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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 baby, start operating,’ I grunt.
But, to my amazement, Miss Mealie starts doing up the buttons on her dress. ‘What’s the matter?’ I say, raising myself onto an elbow. ‘Are you cold, or something?’
Miss Mealie shakes her head mockingly. ‘ “Or something”,’ she says. ‘Don’t move, I always want to remember you like that.’ And then, she tears her dress open so that buttons explode all over the floor, slaps her face a couple of times and starts screaming.
‘Rape! Help! Murder! Rape! Rape! Rape!’
I find this very interesting. I mean, it is a bit strange, isn’t it? One minute she is all over me and the next it is me all over. Maybe it turns her on to feel that she is being raped. Yes, that must be it. She seems a very passionate girl. I do not mind playing along with her little fantasy if it makes her – and me – happy.
‘Help! Help! Rape!’
If she is going to be like this before I have even touched her, God knows what she will be like in the sack. The prospect launches me from the bed and I close with her fast.
‘Don’t touch me!’
She starts running through the living room and I follow. I hope the walls are thick because her language would make a Billingsgate porter switch off his deaf aid. I catch up with her by the door but before I can deter her she has flung it open.
‘Rape! Help!’ she screams and runs out into the corridor. I get as far as the doorway and then stop. I mean! There is a limit. I don’t mind a quick frisk round the apartment but chasing her round the block in the altogether could lead to trouble. People are not as liberated as you read in the papers.
Just as I am making up my mind what to do next, Miss Mealie returns. But she is not alone. She is sobbing hysterically on the arm of a tall fellow with a flashlight camera in his hand. Another guy follows on behind with a notepad in his mitt.
‘Thank God you came!’ sobs Miss M., hysterically. ‘It was horrible. Horrible!’
‘What are you rabbiting on about?’ I say angrily.
‘How did he get in?’ says the fellow with the notepad, pencil poised.
‘I invited him up to discuss the show and then – and then –’ Miss M. starts sobbing convulsively.
‘He is in the show, is he?’
Miss M.’s sobs stop immediately. ‘He was going to be. That’s what I wanted to discuss.’
‘I’ve never heard such a load of cobblers in my life!’ I say indignantly. ‘She invited me up to her flat and into her bedroom, and then she took all my clothes off.’
‘I can see you put up a fight,’ says the bloke with the camera, taking a shot of me.
‘Was he naked like that when he came into the flat?’ says the one with the notepad.
‘No. He said he wanted to use the toilet and then – and then –’ More sobs soak the carpet.
‘Tore your dress, did he?’
‘She tore her dress!’ I yelp.
All the time the fellow with the camera is snapping away like it was some kind of still-life class he has blundered across.
‘What are you two guys doing up here, anyway?’ I say, beginning to smell a rat – or more likely, three of the little furry chaps.
‘We’re freelance reporters. We were coming to do an article on Miss Mealie.’
‘You’ve got quite a scoop then,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Too bad Miss Mealie won’t let you use it.’
‘What do you mean?’ says the lady in question.
‘It must be obvious. If a kid can get thrown off the programme for puking his ring, then they’re going to crucify you for having a nasty naked man in your room. Even if your lousy story was true, some mud would stick. Now, why don’t you wise up and send these two goons back to wherever it is they come from?’ It would sound better if I borrowed Humphrey Bogart’s mac for the delivery, but even then it might not cut much ice with Miss Mealie.
‘Good thinking, rapist,’ she hisses, ‘but what makes you believe I want to stay on Kiddichat for the rest of my life? There are other forms of entertainment, you know.’
And then I see it all. In a blinding flash it comes to me like a clip from an old detergent commercial. I have been framed. Miss Mealie is after publicity at any price and my career has been sacrificed to get it. I snatch at the camera but the geezer is too quick for me.
‘Uh, uh. Naughty!’ He wags a finger at me. ‘If you want to see the pictures, buy the morning papers tomorrow.’
Chapter Three (#u60588bb1-0b50-5f2c-94f6-db7c88e697be)
‘This is a nice one of Timmy,’ says Mum. “You can’t see a lot of his face though.’
‘You can’t have everything,’ says Dad, all sarcastic like.
They are studying the daily newspapers and I have made the front page of every one of them except TheTimes and the Guardian. I know that because Mum has rushed out to buy everything except the JewishChronicle and ChicksOwn. She is dead narky about my non-appearance in the quality press because she had to go up to Clapham South tube station before she found a copy.
Her reaction to my little spot of bother is interesting. Distress, accompanied by pride in the number of column inches I have achieved – I hasten to add that I am referring to space in the newspapers. Already she has the scissors out and I can see that I am taking over from Jason as the family star. Unfortunately my career now seems likely to be considerably shorter than that of the squint-eyed little monster glaring at me over his bowl of Tasty Frosties.
‘You see where tangling with that harpy got you,’ sniffs Rosie, who does not hate me quite so much now that she knows I am not destined for the Uncle Timmy spot.
‘It was strictly a no-tangle action, I’m afraid, Rosie. You don’t want to believe everything you read in the papers…’
‘Oh yeah. Sounds very likely, doesn’t it?’ says Dad. ‘Stark bollock naked and her with her dress half torn off. Nothing remarkable about that, is there? Oh dear me no.’
‘She led me on, Dad. I’ve never had to resort to force yet. It’s not my nature.’
‘She was a hussy, that one,’ says Rosie helpfully. ‘There was always a lot of talk about her.’
‘I think she left those pills there on purpose,’ I say, seeing a chance to patch things up with Rosie. ‘She never liked little Jason, did she?’
‘She never liked anyone except herself.’
‘It says here she’s considering a number of film roles,’ says Mum, who is still studying the papers. ‘She wants to be an all-round entertainer. There’s talk of her going to Hollywood.’
‘More like Neasden Rep,’ snorts Rosie. ‘She can’t do anything.’
‘Don’t look at me, Dad,’ I say. ‘I never found out.’
Most of the papers treat the affair as a put-up job and the police reaction has been less enthusiastic than that of firemen being called out to a false alarm at a waterworks. When I have read the dailies it occurs to me that I am being a bit premature in writing myself off for a job with Dominic Ralph. The worst headline is ‘Was it Rape or a Lovers’ Tiff?’ Most of the others look on the funny side in a way that makes me wish I could have shared their merriment at the time. All in all it occurs to me that I might give Dominic a ring and see where I stand.
In fact I do not stand, I grovel. And even that does not do any good. I ring Dominic at the studio where no one can find him, and at his flat where the phone is answered in an accent that makes Kenneth Williams sound like Richard Roundtree.
‘Who is that?’ minces the voice. ‘I’ll just see if he’s still in.’ Pause. ‘No, I’m most terribly sorry but he’s just popped out. Can I take a message?’
‘Yes,’ I snarl. ‘Tell him to turn off his bleeding electric razor. I can hardly hear what you’re saying!’ I jam down the receiver and compose myself to plan my next move.
I am not getting anywhere particularly fast when I light upon the card that the hated Miss Mealie gave me. This is probably another load of rubbish but anything is worth pursuing in my present situation. The first number on the card rings without reply, but the second is answered instantly.
‘Dukley, Barchester and Rideabout,’ says a very toffee-nosed voice, ‘gee-ood morning.’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve got the wrong number,’ I say, ‘I was after Trion Productions.’
‘Justin Tymely?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He’s on the floor at the moment, shooting.’ Blimey! I think, she’s very cool about it. I wonder why I cannot hear any shots.
‘I’ll ring the police,’ I say. The receiver is half an inch from the rest when I hear squawking coming from it.
‘What are you talking about?’ says the upper-crust voice tightly. ‘He’s shooting a film at the Sheppertree Studios!’
‘Oh, silly me,’ I say. ‘I thought – oh well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll see him there. If you have any contact with him, tell him a window cleaner rang.’
‘Don’t go down to the studio,’ says the bird exasperatedly, ‘we need you here. The windows are filthy.’
‘I’m not a real window cleaner,’ I say. ‘Well, I am, but not at the moment. I’m an actor window cleaner, Timothy Lea.’
‘I’ll tell him you’re coming if he rings in, Mr Lea,’ says the voice icily and the line goes dead.
I am looking forward to visiting a real live film studio but by the time I get to what seems like the other end of the Home Counties, my enthusiasm is waning a bit. The buildings that greet my eye look like derelict hangars and I have not seen anything less impressive since I worked at Melody Bay Holiday Camp.
