LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘There’s usually no one there,’ she says. ‘We’ll probably have the place to ourselves.’

      ‘Oh,’ I say, trying to sound as if I am considering indenting for a chaperone. ‘That will be all right, will it?’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ she pats my wrist in a friendly fashion. ‘But if you are getting something to drink, don’t make it too alcoholic. It goes straight to my head. A glass of wine would be very nice.’

      This is a bit of a blow because I have been considering investing in something calculated to rot the elastic in her knickers, but fortunately Dame Fortune is flashing her National Health dentures at me, as I find when I repair to the local off licence.

      Bosnian Bull’s Blood is the name of the brew concerned and it is apparently made by our friends in Bulgaria. Very nice people, I am led to believe, with large, black moustaches; much given to dancing round camp fires in gipsy costume. Anyhow, this is not what is running through my torrid little mind as I examine what it says on the label. ‘A high potency, fortified wine made to a centuries old slavonic recipe.’ Sounds all right, doesn’t it? Let’s see what a few tumbler’s full of that does for our relationship, I think to myself. With a bit of luck we will soon both be feeling rosy all over.

      I whip back to the rest room praying that I will have Miss D. to myself and sure enough, there she is unwrapping her cucumber sandwiches all on her tod. The room is not exactly calculated to bring tears of appreciation to John Betjamin’s eye but at least there is a kind of head-shrinker’s couch there, should we need something to fall back on.

      ‘Haven’t you got anything for yourself?’ she says.

      ‘I don’t eat much at dinner time,’ I say.

      ‘You can have some of these. I won’t eat them all,’ she says, indicating her daintily cut sandwiches. ‘I don’t fancy going out round here. The restaurants are absolutely filthy and you pay through the nose.’

      I nod my head in agreement and think what a berk I was not to buy a corkscrew. Luckily I have my penknife which has one of those things for getting stones out of horses hooves. Bloody stupid, isn’t it? I mean, think of the times you come across a horse with a stone in its hoof, whilst you’re always stumbling around looking for a bleeding corkscrew, aren’t you? No wonder we are becoming a third-rate industrial power. I chip away at the cork and eventually succeed in shoving it inside the bottle, sending a shower of wine all over my suit. I say the second word that comes into my mind and push my little finger into the neck of the bottle so that I can keep the cork out of the way while I pour some wine up my sleeve. Of course, I do not intend to pour wine up my sleeve, it just happens that way. It is amazing, but Cary Grant never seems to have this trouble.

      ‘Oh dear,’ says Rose, ‘are you all right?’

      ‘Fine,’ I say, nonchalantly wringing out my sleeve. ‘We’ll have to have it out of cups. Is that alright?’

      ‘Oh, oh yes, I suppose so.’ Rose sounds as if she is used to silver goblets but is prepared to put a brave face on it. ‘What is it?’

      ‘Rather an interesting little wine from central Europe,’ I say. ‘Young, but totally without pretension.’ I can’t remember where I got that from but it does not half get them going down at the Balham Steakerama, I can tell you. I say it about everything that comes along and the birds reckon they are drinking champagne.

      ‘Red wine, how nice,’ says Rose, extending her cup. ‘Now, tell me, what have you been doing since you joined HomeClean?’ Here it comes, I think to myself, the old third degree wrapped in the velvet glove. I take a sip of Bosnia’s gift to the free world and—yeeeps! By the cringe! I don’t know what they have fortified it with but it tastes like iron filings.

      ‘Cheerio,’ says Rose, raising her cup and it occurs to me that I should have given her the one with the handle. I watch her expression with interest and, at a guess, her reaction to B.B.B. matches my own. Revulsion mixed with a feeling of amazement that anyone should have dared to put the stuff in a bottle.

      ‘It’s different, isn’t it?’ I say.

      ‘Very,’ gulps my fair companion. ‘Now, come on. Tell me about yourself.’

      ‘I was born at a very early age,’ I say wittily, ‘and spent my first few days in hospital because I wanted to be near my mother.’

      Miss Dunchurch cranks her features into something resembling a smile and pushes me playfully on the shoulder.

      ‘No, you silly boy,’ she says. ‘I mean since you’ve joined HomeClean. I expect you’ve been round the factory?’

      ‘Oh yes. We did spend a day there. Very noisy it was. I found that everything looked the same after a while. I didn’t know whether they were making fridges or washing machines.’ I take another sip of plonk and am glad to see that Miss D. is keeping pace with me.

      ‘It’s a very complex business, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Especially when they are retooling for a new product.’ She leans forward eagerly and I nod my head and top up her cup before she can say no.

      ‘Very complex,’ I say, ‘but I don’t suppose I see as much of the factory as you do. As a demonstrator you must be dropping in all the time to keep abreast of new product developments.’

      ‘We don’t have a lot of innovations,’ she says. ‘Not like HomeClean. Your lot are always launching new products, aren’t they?’ I take another sip of the dreaded plonk and fan myself with my hand.

      ‘I must be careful,’ I say. ‘This is making me feel quite light-headed. I’m not used to drinking at dinner time.’

      ‘No,’ says Miss D., draining her cup impulsively, ‘neither am I. We were talking about new product development.’

      I look up from refilling her cup. ‘Were we? What were you saying?’

      ‘You were saying that there is a lot happening at the factory and I said that HomeClean had a reputation for launching lots of new products. Washing machines, especially. This new one sounds very interesting.’ She gazes at me open-eyed and I shake my head as if trying to remember something.

      ‘You know, I’m certain I’ve seen you somewhere before,’ I say eventually. ‘I know this sounds like some kind of corny routine, but you’ve never been in films have you?’

      Miss D. chortles modestly. ‘Who, me? Good heavens, no! I’m sometimes mistaken for Anita Ekberg but I don’t see it myself.’

      ‘Of course!’ I say, slapping my hand against my knee, ‘that’s who it is. I knew it was someone. You’ve got the same fantastic colouring and – forgive me mentioning it – figure.’

      ‘I’m a bit over-weight, I’m afraid. I shouldn’t be tucking into this.’ She holds up her cup and I am quick to refill it.

      ‘Nonsense. I think you’re marvellous the way you are. Really I do.’

      Miss D. holds up a restraining hand which I think is intended to indicate that she does not want any more wine. Unfortunately – for her, it arrives too late.

      ‘I can see you’re a salesman,’ she says, giving me a playful nudge. ‘All that flattery must go over well with your lady customers.’

      I flash on the famous hurt, misunderstood expression patented by generations of Leas.

      ‘I’m quite serious,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.’

      ‘I know, I know. I was only teasing.’ Miss D. pats me reassuringly. All this touching is good news because when a bird starts grabbing you it usually means that a spot of oggins is not too far away over the horizon.

      ‘Now tell me about this new washer.’ Miss D. tries to keep her voice relaxed and friendly but there is no mistaking the hard edge that creeps into it when she gets down to business.

      ‘New

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