The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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I got my foot stuck round the bend once. Most uncomfortable, it was.’
‘You’re having me on,’ Sandra gives me a big nudge in the ribs which I do not take exception to. Once birds start prodding and touching you then a spot of oggins is seldom as far away as the final payment on your colour telly. ‘I like a man with a sense of humour. Henry was very morose. That’s the nice thing about the film business. We have a lot of laughs. Most of us have been together for quite some time now and there’s a very happy atmosphere on the set.’
‘I must have hit you on a bad day.’
‘Yes. It was a bit quiet this afternoon. It’s Crispin, you see. That’s not really his line. Well, you can tell, can’t you? Our regular man is down with a cold.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Glint Thrust. Ah, here we are.’ Sandra opens a door and I find myself looking into a small room wearing very bright flower-patterned wallpaper.
‘Boy! It’s instant sunshine, isn’t it?’
‘It does cheer it up, doesn’t it? The room is a tiny bit dark, you see. I thought it needed a splash of colour.’
‘Yeah. It got it, didn’t it?. All over the ceiling too.’
‘I’m glad you like it.’ Sandra is jumping the gun because I do not like it one little bit, but I am too good-mannered to say so.
‘What’s the bed like?’
Sandra extends a ‘be my guest’ hand and I prod the bed gingerly. ‘Get on it if you like. Have a bounce. It won’t collapse.’
‘How do you know?’
Sandra shudders. ‘Never you mind that.’
‘Who’s this bloke. Glint Lust?’
‘Glint Thrust. Why did you suddenly mention him?’
‘It struck me as being a funny name.’
‘Not as funny as Trevor Hepplethwaite. That was his real name.’
‘Did he come here?’ I say, noticing that Sandra has registered considerable signs of discomfiture since I mentioned his name.
‘You ask too many questions.’ She turns and goes out of the room. Oh dear, this is not going at all well. How am I going to achieve the breakthrough that will lock lovely Sandra and myself in sexual congress? I clamber onto the bed and contemplate an attack of cramp but this seems a trifle laboured.
‘Well?’ Sandra is standing in the doorway.
‘Very nice. I like a hard mattress.’
‘Hard mattress? You must be joking. It’s like puff pastry, this one.’ She sits down on the edge of the bed and my pulse quickens.
‘You’re better equipped to find things soft,’ I say. ‘I don’t carry your protection.’
‘Go on with you. There’s nothing wrong with that mattress. Now, are you going to get up?’
This is what I believe they call a moot point and at the present rate of progress the answer is probably ‘no’.
‘It’s very comfortable here,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t complaining about the mattress.’ Sandra attempts to rise but I hold her hand. ‘Don’t go,’ I say.
‘Why not?’ I was afraid she might say that and I have very few convincing arguments to restrain her.
‘Because I like looking at you.’
‘You can look at me standing up. Come on.’
‘Come to bed with me, Sandra.’ I don’t usually like coming right out with it but in my present situation I cannot think of anything else to do. Once we are outside the room I will never have such a good chance again. Also, I feel at an advantage lying down. It is like when you are in hospital. All the people standing round the bed look so uncomfortable.
‘You’ve got a cheek. I hardly know you.’
This is not a totally unexpected response and I move to counter it. ‘It’s the same for me. I hardly know you either, but I am prepared to give you a chance. I trust the feeling that drew me to you. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve known a person, it matters whether you feel anything.’
‘But supposing I don’t feel anything?’
‘I feel enough for both of us.’
“You’re mad. I didn’t know you existed until half past five this afternoon and now you’re talking about sleeping with me.’
‘I never mentioned sleep. Sandra, listen. It makes such good sense. You say you don’t know me. What better way to get acquainted? Get all the sexual tension out of the air. If I move in here, imagine what it could be like if I kept bumping into you coming out of the bathroom? You’d start fretting about it. Wonder if I was doing it on purpose. Now if we go to bed with each other straight away we’ll get rid of all the sexual tension that could haunt our relationship. There won’t be anything to get worked up about.’
‘But I like sexual tension.’
‘Not all the sexual tension,’ I say hurriedly, ‘just the damaging bit. I want to earth the fuse, not stop paying the electricity bill. I must be honest with you, Sandra. You’re so beautiful that I don’t think I could stay near you if I thought I was never going to make love to you.’ I can see that this goes down better than a buttered marshmallow and I squeeze Sandra’s hand passionately and pull her towards me.
‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ she says.
‘Oh, Sandra.’
‘Load of stuff and nonsense.’
‘Sandra!’ My cry is like that of a small wild animal in pain.
‘Just this once then,’ Sandra pushes the door shut behind her and stands up. ‘But don’t think you’re fooling me. I’m probably being very stupid.’
I defeat an impulse to leap off the bed and start tearing my clothes off and lean back with my hands behind my head while I let my eyes roam up and down her rollercoaster body.
‘Fantastic,’ I breathe.
‘I’m human, you see,’ says Sandra almost bitterly as she fiddles behind her back for the hook on her bra. ‘I have a libido too.’
I imagine she is talking about the thing in the bathroom but who wants to wash their feet at a moment like this?
‘Allow me,’ I say. ‘I’d hate you to strain yourself.’ I get off the bed and unclip her bra. By the cringe, but that thing is under some tension. When I release the catch I am darn nearly jerked over her shoulder by the weight of her bristols. She wriggles round and I find that by craning my neck I can get close enough to kiss her. She is very good at this and when her tongue goes into action I know how a foxglove must feel when it is being given the once over by a pollen-crazy bee. My hands have just gone to launch on a haunch when my concentration is shattered by the sound of a heavy body battering against the bedroom door. Being less than a complete stranger to this kind of situation, my first reaction is one of blind, stumbling panic. Sandra’s husband, his striped apron flecked with blood, is at this moment pulling his straw hat over his eyes and swinging back his cleaver for its first appointment with my nut.
‘You’d better let him in,’ says Sandra, disentangling herself from my mouth. ‘He’ll scratch the door down if you don’t.’
My mind clears and I realise she is talking about the nauseous Fido.
‘Do I have to?’ I whine.
‘He has been alone all day, poor pet, and he hates being left out of anything,’ says Sandra breezily. ‘Let him in. We won’t get any peace if you don’t.’
She may have a point there. The noise of scratching