never meet a real man these days,’ says Miss Mealie, running her finger round the rim of her glass. ‘Only poofs and snotty little kids.’
‘Don’t you like children?’ I say innocently, sliding her glass towards her.
‘Are you kidding? Hey – did you hear that? Joke.’
‘Fantastic,’ I say.
‘The only thing I hate more than kids is mothers. But then you know that. Do you know what I like?’
’No,’ I lie to her.
She leans forward and whispers in my ear. ‘Does that shock you?’
‘These days, nothing shocks me. It’s funny though, isn’t it? You liking that though you don’t like kids.’
‘It never occurred to me to consider that there might be a connection until you mentioned it. It’s like being told that filling a fountain pen makes babies.’
‘Yes,’ I say. I am coming to the conclusion that Miss Mealie is well on the way to becoming very successfully pissed. This, of course, is sad but not so sad that I am going to lose any sleep about it. In fact I may well be able to use it as the framework of a very pleasant evening. If I take Miss Mealie home and put her to bed – and at a pinch myself – I can then go on to Dominic’s and seal my star status over a pitcher of crème de menthe.
‘You were lucky you managed to talk your way out of going to Dominic’s place,’ says Miss Mealie, colliding with my thoughts. ‘It’s a very kinky set-up. I don’t know who he’s living with at the moment but it’s quite awful, the things that go on there. I know that what people do in the privacy of their own homes is their own affair – or affairs – hey, did you hear that? I made another joke.’
‘Great.’
‘Well, laugh when I make a joke. Haven’t you got a sense of humour?’
‘I laugh a lot inside.’
‘You should let it bubble to the surface a little more often. Anyway, where was I?’
‘You were saying I should laugh more.’
‘No! Stupid. I was telling you about Dominic’s flat. I was saying how awful it is. You’re – er, not like that, are you?’
‘As a clockwork orange. Why do you think I’ve got this far with Dominic? There’s a kind of chemistry between us.’
‘Don’t be stupid! I can tell them a mile off. There’s nothing queer about you.’
‘I don’t think you should say that without proof.’
‘Are you serious? You’re having me on, aren’t you? You think you can talk me into taking you into my bed so that I can prove that you’re not queer.’
‘I’m confused already. Let’s just go to bed.’
‘You’re cool, aren’t you?’
‘You told me what you liked.’
‘I didn’t say anything about you.’
‘That would have been forward.’
Miss Mealie is now walking up the buttons of my shirt with her fingers. She gets to the collar, clambers over my chin, tramples on my lips and ends up on my nose. ‘Bite off your nose!’ she says gaily.
‘Let me take you home,’ I husk.
Five minutes later she has made a tellyphone call and I have poured – and pawed – her into a taxi. This evening had better come to something because it is costing me a fortune. There was a time when a bird could reckon she was in for a good time if I ordered a Babycham and two straws.
‘Oh, I’m feeling a sleepy girl,’ murmurs Miss M, snuggling up to me in the back of the taxi. Not long before I can say the same, I think to myself and try not to watch the meter ticking up. By the cringe, but it seems to move faster than the last column on a posh mileometer. At this rate I am going to have to thumb a lift home.
Home. The word makes me feel nervous. Even as I sit here Mum and Rosie are probably propping a vat of boiling oil above the front door. Jason’s golden future in ruins and all because Uncle Timmy slipped him a phial of Micky Phinns. That is what they are going to believe anyway, and little rat fink Jason is not going to come to nunky’s aid. Maybe it would be a good idea to steer clear of the ancestral pile for a few days. Until I am an established star in my own right. Once my mug appears on the screen, Mum at least will forgive all.
‘Here we are, mate,’ says the taxi driver.
‘It’s right next to the tube!’ I say, aggrieved.
‘Yeah. You want me to move it into the middle of Hyde Park for you?’
‘It would have been just as quick by tube.’
‘Yeah, well you’re here now, Rockefeller. There’s a pie stall round the corner if you want to take the lady out to dinner.’
‘Are we there?’ says Miss Mealie, waking up.
‘’Ere! I know you don’t I?’ says the cabby, registering Miss Mealie’s face. ‘You’re on the telly, aren’t you? My kiddies all watch your programme.’
‘How nice,’ says Miss M.
‘Yeah. And my little Trampas has got a birthday next week. Do you reckon you could read out his name?’
‘Drop me a postcard at the studio and I’ll see what I can do.’ Miss Mealie delivers a royal smile and sweeps into the block of flats. The taxi driver is so bowled over that he does not even examine the miserably small tip I have given him.
‘She’s a lady, that one,’ he says, looking me up and down as if I am not fit to dust her microphone lead.
‘A real pro.’ I agree with him and follow Miss M. into the flat. This kind of reverence could become habit-forming. I cannot think why I have never considered show-biz before.
‘ “Trampas”! Did you hear that?’ sniffs Miss M. when I join her in the lift. ‘We had one mother write in whose brat was called Ajax.’
‘He might have been named after the football team.’
‘I don’t think so. We got a letter about his sister next week. She was called Vimia.’ Miss Mealie shudders. ‘God, but I need a drink. You’re coming in, are you?’
Try and stop me, I think. The investment I have made this evening should entitle me to a season ticket.
We leave the lift and walk down a corridor long enough to house a rifle range before stopping outside a door with two hundred and forty-seven on it. I am feeling the excitement I feel before the start of a football match. I know what to do, it is just a question of manoeuvring myself into a position to do it. Miss Mealie inserts her key and pushes open the door. Very nice too. Lots of polished wood furniture and spotlights, and a thick white carpet.
‘Nice place
