Rosie Dixon - Confessions of a Lady Courier

‘Delicious,’ I say, taking a sip of the rosé.

‘There’s a suppressed fizz, isn’t there?’ says Jeremy. ‘A hint of high-spirited nuttiness that might bubble over into a froth of frivolity at the drop of a grape.’

‘The grapes of froth,’ I say, trying to show him that I have a sense of humour.

Jeremy winces and I wonder if he understands my joke. ‘Then there’s schnapps,’ he says. ‘Very popular in the Low Countries. You know what Bismarck said?’ I am forced to shake my head. ‘Red wine for children, champagne for men, schnapps for generals.’

‘What about women?’ I say.

Jeremy takes my empty glass and presses a small one full of a colourless liquid into my hand. ‘What about women, indeed!’ He makes a low growling noise and parts my hair with his nose. I am so taken aback that I nearly spill the contents of my glass. ‘I wish I found it easier to conceal my feelings,’ continues my prospective employer as if talking to himself. ‘You’re so overpoweringly beautiful that I just can’t control myself.’

I feel sorry for the man immediately. What might have been construed as a crude pass takes on another meaning when allied to his confession of honest impetuosity. If he finds me attractive, can I really blame him? After all, I do feel drawn to him myself. The best thing is probably not to say anything about the incident.

‘It’s strong, isn’t it?’ I say, taking a sip from my glass. ‘A bit like gin.’

‘How perceptive of you,’ says Jeremy. ‘My goodness me, you are a find. I can’t wait to try my Bols on you.’

‘I beg your pardon!?’ I say.

‘Another favourite with our Dutch friends,’ he says, holding up a bottle. I read the label and feel guilt sweep over me. I am becoming almost paranoid in the way that I allow suspicion to prey on my mind. This friendly, open man is looking for assistance in running a highly complex and demanding business and I am treating him as if he is some kind of sex maniac. Shame on you, Dixon!

‘Leave the schnapps if it’s too much for you,’ says Jeremy, helping to make further mock of my unjust suspicions.

‘Waste not want not,’ I say, showing the bottom of my glass to the ceiling. Jeremy draws the empty glass from my fingers and switches on a smile that warms up his face like the bars of an electric fire. ‘I hope you don’t have the same effect on the customers that you have on me,’ he says. ‘If you do they’ll ask for their money back.’

‘What!’ I say, taken aback. ‘Surely I’m not that bad?’

Jeremy laughs and takes my hand. ‘They’re paying for a sight-seeing tour of Europe. If I was one of them I’d spend all my time looking at you. I wouldn’t see a single sight.’

‘You are kind,’ I say. ‘I’m certain you don’t mean a word of it. You’re just trying to boost my confidence.’

Jeremy kisses me lightly on the side of the cheek. ‘I mean every word I say. As surely as my name is Justin Cartwright.’

‘Justin Cartwright?’ I say, taken aback. ‘Your name is Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg.’ Jeremy snaps his fingers in irritation. ‘Of course it is. How stupid of me. I was using a pen name for a book I was writing and I got confused. You must think I’m mad.’

‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘I know you’ve had a lot on your mind lately. It’s easy to make mistakes.’

‘How understanding you are.’ Jeremy slips another glass into my hand. ‘Here’s your Bols. I hope you’re going to remember all this.’

‘Every moment of it,’ I say sincerely. It is strange, but a delicious honeyed warmth is spreading through every fibre of my being. I sip the drink and – oooooh! It does funny things to me. The smell of Jeremy’s after shave lotion takes on an almost physical personality and my knees tremble.

‘Are you all right?’ There is a censorious note in Jeremy’s voice and immediately I try and pull myself together. It would be terrible if I lost the job because I could not hold my – ‘Mind out! You’re tilting your glass.’

‘Clumsy me,’ I say. ‘Well, here we go. Cheers, bottoms up, down the hatch! Uuum! I like your balls.’

‘Bols,’ says Jeremy, taking my glass.

‘No, I meant it,’ I say. ‘It was very nice.’

‘You’re the nicest thing about here.’ Jeremy suddenly seizes me in his arms and ruckles me against his chest. Oh dear. This is going to be difficult. If I resist too violently he will probably think that I am drunk and unsophisticated.

‘Mr Rafelson-Pig,’ I say. ‘Do you really think that this is a good idea?’

‘Yes,’ says my prospective employer, putting his hand up my skirt.

This answer is not unexpected and does not help my situation very much. I have obviously got to do some fast thinking. Should I jeopardise my career by breaking free and lurching from the room that is now beginning to revolve slowly or should I make use of this opportunity to take a respite from the stream of intoxicating liquid that has been pouring down my throat? Upon consideration there seems only one thing to do. Jeremy’s long aristocratic fingers have already clambered inside my panties and are tugging gently at my minge fringe. It is better that I submit and comfort myself with the knowledge that I am doing this with my body and not my heart. My principles will not be compromised. With a vague feeling of unease I listen to the sound of someone moaning with pleasure. The unease is heightened when I realise that the person is me.

‘You like it, don’t you?’ breathes Jeremy, playing my passion valley as if it is a violin. His digits dart down with his slowly circling palm pressing against my furry knoll and I have to confess, silently, that, in the right circumstances, the sensation could be pleasant.

‘I promised you something that could beat that thing outside, didn’t I?’ murmurs Jeremy, deftly dunking his digit in my dilly bag.

For a moment I can’t think what he is talking about. Then it comes to me. ‘Oh, you mean the statue,’ I say. ‘Where is it?’

Jeremy draws me closer to him and brushes his mouth against mine. ‘You little wanton,’ he says. He has one hand on the small of my back and the other leaves my love cave and moves swiftly to the front of his trousers. There is the noise of a zip moving in a southerly direction and – ‘Look.’

Nervously, I cast my eyes down and – oh dear, I now realise that Jeremy was not referring to the whole statue. He has exposed a love truncheon of quite hideous aspect. Though practically a stranger to the weapons of amorous war I have had some experience of them – when training to be a nurse and in a purely professional capacity, of course – and I can truthfully say that this is one of the largest to draw a blush from my outraged cheeks. It is exactly the same shade of purple as Mum chose for the bathroom curtains.

‘Not bad, eh?’ says Jeremy proudly.

‘Er – very nice,’ I say. Actually, I don’t think it is very nice, though I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Men’s ‘things’ never do a lot for me – I mean, of course, beauty-wise – and every other-wise. They just are not pretty, are they? I don’t mind the statues, when they’re nestling there under a tastefully arranged leaf, but fully rampant they remind me of lizards and snakes and melting candles and cabbage stalks with a couple of sprouts attached to them. Nothing that you might call romantic.

‘Let’s go into the bedroom and get better acquainted.’ Jeremy presses his body against mine and I wonder whether the time has come to make a stand.

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