Confessions of a Lady Courier. Rosie Dixon
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woman, shedding the charm like it is an old skin. ‘You want the top floor flat next door.’
‘Lovecraft!?’ I squeak. ‘You meant that – oh no!!’ I start to retreat towards the door and knock over a pile of books entitled Eros Blows His Horn. The picture on the cover is – well, I just can’t bring myself to describe it. It certainly has nothing to do with playing the trumpet. When I get out on to the street I am still blushing. How silly of me not to notice the big sign saying Lovecraft. It is certainly a lot easier to see than the dog-eared card pinned under one of the bell pushes next door. ‘Climax Tours’ it says, plus the name of an outfit called ‘Sunfun’ which has been crossed out. There are also two other names beside that of Rafelson-Bigg which have an untidy biro line through them. I can’t really be certain but one of them looks like Sidney Noggett. Changes have obviously been made in the organisation since the cards were printed. Whilst I look and ponder, two figures appear beside me and start to scrutinise the column of names eagerly.
‘That’s him, Henry!’ says one of them triumphantly. ‘You get up there and sort him out.’ The speaker is a large suntanned woman wearing a plastic mac and a determined expression. Her companion is male and less forbidding, but equally suntanned. He stretches out his hand, gulps, and presses the bell.
‘Don’t do that, you fool! You don’t want to let him know you’re coming.’
‘I’m sorry, Edna,’ says the man, meekly. ‘Don’t you think it would be best to try and achieve retribution though the medium of a solicitor?’
‘Don’t weaken, Henry,’ says the woman, seizing him by the elbow. ‘That’s not what you were saying in Timbuktu. You were going to tear him limb from limb.’
‘I know, dear. But I was a bit overheated.’
‘I’m not surprised, it was a hundred and twelve degrees in the shade!’
While the couple argue, I wonder about the reason for their suntans and the fact that the man is wearing one of those burnous things that Omar Sharif used to dress up in before he became an all-round entertainer. Could it be that they are dissatisfied customers of my, hopefully, future employer?
‘We were told not to leave the camel train,’ says the man meekly. ‘I never thought that there was going to be a short cut across that desert.’
‘Don’t weaken, Henry!’ says the woman. ‘We would never have had to go on those camels if the coach hadn’t broken down. The only thing that kept me trudging along under that merciless sun was the thought of this moment. Now, get up those stairs!’
Henry is still protesting as he makes his way up the narrow staircase but he clearly knows who wears the baggy trousers. I follow, eager to catch my first glimpse of Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg and see how he deals with what could, potentially, be a ticklish situation. The staircase winds up and up and I am quite exhausted by the time I see the fanlight. Edna and Henry have obviously been hardened by their experiences and their breathing shows no signs of having quickened as they pause by the final flight of stairs. At its head is a door with a frosted glass panel bearing the legend ‘Climax Tours – where the other people don’t take you’.
‘You can’t argue with that,’ says Henry, wryly.
‘Don’t just stand there,’ says Edna. ‘Get in there and have it out with him. We want our money back and compensation for all the hardships we’ve suffered.’
Henry swallows hard and edges his slight frame towards the door, brushing the pyjama cord round his burnous out of his eyes. I shrink back into the shadows.
‘Miss Dixon?’ The voice is barely a whisper and comes from directly behind me. I turn and see a sign which says ‘Please leave this toilet as you would be amazed to find it’. The suave, upper crust whisper has come from behind the door which is slightly ajar.
‘Yes,’ I murmur. ‘What –?’
‘Sssh!’ A jacketed arm revealing one and a half inches of crisp white cuff appears round the door and a long finger oozing character and decisiveness beckons to me. I watch Edna follow Henry through the door of the Climax office, and do as the finger bids me.
Standing in front of the toilet is a tall, elegantly dressed young man carrying a briefcase. I am glad to be able to report that everything about his clothing is as it should be. He draws me towards him and closes the door.
‘Sorry about this,’ he says. ‘I’m Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg. It must seem a bit strange, interviewing you in the loo.’
‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘That’s quite all right. I mean, well – I suppose it is a bit unusual.’
‘Going through a very trying time at the moment,’ says Jeremy, offering me a cigarette and nonchalantly tapping one against the cistern. ‘The trouble with this business is that you’re at the mercy of other people. Hotels, drivers, mechanics –’ he pauses and looks me up and down – as much down as he can in such a confined space ‘– couriers, even. It’s a swinish responsibility trying to tie up all the loose ends.’
‘It must be very difficult,’ I say.
‘And of course, you know who carries the can? Old muggins, yours truly. Sssh!’ He applies a cornflower blue eye to a crack in the door. ‘They’re still up there.’
‘Who are they?’ I whisper.
‘Our North African tour. They’re the first ones back.’ Jeremy shakes his head. ‘I suppose it was a bit ambitious really. Forty-eight tribes in seven days. Half of them had blood feuds against each other. I got a ransom note the other day.’
‘How awful!’ I murmur. ‘Are the family going to pay?’
Jeremy taps his briefcase. ‘They already have. I’m going to handle the drop myself – eventually. That’s why I’m in here. I don’t want anything to happen to the money.’ He nods towards his office. ‘Of course, I have tremendous sympathy with those people but I think my first duty is towards Abdul Ben Schmuk.’
‘Abdul Ben Schmuk?’ I say. ‘That sounds like an Arab name.’
‘It is an Arab name,’ says Jeremy. ‘He’s the one whose being held to ransom. Some of the people on the coach turned very nasty and said that they wouldn’t give him back unless we flew them home. We get some shocking troublemakers, sometimes, you know.’ Jeremy brushes the hair from his eyes and I feel really sorry for him. It must be a terrible responsibility running an organisation like this.
‘I know I’m very stupid,’ I say. ‘But how does the ransom money get to be in this country?’
‘It’s all invested here,’ says Jeremy, peering through the crack again. ‘It’s oil money. A lot of the Arabs invest over here, you know. Damn! They’re still not going. We’ll have to climb out of the window.’ He turns to me almost as an afterthought. ‘I take it you want the job?’
My heart leaps with excitement. Can he be serious? Jeremy misunderstands the reason for my hesitation. ‘You won’t have to go to North Africa. I was a fool to try and compete with those safari boys – especially with a double decker bus.’
‘It must have been very handy for looking over the sand dunes,’ I say.
Jeremy shakes his head admiringly. ‘I believe it was,’ he says. ‘Damn clever of you to pick up on a detail like that. You’d be a real asset to the company. It’s not often one comes across your mixture of extravagant beauty and stunning brainpower.’
I blush and look down into the toilet bowl before raising my eyes swiftly. Nobody has ever paid me a compliment like that before. I warm to the man immediately.
‘I’ll have to think it over,’ I say, ‘But I’m very interested.’
‘Capital!’ says Jeremy. ‘Stand on the seat and I’ll help you out on to the ledge. The fire escape is just round to the left. Don’t look down and mind out for that thing