Rosie Dixon - Confessions of a Babysitter

‘Mr Wilkinson! I wasn’t expecting you for hours.’

‘Just thought I’d nip back and see that everything was all right.’ He takes a deep sniff. ‘Uuuum! That perfume is fantastic. You must tell me what it’s called so I can buy some for my wife.’ He holds my arm lightly and presses his nose to my hair. ‘Whew! I don’t expect it would smell the same on her, though.’

‘Very likely,’ I say. ‘How’s the play going? You don’t want to miss an exciting bit.’

‘I realised I’d seen it,’ says Mr Wilkinson, heading for the lounge with me trailing after him. ‘The minute the curtain went up I said, “I know, the butler does it.” That’s the trouble with having them all on the telly. You’re robbed of any suspense. Drink?’

‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘But won’t your wife be expecting you to be there?’

‘I’ll roll up at the end,’ says Wilkinson, half filling two tumblers with gin. ‘She won’t notice the difference. She doesn’t like me back stage between acts. In fact, to tell you the truth, she doesn’t like me very much anywhere.’

‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘I am sorry.’

‘There’s nothing to be sorry about,’ says Mr Wilkinson. ‘We’re modern people living in a modern world. We respect each other’s freedoms. I don’t mind her theatricals – and all that goes with it – and she doesn’t mind if I have the occasional fling.’

‘That’s – er, probably very sensible,’ I say. Oh dear. It is going to be so embarrassing if Geoffrey suddenly turns up.

‘I think so,’ says Mr Wilkinson shoving a glass into my hand. ‘I mean, let’s face it, you are drawn to people in this life, aren’t you? It doesn’t matter if you’re married or not. People are only human.’

‘Very true,’ I say. Maybe I had better mention Geoffrey. It would be much easier if I did. I wouldn’t feel so guilty. ‘Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘Would you mind if I had my boyfriend here?’

My client’s eyes widen in interest. ‘I see you think about these things too,’ he says. ‘No, I wouldn’t mind. Not as long as you respected the place and tidied up afterwards. I don’t like to find anything that would embarrass the children.’ It occurs to me that Mr Wilkinson might have misunderstood my question but I don’t have time to correct any wrong impressions. ‘Better have a look at the little chaps, hadn’t we?’ he says. ‘Bring your drink.’ I glance at my glass and am surprised to see that I appear to have drunk half of it. Just shows how nervous I am.

‘I’m quite all right,’ I say. ‘Everything’s under control. Don’t feel you have to stay on my account.’

‘You’re a girl it’s very easy to stay with,’ says Mr Wilkinson, taking my arm. ‘I believe we think alike, you and I. If we want something enough, we take it. We don’t hold back.’

Is it my imagination, or do I hear the squeal of brakes outside the house? The last car that Geoffrey owned had very squeaky brakes.

‘Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘I’m worried about your wife – – ’

‘You needn’t be,’ says my client, steering me up the stairs. ‘She hasn’t finished the second act yet. She’ll be out of the way for hours.’

‘I mean, I’m worried about her not having your support.’

‘I don’t wear one. Anyway, what good would it be to her?’ Mr Wilkinson chuckles at his joke and I begin to despair – especially when he marches me into the double bedroom. ‘Ooh!’ he says. ‘That scent. It belongs in the boudoir, it really does, I hardly know how to control myself.’

‘But you must control yourself, Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘Your little children may be stirring restlessly down the corridor.’

‘They sleep like logs once they go off,’ husks my client. ‘Oh, you’re beautiful. I really do fancy you.’ Just in case I do not believe him, he pulls me towards him and attempts a clumsy embrace. Of course, I struggle with every ounce of strength I possess but it is amazing how strong he is. All I succeed in doing is causing us to fall across the bed. ‘That’s better,’ he says. ‘Oh yes. You’re really something.’ I can’t answer because his mouth is suffocating mine like a chloroform pad – or, in Wilkinson’s case, a bathmat soaked in gin. What a terrible moment to feel myself going suddenly dizzy. I should never have bolted back those gins.

Mr Wilkinson is clearly not a man who beats about the bush and one of his hands plunders my panties like a gorilla fumbling in a Christmas pudding for a silver threepenny bit.

‘Mr Wilkinson!’ I exclaim, wrenching my mouth free. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? What about the children?’

‘If you stop wriggling about they won’t hear anything, will they?’

Wilkinson’s words fill me with a new fear. I can just imagine the effect on the deadly duo of seeing me grappling with their father on the family bed. There have already been unfortunate references to Aunty Brenda – whoever she may be. Exposure to such a sight could cause untold psychological damage and possibly affect their whole lives. It might even turn them into sex maniacs – everybody has to start somewhere. In the circumstances, is it fair for me to resist? Could it perhaps be said that I was self-centred if I brought my knee up sharply into Rex Wilkinson’s soft centre? While I ponder these important points I have declared a ceasefire on the resistance front and my client’s fingers take the opportunity to make considerable inroads into that most intimate of garments which a girl may wear to protect her most precious possession. If I don’t make up my mind soon, there will be nothing left to decide except whether to include a service charge on my bill.

‘For the last time, Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘Please stop!’ You can’t be much firmer than that, can you? Not without being rude.

But Mr Wilkinson does not stop. He pushes me back against the bed with his head between my half exposed breasts and begins to make a noise like someone ducking for apples in a vat of treacle. Impulsive is certainly one of the words that springs to mind for his behaviour. Both hands are now gripping my panties and I feel the elastic snap as Wilkinson wrenches them down to my knees. If the children saw this it would be most unfortunate.

‘For the last time – – ’ I gasp.

‘You said that last time.’ Mr Wilkinson kneels upright and pulls my panties over my heels. He tears off his jacket and fumbles with the front of his trousers. Oh dear, I think I know what I am going to see next. Yes. A murderous love truncheon primed for violence. Not long, but thick and ribbed like the fuselage of a model aeroplane kit. Mr Wilkinson launches himself between my legs and I notice that his bow tie has come adrift again. At the moment that must be the least of either of our problems. Every second, my situation becomes more fraught. To resist is to blight two young lives. To surrender is – too late! Mr Wilkinson’s beastly thing has invaded my pelvic pouch. It must be radar-controlled and shows considerable promise as an air-to-ground missile. I close my eyes and try to think of the nice lady who led the children through China. Nothing like this ever happened to her – of course it wouldn’t, being played by Ingrid Bergman. I often wish I was played by Ingrid Bergman. Mr Wilkinson has now exposed my breasts and I can feel his pencil moustache drawing pictures on my nipples. It is quite nice in a disgusting sort of way. Thank goodness I am not responsible for my actions. I would never be able to forgive myself if I was enjoying this in the normal course of events – or perhaps I should say, coarse of events. Thank goodness, also, that I must have been mistaken about Geoffrey. It clearly was not him outside. Not that I would be worried now. After the way Mr Wilkinson has behaved he can hardly grumble about my boyfriend turning up. Perhaps if the doorbell rang it would put an end to my ordeal.