The Confessions Collection - Timothy Lea

Скачать книгу

but is it really going to sell? This increase in spin speed, seven per cent – it doesn’t seem a lot to me.’

      H.C.S. ‘It’s equivalent to what two elephants can squeeze out of a wet bath towel after Britain’s strongest man has had a go. “The Jumbo Extra” – that’s what we call it in our advertising.’

      D. ‘Well, I don’t know.’

      H.C.S. (Closing fast) ‘Come, come, Mr. Dealer. It’s a first rate produce backed by first rate advertising. Let me put you down for a dozen and I’ll tell you what I’ll do. With every three I’ll give you two tickets for our “Dealer of the Month, free weekend at Skegness” Draw. Can’t be bad, can it? Nice Weekend at Skeggers. Now, do you want them delivered direct or routed through your wholesaler?’

      D. (Seeing it is nearly time for the coffee break) ‘Direct please.’

      H.C.S. (Also noticing the clock) ‘Excellent! Now, let me give you a hand to move those television sets out of the window.’

      Sounds no trouble at all, does it? But remember, this is only play acting. In real life it can be rather different.

      Being cooped up in Knuttley Hall all week is enough to drive anyone round the twist and by the time Saturday night comes and we are allowed to the bar, I am beginning to wonder if Sid’s idea is any better than most of the others I have got lumbered with. One reason that makes the bar so attractive is that it encloses the only bird in the place under sixty. On Monday when I glimpsed her through the open door she looked passable, on Tuesday she was quite a nice bit of stuff, on Wednesday she was a definite looker, on Thursday I couldn’t understand why the M.G.M. talent scouts were not camped outside the front door, and on Friday – well, on Friday night I had a very disturbing dream about her.

      What I also learn about this bird is that she is as game as a three-month-old pheasant. She has a flat on the premises and apparently all you have to do is hang around ’til the bar closes, help her put up the shutters and you are in like Flynn. She loves it!

      Comes Saturday night and I pour about half a gallon of after-shave lotion all over myself and slip on the trendiest gear I reckon I can get away with at HomeClean. Most of the other blokes on the course would have difficulty getting their ends away on a whore-house outing and the only competition I can see comes from a bunch of publishers’ sales managers who are using Knuttley Hall for some kind of training course. They look as if they have a few bob but I cannot see them causing me any trouble. Not very with it, most of them, and a bit on the old side. I can see them all settled down in front of the telly by ‘Match of the Day’ time.

      One poor old sod I really feel sorry for. He is the ‘Flying Officer Kite’ type with a droopy moustache and a faded double breasted blazer flapping over his paunch. He looks about as trendy as an old English sheepdog. There he is, tucked in close to the till with a double scotch in his hand and he has not got a hope in hell of getting near Mabel. Yes, that is the lady’s name – Mabel, and apparently very able with it. I gaze at her full, ripe breasts and begin to go weak at the knees. Just shows what five days without the company of a woman can do for you. And to think that when they carried me out of Alma Stokely’s office I never wanted to see one again.

      Mabel has her hair swept back and little golden wisps of curl frolic round her lug holes. I am becoming almost dewy eyed as I gaze at her. I imagine kissing her beauty spot and then settling on those warm, inviting lips –

      ‘Steady on, mate!’ The man beside me at the bar springs aside as I unconsciously rub my leg against his in time with my thoughts.

      ‘I’m sorry. I thought it was a bar stool.’

      ‘Oh yes. Well, you want to watch out.’ He nods his head at me as if issuing a warning against producing any more evidence that I am a raving pouf. I really must get a grip on myself before I do something stupid.

      I move to the other end of the bar and order a scotch. This I decide, after the third one, is not a good idea because I drink them too fast. So I switch to pints of bitter, but this is an even worse idea because I keep having to go to the toilet and I reckon that this must lower my virility rating in Mabel’s eyes. Eventually I decide to have something I don’t like because I won’t drink it so fast and switch to brandy and ginger.

      By nine o’clock I realise I will have to watch myself because I am showing faint signs of becoming pissed – stubbing fags out in the crisps, that kind of thing. There are five of us at the bar including Ragged Tash and it occurs to me that all of them, with the obvious exception of R.T., have the same aim as myself. They are nursing their drinks and giving Mabel the whole eye-bashing treatment every time they order a new one. Only poor old R.T. calls Mabel m’dear’ and knocks back the scotch like they are giving it away.

      I play it cool with all the suave, man of the world, Jenny say quoits, that has made me the toast of Mecca ballrooms from Hammersmith to Purley. Nothing obvious, I just drag my mince pies across hers occasionally and nonchalantly run my finger round the rim of my glass as I fiddle with the beer mats. It is all copy book stuff.

      At about half past ten one of my rivals begins to turn green and hurries from the room not to return. That only leaves two serious contenders for Mabel’s hand and more private parts, A dark, thick-set, curly haired bloke called Gregson, and a real grease ball, smart alec, stuck with the monicker of Mountjoy.

      Mountjoy obviously fancies his chances in the booze stakes and decides that it is time to put the pressure on.

      ‘I think these gentlemen could do with a nightcap,’ he says, winking at Mabel. ‘Give them a double of whatever they’re drinking.’

      He must have a few bob because we are all on spirits. R.T.’s glass flashes out ahead of the field and I think what a lucky old sod he is to cash in on our private rivalry. I have no intention of buying another round but Gregson has reinforcements standing by before I have finished my first double and I can see that he and Mountjoy are clearly gunning for each other. Maybe there is a chance for me here.

      ‘I can see you lads haven’t had a drink for a week,’ says Mabel.

      ‘That’s not all we haven’t had,’ leers Mountjoy. He tries to put his hand on top of hers but she avoids it and calls him a ‘cheeky monkey’. Nevertheless, the way she rolls her eyes towards the ceiling and gives a little tit-bouncing shudder, convinces me that I am on to a winner, or will be when these poor mugs have finished drinking themselves to death. One thing I have never cracked on about is my ability to hold my ale, but it is considered pretty highly in Clapham circles I can tell you.

      I finish my first double and note with satisfaction that Mountjoy and Gregson are well through their second. Ragged Tash has finished both his and is ordering another round. Honestly, I don’t know where he puts it. He has not left the bar the whole evening. Probably scared of falling over if he stands up.

      To my disgust Gregson leans across the bar and starts whispering something to Mabel. I crane forward and, in my eagerness, knock over a soda syphon. I snatch at it and succeed in directing a healthy squirt onto Gregson’s lap. Mabel laughs and Gregson squares up to me.

      ‘You did that on purpose!’ he snarls.

      My reply has to be handled very carefully because although I do not want agro with Gregson, I would prefer Mabel to think that my little slip was a cunning ploy to seize her undivided attention, rather than the action of a clumsy, half-pissed berk.

      ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I say. ‘My hand must have slipped.’ I give Mabel a knowing grin and she adds to Gregson’s discomfiture by giggling and throwing him a dishcloth.

      ‘Must have thought you needed a fire extinguisher,’ she chortles. ‘Here, cop hold of this, you’d better rub it yourself. We don’t want any talk.’ She rolls her eyes again and I darn near dive over the counter. What a little darling!

      Gregson limps off to change his trousers and that leaves smoothie-chops Mountjoy and me – well, there is poor old R.T. but he doesn’t count. He sits there politely and listens to Mountjoy rabbiting on about the extras on his Ford Capri and how he

Скачать книгу