The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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ladder outside your window and I wanted to check that everything was alright. You know, I mean you’ve got to be careful these days, haven’t you? I thought you might have gone out and – you know?”
“That was very thoughtful of you Mr. Drake.”
“Well, I like my guests to feel that their welfare is at the forefront of my mind.”
Mealy-mouthed old shit bag. He obviously thought I was knocking off stuff from her room – or wanted to make her think I would do, if I got half the chance.
“Thank you Mr. Drake. I do appreciate that – oh, Mr. Drake,” her voice is soft as a kitten’s stomach.
“Yes, Miss Hatchard?”
“I feel I should tell you that I’ve got a long needle, and if I find you peeping through the bathroom keyhole again I’ll ram it straight through your eyeball.”
She slams the door and stalks back to the bed.
“Dirty little rat. He’s always pawing me with his eyes. Asked me if I’d like to come down and watch his telly the other night. Christ, can you imagine it. Two brown ales and his podgy wet hands creeping towards you. I’d rather be on the game.”
I can see that Drakey has smashed the nice little atmosphere of mutual sympathy and understanding that was building up between us, and that it would be a smart move to get back outside and arrange to see her later if I can. “I’d better get out of here,” I say. “Tell you what, let me buy you a drink later. You get dressed while I finish this place and I’ll take you round to the boozer. It’ll soon be dinner time anyway.”
She thinks about it for a minute and then nods.
“Yes, why not? Thank you very much. I can’t stay too long, though, because I’ve got to go to an audition this afternoon. I’m supposed to be there at two o’clock, though they’ll probably keep me hanging around for bloody hours as usual.”
So I hop outside again and she winks at me through the window, which is a promise of good things to come I carry with me round the rest of the job. Drakey pays up without a murmur, though he gets a bit tense when I ask him why one of his eyes is watering. I also enjoy his expression when Kismetta, or whatever her real name is sails out looking mean, moody and magnificent in a maxi skirt slashed to her navel and her hair practically straight down the front of her face.
I guide her round to the pub and I can see that the lads are impressed. With this in mind, I steer her into a corner and get her a lager and a cheese roll – fast. You can’t leave a bird like that alone for long without reckoning that some other bleeder will be chatting her up.
“Your real name isn’t Kismetta, is it?” I say as I shove the drink into her hand.
“You must be joking, dahling.” She blows smoke over her left shoulder and I can see her lapping up the way everybody is slopping the beer down their bibs because they can’t take their eyes off her.
“No, it’s Pat. Pat Hatchard. That other rubbish is just a stage name.”
“What are you trying for this afternoon?”
“I don’t really know. Theatre in the Round in Streatham or something. Doesn’t really matter; it’s always the same: Right Miss – um Miss Hatchard. Thank you. Very nice. Now there’s a chance that we’ll be playing ‘The Birthday Party’ in our birthday suits this season so I wonder if you’d mind taking off your knickers. You would? Too public, eh? Well, supposing you came round to my flat this evening, more informal you know. No? Thank you, Miss Hatchard. Next please.”
Now, everybody in the boozer hears her going on like this and I’m getting a bit embarrassed. I mean, women don’t say those kind of things round here. Not in the local, anyway. I’ve never heard anything like it since Sid’s mother told Dad to stop squeezing her tits; and that was on Christmas Eve, so there was some excuse. I mean Mum would have done more than just break a soda syphon over his head if there hadn’t been.
“It’s no good if it’s like that,” I say hurriedly. “Maybe you ought to think about doing some other job? Can you type?”
She knocks back her drink and pushes the empty glass toward me expectantly.
“Type? God no! I’d rather go on the streets. Much rather.”
She glances round to see if anybody agrees with her but now they’re shying away as if it costs you five bob to catch her eye. I buy her another lager and the barman looks at me as if I’m a ponce. This is not quite the image-building job I was after. I can’t stand women who are crude in public. Still, having made an investment of two lagers I’m not prepared to quit now.
“Tell you what,” I say to her all casual-like. “If you get the job why don’t we have a little celebration tonight – or even if you don’t get it? It’ll cheer you up either way.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Oh, I dunno. A few beers and then we might take one of those Chinese meals back to your place.”
“To my place?”
“Well, I live with my Mum and Dad.”
“Very nice. But, I mean why don’t we have the Chinese meal in a Chinese restaurant. You can do that, you know.”
“I thought it might be more cosy, more intimate,—”
“—more chance of getting your end away.”
She says that so loud that even the bloke playing darts down the other end of the public bar can hear her. I know because he nearly pins his mate’s ear to the board.
“Oh, come off it.”
“What do you mean, ‘come off it’? You come off it. I don’t mind. I just wish you’d be honest about it. Now, let’s get out of this place. It gives me the creeps. I’ve never seen such a load of fish-eyed old syphilitics in my life. Haven’t they ever seen a woman before?”
And she stalks out leaving half her lager behind. I’m tempted to finish it but my reputation has already suffered enough as it is so I follow her outside sharpish.
I should give it a miss then, but, as I’ve said before, the old bulldog spirit is half the battle in this game, so I eventually get her to agree that I should give her a ring around six so we can decide where to meet. She doesn’t seem all that wild about it but at least she doesn’t say she’s got to visit her grandmother or something.
So at six o’clock I ring the Fitz and – surprise, surprise – Pat has got the job and is as chuffed as a dog with two cocks. “Come on round,” she shouts – “and bring a little bottle with you.” She sounds so cheerful that I don’t mention the pub crawl and go ape with the after shave lotion before blowing 47p on a very nice Spanish Sauternes, which I am confident is a shrewd investment with a bird who’s obviously been around a bit. Six forty-five and I’m striding past Drakey who always pops out like a spider the moment he hears a footstep. The poor sod has opened the register before he recognises me. I put him in his place with a curt nod and sail upstairs.
Rat, tat, tat and – blimey! When Pat swings the door open I wonder why I’ve bothered with the Spanish Sauternes. She smells like a perfumed brewery and has obviously had a few to celebrate before I got there. “Dahling – hic!” she husks. “Come in and let me devour you. Oh! You’ve brought a bottle. How kind. Lovely Spanish Sauternes, as drunk by the Greek gods.” She giggles weakly and falls back on the bed.
Frankly, my feelings are mixed. Obviously it’s on with her, but she’s pissed out of her mind and could start slinging her goloshes out of the window at any moment. I don’t mind, but at the first sign of activity Drakey will be beating his tiny knuckles white against the door panelling.
I don’t have much time to think about it because Pat tears the wine from my hand, sucks out the cork – she must have, she did it so fast – and sloshes half the bottle into a couple of mugs so it’s slopping over