Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

‘I remember your wife talking about your success as a photographer, and I wondered if I could ask you to give us a few tips. When I say “us” I mean the Cromby Photographic Club. There’s one or two of us very interested in still lives.’

‘Well, that’s very flattering. I don’t see how I can refuse.’ Richards looks happy for the first time in days. ‘Don’t get any ideas about me being a great performer, though. Daphne is inclined to exaggerate.’

‘Daphne?’

‘My wife.’

‘Oh, of course. It’s lighting that is the trouble with us. Use of flash. All that kind of thing. If you could give us a few hints on positioning models. I’ll get one or two of our members along.’

‘Delighted. What time would you like me?’

‘Let’s say midday. Then you can join us for a little drink.’

‘Delighted. Absolutely delighted.’

At five minutes to twelve I have June, Audrey and Carmen draped around the semi-darkened apartment. Audrey is wearing a bikini that looks like two elastic bands with three knots in them and heels so high you could use them for planting potatoes. June is sporting a sheet–cot-size so it does not conceal the fact that she is starkers–and Carmen is wearing a dab of Chanel No. 5 behind the knee caps–nothing else to distract you from her manifold charms. I get her standing in the darkest part of the room and pour half a bottle of brandy into the half bottle of sherry I have nicked from Dennis the barman. If this lot does not get him going, nothing will. Tap, tap! ‘Come in, Mr Richards. Very kind of you to come. Is Mrs Richards joining you?’

‘In a minute, I hope. She’s suddenly decided she wants to change her dress. Very dark in here, isn’t it–Oh, my God!’

I bend down and give June her towel back. ‘Don’t overdo it, dear,’ I hiss. ‘Let’s get a few drinks inside him first.’ I turn to Richards. ‘We’re very keen on life work as you can see. I did mention that, didn’t I?’

‘I can’t really remember,’ says Richards, who is now grabbing an eyeful of Audrey’s knockers.

‘Drink?’

‘Yes please.’ His hand shoots out and he downs a mixture of sherry and brandy–randy shandy I call it–before you can say Cecil Beaton.

‘My goodness me.’ He gives a little laugh and shakes his head like a boxer trying not to let on that he has been hurt. ‘Interested in flash work, are you?’

June is giving him a flash already and it is obvious that she has been at the booze while my back was turned. I will have to watch them because they are quite capable of taking what is meant for another.

‘Get the flash bulbs out, will you, Audrey?’ I say nonchalantly. ‘I’ll start oiling Carmen.’

‘You’ll what?’ Richards is clearly interested and I give him another slug of randy shandy.

‘It brings the body tones up a treat. We’ve had some wonderful results. This is Carmen, by the way.’

The noise made by Richards is like air being sucked into a jet engine. I pick up a bottle of olive oil and pour a little between Carmen’s massive knockers. Richards is now making choking noises.

‘Do you think I’m standing the right way?’ asks Carmen. I think she comes from Walsall and she has a very flat voice–the only thing about her that is.

‘Well, I-er-um-er think it’s er-um, really a-um a question of um-er-lighting.’

‘You get on with this,’ I say pushing the bottle into Richards’ hand. ‘I’ll go and check the equipment.’

This is not going to take long, because we only have one Instamatic and a roll of black and white film, but I don’t tell him that. He is dabbing at Carmen’s body like he is varnishing a butterfly’s wing.

‘Let me fill up your glass,’ Audrey closes to his side and June brings up the rear–one of the best in Hoverton, I might add.

‘I don’t know if I should.’

‘Oh, go on, be a devil. Can you put some on me? No, the oil, I mean.’

Richards is starting to pour his drink down the front of Audrey’s bikini. He is going even faster than I had expected. Too fast, maybe. We want to leave something for his missus. I try and gently remove his drink, but he avoids my hand and takes another giant slug.

‘Remarkable brew, quite remarkable.’ He empties his glass and slams it down on the table so hard that the stem breaks. But does he notice? Does he fucia! ‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ he yodels. I think he might mean photography but my worries are groundless. He swills olive oil on his mitts and goes at Carmen’s knockers like he is trying to smooth out her chest to plant radishes.

A few moments later he is looking around for more customers. ‘Next!’ he hollers. Audrey’s bikini is torn away as if by a great hurricane and all the girls start giggling and closing in for the kill.

‘You’ve got to get your exposures right, eh?’ Roger nudges me in the ribs and obviously reckons it is the funniest thing anybody has ever said. ‘Who cares about the ball, let’s get on with the game. To think, that for all those years I was concentrating on my camera.’

June has taken umbrage at being left out of the action for so long and presses forward, her mouth an inviting inch from Mr Instamatic. But not for long! Like a lost piglet catching up with its milk supply, he launches himself on to her lips and I can see that in a couple of seconds the whole point of my carefully laid plans will be blunted in another gang bang. Carmen is already beginning to undo Richards’ belt and dear, loyal Audrey is fiddling with mine. Get orf! ‘What about Mrs Richards?’ I pipe above the uproar, pulling her old man off June before they can get any closer involved.

‘I thought she was joining us?’

‘Oh, yes. Yes, so she was.’

He tries to turn back to June but I grab her by the shoulder. ‘You’d better find out what has happened to her,’ I say, dragging him towards the door that joins the two apartments. Before he can say any more I have flung it open and bundled him through. There, strictly according to instructions sits Mrs R. filing her nails on the edge of the bed. She is wearing a black bra and panties set with suspender belt and black silk stockings. Gor!! I am on the point of throwing back Mr R. and going myself. Luckily, my native sense of decency gets the better of me and closing the door on my impulses I drop to my knees and peer through the keyhole. Well, I want to see that everything is alright, don’t I? I need have no fears. Mr R. falters for a moment, and then his eyes light upon the goodies spread out for him. In three strides, he has swept wifey back on to the bed and is fighting his way out of his trousers like an angry ferret escaping from a paper bag. Mrs R’s panties whip over her heels and like a bee late for an appointment with its queen he whips into the hive before you can say honeypot.

I would like to watch more, but you have to draw the line somewhere, don’t you? I wish someone would tell that to Carmen, Audrey and June. Regretfully, I turn away from the keyhole to see Carmen tilting the Randy Shandy bottle to her lips. Oh, no! If they have that lot inside them–I spring to my feet and sprint for the door.

‘Oh no you don’t!’

‘But girls–’

‘Getting us all excited and then ratting on us.’

‘Yes, but. Put me down! Stop doing that!’

‘If you’re not a good boy, we’ll go next door. We’ve got a fan there.’

That was the argument that clinched it. I mean. I could not allow my scheme to be spoilt at the last moment, could I? Let Mr R. get used to one bird first of all. Then he can build up later.

‘Is there anything left in that bottle?’ I say, as my jeans hit the carpet.

I don’t see the Richards again until they leave the hotel. Nine days and they never leave their room once! When Mrs R. sails through the front entrance on her way out, she looks a changed woman. I mean, she looks like a woman! Her old man slips me a fiver and gives me a big wink. ‘Buy the camera club a drink on me,’ he says, ‘they’re doing a grand job.’