The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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be here any minute.’
I don’t like the way the tall gangling one is giggling through his stained teeth but Miss Primstone does not seem to notice that.
‘Oh, all right then. I shouldn’t really be doing this.’ She reaches behind her for the key.
‘You’re too kind.’
They brush past her, look for the lift like so many before them, and disappear up the stairs.
‘Second floor, turn right,’ calls Miss Primstone after them. She turns to me and shakes her head. ‘That’s the class of person we used to have all the time in the old days.’ She says the words as if she blames me for the fact that they don’t come any more.
I shrug my shoulders and walk away, because they don’t do anything for me and I don’t want to be drawn into any aggrochat. Five minutes later they rush past us again and Stained-Teeth is splitting his sides. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.
‘I think I’ll go up and have a look,’ I say, heading for the stairs.
‘You’re a fine one to be suspicious,’ sniffs Miss Primstone. I consider pushing her into one of the pigeon holes but eventually decide against it.
‘It’s a change to have a couple staying here you know are married,’ she continues.
Poor old Miss P. I am certain she is dying for a bit and will die before she gets it. I wish I was man enough to put her out of her misery. Maybe I could get Martin pissed one night. No, the stupid old sod is past it, too.
Before I can set foot on the stairs, there is a commotion in the hall and a distinguished grey-haired bloke enters, labouring under the weight of a suitcase. He is accompanied by a well-developed lady of mature charms wearing a too-tight two-piece. She has what I think is an orchid in her buttonhole and he sports another red carnation.
‘Leave it, Henry. Leave it,’ she drawls in a strong American accent. ‘The boy will handle it. What are you trying to prove? You won’t have the strength to carry me over the threshold if you go on like this.’ No prizes for guessing who they are.
The woman walks over to the reception and writes something in the dust. ‘Gee,’ she says, her eyes probing the gloom. ‘They said this was a delightful small watering place. I wouldn’t water a mule here.’
Miss Primstone pretends she does not hear and pushes forward the register.
‘Mr and Mrs Beecham?’
‘Jesus!’ exclaims Mrs B. ‘Did they see the label on your plasma bottle?’
Mr B. grinds out a grin. ‘Can’t keep anything a secret, can you?’ When you get him in the light he looks a lot older than her and the dark bags under his eyes have dark bags under them. Mrs B. may not be joking about the plasma.
‘Are you going to help my husband to carry those cases?’ she says. ‘I don’t think he’s going to be much use to me if he has to drag them over to the elevator.’
I decide that this is a bad moment to tell her we don’t have an elevator and bring the rest of the cases in. It is noticeable that she has about six spanking new leather jobs and he one battered ‘I saw Port Harcourt and lived’ type. I imagine that he must have some kind of appeal that is not immediately noticeable to the eye.
‘I wish you’d told me we were coming to this place, doll,’ says Mrs B. wearily as we toil up the stairs. ‘And I’d have told you we weren’t. Did Queen Elizabeth sleep here? Or was it your first wife?’
‘Place has changed a bit,’ pants hubby. ‘It’s very difficult to find anywhere at this time of year.’
‘It must be difficult to find a place like this, twice.’ Mrs B. looks me up and down, checking my physique. ‘Don’t go too far, boy. I may need you. I haven’t climbed so many stairs since I visited the Great Boulder Dam.’
We get to the door of the apartment and I fling it open–or rather, I try and fling it open, the hinges are a bit rusty.
‘Gee,’ says Mrs B. sarcastically. ‘What a pretty shade of brown. Who told you it was my favourite colour?’ She collects some more dust on the fingers of her white glove. ‘And, do you know, Henry. I think they’ve left everything just as it was from the time Queen Elizabeth slept here.’
She turns to me. ‘Have you got a telephone? I think I’ll try and ring the Grand.’
I am busy looking round the room to see if the three jokers have been up to anything, but nothing seems to have been tampered with. The flowers must be in the bedroom.
‘The telephone is in the bedroom, modom,’ I say and open the door.
Mrs B. peers inside. ‘The bed is more like it,’ she says, perking up. ‘Room for Henry the Eighth and all his wives, huh?’ The bed is indeed built on the grand scale and I am relieved to find it flanked by two vases of flowers.
Hubby is also relieved. ‘There we are, my dear. I knew you wouldn’t be disappointed.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ says the new Mrs B. pointedly. ‘Where did those flowers come from? I think somebody thought we were getting buried, not married.’
Now she comes to mention it, there do seem to be a lot of lilies and other funereal blooms.
‘It’s the thought that counts,’ murmurs Mr B.
‘That’s what worries me. I bet they came from your first wife.’
I am about to explain about the three gentlemen when Mr Beecham decides to sit on the bed. He tests its softness with his hand, gives it a pat, then turns and sits down. I remember the smile of premature satisfaction on his face as he sinks down–and down. The jokers have unscrewed the bedstead and the poor old geezer lands up on the floor with his legs in the air. There is the sound of a chamber pot shattering and a cloud of dust fills the room.
‘My God,’ says Mrs B springing back. ‘What did I tell you? It folds into an instant coffin.’
Before she can say any more, Mr B.’s groans alert us to the fact that he really has hurt himself and, eventually, when we have prised Dr McDonald away from his bottle of Scotch, we discover that the poor bloke has a badly slipped disc and must go to hospital. On his wedding night, too. What a tragedy!
At first Mrs B. threatens to sue everybody up to the Duke of Edinburgh but we quieten her down and explain what happened and she decides to concentrate her wrath on the three blokes concerned, one of whom, of course, turns out to be the bridegroom’s best man. They nicked the flowers from a local graveyard. Oh well, I expect it seemed a good idea at the time.
On her return from the hospital Mrs B., or Sadie as I learn she is called, tries to book in at the Grand and the Imperial but they are both full. Thwarted in her attempt to escape, she retires to her apartment and orders a bottle of Bourbon to be sent up.
‘And send the cute one,’ she says, meaning me.
When I get there she has taken her jacket off and is revealing a shapely pair of bristols lunging against a halter neck jumper.
‘Put it down there,’ she says meaning the tray. ‘Boy, I wasn’t expecting too much, but I was hoping for better than this.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ I say. ‘The bed is all right now, isn’t it?’
‘Do you think we should check it? No, don’t look so alarmed. I was only joking. Tell me, what’s a good-looking boy like you doing in a place like this?’
‘It belongs to my brother-in-law. He’s just taken it over.’
‘He should try taking it over the side of a cliff. I wouldn’t put up my last husband in a dump like this.’
I don’t have an answer for that and she pulls a packet of cigarettes out of her handbag.
‘I expect you’re