Eventually three of us manage to pull Thrust off her and he is carried away to his caravan demanding a bottle of scotch wrapped up in a warm starlet.
Dawn is less easily comforted and moans fitfully for almost ten minutes before we can get her onto her feet. During that time she has ‘sipped’ her way through three tumblers of neat brandy.
‘What fantastic commitment,’ burbles Loser. ‘I feel like a lightning conductor.’
It is occurring to me that this geezer is definitely round the twist and I wonder how long it is going to be before Sidney tumbles to the same conclusion. Several thousand pounds later as usual, I expect.
We lead Miss Lovelost back to her dressing room and I am fortunate enough to get my first supporting role on the left hand side of her body. This is in good shape and an ideal match for the right hand side of her soft and curvy frame. The upholstery may be on the move, but there is no doubt about the class of the article underneath.
‘Wait a minute,’ she wheezes as I attempt to follow my helpmate from her presence. ‘Can you give me a glass of water before you go?’
Naturally, such a request is well within my power and I watch with interest as she applies a trace of brandy flavouring to ‘take the taste away’ as she puts it. When I say trace I mean about enough to drown a guinea pig in. ‘Thank you, darling,’ she breathes – and what a breath. ‘I haven’t seen you before, have I?’ This is always a difficult question to answer but I nod agreeably and grant my eyes the freedom of her battered bodice.
‘Oh dear, I’m popping out all over the place,’ says Dawn. ‘Still, I’m certain you’ve seen worse.’
‘Oh, much worse,’ I assure her. ‘In fact I’d say you had a lovely figure.’
‘You should have seen me when I was first discovered. I was known as “The Made to Measure” girl. Betty Grable’s legs, Jane Russell’s bosom–’ ‘Trigger’s thirst,’ I think to myself. ‘Men beat a path to my door. They had to pile the flowers outside my dressing room for fear they’d use up all the oxygen.’
‘Not a word of that surprises me,’ I say. ‘I only wish I had a handful of blooms to thrust before you at this moment.’
I always find it easy to chatter to birds when they are pissed because in that condition I reckon they are not suddenly going to turn round and say ‘what are you on about, you stupid berk?’ With a chick who is totally compos mentis, my natural inferiority complex and fear of rebuff makes me more wary and tongue-tied. Fascinating, isn’t it? OK, so you don’t go in for deep psychological insights. See if I care.
‘You’re sweet,’ murmurs Dawn, touching me lightly with her hand. ‘It’s comforting to know that everybody on this awful movie isn’t a complete savage. Help yourself to a drink, darling.’
I ferret around for a glass and fix myself a small brandy. Experience of this kind of situation suggests to me that Miss Lovelost may be on the point of seeking comfort for the inner woman.
‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers!’
‘You don’t find my disarray too distracting?’
‘I do, but in the nicest possible way.’
‘You are a sweet boy. Very, very sweet.’ With these encouraging words she slides an arm round my neck and draws me down onto her generous mouth. When I say generous, I mean like it is trying to give me a second tongue. I don’t know whether it is the power of her kissing or the smell of brandy on her lips but I feel as if I am passing out in a burning refinery.
‘That was nice, wasn’t it?’ she murmurs, allowing me to escape for air. ‘Why don’t you turn the key in the lock? I don’t want to be disturbed while we’re talking.’
I have not been conscious of a lot of rabbit in the last few moments but I do not argue the point. This lady may well have much to teach a struggling young actor. I have always been prepared to bend over backwards in order to enjoy the fruits of other people’s experience. I dart across the room to perform the small service required of me and, from the door, treat her to a look of brooding intensity borrowed from an old Laurence Olivier film I saw on telly. She extends a graceful arm and it is obvious that we are going to make beautiful music together.
‘Don’t move,’ I murmur. ‘I always want to remember you like that.’
‘Come to me, you foolish boy,’ she burbles. ‘Don’t you realise this is madness?’
‘If this is madness then I envy every lunatic in the world.’ I collide with her cakehole and we enjoy the kind of kiss that would have been cut by fifteen seconds when Lassie was a puppy and still have had the film picketed by the Clapham Women’s Institute. Suddenly she breaks away and turns her head dramatically to one side.
‘But it can’t work. We’re being fools. Blind, stupid fools.’
‘Because you’re a rich, beautiful, talented star with fantastic knockers and I’m only a struggling extra? That’s no reason why we can’t snatch our moment of happiness. Oh, Dawn, Dawn. This was meant to be. It was written in the sky.’ If only one had music this could be really beautiful but unfortunately the only accompaniment is supplied by one of the grips turning up his transistor to get the racing results.
‘We can’t!’
‘We can!’
‘We shouldn’t!’
‘We must!’
‘Oh, Rupert!’
‘Dawn!’
I don’t know where she gets the Rupert from and I don’t care very much either. Probably one of the old movies she starred in. With practised ease she sinks back along the sofa and raises one knee so that the outline of her thigh swells temptingly. As my mouth adjusts to her new position, I drop my hand to her ankle and move it lightly up her extended leg under cover of her long skirt. Her skin is as soft as the inside of a tenderised marshmallow and I feel Percy lurching forward eagerly as my fingers send back the glad tidings. Fantastic thing, the human body, isn’t it? Just by looking at something you can make instant bone. Dawn’s hand slides round behind my neck and her fingers entwine themselves deep in my hair as she moulds my mouth against hers. I am now getting so used to the brandy fumes that I am hardly aware of them. Catching an eyeful of tempting tit I start to withdraw my mitt in order to get to grips with it but Dawn pins my pandy between her thighs and joggles them up and down in a gesture rather more inviting than an ‘at home’ card from your friendly local abattoir. Always try to keep the customer satisfied, is one of the golden rules I learned at my father’s knee – in fact it was somebody else’s knee I learned it at, but that is another story – as the builder said when his client asked him where the bedrooms were.
I move my trusty left hand forward, wondering idly how many battalions of fingers have passed this way before, and silently congratulate Charlie Dickens on having written his immortal classic before tights were invented. How delightful not to have to risk breaking your wrists when indulging in a spot of digit dunking. Encouraging moans suggest that Dawn likes what is happening at lap level, as does the eager pressure of her fingers against the front door of my brushed-denim flare-bottoms. Oh dear! Times without count I have bemoaned the lack of self-jettisoning clobber which could be instantly shed at moments like this, but the manufacturers refuse to do anything about it. There is nothing more passion pricking than trying to preserve physical contact whilst struggling out of skin-tight threads.
In the present situation I join Dawn on her couch and we entwine our arms and make a brave attempt to unlumber each other. Dawn’s dress is laced in at the back like a corset and I make no more impression on it than I would on a roll of chicken wire. Dawn has an easier task and Percy bounces out to make new friends before you can say Roger Carpenter. So far, so average but, capable performer that she is, Dawn cannot get my jeans below thigh level and I eventually have to disengage myself and finish