Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea
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answer is no, so my reply is a formality.
“Yes,” I say, “Of course I do. Why, is that what the trouble is?”
“Supposing you loved someone and they suddenly said they didn’t love you anymore and wanted to go off with someone else?”
“Well, I don’t know.” It’s the truth, I don’t know. You could do anything, couldn’t you? Kill him, kill her, kill yourself, shrug your shoulders and go off for a pint. I don’t know.
“Supposing they’d told you once that they would die without you and would never leave you. How would you feel then?”
“I’d feel terrible. I know I would. Look, this has happened to you, hasn’t it?” Notice how my radar mind homes immediately on the truth. “I probably sound callous but it happens to everybody sooner or later. You’ve just got to look at it as experience. In a few weeks you’ll wonder what you were getting so worked up about.”
Good advice isn’t it? If you didn’t know, you’d think I had some idea what I was talking about.
“You’ve never loved anbody,” she says.
“What makes you say that?”
“If you’d ever been in love, really in love, you couldn’t make that kind of glib, smug generalisation. Love invades you, it goes into you like a bullet, turns you over like a spade—”
Her voice dies away and she rests her head on the counterpane so I can see one wide-open shiny eye glinting like a diamond. Now I can smell her; that aroused, liberated smell like a patch of grass after rain. It works on me much better than any perfume ever invented. But, what am I thinking about. It’s like taking advantage of somebody lying on a hospital bed. I shouldn’t be thinking the things I’m thinking.
“I think you’re getting too worked up,” I say, “there’s plenty of other fish in the sea.”
“I know. And too many cooks spoil the broth don’t they? But on the other hand many hands make light work, so where do you go from there?”
“Stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself for a start. Either get the bloke back in tow or chuck it in and find someone else!”
“Someone else? Oh God. I’ve tried that. This is what led to the hellish trouble I’m in now. I had this person and it seemed – it seemed too constricting. Faced with something you think is totally yours you grow to accept it and then dislike it. Like a room you decorate, and live in, and then suddenly you can’t believe that you could ever have liked it—.”
“So you change it?”
“I didn’t want to change it. Not really. I just wanted to inject some excitement into it. And then before I knew what I’d done I started a chain reaction and now I’m in this mess.”
“But you’ve got to take some of the blame. If you start messing about you can’t be surprised if your bloke does the same.”
“I wasn’t messing about. A little flirting isn’t messing about.”
It’s funny but I can’t imagine this bird flirting, she just doesn’t seem the type. You wouldn’t think she was capable of getting so worked up either.
“It’s that all the things that we’ve said and done together can be so easily swept aside. That you can put three years of your life into something and see it snuffed out like a candle.”
She sits up on the bed and leans forward with her hands clasped between her knees. There’s a small flush beneath one of her ears which is spreading like a blood stain.
“Maybe you should fight fire with fire.”
“What does that particularly ill-favoured homily mean in my situation?”
“What I said means that if your fellah is making you jealous maybe you should give him a dose of his own medicine.”
“Him.” To my amazement she smiles.
“Yes, you’ve tried it once, now try it again. But this time look as if you mean it.”
“Do you think it would work?”
“Look if you love this fellah you’ve got nothing to lose have you? Lay it on really strong. It’s make or break.”
“What’s the time?”
“The time?” The question throws me. Why is she suddenly interested in the time.”
“Yes, what’s the time?”
“It’s about half past eleven. Why, have you left something in the oven?”
“No, come on. I’m prepared to take your advice.” No sooner has she said this than she starts to peel back the bedspread.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m taking off the counterpane so that we can go to bed together. Now, put your bucket and stuff in the kitchen. It will spoil everything if you’re seen to be the window cleaner.”
“Thanks very much. Who do you want me to look like. Cary Grant?”
“It doesn’t matter. Come on, hurry up.”
She is down to a pair of pants already and they soon hit the deck. She pulls back the bedclothes and hops in, leaving a memory of a neat little arse, smooth, white and round as two onions.
“What’s the hurry. Is this bloke coming round here?”
She nods.
“Great,” I say, “He’s not going to be overthrilled to find us on the job, is he?”
“I thought that was the idea. Anyway, we don’t have to be ‘on the job’ as you put it. We can pretend.”
The minute she says that I suddenly decide I want to have it away with her very much. Pretend indeed – who does she think I am. The door is locked so we can worry about her fellow when he shows up. I know it’s crazy and I’m taking advantage, and she’s bonkers, but all that crying and her little eel body squirming under the sheets is too much for me. I’ve got as much chance of staying out of that bed as I have of pulling my foreskin over my head to keep my ears warm.
My clothes join hers and I’m inside the cool sheets reaching out for her body. But again, as soon as I touch her she rides away as if I’ve got electricity in my fingers.
“What’s the matter. Are my hands cold?”
She doesn’t answer but turns her back on me and curls herself up into a ball. I imagine she is worried about her bloke coming along and finding her on the job but she should have thought about that before she invited me into her bed. I put my hand on her stomach and try to pull her towards me but she starts struggling like a mad thing and splits my lip with her elbow. This really makes me go spare and I pin her arms down and kneel on her thighs which is a pretty effective way of keeping most women quiet. Not this one though because she starts spitting in my face. Anybody would think I was trying to rape her. The minute I think of that I start to get really worried. Perhaps she’s one of those birds you read about in the Sundays who gives you the big come on and then suddenly starts hollering cop. For a terrible moment I wonder if my innocence is being exploited.
To give myself time to think about it I grab a pillow and hold it over her face. I don’t want to smother her, just save myself from the rain of spittle. Well, you won’t believe what I find under the pillow, I don’t know what it is at first. It’s some kind of harness with a cricket bat handle fastened to it. Then I coco. It’s a false prick. Poor kid, no wonder she’s so neurotic. Her bloke obviously can’t do it properly and has to use this thing. She’s probably so mixed up that the thought of real sex terrifies her. I got here just in time.
I pick up the other pillow and there’s something else. A long pink thing like a plastic torch but with a smooth rounded end. Maybe I’m getting dirty minded in my old age but I don’t think it’s used for stirring Christmas