Rosie Dixon - Confessions of a Lady Courier

I nod thankfully. ‘You don’t think languages are going to be a problem, then?’

‘Not at all. Ninety-nine per cent of the customers are going to be British, aren’t they? They’ll be able to understand you. Have you ever been abroad?’

I shake my head. ‘No. I was going to Paris with my school but I got measles.’

‘That’s bad luck,’ says Jeremy sympathetically. ‘But don’t worry about it. I mean, not having been abroad. It’s probably quite a good thing really. You won’t be blasé, will you? Everything will come as a surprise and your enthusiasm will convey itself to the punters.’

What a sympathetic and understanding man, I think to myself. So different from the pushy Sammy Fish. I really think I could be happy at Climax. ‘I hope you’re right,’ I say. ‘I’d certainly try very hard. I’d look up everything in a book.’

‘Capital,’ says Jeremy. ‘You can’t ask much fairer than that, can you? When could you start?’

‘Er – almost immediately,’ I say. ‘Notice won’t be any problem.’ I don’t like to say that I am out of work.

‘That’s fine,’ says Jeremy. ‘I’m just putting together a package at the moment. “A European Whizaround”, Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, and – get out of the way you half-witted bastard!’ The last remark is directed at a cyclist who has swung out in front of us ‘– and France.’

‘That sounds marvellous,’ I say. ‘Tell me, what do you mean “put together”?’

Once again, Jeremy shakes his head admiringly. ‘You don’t miss a thing, do you?’

‘I wasn’t trying to be nosy,’ I say.

Jeremy touches the back of my wrist reassuringly. ‘I know, I know. I was complimenting you. We need people in this business with sharp, agile minds.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Let me try to explain it to you. I want to make sure that every coach we hire is going to be full.’

‘Hire?’ I say.

‘Oh yes. I want all my capital assets utilised to produce maximum liquidity. Coaches are expensive and they’re even more expensive if they’re standing about empty.’

‘Quite,’ I say, trying to look intelligent and wondering what he is talking about.

‘Every prospective customer has to give a choice of three dates. In that way I’m virtually certain of being able to fit sixty people into one period. Then I hire the coach.’

‘What a good idea,’ I say.

‘It’s no more than common sense,’ says Jeremy. ‘It’s more profitable to run one full coach than three half empty ones.’

‘What about the people you can’t book in?’

‘I write and tell them that owing to unprecedented demand we’re completely booked up. It makes them twice as keen to get in early next time. Ah, here we are. It’s not much but it’s home.’

We have glided into the forecourt of a small block of luxury flats. You can tell that they are posh because there are no icecream wrappers on the grass, only the statue of a naked athlete about to throw a stone through the front door.

‘That’s Fred,’ says Jeremy, seeing me looking at the statue. ‘Small but beautifully marked.’

‘I don’t think he’s small,’ I say. ‘He looks pretty big to me.’

‘Really?’ says Jeremy, turning on his pleasant smile. ‘I think we can do better than that.’

‘You’ve got a bigger one inside, have you?’ I say, not, quite certain what he is talking about.

‘Come and find out,’ says Jeremy softly, spinning the wheel so that we dart into a convenient parking space.

A few minutes later I am gliding upwards in one of those whisper-quiet lifts and feeling small shivers of excitement pass through me. I am going to visit a man’s flat. It is only a business visit, of course but I am still nervously tense. It is because I find Jeremy so attractive, I suppose. The lift stops on the top floor – just as well really! – and the doors slide open to reveal a roadway of carpet stretching away between wood-panelled walls.

‘It’s a fantastic place you have here,’ I say.

Jeremy gazes at my body thoughtfully. ‘Uum,’ he says.

‘Wonderful views.’

‘Absolutely,’ breathes Jeremy.

‘I still haven’t seen that statue of yours.’

Jeremy looks confused. ‘Statue?’ he says. ‘I find it very difficult to keep up with you sometimes.’

I decide not to press the matter and follow him down the corridor. When a confusion arises I always find it better to pass on to something else.

‘Here we are. Sixty-nine.’ Jeremy holds my eye and winks and I wink back. I find his cheerful, down-to-earth approach very refreshing.

Jeremy turns the key in the lock and ushers me in before him. I had been expecting a luxurious apartment and I am not disappointed. The furniture is very modern and uncomfortable looking and there are a number of those chairs that look like half-filled bags of cement. The lights hang in clusters like runner beans.

‘It’s very nice,’ I say.

‘Not bad, is it? What would you like to drink?’ Immediately he speaks, a warning bell rings in my ear. I have a notoriously weak head for strong liquor and attempts to be sociable have, in the past, led to incidents which can best be described as unfortunate. Experience has shown me that there is a certain type of man who sets out to achieve his way with women by getting them into a state of intoxication where they find it difficult to resist his blandishments.

‘You do drink, don’t you?’ A note of unease creeps into Jeremy’s voice. ‘Your job will require a fair amount of socialising with the punters and our continental contacts. If you’re teetotal I think we’d better forget the whole thing straight away.’

‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘I was just thinking what I would like. Do you have any cider?’

‘Cider!? They don’t drink cider on the continent – well, a bit in Normandy, maybe, but not very much. You want to choose something sparkling and zestful.’

‘A Babycham?’ I say, hopefully.

Jeremy closes his eyes. ‘That’s not what I had in mind,’ he says with a sigh. ‘I think I’ll have to take you in hand. As a Climax representative you’ll be expected to introduce the punters to all the local drinks. It makes for good relations with the hotels, as well. They’ll be more favourably disposed towards us if they’re making a good profit in the bar. They might even give you a slice of the action. In France for instance you can ask for a “blanc cassis”, that’s a drop or two of blackcurrant liqueur topped up with white wine. It’s also known as a kir. Hang on a second and I’ll make you one.’

Jeremy goes over to a trolley full of drinks and I think how kind of him it is to go to all this trouble. In the circumstances it would be very rude of me to turn my back on his advice.

‘It looks just like vin rosé,’ I say, when a glass of the sweet but pleasant mixture is put in my hand.

‘That makes a very good aperitif, too,’ says Jeremy, picking up another bottle. ‘I’ve got a very dry little number here that pops up just near St Trop. Knock that back and I’ll give you a snort.’

‘I’ll have to be careful,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to get tight.’

‘This kind of thing can’t hurt you,’ says Jeremy. ‘The French drink this all day and never come to any harm.’ His face becomes serious. ‘If you’re seriously worried about your ability to withstand the effects of a few social drinks, I suggest we abandon –’

Quick as a flash, I pour the contents of my glass down my throat and stretch out a hand for number two. There is no point in becoming obsessive about my past experiences. A little more practice is probably just what I need. It may be because I drink so little that I get drunk so quickly.