Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea
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talks as if she could eat three of me for breakfast. I feel Percy slinking away with his tail between my legs, and make for the door.
‘I’ll take dinner in the apartment,’ she says grandly. ‘And you’d better bring it up.’
Just as long as you don’t, I think to myself as I go downstairs. It is Mrs Caitley’s night off and the bloke who stands in would be pushed to win a cooking contest against my Mum. I have seen him turning over an egg in his hand as if looking for the instructions.
That afternoon I have a swim and report back to the hotel about six-thirty. Sure enough, Sadie has phoned down her order and asked for it to be brought to her room by me at eight o’clock sharp.
‘I theenk mybe I shoulda handle theez one myself,’ says the new Head Waiter who is (would you believe?) Italian and obviously very hot on the frippet.
‘No, no, Senor Luigi,’ I lie. ‘I promised her old man I would see she was all right. I’d better do as she says.’
‘But I have much experience of American ladies.’
I bet you do, mate, I think to myself. Three coins in the fountain–and about forty-eight pairs of knickers.
In the end I practically have to wrench the tray away from him. I mean, I don’t reckon anything is going to happen, but if by chance it does, I want it to happen to me and not to some blooming Eyetie.
I run a moist finger along my eyebrows and tap on the door. I have a feeling that Sadie will be spread out on the bed wearing a long frilly negligee, but I am wrong. She is standing by the repaired bed and gazing down at a long frilly negligee that is lying on top of it.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ she says as I cough discreetly in the doorway. ‘Too bad he isn’t going to see it for a few days. I suppose I could wear it round to the hospital under a long coat. Whip it open and whee! They don’t have lady flashers, do they?’
I shake my head. ‘I’ve never seen one. Where are you going to eat?’
‘Oh, put it down over there. It’s not going to get cold, is it?’ She is right there because everything she has ordered is from the cold plate. A wise choice as I have already indicated. ‘Now–what’s your name?’
‘Lea–Timothy Lea.’
‘Well, Tim … I’d like you to join me in a drink. You do have a few moments, don’t you? It’s my wedding night and I want to have a good time!’ She looks away and bites her lip and for a moment I think I am going to have to whip out the handkerchief again. Blimey, but you need to be a man of many parts in this game. Guide, philosopher and fiend, as Ted Hotchkiss used to say at Melody Bay.
‘That’s very kind of you. Thanks.’
A glance at the liquid left in the bourbon bottle tells me that it has been sinking faster than the country’s gold reserves. Mrs Beecham has obviously been drinking to forget her sorrows. Not that I blame her. A wedding night with Mr B. would not be my idea of the first prize on the back of a cornflakes packet, but it is better than being on your tod.
‘He was all right, was he?’ I say conversationally.
‘Henry? Do you mean in the sack or when I saw him in hospital? Oh, sorry. You’re blushing again. Yes, he seemed OK He couldn’t move much but his stiff upper lip was still bend-proof. I suppose that’s one of the things that appealed to me about the guy when I first met him. That and his background. He’s very well connected, you know.’ She smiles. ‘I mean, family-wise. Practically an aristocrat. That’s what I need, a touch of class.’ She runs a finger lightly down my nose. ‘Have you got class?’
‘Not that kind.’
‘No, you’re more the noble savage type, aren’t you? Do you get pestered by lots of ladies?’
‘Not as far as the paying customers are concerned. Most of them have to be lifted into their bath chairs.’
‘What a shame. You want to get a job in a cruise boat–or somewhere in the south of France. That way your talents could be really exploited.’
‘I don’t have any trouble being exploited. My brother-in-law is an expert at it.’
Mrs B. looks as if she is about to say something, and then changes her mind.
‘He drives you hard, huh?’
‘Yes. He’s going to make a million before he’s finished.’
Mrs B. helps herself to another shot and, as an afterthought, tosses the remainder of the bottle into my glass.
‘Do you know what I’d like to do now?’
There is a faint flush about her throat which may have something to do with the twenty-six fluid ounces of booze inside her and her not inconsiderable tits are jostling each other to get at me. Yes, I do know what she would like to do now.
‘No,’ I say innocently.
‘I’d like to lay you,’ she says fervently. ‘I’d like to take your firm young body and give it the fruits of my years of experience.’
I should be jumping up and down and clapping my hands together but the minute she starts talking about years of experience I begin to get nervous again. What was nice about Mrs Daphne Richards was that I was in control. I was giving her the fruits of my years of experience. Too often these days, I am being used as a sort of dildo on legs. I must write to my MP about it when I get a moment.
‘Take off that ridiculous little jacket,’ says Mrs Beecham. ‘It’s too tight for you across the shoulders.’
‘Thanks for the drink,’ I say. ‘Ring when you want the tray picked up.’
Mrs B.’s eyes open wide. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you want me?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘Are you queer, or something?’
‘No, of course I’m not. I just don’t like being taken for granted, that’s all.’
‘But baby–’ She comes towards me and slides her arms round my neck.
‘Mrs Beecham. You’re drunk and you’d be better off in bed–alone.’ I don’t mean to sound so pious but once I get into my stride there is no holding me. It is as if I am getting the satisfaction I might have got in bed from being unkind to her. Vere interesting eh, Herr Doctor?
I remove her hands and turning on my heel, make for the door. Immediately, Mrs B. bursts into tears. ‘Don’t leave me,’ she sobs. ‘Not now, I couldn’t stand it. I’m sorry if I offended you. I just need to be with someone. I don’t want to be alone.’ She collapses on to a sofa and the whole upper part of her body is shaking in time with her sobs. Very impressive it is, too. The minute she starts doing that my whole attitude changes. My frustrated desire to dominate is unlumbered and a happy urge to rip her knickers off flows through my system. Any bird who starts crying when I am around stands a good chance of making an appointment with Percy. Nasty, aren’t I? Careful! I heard that.
‘Why don’t you have something to eat?’ I say not unkindly. ‘I looked out a nice piece of turkey for you.’ I extend an arm and take her hand but she does not move; just squeezes my fingers tight. I sit down beside her and tilt her head up.
‘Come on, cheer up. I’m sorry, too. I know how you must feel. I came over a bit narky, that’s all.’ I take out my handkerchief–there’s posh for you–which by some miracle is fairly clean and start dabbing at the make-up smudges under her eyes.
‘You look as if you work in a coal mine.’ It is not the funniest joke ever made, but it raises a smile.
‘Stop crying, I can’t keep up with you.’
She is beginning to relax a bit now. Still quivering, but blinking fast to stop the flow of tears. Women in such a condition give off a very back-to-nature pong which turns me