Confessions of a Lady Courier. Rosie Dixon
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I think the scream has something to do with Mum ministering to Dad’s predicament.
I pick up the phone. ‘Rosie?’ says a familiar voice. ‘Penny here. I just thought I’d ring up to see if you’d got home safely.’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘How is Chedworth Place?’
‘Very quiet at the moment,’ says my friend. ‘Daddy has given Sandra the boot and moved in with Sonia. I don’t give her very long. I should think that the last Nicetime employee will be off the premises by tomorrow. I’m bored already. If it wasn’t for all those men I don’t know what I’d do. It’s such a drag competing against your own stepmother, though.’
Harriet Green is the latest in a long line of Mrs Greens and seems to have much in common with her old man when it comes to instant relationships. I am glad I don’t have a mother and father like that. Natalie is the nearest to what you might call being promiscuous in our family.
‘I know just what you mean,’ I lie – Penny is so ‘with it’ that I don’t want her to think that I am as natural and unaffected as I really am. I am certain that she thinks of me as being very dull. ‘I’m finding it very boring here,’ I say. ‘In fact, I’m already thinking of becoming a lady courier.’
I do not expect Penny to be very enthusiastic but she jumps at the idea. ‘Sizzling privates!’ she exclaims. ‘What a top hole wheeze. Give me the particks and I’ll flash them my credentials. Mumsy was always bemoaning the fact that I never did anything with my French.’
‘You speak French?’ I say, wishing that I had kept my mouth shut.
‘Only fluently,’ says Penny modestly. ‘It’s not as good as my Italian. I was finished on the continent, you know. In fact, I started there. Did I ever tell you about the man who rented out the parasols at St Trop?’
‘The one with the hairy wrists and the big – er, the big –’
‘Yes, that’s the one,’ says Penny cheerfully. ‘Beginner’s luck I always called it – though I wasn’t so certain at the time. It comes as a bit of a shock when you’re thirteen. Just as well I’d done a lot of riding.’
‘Quite,’ I say. Thirteen! Just think of it. I was eighteen when Geoffrey Wilkes first took advantage of my condition behind the heavy roller – or tried to. I’m still not quite certain what really happened.
‘Why are you blushing?’ hisses Natalie at my elbow. ‘Is it an obscene telephone call? Just breathe right back at them, that’s what I always do.’ In the end, I give Penny the particulars and rush upstairs to make quite certain that my letter of application gets in the post first. I am a little surprised that Climax Tours operate from Dalston High Street but I suppose that they can’t all have smart West End offices. Probably just as well when you think about it. It could be why so many of them go bust. All these overheads and ritzy brochures and things.
Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg is the name of the man I have to write to and I find it very reassuring when I see it written on an envelope. He sounds like a real gentleman, doesn’t he? I expect that he has travelled extensively and visited all the hotels we will be staying at. I don’t want to sound too unkind about Sammy Fish but he was not what Mum refers to as ‘being out of the top drawer’. I must take after her, I suppose, because I always have this hankering after someone smooth and well bred who will sweep me off my feet and introduce me to a world of elegance and luxury. Maybe Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg will turn out to be the ‘Mr Right’ I have been saving myself for – spiritually, that is. As I have said many times, virginity is a state of mind and nothing that happens to the body can affect one’s untainted status provided that one’s will is not a party to it. I have found myself in many unpleasant predicaments but never one, thank goodness, in which I have felt my Everest-high principles to be in danger of compromise. I pop the letter in the post and spend a couple of nerve-racked days waiting to see what the reply will be. I should think that such a glamorous sounding job will encourage a lot of girls to write in and my fear is that quite a few of them may share Penny’s proficiency in foreign languages. I carefully study the parts of the sauce bottle label that have not been obscured by Dad’s sloppy pouring – ‘cette sauce est de haute qualité. Une mêlange, etc’ – but in my heart of hearts I know that I have left it too late.
On the fourth day the appearance of a lilac-coloured envelope on the front doormat coincides with the sound of our neighbour’s dog trying to rip the back out of the postman’s trousers and I know that the moment of truth has arrived. With faltering fingers, I tear open the envelope and dart my eye over its contents: ‘Thank you for … letter. Hope you can … attend … interview. … 11.15 Monday. Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg.’ My heart leaps. The first hurdle overcome. Now all I have to do is make a good impression at the interview.
On the appointed day I take a bus down to Dalston and make my way along the High Street. It certainly gives you a reassuring feeling of ordinariness. There is nothing sharp or flashy about it. I am wearing my blue wool interview suit with a yellow blouse that has just the trace of see-throughs about it. I don’t want to be brazen but on the other hand, my breasts are one of my best assets. There is no point in being over-prim. I have no difficulty at all in seeing the ‘CLIMAX’ sign. It projects out into the street and flashes on and off. Mr Rafelson-Bigg is obviously switched on to the benefits of advertising. Below the sign is a large expanse of coloured glass with the drawing of a man and a woman on it. They are stretched out in a position that can best be described as horizontal and don’t appear to be wearing any clothes. I suppose they are meant to symbolise the sense of freedom you experience when you book a Climax holiday but it does seem a bit near the knuckle.
I take a quick look at myself in the mirror of my compact, make a few last minute repairs, and push open the door. The interior is not what I had been expecting. There are a lot of counters and at first glance it looks like the interior of a rather posh Woolworths. Perhaps Mr Rafelson-Bigg shares the premises with another firm.
‘How can I help you?’ The voice at my elbow is warm and reassuring and belongs to a pleasant-faced woman of about thirty.
‘I’m looking for Climax,’ I murmur.
The woman shakes her head admiringly. ‘If only everyone could be so frank. It would be so much easier to help them.’
‘Yes,’ I say, wondering what she is getting at.
‘Do you want something you can use with your partner?’ She moves towards one of the counters and I follow her, feeling more and more confused.
‘I don’t have a partner,’ I say. ‘There is my friend, Penny. She may be coming. I’m not quite sure.’
The woman stops and looks at me strangely. ‘Penny?’ she says after a pause. ‘I see. And you’re not quite certain whether she’s coming. Have you asked her?’
‘Not in so many words,’ I say. ‘I sent her all the particulars in a letter. She was very interested.’
‘That’s half the battle,’ says the woman. ‘But you must be careful. If you get too interested, too overwrought, then tension can set in. You must try and maintain a balance between freedom and control.’ She smiles at me sympathetically and I gulp. What is she talking about? She picks up a box from one of the counters. ‘Have you ever thought about a Cosiprobe Vibro-Massager?’ The woman is obviously labouring under some misapprehension about the purpose of my visit.
‘I’m – er looking for – er something – Bigg,’ I splutter. I always forget names when I get flustered.
‘Something big!?’ The woman’s face registers amazement. ‘This is the biggest we do. I don’t think there is a larger size. Maybe if you teamed it up with one of our slip-on Sensation Builders? Have you ever tried the Tweaker? Or the Stroker? Or the Squidger?’ She holds up something that looks like a finger stall with varicose veins and I take a step backwards.
‘I’m looking for the Managing Director of Climax Tours!’ I say, noticing that a degree of strain is creeping into my voice. ‘Can you please direct me to him. I do have