‘Here we are, mate,’ says the taxi driver.
‘It’s right next to the tube!’ I say, aggrieved.
‘Yeah. You want me to move it into the middle of Hyde Park for you?’
‘It would have been just as quick by tube.’
‘Yeah, well you’re here now, Rockefeller. There’s a pie stall round the corner if you want to take the lady out to dinner.’
‘Are we there?’ says Miss Mealie, waking up.
‘’Ere! I know you don’t I?’ says the cabby, registering Miss Mealie’s face. ‘You’re on the telly, aren’t you? My kiddies all watch your programme.’
‘How nice,’ says Miss M.
‘Yeah. And my little Trampas has got a birthday next week. Do you reckon you could read out his name?’
‘Drop me a postcard at the studio and I’ll see what I can do.’ Miss Mealie delivers a royal smile and sweeps into the block of flats. The taxi driver is so bowled over that he does not even examine the miserably small tip I have given him.
‘She’s a lady, that one,’ he says, looking me up and down as if I am not fit to dust her microphone lead.
‘A real pro.’ I agree with him and follow Miss M. into the flat. This kind of reverence could become habit-forming. I cannot think why I have never considered show-biz before.
‘ “Trampas”! Did you hear that?’ sniffs Miss M. when I join her in the lift. ‘We had one mother write in whose brat was called Ajax.’
‘He might have been named after the football team.’
‘I don’t think so. We got a letter about his sister next week. She was called Vimia.’ Miss Mealie shudders. ‘God, but I need a drink. You’re coming in, are you?’
Try and stop me, I think. The investment I have made this evening should entitle me to a season ticket.
We leave the lift and walk down a corridor long enough to house a rifle range before stopping outside a door with two hundred and forty-seven on it. I am feeling the excitement I feel before the start of a football match. I know what to do, it is just a question of manoeuvring myself into a position to do it. Miss Mealie inserts her key and pushes open the door. Very nice too. Lots of polished wood furniture and spotlights, and a thick white carpet.
‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ I say, ‘and here – and here.’
‘Down, tiger.’ Miss M. disentangles herself from my probing fingers. ‘Let’s have a drink first.’
‘I like the ‘first’. That must be a good sign.
‘What would you like?’ she says.
‘Scotch would be fine.’
‘Ice, water?’
‘Just water, thanks.’
She wanders into the kitchen and I take a look round the flat. The bedroom particularly catches my eye. A low double bed in the centre of the room with a multicoloured patchwork counterpane. In the ceiling above is a circular mirror.
‘Do you like my bedroom?’ says Miss M., appearing beside me with my drink.
‘Fantastic. I didn’t imagine you in a place like this.’
‘I suppose you thought I lived in a bed-sit with a tabby cat and a pile of Beatrix Potters.’
‘Umm,’ I say, not quite certain what a Beatrix Potter is.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ says Miss M., lounging gracefully across a low divan. ‘What do you do for a living?’
‘Nothing at the moment.’
‘Resting? How very theatrical.’
‘I was working with my brother-in-law flogging cleaners, but we’ve packed that in now. I’ve done a number of things on and off. I worked in a hotel and at a holiday camp. And I was a driving instructor at one time. The first real job I ever had was cleaning windows.’
‘Cleaning windows! That must have been interesting.’ Miss Mealie’s eyes contain more promises than a Turkish Delight commercial.
‘Yes. It did have its moments.’
‘It’s funny you should have been a window cleaner because I have a friend who is looking for one at the moment. Justin Tymely. Maybe you’ve heard of him?’ I shake my head. ‘No? Well there’s no reason why you should have, I suppose. He’s a bit of a wheeler-dealer in the art-film world and he’s making a little epic which has some window-cleaning episodes in it. Maybe I can put you in touch?’
‘Yes please.’
Miss Mealie delves in her bag and draws out a crumpled card. ‘Yes, here we are. Tell him I suggested you got in touch.’
I look at the card which says ‘Justin Tymely–Managing Director, Trion Productions’, with an address and two tellyphone numbers. Very impressive. At last my luck is changing. Not only a famous telly personality but a star of the silver screen as well. I wonder if she knows anyone in radio? I just hope that success does not spoil me. Anyhow I must not think of myself all the time. This Lea-crazy bird is obviously waiting for me to make love to her so she can boast about it to all her friends.
‘You’re very beautiful,’ I say, leaning forward and gently removing the glass from her unresisting fingers. I spill a bit on the carpet, but I don’t think she notices.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘So are you.’
‘You don’t have to say that,’ I murmur.
‘You knew already, didn’t you?’
‘Kiss me,’ I say hurriedly and dive onto her lips, carefully tucking the glass away under the divan. Her lips are soft as rose petals and she kisses in a continuous nibbling motion, like half a dozen minnows attacking a piece of bread paste.
‘You smell nice,’ she says, when we come up for air. ‘Let’s go into the bedroom.’
‘I smell even nicer in bedrooms,’ I murmur, kissing her on the ear and thinking that it is no wonder that Cary Grant has given up making pictures. Poor old sod, what chance does he have with blokes like me around?
Miss Mealie takes me by the hand like I am one of her tiny charges and leads me to the bedroom. We stop by the patchwork counterpane and her fingers slide round to the small of my back. She eases out my black, Captain Whiplash, tapered, slim-fit, see-through, pure silk shirt and purrs contentedly as her fingers make contact with my bare flesh. I cannot blame her. I would probably react in the same way if I was touching myself for the first time.
There are thirty-eight buttons on the front of her long gingham dress. I know because I count them one by one as I unpop down from neck to navel while we trade kisses like they pay five pounds a hundred. She is wearing one of those half-cup bras which is so shallow it looks more like a saucer and her breasts swell over the top like the heads of a couple of glasses of stout.
‘Hello, Uncle Timmy,’ she breathes, ruffling the hair at the back of my neck and driving against my lips like she is trying to find a permanent anchorage. ‘Here’s to a mutually stimulating relationship.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ I murmur, ‘and what better vessel than your own beautiful mouth?’ I kiss her tenderly and gently tug