Rosie Dixon - Confessions from an Escort Agency

‘There isn’t time,’ I squeak. ‘It’s touch and go as it is. Keep going and I’ll attract their attention.’

I should have said try and attract their attention. I have never met such a load of zombies. I wave my arms about and shake my head and point to the side streets and there is no reaction at all – apart from one woman who bursts into tears. The others just stare at me.

‘Here we are,’ sings out Geoffrey. ‘Damn! There’s a great queue of cars.’

‘Go up where it says “Taxis Only”,’ I say. ‘This is an emergency.’

Well, I must say. I am very disappointed in the attitude of the taxi drivers. I had always thought them such a bluff, cheerful lot, hadn’t you? The kind of people who would give you the shirt off their back in an emergency. The lot we bump into outside the station would not give you an old surgical support. I suppose it is unfortunate that five Daimlers follow us into the taxi rank but it is not our fault that people with suitcases start wrenching open the doors and climbing inside the minute they have stopped.

‘West London Air Terminal and step on it!’ I hear one of them shout.

‘’Ere! What do you think you’re doing!?’ says a large man with a red face and a luggage label fastened to his lapel. Before Geoffrey can open his mouth, the man starts dragging him out of the car and shouting ‘Bleeding minicab drivers!!’ Mini cab, I ask you! It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? The Daimler is built like a furniture van.

I am trying to say goodbye to Geoffrey when a very agitated woman dressed in black runs up to me and says, ‘Where’s my Dick?’

For a moment I don’t know what to say. I mean, I am a little overwrought and there are some very funny people about. Then it dawns on me. Dick must be the deceased.

‘I think he went up to High Holborn,’ I say. ‘You shouldn’t have followed us. We’re nothing to do with the funeral.’

For some reason the woman reacts very badly to this and tries to hit me with her umbrella. I know she is under strain but, really, it is a bit much with all the problems I have. Geoffrey is sinking to his knees under a rain of blows and all around me there are scuffles breaking out as the funeral party refuse to leave their cars, people try to scramble into them with suitcases, and cabbies assault the drivers. Sometimes I think that all this stuff about the British remaining cool in emergencies is blooming rubbish.

In which Rosie visits an Oxford college and endures some disgusting experiences at the hands – and other things – of the Hon. Ward-Virgins and his friends.

Of course, the culmination of the whole sordid business is that I miss my train. I am absolutely furious about it and can hardly wait for Geoffrey to regain consciousness before telling him what I think of him.

‘I’ve tried to ring through but the phone is out of order and the next train doesn’t leave for an hour,’ I say. ‘Geoffrey, how could you? You sit there calmly bleeding into that handkerchief and my world has collapsed in ruins.’

I must say that Geoffrey is very good about it. When I have calmed down and the bleeding has stopped he gives his name and address to the police, collects all the pieces that have been broken off the car, and suggests that he drives me to Oxford.

‘You’ll probably be able to catch up with your friend at this party,’ he says. ‘Where is it? St Peter’s Hall?’

I am slightly worried by the prospect of Geoffrey cramping my style but on the other hand, beggars can’t be choosers, can they? Better to arrive encumbered than not at all. The journey to Oxford is quite remarkable in that we do not have any form of accident on the way. Not one teeny-weeny prang. Maybe it is this that lulls me into a sense of false security. I close my eyes and try to sleep but all the time I am thinking of the hundreds of years of tradition and noble breeding that I will shortly be part of. I do hope that I do not feel out of my depth and that Geoffrey does not say anything to let me down. Although he plays tennis for Eastwood Tennis Club and watches ‘Aquarius’, Geoffrey is not as intellectual as he would like people to think. We ask the way in Oxford and find that St Peter’s is between Woolworths and Mothercare and I begin to get goose pimples. Soon I will be setting foot on those flagstones mellowed by contact with the great minds of history. Who knows? – Perhaps Dudley Moore went here?

‘There it is.’

Geoffrey slows down and I suck in my breath. It is just as I imagined it would be: the gold-topped railings, the warm brick buildings, the window boxes full of flowers, the man with shoulder-length hair and a placard saying ‘The Senior Tutor is a Stupid Old Fart.’ – wait a minute! How did he get here?

‘Good, isn’t it?’ says Geoffrey. ‘Where shall I park?’ Half an hour later we have walked back to the street containing the college.

‘Just look at those windows,’ I say. ‘What beautiful sashes.’

‘They are nice,’ agrees Geoffrey. ‘I like the ones with the little dogs and the horseshoes.’

Would you believe that the stupid fool is looking in the window of Woolworths? Oh dear, I feel that he is going to be completely at sea once we get inside the college. We get back to the front gate of the college and Geoffrey puts down my suitcase.

‘Do you know where to go?’ he asks.

I do not answer at once because I am busy looking at a line of men lying against the wall. One or two are reading but most are staring into space. Very odd. We go into a little office and there is a middle-aged man with a bowler hat standing behind a desk.

‘I’m looking for a party,’ I say.

The man behind the desk looks at my suitcase. ‘Are you Fi Fi La Knocker?’ he says.

‘Most definitely not!’ I say. ‘What would a person like that be doing here?’

‘The cabaret for the Rugby Club smoker,’ says the caretaker.

‘That’s what you might call a party.’

‘I don’t think my friend would be going to that,’ I say. ‘She’s not very sporty.’

The caretaker laughs. ‘Neither are the Rugby Club. They haven’t won a game in three years.’

‘Are there any other parties that you know of?’ says Geoffrey.

Bowler Hat thinks. ‘I saw some crates of champagne piled at the bottom of Z staircase. Could be that the Hon. Ward-Virgins is giving one of his soirées.’

‘That sounds much more like it,’ I say enthusiastically. ‘Is there anywhere round here I can change? I’m afraid I missed my train and had to get a lift down.’

The caretaker looks me up and down thoughtfully. ‘We don’t have a lot of facilities for ladies,’ he says. ‘The Admissions Board turned them down flat.’

‘They obviously didn’t like flat ladies,’ says Geoffrey. I blush furiously. I was dreading Geoffrey saying something like that. How could he so demean himself in this temple of erudition?

‘Ho, ho. Very jovial, sir,’ says the caretaker. ‘A joke, eh, sir? Ho, ho. We don’t have many of those these days.’

‘What are those people doing, leaning against the wall?’ asks Geoffrey.

‘Don’t rightly know, sir. They’re either protesting about the quality of the collége food or fasting for the third world.’

‘What’s the third world?’ I ask.

The caretaker shakes his head. ‘I don’t know, miss. But it’s a phrase much used in the college these days. Second only to “fascist pig” in popularity, I would say.’

‘You’re very tolerant,’ I say. ‘Why do you allow that man to stand out there with that rude sign?’

‘He’s the Dean, miss.’ I am so amazed that I can’t think of anything to say. The caretaker comes round his desk and picks up my suitcase. ‘Yes, miss. Times have changed. Still, I think you’ll find that Mr Ward-Virgins keeps up the old traditions.’ He leads the way out into the courtyard and Geoffrey and I follow him.