Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

knock on the door and I notice that Mrs Richards is wearing a frilly nightdress and a trace of make-up.

      ‘Morning,’ she says brightly, before I can open my mouth. The sparkle in her eyes may be the remnant of a tear or a return to the mood she was in when I first saw her.

      ‘Morning.’

      ‘I’m sorry about yesterday. I was very down in the dumps. I don’t know what came over me.’ While she is talking her hands are gripping the edge of the counterpane and she looks into my eyes as if trying to find something.

      ‘Don’t worry. I expect you felt a bit strange, being married and all that.’ I know Peter O’Toole would have put it better, but he had the education.

      ‘You’re very understanding. Do you often get women who burst into tears all over you?’

      ‘Not so far. I’ve only been doing this job for a week.’

      I give her a quick rundown on my curriculum vitae–no madam, it does not mean what you think it does–and she nods understandingly.

      ‘So you’re new at it, too?’

      I am not quite certain what she means, so I give her a sympathetic smile–at least, I hope it is sympathetic–and keep my mouth shut.

      ‘I’ve brought you some nice grapefruit segments,’ I say eventually, as her eyes continue to follow the passage of the blood round my body.

      ‘You’re so kind, you always try and bring me something nice, don’t you?’

      ‘It’s all part of the service.’

      She is a very appealing bird, this one, and I can feel myself getting my guinea-pig stroking syndrome (I got that word from ‘It Pays to Increase Your Word Power’. Thank you, Reader’s Digest.)

      ‘Roger said you were kind.’ Her lip starts to tremble. Oh, no! I can’t stand this again.

      ‘Shall I open the windows?’ I say hurriedly. ‘It’s a lovely day again.’

      ‘It’s all right. I’m not going to cry. I’m sorry.’ She puts down the bedclothes and smiles up at me. ‘Are you married?’

      ‘Blimey no. I mean, I’ve nothing against marriage of course. It’s just that I don’t think I’m ready for it.’

      ‘I should think you’re more married than I am.’ I don’t know what she means and my expression telegraphs it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she continues, ‘I wasn’t trying to be abstruse.’

      Just as well, I think, because I don’t know what it means.

      ‘I mean,’ and then she pauses.

      ‘Yes?’ I say helpfully.

      ‘My marriage hasn’t worked out quite the way I thought it would.’

      ‘Oh well, it’s early days yet. I’ve heard it takes a little getting used to. They say the first ten years are the worst.’ Her lip starts to tremble again. ‘I was only joking, of course.’

      ‘Sex.’ The word comes out of her mouth like a bullet.

      ‘Would you like it on your lap?’ I swallow hard. ‘I mean, the tray, of course.’

      ‘I haven’t. We’ve not–’

      ‘I’ll pour you some coffee, shall I?’

      ‘He’s always taking photographs.’

      ‘I’ve noticed. Careful, you’re spilling your grapefruit.’

      ‘He said he respected me.’

      ‘That’s very nice.’

      ‘I’ve never–’

      ‘That’s not so unusual. I mean–’

      ‘Neither has he.’

      ‘Oh.’

      The juice from her grapefruit segments has leaked on to the toast and she is looking out of the window as she talks as if speaking into a tape recorder.

      ‘I’d better take that before you spill everything.’

      ‘Oh, sorry. I don’t really feel hungry anyway.’

      ‘Where is he now?’

      ‘Roger?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘It sounds stupid but I think he’s gone home to mother.’

      ‘He’s left you?’

      ‘Not permanently. No, he was upset. We were both upset. I am upset. He’s coming back, I think. Oh, I don’t know.’ She looks as if she is about to burst into tears again.

      ‘Because you can’t–er–I mean, because you–er–haven’t got it together yet?’

      ‘ “Is there something wrong with us?” I’ve read books about it. Every magazine you pick up is full of articles about it.’ She suddenly looks me straight in the eyes. ‘I’m sorry. You must think I’m mad talking to you like this.’

      ‘No, no. That’s fine. It must be very trying for you.’

      ‘I feel that if I don’t tell somebody about it, I’ll go mad. I can’t talk to my mother. She wouldn’t understand and it would make her unhappy.’

      ‘You’ve talked to your husband about it?’

      ‘I’ve tried to, but you see, it’s difficult, because–he can’t, he hasn’t been able to.’ She blushes furiously.

      ‘It’s probably nerves,’ I say. ‘There have been times when I was all tensed up and I couldn’t–er–you know–’

      ‘Get it together?’ She manages a smile.

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘But–forgive me asking this. You can tell me to mind my own business if you like–the first time you made love, was it so difficult? I’m assuming that you’re not a virgin.’

      ‘No, I’m not,’ I say looking at the ceiling. ‘Well, let me see. It was a bit different for me because the bird I was–I mean, the lady in question was what you might call experienced.’ You might also have called her a raving nympho but I don’t want to labour the point. I can still remember us writhing amongst the potato peelings, the rain bashing down outside the kitchen window, my squeegee propped against the broom cupboard–happy days! ‘I don’t imagine,’ I go on, ‘that you have ever? No, of course, you said you hadn’t. And probably not, how shall I put it, fiddled about much either?’

      ‘My hymen has never been ruptured.’

      ‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ I say. I mean, it does sound nasty, doesn’t it? My Uncle Harry had a lot of trouble when his–’

      What I’m trying to say is that I am still a complete virgin,’ says the bird.

      ‘Oh. Yes. Well that can be a problem. I don’t think I’ve ever–er–had the pleasure with a virgin, if you know what I mean.’

      ‘Never?’

      ‘No, not never. Your husband is one, too, isn’t he?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Very ticklish. Like you say. You get the idea there aren’t many around these days. I know that’s wrong, of course. I’ve read those surveys in the Sundays. Most girls are still virgins when they get married, aren’t they? It must be the circles I move in, I suppose.’

      ‘So you can’t help me?’ Her face goes even redder. ‘I mean, with advice.’

      ‘Not speaking from experience, no.’

      Suddenly, I get an idea which would have occurred to any sane bloke about ten minutes before. I sit down on the bed and