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?’
‘Not in so many words,’ I say. ‘I sent her all the particulars in a letter. She was very interested.’
‘That’s half the battle,’ says the woman. ‘But you must be careful. If you get too interested, too overwrought, then tension can set in. You must try and maintain a balance between freedom and control.’ She smiles at me sympathetically and I gulp. What is she talking about? She picks up a box from one of the counters. ‘Have you ever thought about a Cosiprobe Vibro-Massager?’ The woman is obviously labouring under some misapprehension about the purpose of my visit.
‘I’m – er looking for – er something – Bigg,’ I splutter. I always forget names when I get flustered.
‘Something big!?’ The woman’s face registers amazement. ‘This is the biggest we do. I don’t think there is a larger size. Maybe if you teamed it up with one of our slip-on Sensation Builders? Have you ever tried the Tweaker? Or the Stroker? Or the Squidger?’ She holds up something that looks like a finger stall with varicose veins and I take a step backwards.
‘I’m looking for the Managing Director of Climax Tours!’ I say, noticing that a degree of strain is creeping into my voice. ‘Can you please direct me to him. I do have an appointment.’
‘Climax Tours?’ Now it is the woman’s turn to look bewildered. ‘You’re looking for Climax Tours?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You mean, I’ve come to the wrong place?’
‘This is Lovecraft,’ says the woman, shedding the charm like it is an old skin. ‘You want the top floor flat next door.’
‘Lovecraft!?’ I squeak. ‘You meant that – oh no!!’ I start to retreat towards the door and knock over a pile of books entitled Eros Blows His Horn. The picture on the cover is – well, I just can’t bring myself to describe it. It certainly has nothing to do with playing the trumpet. When I get out on to the street I am still blushing. How silly of me not to notice the big sign saying Lovecraft. It is certainly a lot easier to see than the dog-eared card pinned under one of the bell pushes next door. ‘Climax Tours’ it says, plus the name of an outfit called ‘Sunfun’ which has been crossed out. There are also two other names beside that of Rafelson-Bigg which have an untidy biro line through them. I can’t really be certain but one of them looks like Sidney Noggett. Changes have obviously been made in the organisation since the cards were printed. Whilst I look and ponder, two figures appear beside me and start to scrutinise the column of names eagerly.
‘That’s him, Henry!’ says one of them triumphantly. ‘You get up there and sort him out.’ The speaker is a large suntanned woman wearing a plastic mac and a determined expression. Her companion is male and less forbidding, but equally suntanned. He stretches out his hand, gulps, and presses the bell.
‘Don’t do that, you fool! You don’t want to let him know you’re coming.’
‘I’m sorry, Edna,’ says the man, meekly. ‘Don’t you think it would be best to try and achieve retribution though the medium of a solicitor?’
‘Don’t weaken, Henry,’ says the woman, seizing him by the elbow. ‘That’s not what you were saying in Timbuktu. You were going to tear him limb from limb.’
‘I know, dear. But I was a bit overheated.’
‘I’m not surprised, it was a hundred and twelve degrees in the shade!’
While the couple argue, I wonder about the reason for their suntans and the fact that the man is wearing one of those burnous things that Omar Sharif used to dress up in before he became an all-round entertainer. Could it be that they are dissatisfied customers of my, hopefully, future employer?
‘We were told not to leave the camel train,’ says the man meekly. ‘I never thought that there was going to be a short cut across that desert.’
‘Don’t weaken, Henry!’ says the woman. ‘We would never have had to go on those camels if the coach hadn’t broken down. The only thing that kept me trudging along under that merciless sun was the thought of this moment. Now, get up those stairs!’
Henry is still protesting as he makes his way up the narrow staircase but he clearly knows who wears the baggy trousers. I follow, eager to catch my first glimpse of Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg and see how he deals with what could, potentially, be a ticklish situation. The staircase winds up and up and I am quite exhausted by the time I see the fanlight. Edna and Henry have obviously been hardened by their experiences and their breathing shows no signs of having quickened as they pause by the final flight of stairs. At its head is a door with a frosted glass panel bearing the legend ‘Climax Tours – where the other people don’t take you’.
‘You can’t argue with that,’ says Henry, wryly.
‘Don’t just stand there,’ says Edna. ‘Get in there and have it out with him. We want our money back and compensation for all the hardships we’ve suffered.’
Henry swallows hard and edges his slight frame towards the door, brushing the pyjama cord round his burnous out of his eyes. I shrink back into the shadows.
‘Miss Dixon?’ The voice is barely a whisper and comes from directly behind me. I turn and see a sign which says ‘Please leave this toilet as you would be amazed to find it’. The suave, upper crust whisper has come from behind the door which is slightly ajar.
‘Yes,’ I murmur. ‘What –?’
‘Sssh!’ A jacketed arm revealing one and a half inches of crisp white cuff appears round the door and a long finger oozing character and decisiveness beckons to me. I watch Edna follow Henry through the door of the Climax office, and do as the finger bids me.
Standing in front of the toilet is a tall, elegantly dressed young man carrying a briefcase. I am glad to be able to report that everything about his clothing is as it should be. He draws me towards him and closes the door.
‘Sorry
