like the ‘first’. That must be a good sign.
‘What would you like?’ she says.
‘Scotch would be fine.’
‘Ice, water?’
‘Just water, thanks.’
She wanders into the kitchen and I take a look round the flat. The bedroom particularly catches my eye. A low double bed in the centre of the room with a multicoloured patchwork counterpane. In the ceiling above is a circular mirror.
‘Do you like my bedroom?’ says Miss M., appearing beside me with my drink.
‘Fantastic. I didn’t imagine you in a place like this.’
‘I suppose you thought I lived in a bed-sit with a tabby cat and a pile of Beatrix Potters.’
‘Umm,’ I say, not quite certain what a Beatrix Potter is.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ says Miss M., lounging gracefully across a low divan. ‘What do you do for a living?’
‘Nothing at the moment.’
‘Resting? How very theatrical.’
‘I was working with my brother-in-law flogging cleaners, but we’ve packed that in now. I’ve done a number of things on and off. I worked in a hotel and at a holiday camp. And I was a driving instructor at one time. The first real job I ever had was cleaning windows.’
‘Cleaning windows! That must have been interesting.’ Miss Mealie’s eyes contain more promises than a Turkish Delight commercial.
‘Yes. It did have its moments.’
‘It’s funny you should have been a window cleaner because I have a friend who is looking for one at the moment. Justin Tymely. Maybe you’ve heard of him?’ I shake my head. ‘No? Well there’s no reason why you should have, I suppose. He’s a bit of a wheeler-dealer in the art-film world and he’s making a little epic which has some window-cleaning episodes in it. Maybe I can put you in touch?’
‘Yes please.’
Miss Mealie delves in her bag and draws out a crumpled card. ‘Yes, here we are. Tell him I suggested you got in touch.’
I look at the card which says ‘Justin Tymely–Managing Director, Trion Productions’, with an address and two tellyphone numbers. Very impressive. At last my luck is changing. Not only a famous telly personality but a star of the silver screen as well. I wonder if she knows anyone in radio? I just hope that success does not spoil me. Anyhow I must not think of myself all the time. This Lea-crazy bird is obviously waiting for me to make love to her so she can boast about it to all her friends.
‘You’re very beautiful,’ I say, leaning forward and gently removing the glass from her unresisting fingers. I spill a bit on the carpet, but I don’t think she notices.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘So are you.’
‘You don’t have to say that,’ I murmur.
‘You knew already, didn’t you?’
‘Kiss me,’ I say hurriedly and dive onto her lips, carefully tucking the glass away under the divan. Her lips are soft as rose petals and she kisses in a continuous nibbling motion, like half a dozen minnows attacking a piece of bread paste.
‘You smell nice,’ she says, when we come up for air. ‘Let’s go into the bedroom.’
‘I smell even nicer in bedrooms,’ I murmur, kissing her on the ear and thinking that it is no wonder that Cary Grant has given up making pictures. Poor old sod, what chance does he have with blokes like me around?
Miss Mealie takes me by the hand like I am one of her tiny charges and leads me to the bedroom. We stop by the patchwork counterpane and her fingers slide round to the small of my back. She eases out my black, Captain Whiplash, tapered, slim-fit, see-through, pure silk shirt and purrs contentedly as her fingers make contact with my bare flesh. I cannot blame her. I would probably react in the same way if I was touching myself for the first time.
There are thirty-eight buttons on the front of her long gingham dress. I know because I count them one by one as I unpop down from neck to navel while we trade kisses like they pay five pounds a hundred. She is wearing one of those half-cup bras which is so shallow it looks more like a saucer and her breasts swell over the top like the heads of a couple of glasses of stout.
‘Hello, Uncle Timmy,’ she breathes, ruffling the hair at the back of my neck and driving against my lips like she is trying to find a permanent anchorage. ‘Here’s to a mutually stimulating relationship.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ I murmur, ‘and what better vessel than your own beautiful mouth?’ I kiss her tenderly and gently tug the dress off her shoulders so that it starts its long descent towards floor level. My God, but it is beautiful! If they gave Oscars for this kind of thing, I would need a fork-lift truck to carry mine away. Miss Mealie obviously thinks so too because she is quick to brush away the hands that fumble for my own shirt buttons.
‘Cool it, stud,’ she breathes. ‘I hate to see a man doing a woman’s job. Just relax and let Auntie Mealie take the strain.’
One of the old school, obviously, I think as I allow myself to be pushed back onto the bed. I gaze up at the circular mirror and enjoy the sight of my new friend spilling kisses down my chest as she swiftly unbuttons my nifty dicky dirt.
‘You have a magnificent body,’ she breathes.
‘U-um,’ I murmur. Well! It sounds conceited to agree with her, doesn’t it? Yet on the other hand there is no reason why I should perjure myself for the sake of modesty. ‘You’re not bad yourself,’ I say, trying to be kind, but she is too busy dismantling the front of my trousers to pay much attention. The way she grabs hold of the zip on my flies, you would think she was going to wrench it straight down to the turn-ups. I try to grab a handful of knockers that happen to be swinging in my direction but again she brushes me aside. ‘Relax baby,’ she coos, ‘this is my party.’
‘Tell me when there’s a game we can both play.’
‘I’ll call you when it’s time to blow out the candles.’
I lie back to think about that one and feel relieved that I have put on a clean pair of socks as they join my shoes on the floor by the bed.
Gazing up into the mirror, I can see what Miss Mealie was on about. It is amazing that I can walk down the street without being savaged by Lea-hungry bints. The frustration some of those poor birds must have to endure when they turn their mince pies loose on my six foot one and a half inches of man-mountain grandeur, does not bear thinking about.
‘And now –’ Biting her lip in honest ecstasy, Miss Mealie seizes the top of my jockey briefs and proceeds to steer them over the not inconsiderable obstacle that my own passionate nature has placed in her way. I can excuse her clumsiness because I realise that this is probably the most exciting thing that has ever happened to her.
Seconds later I am spread out upon the bed like a patient anaesthetised upon a table, naked and waiting for the action.
‘Oh
