Rosie Dixon - Confessions of a Babysitter

I had thought that Mr Wilkinson was going to be one of those people who comes to the boil quickly – I find that most of the men who attack me are like that. When they are not trying to impress you, they like to get it out of their system as quickly as possible. However, he seems keen on making a meal of it – and I am not only referring to where his naughty moustache is tickling me now. After doing that – it is so awful that I don’t like to think about it, let alone try and describe it – he shuffles forward with his knees between my thighs and positions his gleaming love shaft at the entrance to my deepest dimple. The look in his eyes tells me that release is close for both of us and I am bracing myself for the final onslaught when I hear a board creak outside the bedroom door. Oh no! Don’t say that my sacrifice has been in vain.

‘Did you hear that?’ I whisper.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s funny the way it makes that noise, isn’t it? It must be some kind of air lock.’

‘I didn’t mean that!’ I hiss. ‘There’s someone outside the door.’

Mr Wilkinson stiffens – quite an achievement in his present condition – and cocks his head. ‘One of the kids going to the toilet,’ he says. ‘It’s a good sign. They usually use the wash basin in their room.’ When he says that, I wonder if my sacrifice has been worthwhile. By no stretch of the imagination can Benedict and Courtenay Wilkinson be called nice little boys. Mr Wilkinson is not very nice either. He enters me again and rocks backwards and forwards while still turning his head to one side.

‘I can’t hear the chain,’ I say.

‘You never do with them,’ says my client. ‘Right, stand by for the grandstand finish.’ He slides his hands round my bottom and has just delivered two ferocious thrusts when the sound of the squeaking bedsprings is augmented by a child’s scream. Mr Wilkinson delivers a third thrust that deposits me on the pillow and half scrambles, half falls off the bed. The air is now full of screams and shouts. Mr Wilkinson lets out an exclamation of concern and starts to run towards the bedroom door. His trousers are round his ankles and he trips over and sprawls full length. The door flies open and Geoffrey runs in pursued by Benedict and Courtenay. They are poking at him with swords – not toy ones by the look of it.

‘Rosie!’

That is the last word Geoffrey utters before he trips over Mr Wilkinson and hits his head on one of the bed legs. Courtenay raises his sword.

‘Mind how you stab him,’ says Benedict. ‘You don’t want to hurt Dad.’

I panic and leap off the bed screaming. Whatever happens, I must get out of this madhouse. I run out on to the landing and race down the stairs. Everything is hanging open and I have left my panties behind, but I don’t care. I have got my shoes and I will put them on when I get outside the front door. That very same front door which is now opening before me. An over made-up woman comes in wearing a fur coat and carrying a bunch of flowers. She is flanked by two men and another woman also wearing what I realise is stage make-up. The two men are carrying bottles. Clearly, Mrs Wilkinson and some fellow members of the cast have returned to celebrate at home. The woman I take to be Mrs Wilkinson grits her teeth and takes a menacing step forward.

‘So!’ she hisses. ‘This is what he’s been up to, is it? You dirty little slut!’ She slaps my face and makes a grab for my hair. Quite what would happen next I don’t know because, as I duck and turn, there is a scuffling noise behind me and I see Mr Wilkinson trying to retreat up the stairs. He is holding his trousers up with one hand and looks understandably worried. ‘You dirty rat!’ Mrs Wilkinson grabs a bottle from one of her escorts and charges the stairs. I take my opportunity and slip out of the front door. I have just reached the front gate when I hear the sound of shattering glass and an anguished scream. What a disappointing end to an evening which had started out with so much promise.

‘The door was on the latch, so I came in,’ says Geoffrey.

‘Why didn’t you ring the bell?’ I say. ‘Oh, Geoffrey, you are a fool!’

Geoffrey scratches the bandage round his head and tries to move his leg. It is not easy when it is strung up in front of him on a pulley. ‘I didn’t want to wake the children,’ he says. He starts to laugh and then gives up because it is obviously too painful. The other visitors in the ward stare at him and I help myself to some more grapes to cover my embarrassment.

‘Why didn’t you wait in the lounge?’

‘I thought you might be reading them a bedtime story or something. As it was …’ His voice tails away.

‘Yes,’ I say firmly. ‘There’s no need to go into that. Your thoughtless intervention made a mess of everything. After all I’d gone through to spare those little children. I can’t bear to think of it.’

‘I don’t like thinking about it very much, either,’ says Geoffrey. ‘You know they nearly killed me, don’t you? The consultant said that if the blade had passed a quarter of an inch nearer – – ’

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.