‘That’s the name of the firm,’ says Sid. ‘Clever, isn’t it? We’re negotiating with Sir Henry for the use of his country seat, Long Hall.’
‘Shortly to be renamed Beauty Manor. It’s a residential course, you see?’
‘Sort of,’ I say. They are going a bit fast for me.
Wanda gives Sid a meaningful glance. ‘I think you had better leave us, Sidney sweetie. I want to show Timmy my credentials and give him a few tests.’
‘Oh yes?’ I clear my throat noisily.
‘All right,’ says Sid. ‘Have you got any films to be developed?’
‘Yes,’ says Wanda. ‘And this time, don’t take them to Boots. The address is on the label.’
‘Oh yes,’ says Sid, blushing. ‘I got some very old-fashioned looks when I went to collect them. Fancy dressing up a policeman in a wig. If I hadn’t seen his hobnail boots sticking out from underneath the perfume counter –’
‘Yes, yes. Very distressing,’ says Miss Zonker, waving Sid towards the door. ‘It will teach you to be more careful next time.’
Sid nods at me. ‘See you later, Timmo.’
‘Tra la, Sid.’
The door closes on my brother-in-law and Wanda Zonker subjects me to her penetrating gaze. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘But I have to scrutinise you.’
Hello! I might have guessed there would be a catch in it. Sidney never said anything about that.
‘You look alarmed,’ says Miss Z.
‘It’s what you were talking about,’ I say. ‘I don’t fancy it. I might want to have children one day and I’ve heard there’s no going back.’
Miss Zonker looks puzzled. ‘Your meaning escapes me,’ she says. ‘Perhaps I had better set your mind at rest by revealing some of my parts’ – in fact she says ‘past’ but she gives me a nasty turn for a moment. ‘I have studied in all the great salons of Europe: Lausanne, Madrid, Stockholm, Paris, Budleigh Salterton. Physical dancing, rhythmical massage, remedial culture, or any combination of the three. I am a founder member of the Volcanic Mud Institute and the Wax Lyrical and have received diplomas from the Papuan Cosmetologists Institute, the Greek National Electrolysis Society and the CBI.’
‘That’s amazing,’ I say. ‘It’s practically a science, isn’t it?’
Miss Zonker’s face clouds over. ‘What do you mean “practically”? We are scientists fighting the war against physical imperfection.’
‘But you don’t have any medical qualifications, do you?’
‘Medical qualifications?’ Miss Z practically holds the words at arm’s length with one hand while applying contractual pressure to her hooter with the other. ‘Our field of activity is so enormous as to defy restriction. There is no part of the mental or physical process that I will not grapple with.’ Her breasts heave when she says it and her eyes blaze. I can see that I have touched on something she feels strongly about. ‘Before we go any further there is one question that I must ask you.’
‘My cards are stamped up to date,’ I say.
‘Are you frightened of the human body?’
This was not the question I was expecting but it is still pretty easy. ‘No,’ I say.
‘Good.’ Miss Zonker suddenly unties the sash of her robe and – eek! She has shed her threads before you can say Roger Carpenter. ‘It’s only flesh, isn’t it? Shoulders, breasts, hips –’
‘Yes!’ I gulp. ‘But –’
‘Nothing to be ashamed of. We’re all the same underneath these dust sheets we call clothes. Take your trousers off.’
Oh dear. I never feel at my happiest when I am up against one of these forward ladies – especially when they come from somewhere in Eastern Europe. You never know what they’ve been used to, do you?
‘Is that really necessary?’ I say.
‘If you reveal signs of an inhibited nature you will be no good to us at Beauty Manor. Think of yourself as a sculptor and human flesh as your clay.’
I try to think about it but I find it difficult. Maybe it is because Miss Zonker is wrestling with my zipper. My, but she is a strong girl. She grits her teeth and – wheeeeeeeeeeh! The opening at the front of my trousers now goes down to my knee.
‘So sorry,’ she says. ‘Now you will have to take them off.’
‘They’re not even split down the seam,’ I say miserably. ‘I’ve only had them a couple of weeks. They were French.’
Miss Zonker removes a screen and starts fiddling with a large stills camera. ‘At Beauty Manor you will wear a toga,’ she says. ‘Right. Just a couple of snaps for the album. We intend to keep a case history of each of our employees. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind posing with that discus.’
‘Sidney didn’t discus this with me,’ I say, wittily. Miss Zonker does not say anything. I expect that, being foreign, she finds it difficult to understand our British sense of humour. ‘How’s this for the pose?’ I say.
‘Very nice,’ she says. ‘But I think it would be better if you took the discus out of your mouth. You look like one of those African women with a plate lip.’
‘Just trying to make it more interesting,’ I say. ‘How about this?’
‘That’s much better. There’s only one thing. It loses a lot with you standing there in your shirt and underpants. The socks don’t help a lot, either.’
‘I don’t like them much, myself,’ I say. ‘My gran gave them to me. You know what it’s like?’
‘Take everything off,’ says Miss Z firmly. ‘I want you naked.’ She starts clicking on spot lights and I have to shield my eyes against the dazzle. ‘Come on.’ I respond to the tone of brisk efficiency in her voice and start sliding down my Y-fronts. After all, she is a professional, isn’t she? If she has cabinet ministers on her books, she must be above suspicion. Funny about that photograph, though. I must talk to her about that.
‘Shove it up by your ear,’ she says.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The discus.’
Oh. For a moment I thought we were on to the remedial contortions.
‘This is just for the record, is it?’ I say.
‘That’s right. Bend your knee a bit. That’s lovely. Of course, we might get a cover shot out of it.’
‘A cover shot?’
‘ “Butch Male on the Rampage”, “Health and Dexterity”, something like that.’
‘But I’m not like that!’ I squeak. It’s funny how your voice always breaks at the wrong moment, isn’t it?
‘It doesn’t matter. Nobody’s going to know. It’s going to make money and that’s beautiful.’
‘Is it?’
Wanda Zonker speaks what I later learn is one of the great truths of the beauty business.
‘Anything that makes money is beautiful,’ she says, almost reproachfully. ‘Drop your shoulder and turn a bit more to the right. You’re showing too much puppy fat. We’ll have to work at those inches, won’t we?’ Her voice suddenly goes all husky and her shadow falls across one of the lights. ‘You’re still tense, aren’t you?’ She is now standing so close to me that her bristols are brushing my shoulder,
‘I’m not used to this caper,’ I say.
‘It’s