The Confessions Collection - Timothy Lea

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to bed. As anticipated, the room has cleared considerably since ‘Match of the Day’ started. A few blokes drift in for a nightcap but then it is just beautiful, ravishing, adorable, exciting, captivating Mabel and the three of us. Gregson does not reappear. I imagine he must have passed out on the bed once his trousers hit ankle level.

      I am not feeling so great myself but I reckon I can see off Mountjoy. He has been swilling the stuff down and I can spot the signs of galloping intoxication. His eyes are glassy and he is waving his arms about and dropping ash everywhere. Mabel is trying to appear interested in his boring drivel but I can see that it is an effort. Why don’t they both piss off and leave her to collect first prize?

      ‘What do you drive?’ Mountjoy is talking to me.

      ‘I don’t have a car. I find it easier to take taxis in London.’ I give Mabel a nonchalant smile and she trys to stifle a yawn.

      ‘What about you?’

      ‘Who, me?’ R.T. seems to be thinking about something else. ‘A car? I’ve got a clapped out old Bentley, actually. Rather fond of them, you know.’

      ‘Oh.’ Mountjoy is obviously disappointed.

      ‘Ooh,’ says Mabel, perking up for the first time in ten minutes. ‘They’re lovely, aren’t they? Ever so comfortable. Have you got it here?’

      R.T. nods absent-mindedly.

      ‘Yes. It’s in the garage.’

      ‘I must go and have a look at it. I love old cars.’

      Poor old grandpa. What an opportunity, eh? Now if it had been me I would have been round there showing her the back seat before you could say ‘Epsom salts’. But the stupid old sod just helps himself to Gregson’s last double and knocks it back in one swig. An X-ray of his liver would have to be preserved in alcohol.

      ‘Well, better be turning in, I suppose,’ he says. ‘Got a hard day tomorrow. Just time for one for the road. Same again for everybody, Mabel.’ I start to put my hand over my glass, but take it away hurriedly when I see Mountjoy’s contemptuous grin. Stupid prick! After the amount he has put away he would not be able to make a dent in a custard pudding. What is he trying to prove? And, most important: how the hell am I going to get rid of him? He looks as if he is going to stay at the bar till he drops.

      And then, magically, Mabel decides to take a hand – it is not what I would have offered her but I am not complaining. As she fills Mountjoy’s glass I distinctly see her add a dash of something from another bottle. She notices me watching and gives me a big wink. ‘Time for bye byes,’ she whispers, nodding towards Smart Alec. I wink back because it is obvious that she has decided to remove the one obstacle to the fruition of our mutual desires. Now a night of wild, passionate lovemaking beckons with open arms – not so much beckons as shouts ‘Come and get it!’

      I watch with interest as Mountjoy takes a swig at his drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand – he is so uncouth is Mountjoy. Sure enough he immediately shakes his head and nearly swallows his Adam’s apple.

      ‘Pheew!!’ he gasps. ‘What did you put in that?’

      ‘It’s what you’ve been drinking all evening, dear,’ says Mabel innocently.

      ‘Maybe you need a cup of coffee,’ I say provocatively. The reaction to that remark is exactly the one I had hoped for.

      ‘I could drink you under the table,’ sneers Mountjoy, and he seizes his glass and Bogarts it down the back of his throat. Mabel nods appreciatively and turns to me holding out a 5p piece.

      ‘I could do with some music, dear,’ she says. ‘Go and put on something soft and smoochie.’ She certainly spells it out, doesn’t she? I nip over to the jukebox and when I get back Mountjoy is sprawled across the bar with his head on his hands, snoring loudly.

      ‘No stamina,’ says R.T., looking down at him as if he is a panting retriever. ‘Ah, well. Cheerio!’ He raises his glass and I am forced to take another swig at my brandy and ginger. Christ! But that drink never seems to disappear. It is amazing how they don’t when you have had enough, isn’t it?

      Mabel is clearing up behind the bar and it is clearly only a matter of time before R.T. pushes off and leaves the field to me. I watch Mabel bend over to tuck away some empties and practically cream my jeans. The line of her panties shows through her skirt and I can see the shadow of her black bra through her white nylon blouse. It is wicked! Wicked!!

      I take another hefty swig to steady my nerves and suddenly feel a strange deadening sensation spreading through my limbs. Not the dreaded brewer’s droop! Not now! After all I have been through, all the ackers I have laid out!

      Mabel reaches up to start pulling down the shutters and I rise to my feet to help her and get a better view of her Bristols. At least I try to rise to my feet For some strange reason I only succeed in sliding off my stool and sitting on the floor. This is ridiculous! I claw at the edge of the bar and my legs buckle again.

      ‘Come on, old chap, give me your arm. That’s right. There we are!’ R.T. is pulling me to my feet and before me I can see the last shutter coming down.

      ‘I don’t know what –’ I begin, but R.T. is swift to soothe.

      ‘Had a drop too much I expect, old boy. It happens to all of us. Give me a hand, will you Mabel?’

      For a moment my spirits rise as every boy’s do-it-yourself action woman kit snuggles under my arm pit, but in my heart of hearts I know I am doomed. I must be pissed out of my mind. The tragedy of it! The complete and utter waste! Leaving Mountjoy still snoring on the bar, R.T. and Mabel guide my faltering footsteps down the corridor that leads to my room. With every step, I pray that I will begin to wake up, but I only get sleepier. By the time they steer me through the door I am practically out on my feet. I collapse on the bed and my eyelids slam shut like the cover of a night deposit box. The silence that follows unnerves me so I open them again. Standing in the doorway are Ragged Tash and Mabel. They are embracing. Not so much embracing as darn near eating each other.

      ‘Come on,’ I hear Mabel panting, ‘I can’t wait much longer.’ She dives onto his mouth again.

      ‘Alright, old girl,’ says R.T., giving one of her breasts a tweak, ‘anything you say.’

      The door closes on my sobs.

       CHAPTER THREE

      The next morning I wake up with a mouth like the inside of a yak’s carpet slippers and it occurs to me before the first ray of sunshine has penetrated my peepers that I have been well and truly nobbled. Mabel not only spiked Mountjoy’s drink but mine as well. The evil baggage only sent me over to the jukebox so she could do the dirty on me while my back was turned. The distress this realisation causes me is only matched by my awareness of the full implications. Mabel presumably fancied the stupid old publishing git to yours truly. What a carve up! She must be round the twist. I have heard of women preferring an older man, but this is ridiculous. Even ‘Homage to Brylcreem’ would have been better than that.

      I feel double-choked when I stagger down to breakfast and find R.T. tucking into a couple of kippers and a large pile of buttered toast.

      ‘Morning, old chap,’ he sings out, ‘feeling better?’

      ‘First rate,’ I lie. ‘How about you?’

      ‘Couldn’t be better. Slept like a log,’ he winks at me and I could punch his teeth down his throat. What makes it worse it that he does not mean to take the piss. He is trying to be kind and I cannot stand that.

      The next two weeks drag by like a life tour in the French Foreign Legion and I am at the end of my tether when exam time comes. Yes, we have exams. Lots of practical stuff with Belfry and his mates hamming it up as bolshy dealers and exasperated customers, and about five written papers with questions like, ‘A customer complains that the socket on her OK4U2P is constantly being

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