I suppose I ask a lot from a man. I’m what you might call “demanding”.’
‘Really?’ A mouthful of cake goes down the wrong way and I blurt crumbs all over the settee. ‘You make a smashing cake.’
‘Brian made it. He’s a much better cook than I am.’
‘Oh, well, it’s very nice.’ Now I look closely at Elspeth Jones I can see that she has a heavy down of hairs on her upper lip.
‘I don’t just mean size.’ Percy is now making a field mouse look like King Kong. In fact I am not even certain he is still there.
‘Stamina.’ She practically spits the word into my lap. ‘I once knew this fantastic Jamaican.’ ‘Don’t tell me about him,’ I screech silently. ‘What a man. The most superb body I’ve ever seen. Great banks of gleaming black muscle. And he went on and on and–’
‘I’ve heard they’re very–’
‘–on and on and on. I was a different person afterwards. That experience really showed me what sex could be like. It was never the same with Brian after that. I told him, of course.’
‘You mean that it wasn’t the same as–’
‘Yes. It was a shock to him but I think he respected my integrity. He was seeing a psychoanalyst at the time, anyway.’
‘Oh, well. That must have been a big help to him.’
Mrs Jones leans forward and takes the cup and saucer from my twitching fingers.
‘Don’t worry about the crumbs. Do you want to do it in here or in the bedroom?’
Now that I look into her face again she seems to be growing a beard. Oh, dear. I am really on the horn of a Dalai Lama. Half of me is saying ‘you don’t fancy it, so piss off’ while the other half is saying ‘don’t be a berk, she’s a lovely bit of stuff. Once you get her knicks off everything will be all right’. I know I will be pretty choked if I think about this afterwards and I have not had a crack at it. It is like refusing a bloke who is trying to give you bank notes.
‘I don’t mind stretching my legs,’ I say weakly and haul myself to my feet. If I am going through with this I will have to break the hypnotic spell that my mind has cast over my hampton park. I will have to stop thinking about sex. If I can take the mental pressure off Percy then I may have a sporting chance of competing with black power.
‘Are you interested in football, at all?’ I ask as we go into the bedroom.
‘I loathe it.’ Mrs J. coolly unzips her dress and steps out of it. I notice that she is wearing a pair of those scarlet, transparent, embroidered panties with a frilly hem that have names like ‘Casbah Madness’. I always wondered who wore them. Although their intention is clearly to turn the observer on, they have the opposite effect on me. There is something professional and rehearsed about them which makes me feel I am about to take part in a circus act. I would like there to be a spot of physical contact between us whilst we shred the threads but Mrs J. is stark bollock naked and lying on the counterpane before you can say Roger Carpenter. She has a fantastic body but it might be a waxwork for all the effect it is having on me.
‘I support Chelsea, myself,’ I tell her. ‘We are the champions.’
‘Come here and prove it,’ says Mrs J. meaningfully.
Relax, I tell myself. Just imagine you are in one of those changing huts in the middle of Clapham Common. I sit down on the edge of the bed and start undoing my shoelaces. If I can persuade myself that I am in the process of changing for some commonplace sporting event I may be able to divert worried Percy from his current hang-ups and then suddenly spring Mrs J. on him when he is least expecting it. It’s a proper carry on, isn’t it? Seems ridiculous really.
‘What are you whistling?’ says a puzzled Mrs J.
‘ “Blue is the colour.” ’
‘That’s one of those ridiculous soccer songs, isn’t it? Now what are you doing?’
‘Just dribbling my sock over to the dressing table. Goal!’
‘Are you all right?’ Mrs J. sounds worried. I wish she would belt up. How does she expect me to get it together if she keeps rabbiting?
‘The ball’s bobbing about on the edge of the penalty area. Osgood to Lea. Lea swings his right foot. Goal! Wilson didn’t move.’ I raise my hands above my head in front of the wardrobe and catch a glimpse of Mrs J. watching me nervously from the bed. If I can recreate the atmosphere of an actual match, I may be able to break the spell. In my mind I emerge from the changing room and start running towards the pitch. It is drizzling and cold. Very cold. So cold in fact that my old man is beginning to shrivel up – no, you fool! That’s not the effect I’m after. I start running around the room swinging my arms across my chest.
‘Now what are you doing?’
‘Warming up.’
‘I can think of less selfish ways of doing it.’
‘I’m going in goal.’ I hurl myself across the bed and push one of the pillow cases on to the floor.
‘Stop it!’
‘Did you see that save? Fantastic. Here we go again. Wheeeeeh!’
‘You’re mad.’
‘I’m football crazy.’ I leap on to the bed and head the lightshade so that it swings into the middle of the room and a cloud of dust comes down.
‘Stop it!’ Mrs J.’s cool is clearly shattered and this cheers me up a bit. That worried look in her eyes makes me feel more like the male chauvinist pig I found I was when I read that article in one of the posh Sundays. Incidentally, if you fancy a spot of saucy reading I can thoroughly recommend the posh Sundays. They wrap it up a bit and you need a dictionary handy, but there is no doubt that you can get a lot of interesting sexual detail from the quality press – and it concerns a much higher class of person, too. Quite historical, some of it. I reckon I would have been far more interested in history at school if I’d known that they were having it away all the time.
I stand on Mrs J.’s leg, she screams and I lose my balance and sit down on her arm. She screams again.
‘I’m sorry. Are you all right?’
‘Are you all right? you mean. What’s the matter with you?’
At last she touches me but it is only a restraining arm, no doubt intended to prevent me from getting my football boots on. I am a fool. I should never have got myself into this situation. I ought to have got out while I had the chance.
‘Take the rest of your clothes off,’ barks Mrs J. She might be saying ‘Come in, number nine, your time’s up,’ for all the romantic feeling she can get into her voice.
I peel off my shirt and, without looking, ease down my Y-fronts. Maybe they are the trouble. All those tight jeans and athletes’ briefs have suffocated the poor basket. Still, you can’t wander about in bloomers, can you? Nobody would ever want to be exposed to the lustre of your cluster.
Mrs
