Kitabı oku: «Confessions of a Lady Courier»

Contents

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

About the Author

Also by Timothy Lea and Rosie Dixon

Copyright

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

You can imagine my feelings when I discover that it is Geoffrey Wilkes on top of me – well, you could if you had read Confessions of a Night Nurse, Confessions of a Gym Mistress or Confessions from an Escort Agency. I am quite overcome. The surprise for one thing. The last person you would expect to find taking advantage of you at a masked ball for a seminar full of American businessmen in a posh country house, would be your own homespun boyfriend, wouldn’t it? It makes you wonder what he gets up to the rest of the time. Not of course that Geoffrey is really my boyfriend. More a long-standing admirer. He’s always there when you don’t need him, if you know what I mean.

I think the shock must be too much for me because, when I next open my eyes, Geoffrey has gone and the sunlight is streaming through the casement windows. I look down at the ruckled sheets and my own naked body bruised by a night of unspeakable lust – or, what I imagine must have been a night of unspeakable lust – and feel a sense of grave disquiet. Although no blame can be attached to me, I feel somehow tainted by what has taken place. That is the worst of these involuntary fits of passionate ecstasy that I sometimes become involved in. They do take their toll of your moral equilibrium – I don’t quite know what it means either, but they mentioned it in the Cosmopolitan I was reading at the hairdressers and I thought it sounded rather good.

Geoffrey has left his mask on the bedside table and tucked into one of the eye slits is a piece of paper. It must be a note to me. No doubt apologising for his inexcusable behaviour. The more I think about it, the more amazed I am that I did not recognise him before he took his mask off. It just shows how many Babychams he must have forced me to consume – and all that stuff about the brandy chasers helping to settle my stomach. A girl has to be very careful these days. I pick up the note. ‘Mr Sweeney rang. There was no Spam left so I got you corned beef. They are in the top drawer of the filing cabinet.’ How very strange. I can’t remember anyone called Sweeney. There was a terrible man called Doctor MacSweeney who behaved in a very unprofessional manner towards me when I was pursuing a nursing career but it could hardly be the same person. Furthermore, there is no sign of a telephone in the room. Nor, for that matter, a filing cabinet. And why should Geoffrey think that I wanted a Spam sandwich? I don’t like Spam. It is all very mysterious. I turn the piece of paper over.

‘Dear Rosie,’ I read. ‘When I woke up this morning you were still asleep and I did not have the heart to wake you up. Last night will live in my memory for ever. It was even more exciting than that time after the tennis club dance –’ That was another terrible occasion which I try to keep shrouded in the mists of iniquity. Geoffrey plied me with punch and unwanted information on how he had strengthened his wrists for his backhand volley and the night air made me feel all dizzy. Something unpleasant might or might not have taken place behind the heavy roller. You know what it’s like when you’ve had too much to drink – or rather, you don’t know what it’s like when you’ve had too much to drink.

‘I never knew you were so passionate,’ I read. ‘I thought I was going to die of pleasure when you –’ Did I do that!? I feel myself blushing to the roots of my hair. There must have been something in the drink other than a large quantity of alcohol. I would have to be drugged even to think of doing a thing like that. In fact I am not so certain that this is the first time I have ever heard of it. Oh dear, I do hope that I am not some kind of Jekyll and Hyde-type character who can change her personality and act in a manner totally alien to her true fresh, pure, untainted self.

Perhaps it is something to do with the job. I thought that working for the Nicetime Escort Agency would bring me into the company of refined and amusing men dripping with savoir faire and all that kind of thing. That’s what managing director, Sammy Fish, told me anyway, and I wanted desperately to believe him. In fact, the reality was something else. The men’s minds were so one-track that they might have been running on monorails. None of them were interested in what I call companionship. They might have been taking part in a race to see how fast they could take my knickers off. After a while it gets you down.

I put down Geoffrey’s note and gaze out across the wide acres of pasture land that comprise but a fraction of Chedworth Place’s vast natural amenities – as it puts it in the brochure. Maybe I should face up to the fact that I am not cut out to be an escort. I am too easily shocked.

I pick up the note again. ‘I look forward to seeing more of you in the next few days (!) Please excuse scribble. This note from my secretary was all I could find to write on. Love, Geoffrey. P.S. I think I liked it best of all when you –’ No! It is too much. He must be imagining things. I could never have done that! I crumple the piece of paper into a ball and throw it towards a fabric-covered waste paper basket – the place is beautifully furnished, I will say that for it. As always happens in such cases, the paper hits the rim of the basket and bounces back towards the bed. I bend down to retrieve it and – click! The bedroom door opens. Conscious that I am revealing a not altogether inconsequential amount of tolerably shapely flesh, I jerk myself to an upright position and find that I am staring into the fast-glazing eyes of my employer, Sammy Fish. His eyes are not staring into mine. For those of you who have not read Confessions from an Escort Agency I feel I should point out that Sammy is not a tall man. In fact, he makes Charlie Drake look like a natural for the next Tarzan film – not that Sammy couldn’t get into the picture. He would make a great Cheetah.

‘Mr Fish. Please!’ I say, quickly snatching up a sheet and holding it in front of my naked body – I can read the expression on my employer’s face like one of those magazines the police confiscate in large numbers.

‘You don’t have to beg, baby,’ says Mr Odious, advancing towards the bed at a speed that disturbs me. ‘Looking like that, I’d give you a going over for nothing.’

‘That’s very flattering,’ I splutter. ‘Don’t you ever knock when you go into a lady’s bedroom?’

‘Not unless the door’s locked. No point, is there? You don’t want to be ashamed of your body, darling. It’s a work of art. If I had a body like that, I’d want people to see it. In fact, it’s a crime to keep it to yourself. If Wedgwood Round the Bend saw that lot he’d nationalise you tomorrow.’

‘Thank you very much,’ I say. ‘Now please, do you mind? I want to get dressed.’ The minute I have spoken I realise that I have not expressed myself very well.

‘I don’t mind at all, darling,’ says Mr Fish, scrambling on to the four-poster and making rapid progress towards me on his hands and knees. ‘In fact I’d be delighted to see fair play.’ His podgy hand reaches out and tweaks one of my boobs. In my present mood this is not a course of action calculated to meet with approval.

‘Stop that!’ I snap. ‘I’ve had enough of your leering and pawing. Get out of here and go back to your friend next door.’

I am referring to one of my fellow employees called Sonia who has clearly been the recipient of Sammy’s carnal attentions, as anybody forced to listen to the noises coming through the wall would have no difficulty in telling their ear specialist.

Sammy looks hurt. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I have just slapped him round the kisser. ‘Hey!’ he says. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘I wasn’t doing anything,’ I say. ‘I was just giving you an example of what can happen when you push a girl too far. Frankly, I’ve never had a customer who’s come within half a mile of you when it’s boiled down to a crude pass.’

‘Crude pass?’ says my boss, managing to sound surprised and outraged. ‘I just want to share something beautiful with you.’

‘What have you got that’s beautiful?’ I say. In retrospect, this is also a silly question, but at the time I had no idea that he would react as he did.

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ leers my tiny employer. ‘How does this grab you?’

Before I can cover my eyes or faint, the dirty little man whips open the front of his trousers and produces something like one of those things you hang on to in the tube. I don’t mean an arm-rest though it is quite disproportionate to the size of the rest of him.

‘Put it away, please!’ I say, not knowing where to look.

‘That’s just what I’d like to do,’ says Mr Fish, shuffling towards me. ‘I know just the place to put it, too.’

With Olympic swiftness I detach myself from the bed and retreat towards the windows, holding a sheet in front of my threatened person. Sammy attempts to follow me but falls flat on his tiny face. His trousers are round his ankles. I am now pressed against the window which I realise is a bad idea when I hear an appreciative shout from beneath me. A crowd of men are staring up at the window and whistling and jeering. I try and wrap the sheet completely round my body and hobble towards the door. Sammy has now removed his trousers and shoes and is revealing that he wears suspenders on his socks. If he did not have a lot of other things going against him, this alone would be enough to put me off.

‘Don’t be like that,’ he pleads. ‘Let’s have a nice time. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? You and me could make beautiful music together.’

‘You and me couldn’t make Ba ba, black sheep on a set of dustbin lids,’ I tell him. ‘Now, step away from that door.’

Sammy Fish decides to change his tack. ‘Oh! Hoity toity, are we?’ he sneers. ‘May I remind you that I am your employer, young lady. You might like to consider your future before you repulse my offer of a meaningful relationship.’

‘It’s you who is doing all the repulsing,’ I say. ‘You’re the most repulsive little man I’ve ever seen.’

Sammy clearly does not care for my words. ‘How dare you!’ he says. ‘Beautiful women everywhere find me irresistible. You must be frigid.’

‘Frigid?!’ I say.

Sammy sees a glint of hope. ‘Come on the bed and I’ll show you what you’ve been missing all these years.’ He grabs hold of my wrist and starts trying to drag me towards the four-poster.

Mounted on the wall is one of those old-fashioned spears with an axe on the end. I try to cling to it to prevent myself being dragged away. There is a sound of two rusty nails separating from the wall and I find that I have armed myself. Quite by accident, the axe blade sweeps dangerously close to Sammy’s nut and he lets go of my wrist hurriedly.

‘Hey, steady on!’ he says.

Quickly adjusting my grip on the weapon, I jab the sharp end towards the evil menace of Sammy’s rampant pussy pummeller. ‘Back!’ I hiss.

Normally, I am a girl of a very retiring disposition but now that I have Fish on the retreat I find it impossible to resist pressing home the advantage.

‘I was just having a bit of fun, darling,’ pleads my employer. ‘Put that thing down. I didn’t mean what I said about giving you the chopper – I mean chop.’ He takes another step backwards and sprawls across the bed.

Now he is completely at my mercy and my halberd hovers over his chest. It is a very heavy thing to carry and I don’t think I would have been a big asset to Queen Elizabeth I’s army. Sammy clearly agrees with me.

‘For gawd’s sake!’ he squeals. ‘Are you trying to castrate me? Mind what you’re doing with that thing!’ I must say that my weapon is now waving over his wiry willy in a manner calculated to strike terror into the bravest heart. ‘If I offended you, I’m sorry,’ he squeals. ‘I get a bit carried away sometimes.’

‘My wrists,’ I groan. ‘I can’t hold it much –’ With what is, by my standards, a superhuman effort I manage to jerk the halberd into the air and start to swing it away from the stricken form on the bed. Unfortunately, for Mr Fish, I have reckoned without the canopy. This article has become so full of the plaster that has dropped off the wall and ceiling – mostly due, of course, to Sammy’s exertions with Sonia next door – that it sags down over the bed like a bloated belly. Sammy makes a grab at me, the halberd snaps the canopy, and – ‘Yoooowgerfiumf!!’ There is a ripping noise and a shower of plaster buries the upper half of Sammy’s body. His dongler points at me like a huge, accusing finger and then droops pathetically. A cloud of dust fills the room.

The door bursts open and my friend and fellow employee, Penny Green, comes in. Her father owns Chedworth Place and it is she who first introduced me to Sammy Fish. She is very nice but rather forward and outspoken.

‘Great jumping gonads!’ she exclaims. ‘What on earth is happening? Did he come through the roof?’ She gazes down at the submerged Sammy. ‘Good heavens! It’s Sammy Fish.’

‘You recognise him like that?’ I say.

‘I’d know that private collection, anywhere,’ says my forward friend. ‘When his mother was carrying him, they thought he was twins.’

Sammy starts to splutter into an upright position and I breathe a sigh of relief. When his willy wilted I thought it might signal the end. ‘You – you!’ he accuses.

‘He looks just like Harpo Marx, doesn’t he?’ says Penny.

‘Harpo Marx never spoke,’ I say.

‘You’re fired!’ shouts Sammy. ‘You tried to kill me.’

‘You can’t fire her for that,’ says Penny calmly. ‘Most people would give her a medal.’

‘You’re fired, too,’ snaps Sammy. ‘I’ve had enough of the both of you.’

‘Very well, you can leave my father’s house forthwith.’

‘You’ve no right to tell me what to do. I signed an agreement with your father.’

I turn away from this scene of accusation and recrimination and sigh a deep sigh. How unpleasant it all is. I am only too happy that Sammy has decided to dispense with my services. It saves me the trouble of resigning. I have had enough of all these sophisticated people with their depraved ways and one track minds. I want a job where I mix with ordinary people.

Sammy is still screaming and shouting and I pull my panties on under my dressing-gown. I always think better with my panties on. Sammy looks like one of the Spillers Home Pride flour men and every time he shakes his fist another cloud of dust rolls across the room. He and Penny are arguing about who has the right to tell whom to get out of my room. I am about to involve myself in the discussion when the door bursts open. It is Penny’s father carrying a shotgun. He takes one look at Sammy and the gun leaps to his shoulder.

‘My God!’ he shouts. ‘It’s the mad imp of Munchampton. Stand back, m’dears!’ So saying, he discharges his weapon into the ceiling and another cloud of plaster falls down.

Sammy is quick to realise that it is he who is being addressed and dashes for the window as the second barrel removes the frame and forty-eight panes of glass.

‘Daddy!’ screams Penny. ‘Calm yourself. That’s Mr Fish.’

Mr Green seems unconvinced and pushes two more cartridges into the breech. ‘Don’t be deceived, m’dear. That hobgoblin devil is a past-master at taking on almost human form.’

‘Do I look like a hobgoblin?’ says Sammy pitifully, throwing one leg over the window ledge.

‘Dadd –!’ BANG!!!

The explosion makes me close my eyes and when I open them, a whole piece of the window-sill is missing as if taken out by a giant bite.

‘You’ve been at cook’s elderberry wine, haven’t you, Daddy dear?’ I hear Penny saying.

I cross to the remains of the window and look out to see Sammy Fish hobbling towards a line of privet hedges.

‘Fetch my elephant gun!’ shouts Penny’s father.

Something tells me that I will definitely need to start looking for a new job.

CHAPTER 2

When I return to Chingford, or West Woodford as Mum calls it because it sounds posher, it is with a heavy heart. I know that my decision to change jobs will not pass without unfavourable comment from Dad and that my man-mad younger sister, Natalie, will do all in her power to pour troubled waters on troubled waters. Natalie and I are not as close as sisters are supposed to be and if she was one of my friends I would hate her. The situation is not helped by the way that Dad always favours her when it comes to the pinch – eg when she pinches my tights, make up and boyfriends. Yes, distressing as it is to relate, Natalie did manage to inveigle the susceptible Geoffrey Wilkes into her baby doll clutches. The man has a lot to answer for.

Incidentally, I did not see him before I left Chedworth Place because he was attending a lecture on his ‘Whither Capitalism?’ course. I did see Sammy Fish again, but only for a second before the ambulance doors closed on him. He was taken to hospital suffering from severe shock. I think the shock got worse when he opened his eyes and saw Mr Green lying on the stretcher opposite. He took a shot at himself in one of the mirrors and got cut by the flying glass.

It is early evening when I arrive at 47 Pretty Way, and the family are preparing to do justice to Mum’s spaghetti bolognese. She has already dished it out and they are waiting for the parmesan with forks and spoons poised. I say that I will happily settle for a cup of tea and a couple of digestives but Mum won’t hear of it.

‘We’ll all give up a little bit,’ she says cheerfully. ‘Come on, Harry, Natalie.’ She holds out a plate and in no time the middle of the table is a mass of spaghetti. It is very difficult stuff to move around in mid-air.

‘I don’t want mine, now it’s got all the fluff from the tea cosy on it,’ whines Natalie.

‘I wish you’d come in before your mother put the mince on it,’ says Dad.

‘I told you not to go to any trouble,’ I say.

‘Just home for the weekend, are you?’ says Miss Sourpuss, evilly.

I take a deep breath. ‘I’ve decided that you were right about that job,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t very nice, really.’

Dad puts down his spoon. ‘You haven’t chucked in another job? Blimey! How many is that?’

‘That’s the third,’ prompts my ever-loving sister.

‘Precisely three more than you’ve had,’ I say.

‘What does that mean?’ says Natalie. ‘I’m still at school, aren’t I? How can I get a job?’

‘I’m very glad that Rose has decided to change,’ says Mum. ‘I was never happy about her in that line of work. You read such nasty things, don’t you?’

‘You read such nasty things,’ says Dad. It is a fact that Mum keeps a watchful eye on all published material relating to white slaving, drugs, and allied forms of human bondage.

‘Have you thought what you’re going to do next?’ asks Natalie.

‘Why? Do you want to move into my room?’ I ask.

Natalie looks at Mum, who looks at me nervously. ‘We thought – since you were away, you wouldn’t mind –’

‘She has moved into my room!?’ How typical. I only have to turn my back for a few weeks and I am practically homeless. ‘You might have asked first.’

‘I didn’t know where you were.’

‘That’s not true –’ I began.

‘Don’t let’s have an argument about it,’ says Dad, sucking in a huge mouthful of spaghetti. ‘It’s done now.’

‘Your father’s going to redecorate Natalie’s room – I mean, your room, aren’t you, Harry?’

‘When I can find the time,’ says Dad.

‘Don’t bother, Dad,’ I say, coldly. ‘I can take a hint. I should be able to find some job that will prevent me being a strain on you all. What a pity the French Foreign Legion doesn’t take women.’

‘Rosie, dear. Nobody wants you to leave home.’ Mum stretches out an arm to pat me on the wrist. Unfortunately, she rests her elbow on the plastic tomato that contains the ketchup and it squirts all over Dad’s lap.

‘I want to leave home,’ I say. ‘I want a complete change of scene.’

Nobody takes any notice because they are all hopping about trying to sponge the front of Dad’s trousers. Dad hops about more than most when Natalie inadvertently holds a Spongelette under the hot tap and applies it to one of the more sensitive areas of his anatomy.

‘I might even join the WRACs,’ I say, seeking to strike terror into their hearts.

Dad pours a milk bottle full of cold water down the front of his trousers and I start rifling through a pile of newspapers. ‘There’s usually an advertisement in here,’ I say, very matter of fact.

‘Are you all right, Dadsy?’ simpers Natalie.

‘Ruined!’ says Dad. ‘Ruined!’ I think he is referring to the trousers.

I have just found an advertisement saying ‘It’s a man’s life in the WRAC’ when I notice a much smaller announcement below it. It says ‘Girls! See Europe in style and get paid for it. Climax Tours want lady couriers. Foreign language an advantage but not vital.’ I put down the paper thoughtfully. This could be just what I am looking for. I don’t speak any foreign languages but I have had lots of experience with people – I mean, of course when I was a nurse, gym mistress and professional escort. All this should stand me in good stead. Working abroad would be wonderful too. I like Britain but it does get a teeny bit gloomy sometimes, doesn’t it?

‘Oooooooh!’ Dad’s soaked trousers are clinging to his legs and he is clearly in no little discomfort.

‘Take them off, dear.’ Mum proffers a tea towel which Dad snatches and starts to peel off his C&A lightweight special summer offer. Unfortunately, he meets more resistance than he bargained for and sits down on the plastic waste bin which shatters with a noise like a small explosion. Tea leaves spread across the floor and Dad’s face registers pain which may, or may not, be caused by the fact that his trousers have split down to the knee.

‘Are you all right, dear?’

Dad does not answer but feels between his legs and produces an empty tin of cat food – ‘Pussy loves it’ emblazoned across the label. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Would you children mind leaving the room?’

We leave Mum inspecting the damage and it does not take Natalie long to start apportioning blame. ‘It’s always the same, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Whenever you turn up, there’s trouble. It’s been lovely and peaceful here up till now.’

I am about to say something very unsisterly when there is a loud scream and the telephone rings. The two events are not connected. 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?’