The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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there is going to be a post-première party at Justin’s flat where we will be able to wait for the first newspaper reviews to arrive. ‘I hope you’re coming,’ she burbles. ‘It’s usually most tremendous fun.’
‘Wild whores will not be able to drag me away,’ I say, favouring her with a touch of the wit which has earned me the title of Clapham’s answer to Noel Coward. Sam nods without smiling and goes on her way. I think she finds my brand of sophistication a bit overwhelming.
Now, at last, Dawn decides to honour us with her presence. Unfortunately it is now raining quite hard and in her anxiety to get into the cinema she manages to slam her stole in the car door. She takes one regal stride forward with the word ‘Darling!’ framed on her lips and then spins round as if brought up short in an apache dance. There is a loud ripping noise and she sits down in the gutter. Glint leads the cheering from the Laundromat where he has now persuaded a few people to ask him for his autograph. We rush forward to pick her up and it is obvious that she has knocked back more than a few shots of nerve tonic before venturing out.
‘Terribly bad luck about the weather,’ sighs Justin. ‘I think it’s keeping people away.’
Whatever the reason, there are certainly not a lot of people present apart from those appearing in the film and their next of kin.
‘Do you recognise any film critics?’ I ask Sid.
‘No. But Justin says the bloke who does the Women’s Institute Round-up for the Kensington Clarion is here.’
‘That’s blooming marvellous, isn’t it? We won’t be looking back, now.’
‘Don’t be sarky, Timmy. It doesn’t suit you. The critics are probably here incontinent.’
‘I think you mean incognito, Sid. Incontinent means you piss all over everything. Still that’s probably what the critics will be doing, isn’t it?’
Sid does not answer that but gives the word for me to start herding people into the cinema.
‘What about Loser?’ I ask.
‘We can’t wait any longer. They’ve nearly finished up all the booze.’ This is certainly true and there is no doubt that, whatever you may think of the acting profession, they can say goodbye to a few bottles of the hard stuff so fast that you can hardly see their lips move. In this respect Dad is not far from being their equal, and he is in excellent spirits as I shepherd him towards the door.
‘Cor,’ he says. ‘Lucky I had your mother with me, the way some of these women are flaunting themselves they’re asking for trouble.’
‘They couldn’t ask a better bloke, eh, Dad?’
‘I’m not saying anything about that, but I reckon if I played my cards right, know what I mean?’
‘Be your age, father,’ says Mum sternly. ‘Don’t let’s have no embarrassment at Sidney’s primula. Ooh, I am looking forward to seeing you act, Timmy.’
‘Well, don’t drop your choc ice, or you’ll miss it.’
‘My grandmother was an opera singer, you know. I think it runs in the family.’
‘She had such a lousy voice she had to run,’ chips in Dad.
‘Shut your mouth!’ snaps Mum. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You never met her. It’s no accident that Timmy and Jason came along.’
‘What do you mean?’ bellows Dad. ‘That’s exactly what it was. Timmy was practically singing at our bleeding wedding!’
‘I didn’t mean like that!’ says Mum, turning scarlet. ‘I was talking about their talent. That’s inherited.’
‘Yeah. Well, my lot weren’t stupid, you know.’
‘Mum! Dad! Please! Remember what you said. Don’t let’s have a punch-up at a moment like this.’
‘The very idea. Going on like that. Just because Sidney and Rosie were so in love –’
‘Yes, Mum,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Where is Rosie? I suppose she is coming?’
There is no need of an answer to that question because I glance behind me and get an eyeful of the lady herself. Eyeful! By the cringe. I have not seen so much of Rosie since we shared the same bath tub as kids. Her dress is topless, backless and sideless, and it is amazing how the various parts of it succeed in meeting at all. Even the puff sleeves have slits in them and the whole outfit has more cuts in it than a pre-election budget speech. The long skirt is no more than strips of venetian blind hung vertically and the blouse has air vents all down the fuselage. The whole outfit looks like a cotton skeleton.
‘Blimey!’ I say. ‘And in virginal white, too.’
‘Do you like it?’ says Rosie. ‘You don’t think it’s too much?’
‘Quite the reverse, Rosie. What do you think of it, Mum?’
‘It’s very nice, dear. A bit – well – you know – sort of –’
‘Diabolical?’
‘Oh, no, dear. I wouldn’t say that.’
‘I would,’ says Dad. ‘I’m ashamed to see a daughter of mine degrading herself like that. You’re making a proper exhibition of yourself. You don’t want to show all you’ve got to a load of complete strangers!’
‘Oh, you’re so out of touch, Dad,’ spouts Rosie, adjusting the top of her dress against the weal mark that runs through her nipples. ‘This is a film première, isn’t it? You’re supposed to dress up a bit.’
‘ “Up” is the word, my girl,’ snorts Dad. ‘I’ve made an effort to meet the standard required. I wouldn’t have you wear that thing to pop out to the kasi.’
‘Because you’re so stupid, that’s why. The human body is nothing to be ashamed of – though I can understand where you got the idea from. These days you dress to accentuate the body, not hide it.’
‘No need to use words like that,’ says Dad. ‘Speak language people can understand.’
‘Rosie! Oh, my Gawd!’ Sidney appears looking harrassed. ‘What happened? Did you go through the automatic car wash?’
‘Don’t you start!’ Rosie’s lip is starting to tremble.
‘I think it’s like one of those costumes they wore on Henry VIII on the telly,’ says Mum soothingly.
‘Yeah. Henry VIII’s. It looks better on a fella. Oh, my Gawd. What have I done to deserve it? Still, never mind, let’s get inside before we miss the start of the film. You look after Mum and Dad, Timmo.’
I am not overchuffed to hear Sid say that because Dad is a dead liability in any place of public entertainment. He starts off by saying he wants to go to the toilet and by the time we get inside the cinema the lights have gone down and we have to feel our way to our seats. ‘Feel’ is the right word. Dad has his hands on every pair of knockers in the row and there are nearly some nasty incidents. ‘They shouldn’t wear dresses like that if they’re frightened of somebody brushing against them,’ he says. ‘They’re asking for trouble.’
‘Sit down, Dad,’ I tell him. ‘The seat folds down, you know that.’
Dad’s habit of perching on a tipped up seat can get on your nerves after a bit.
‘I can see better up here.’
‘Sit down!’ hiss the voices from behind.
‘Belt up!’ bellows Dad. ‘I paid for this seat, didn’t I?’
‘NO!’
‘Shurrup!’
I haul him down and after a few minutes rabbiting he begins to concentrate on the screen.
‘Oh,’