. You—” he rounds on me, “I want a word with you.”
Marcia looks at him real cool for a couple of long seconds then turns and pats my cheek.
“Don’t let him bully you,” she says, and leaves me with a wink as incriminating as your dabs on the crown jewels. Sidney waits till she has disappeared round the corner and starts bristling like a turkey’s cock.
“If you’ve laid a finger on her—” he starts.
“Hey, wait a minute, Sidney,” I interrupt. “What about all that stuff we were talking about this morning? You know ‘living in the nineteen seventies’. ‘What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander’ – I definitely remember you saying that, when you were talking about Rosie. ‘The sex thing is pretty unimportant’. Those were your very—”
“Shut up you slimy little rat. You’ve never forgotten Liz and me, have you? You’ve been waiting to get your own back ever since.” (Liz was a bird Sid once did the nasty on me with – way back in our old window cleaning days.)
“But Sid! You said yourself—”
“Shut your mouth! Only a snivelling little fink would behave like that. After all I’ve done for you, too. You dirty little bastard!”
Well, that’s it! The old dukes are up and we are about to start belting the sh—you know what, out of each other, when Ted saves a nasty situation by lightfooting it round the corner.
“Bit out of line with the camp image, isn’t it?” he observes. “I mean, Love Island—”
“You can shut your mouth, too,” snaps Sid, and he strides away to make life hell for Marcia.
I don’t know what he does to her, but next morning she is looking like a ruckled marshmallow. Maybe he is just getting it which he still can because the first in-take – meaning those who have been taken-in by the advertisement, as Ted puts it – is arriving that afternoon and Mum, Dad and Rosie are going to be amongst them. Sid gets stroppy and says that his presence is required on the Island, so Muggins is despatched to the airport to meet them. Also, to ferry back Ricci Volare and his Angelos del Sole, some crummy Italian group Sidney is importing to boost the atmosphere in the Candlelight Casino. Poor sods I think to myself; little do they know what they are letting themselves in for.
Luckily I manage to prise myself out from under Carmen in time to slip on my Sun Senor kit and scramble aboard the ferry. I am feeling a right berk because Sidney has decreed that we all wear those flat, black hats sported by Spanish dancers and poufdahs; and strips of scarlet blanket draped round our shoulders. The ferry has been renamed “The Love Chariot” and also painted scarlet – presumably about five minutes before I sat down on it as I find when I examine the seat of my trousers. To my relief, the bus has not been painted “passionate pink” and I settle down beside the driver just in case he drops off to sleep or goes mad. He does neither but after ten minutes and four dead chickens, I am so scared I retreat to a seat halfway down the bus and pick my nails until we get to the airport. Here I skulk in a corner and endure insults about Sandemans Port from home-going English holidaymakers until, at last, the aircraft I am waiting for bounces down the runway like a horizontal pogo stick.
I am secretly hoping that the family has missed the plane, but not a chance. I can recognise Dad a hundred yards away across the tarmac. He is wearing a tweed suit and a Homburg which he must have got especially for the trip because