Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

‘I can hear your heart beating,’ she murmurs.

‘Thank God,’ I say. ‘I was worried there, for a minute.’

Maybe I am getting old or perhaps it is just that I have had a busy day. Anyway, I immediately begin to feel sleepy and climb gratefully between the sheets as Audrey looks about her wistfully.

‘I think I’ll go and see if that man is still sleeping in our room,’ she says. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

I Mumble something and close my eyes as I listen to the sea hissing against the shingle–we don’t have much sand on our part of the beach. There is a shaded lamp on the table beside the bed and this bathes the room in a soft, warm glow. Lucky Timmy. The door opens and I hear Audrey come in. I do not change my position but nuzzle deeper into the pillow and make ‘I am almost asleep, please do not disturb’ noises. I will catch up with her again in the morning, Petheridge willing.

Strange that I can hear the delicious sound of nylon being peeled away from flesh. Why should Audrey have put on her tights to go up one flight of stairs? I turn my head to take a quick butcher’s and–blimey oh Riley! There, bending forward to shed her bra is the receptionist bird Sandra. The one I took an instant fancy to. She must have an understanding with Petheridge as well. No wonder the bloke sleeps so much!

Without looking towards the bed she slips out of her panties, gives a delicious little shiver that makes her tits wobble invitingly and pulls back the sheets. It is in this far-from-unattractive pose that our eyes meet for the first time that evening.

‘Oh.’ she says. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you.’

‘Me neither.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Come inside and we’ll talk about it’

She gives a little shrug and begins to climb into the bed.

‘Oh well,’ she says. ‘Life’s so short, isn’t it?’

‘Quite like old times, it was,’ says Sid wolfing down half a kipper in one mouthful. ‘Good to know that the old unquenchable magnetism is still coming on like the Chinese cavalry.’

‘Very reassuring, Sid,’ I say, trying to keep my eyes open. By the cringe, but that Sandra is a goer. Maybe it is something to do with the sea air. I reckon someone like her must have had a go at Nelson. He lost his eye and his arm and then he said ‘Right! That’s it!’ and hopped up on his column. Female spiders are supposed to nosh up their mates after having it away, aren’t they?

‘I didn’t tell you what happened, did I?’ continues Sid, who is clearly going to. ‘It was amazing, really. I’ve been in some funny situations in my time, but–hey, wake up! Your rice krispies are going all soggy. What’s the matter with you?–anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I’d just finished driving her into a fit of uncontrollable ecstasy for about the seventeenth time when suddenly the door opens and in pops your one. Before I can say “half-time, change ends”, she’s hopped into bed with us! How about that then? I have to admire her taste but, blimey! It’s brazen, isn’t it? Doesn’t say much for your performance either–stop yawning!’

‘Sorry, Sid. I did have a few problems myself last night.’

‘Sounds like it.’ Sid is obviously dead chuffed with himself and in such moods is considerably less than lovable.

‘Yeah, that receptionist bird Sandra nobbled me–nibbled me a bit as well.’

‘What!’ Sid’s toast quivers outside his mush.

‘Some kind of strange magnetism I exude must have drawn her to me. It was funny, really, just like you say. I had just finished driving my bird into a fit of uncontrollable ecstasy for–oh, I suppose it must have been about the twenty-fifth time–when Sandra springs through the door like a female tigress–’

‘As opposed to a male tigress,’ says Sid.

‘Precisely. “Leave him,” she cries, “that man is mine,” and she picks up Audrey and chucks her through the door like she is a sack of feathers. After that, well I don’t really know how to describe it. She just tears the bedclothes off and has her ruthless way with me until cockcrow–or in my case, cockcroak.’

‘Go on! You’re kidding.’

‘Straight up, Sid–or at least it was to start with.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Please yourself.’

At that moment Sandra comes into the dining room, throwing out more curves than a Scalextric track.

‘Hello tiger,’ she says, raping me with a warm smile as she goes past our table.

‘More toast, Sidney?’ I say politely.

Half an hour later we are outside leaning against the sea wall and admiring the patterns the oil slicks make on the water.

‘One thing I don’t understand, Sid,’ I say. ‘Who is supposed to be running this place at the moment?’

‘A woman called Miss Ruperts. She used to own it once and then sold out to Funfrall. She’s an alcoholic apparently. Goes off to be dried out occasionally.’

‘I can imagine this place driving you to drink. Blimey, what with her and Mrs Caitley, it’s going to be a nice little set-up, isn’t it? Does Miss Ruperts know you’re taking over?’

‘She should have heard this morning. Sir Giles wrote to her at the sanatorium.’

‘So she’s away on a cure at the moment?’

‘Yeah. She should be in peak form at the moment.’

As he says the words, an ancient Armstrong Siddeley can be seen belting down the promenade towards us. Its course is, to put it mildly, erratic, and it forces a milk float off the road before squealing to a halt outside the Cromby. Hardly have the wheels stopped turning than the driver’s door flies open and a big woman of about fifty gets out. She is carrying a bulging suitcase and has only taken two steps before the case bursts open and about half a dozen spirit bottles shatter on the paving stones.

‘What did you say her name was?’ I ask Sid.

‘Miss Ruperts,’ he says grimly.

‘ “In peak form”, that’s what you said, isn’t it, Sid? Looks as if she’s heard the news all right.’

‘Shut up,’ says Sid.

‘I expect you want to go and introduce yourself. I think I’ll take a turn round the pier.’

I watch Miss R. lurch through the front entrance of the hotel.

‘You come with me,’ hisses Sid. ‘You’re my Personal Assistant. This is what you get paid for.’

‘When, Sid?’ I ask, but he does not seem to hear me. I follow him across the road and we bump into Miss Primstone just outside the hotel.

‘Was–er–that Miss Ruperts?’ says Sidney casually.

‘Yes,’ says Miss Primstone hurriedly. ‘But she seems rather overtired. I think she wants to be alone.’

‘Very understandable,’ says Sid. ‘But could you tell her that Mr Noggett would like a word with her? It is important.’

‘Have you ever thought about changing your name?’ I say as Miss P. hurries away shaking her head.

‘Shut up.’

‘But Sidney Noggett. I mean, it’s not like Gaylord Mandeville, is it?’

‘No, thank God. Now belt up! Unless you want to start sketching the insides of Labour Exchanges for a living.’

‘That’s very funny, Sid,’ I say as we are shown into a small dark office behind the reception. ‘Have you ever thought about doing it professionally?’

‘I’ve thought about doing you, hundreds of times. Ah, Miss Ruperts? How nice to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance. I am Sidney Noggett and this is my Personal Assistant Mr Lea.’

‘A bauble,’ says Miss R. as she pours a jumbo shot of Scotch into a shaking tumbler.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘To be a bauble passed from hand to hand is not the future I would have envisaged for myself in those halcyon days of yore.’ I don’t really understand what she is on about because I have edited out the slurs so it reads understandably. But ‘passed from hand to hand’? With her frame you would need a fork lift truck. She has a mug like a professional wrestler–only most of them shave these days–and hair like Wild Bill Hitchcock–feminine but masculine, if you know what I mean. Her shoulders would not be out of place on a second row forward. And, how often does Raquel Welch wear a Norfolk jacket and jodhpurs with a bootlace tie? You can count the times on the notches of your riding crop. All in all, a very distinctive lady, not much prone to flower arrangement, or anything else, I would wager.