Rosie Dixon - Confessions of a Gym Mistress

“Tell him we want some food or we’re getting out,” I say. “There’s no excuse for the delay. We’re the only people in the place.”

At first I think that Geoffrey has developed a cold in the throat. Then I realise that his nervous cough is attempting to attract the waiter’s attention. Honestly, talk about an evening with Steve McQueen. I am not surprised that Geoffrey once missed the mixed doubles final because he shut his fingers in his racket press. I am just on the point of taking matters into my own hands when two enormous plates of sausage and red cabbage arrive on the table.

“We didn’t order this,” says Geoffrey.

“‘Order’!? You don’t know ze meaning ov ze vord order,” screams our waiter, fingering his duelling scar. “Ze Panzers, ze knew vot an order vos!” Before we can say anything he sweeps the plates onto the floor and dives behind one of the tables.

“This definitely isn’t the place my friend told me about,” says Geoffrey.

“Don’t be so defensive!” I tell him. “We all make mistakes.”

“Ze died vere ze lay!” screams the waiter. He starts pulling the side plates off the tables and hurling them towards the kitchen.

“Boumf! Boumph!”

“Do you want to stay?” says Geoffrey.

“Are you mad?” I say.

“No, but I’m a bit worried about him.” Geoffrey stands up and clears his throat. “We are leaving now,” he says. He might be repeating “How now brown cow”.

The waiter picks up a knife.

“Come on, Geoffrey!”

“Egon Ronay will hear of this.”

“Geoffrey!” I will remember that terrible man standing at the door and shouting “Schweinhunds!” after us till my dying day—in fact, I thought it was going to be my dying day.

“That was a bit thick,” says Geoffrey as we drive away. “Did you hear what that chap said?”

“Yes. He said ‘Schweinhunds!’”

“No. I mean about reporting us to the Race Relations Board.”

Marvellous, isn’t it? Unless you watched television all the time you could be excused for wondering who won the war.

“I need a drink after that,” I say.

As it turns out, this is my second foolish suggestion of the evening. Spirits play havoc with me on an empty stomach and Geoffrey makes me bolt back a second enormous scotch in order to “get it in before closing time” as he puts it.

“Do you fancy a packet of nuts with it?” he says. “They have eighteen times the protein value of steak, you know?” Something tells me that I can say goodbye to my supper.

“You need a bit of steak for that eye, don’t you?” I say.

“It’s much better now,” says my lark-tongued cavalier. “It’s no hardship looking at you through one eye.”

“You mean, it would be even better if you couldn’t see anything?”

“No! Rosie, why do you have to take everything I say the wrong way?”

“Because that’s the way it comes out,” I say. “Ooooh! I felt quite funny then. I think I’d better sit down.” It must be the scotch.

“I felt funny when you touched my arm like that,” breathes Geoffrey, sinking onto the moquette beside me. “Oh Rosie. I fancy you, rotten.”

“Well, that’s the way I feel at the moment,” I tell him. “I think I’d better go outside.”

“If you want to use the toilet, there’s one in the passage. I saw it as we came in.”

“Thank you, Hawkeye,” I say. “But I don’t think that will be necessary. You’d better take me home.”

We get outside to the car and, thank goodness, Geoffrey’s eye does seem to be a lot better. Just as well because the cool air hits me like a slap in the face and I hardly know what I’m doing.

“Comfy?” says Geoffrey as he shuts the door. “You wait till I turn the heater on. Then you’ll be really snug.”

He is not kidding! After about five minutes I feel as if I am sitting in a microwave oven. Geoffrey is talking to me about teaching but I just can’t keep my eyes open—I believe that lots of people have this trouble with Geoffrey. When I wake up it is because the engine has been turned off.

“Are we home?” I ask drowsily.

“Not quite,” says Geoffrey. “I brought you up to the common because it’s such a beautiful night.”

A glance out of the window shows that Geoffrey is not the only nature lover in North West London. Cars are parked all round us and inside them I can see the shadowy outlines of struggling figures—no doubt fighting to get a better view of the pitch darkness.

“It’s raining,” I say.

“I like rain,” says Geoffrey. “I think it’s very romantic. Water turns me on.” He proves it by trying to slide his hands up my skirt.

“Stop, cock!” I say wittily. “What are you trying to do? I thought you were taking me home?”

Geoffrey transfers his attentions to my breasts and one of my blouse buttons hits the windscreen.

“If you start teaching down in the country I won’t see you,” he pants. “I want you to know how I feel about you.”

“I’ve no problem knowing that,” I say, wishing he could be a bit gentler with his hands.

“Do you remember that time up the tennis club? Let’s do that again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. Of course, I do remember but I don’t like to think about it. I mean, there was something funny in the fruit cup and Geoffrey took advantage of me—at least, he tried to. I’m still not certain what happened before he was sick behind the roller. As anybody who has read Confessions of a Night Nurse must know I am not a girl of easy virtue who bandies her charms about. I have a romantic nature but I try not to let it go to my head—or anywhere else.

“Just kissing you isn’t going to do any harm.”

Geoffrey is right, of course. There is no sense in being ridiculously prudish. We have known each other for some time and after Natalie’s remarks I am glad to find that I can arouse some feelings in the man. Also, the whisky is making it difficult for me to say no—that and the fact that Geoffrey’s mouth is firmly clamped over mine.

Oh! I wonder where he learned to do that? I always remember Geoffrey as a rather useless kisser. Perhaps Raquel Welchlet has been giving him lessons? The thought makes me determined to demonstrate that big sister knows best.

“Oh, Rosie!” The inside of the windows is beginning to steam up.

“Geoffrey! Please!” Without me realising what was happening he has raided my reception area. How awful that I am so befuddled with drink and hunger that I am practically powerless to resist him.

“That’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Geoffrey!” Now the condensation is running down the windows in rivulets.

“Feel how much I want you.” Geoffrey takes my hand and guides it to—OH! This is too much! Can this be the boy who shyly pressed a cucumber sandwich into my fingers at the Eastwood Tennis Club Novices’ Competition?

“Geoffrey!!”

“I must have you!” Geoffrey presses something between my legs—I mean, presses something situated between my legs—I mean, presses a lever situated on the floor between my legs—and the back of my seat drops down to the horizontal position. Hardly have I realised what is happening than Geoffrey is trying to scramble on top of me. I have never known such a change come over a man. It must have been that German giving him ideas.

“Are you mad, Geoffrey!?” I screech.

“Mad with love!” Somehow—don’t ask me how he manages to do it—the great idiot gets his foot hooked in the driving wheel. The horn lets out a high-pitched shriek—and then refuses to stop.

“Get your foot away!” I shout.

“I have!”

One of the good things about a nurse’s training is that it teaches you how to handle yourself in an emergency: take a long, critical look at the situation and then—panic.