Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

her old man rolls up around tea-time. I had anticipated that the patient might need a bit more treatment that evening. I see them sitting there in the lounge with half a plate of digestives, and their little hands creeping into each other, and I think: that’s it, Lea, close your casebook, zip up your fly, it’s ten bob to a tin of Vaseline that things are going to be alright from now on. Just sit back and wait for your Duke of Edinburgh award.

      But, not for the first time in my life, I am wrong. Mrs R. has a strained expression by supper time and at the breakfast table next morning, there are definite signs of tears. Roger is fiddling with his camera strap. Oh dear. It looks as if all my hard work has gone by the board–or bored maybe. No? You’re probably right. Anyway, later that morning Mrs R. approaches me as I am subjecting the silver to a spot of spit and polish in the deserted dining room.

      ‘No good, huh?’ I say, reading her face.

      She shakes her head. ‘If you’re like other men, he’s not like you. Do you think there’s something wrong with him? Maybe he should see a doctor?’

      ‘Don’t suggest that to him. That’ll turn him right off. No, he just needs a bit of a boost somehow.’

      As I speak my eyes wander down to the end of the room to where Carmen is bending over to adjust a table leg. Yeah. That chick could defrost your refrigerator by brushing against it. At the back of my horrible little mind an idea begins to lurch forward.

      ‘Banging away with his camera, is he?’ I ask.

      ‘Yes, it’s the–’ she bites back what she was going to say and gives a resigned little shrug. ‘How long is this likely to go on for?’

      ‘It’s only temporary. I’m sure of that, but–’

      ‘But what?’

      ‘Well, just to be on the safe side, we ought to give him a feel-up, or whatever it’s called.’

      ‘A fillip?’

      ‘Precisely. I mean, you’re only here for two weeks, I suppose. You don’t want to hang about any longer than you have to.’

      ‘But surely you can’t do anything to him–I mean physical?’

      ‘Blimey no. What kind of bloke do you think I am? No, there are pills and stuff like that but I don’t recommend them. They can get a bit out of control if you know what I mean.’ I think of the Shermer Rugby Club and my blood runs colder than an Eskimo’s chuff.

      ‘So, what then?’

      ‘I haven’t quite worked out the details yet, but I think he needs a bit of mental stimulation. He’s concentrating on you so much he gets uptight every time he lays a finger on you. If we can broaden his horizons a bit–’

      Later that day I get Carmen, June and Audrey on one side and fill them in on my plan of campaign. Being the kind of gay, fun-loving girls they are, they express themselves as being only too glad to oblige. My real stroke of luck is when I find that the apartment next to the Richards’ bedroom is falling vacant the following morning. Not only that but there is a connecting door between the two suites and it opens into the Richards’ bedroom. My cup over-runneth!

      A spot more organisation and next morning finds me gliding up behind Mr Richards as he makes for the front entrance clasping his Leica as if it is the only thing left in the world.

      ‘Oh, Mr Richards. Sorry to trouble you but I wonder if I could ask you something?’ He shrinks away from me as if the only thing I could be asking him is ‘Why can’t you get it up your old lady?’ But luckily my up-bringing has protected me against such crudity.

      ‘I remember your wife talking about your success as a photographer, and I wondered if I could ask you to give us a few tips. When I say “us” I mean the Cromby Photographic Club. There’s one or two of us very interested in still lives.’

      ‘Well, that’s very flattering. I don’t see how I can refuse.’ Richards looks happy for the first time in days. ‘Don’t get any ideas about me being a great performer, though. Daphne is inclined to exaggerate.’

      ‘Daphne?’

      ‘My wife.’

      ‘Oh, of course. It’s lighting that is the trouble with us. Use of flash. All that kind of thing. If you could give us a few hints on positioning models. I’ll get one or two of our members along.’

      ‘Delighted. What time would you like me?’

      ‘Let’s say midday. Then you can join us for a little drink.’

      ‘Delighted. Absolutely delighted.’

      At five minutes to twelve I have June, Audrey and Carmen draped around the semi-darkened apartment. Audrey is wearing a bikini that looks like two elastic bands with three knots in them and heels so high you could use them for planting potatoes. June is sporting a sheet–cot-size so it does not conceal the fact that she is starkers–and Carmen is wearing a dab of Chanel No. 5 behind the knee caps–nothing else to distract you from her manifold charms. I get her standing in the darkest part of the room and pour half a bottle of brandy into the half bottle of sherry I have nicked from Dennis the barman. If this lot does not get him going, nothing will. Tap, tap! ‘Come in, Mr Richards. Very kind of you to come. Is Mrs Richards joining you?’

      ‘In a minute, I hope. She’s suddenly decided she wants to change her dress. Very dark in here, isn’t it–Oh, my God!’

      I bend down and give June her towel back. ‘Don’t overdo it, dear,’ I hiss. ‘Let’s get a few drinks inside him first.’ I turn to Richards. ‘We’re very keen on life work as you can see. I did mention that, didn’t I?’

      ‘I can’t really remember,’ says Richards, who is now grabbing an eyeful of Audrey’s knockers.

      ‘Drink?’

      ‘Yes please.’ His hand shoots out and he downs a mixture of sherry and brandy–randy shandy I call it–before you can say Cecil Beaton.

      ‘My goodness me.’ He gives a little laugh and shakes his head like a boxer trying not to let on that he has been hurt. ‘Interested in flash work, are you?’

      June is giving him a flash already and it is obvious that she has been at the booze while my back was turned. I will have to watch them because they are quite capable of taking what is meant for another.

      ‘Get the flash bulbs out, will you, Audrey?’ I say nonchalantly. ‘I’ll start oiling Carmen.’

      ‘You’ll what?’ Richards is clearly interested and I give him another slug of randy shandy.

      ‘It brings the body tones up a treat. We’ve had some wonderful results. This is Carmen, by the way.’

      The noise made by Richards is like air being sucked into a jet engine. I pick up a bottle of olive oil and pour a little between Carmen’s massive knockers. Richards is now making choking noises.

      ‘Do you think I’m standing the right way?’ asks Carmen. I think she comes from Walsall and she has a very flat voice–the only thing about her that is.

      ‘Well, I-er-um-er think it’s er-um, really a-um a question of um-er-lighting.’

      ‘You get on with this,’ I say pushing the bottle into Richards’ hand. ‘I’ll go and check the equipment.’

      This is not going to take long, because we only have one Instamatic and a roll of black and white film, but I don’t tell him that. He is dabbing at Carmen’s body like he is varnishing a butterfly’s wing.

      ‘Let me fill up your glass,’ Audrey closes to his side and June brings up the rear–one of the best in Hoverton, I might add.

      ‘I don’t know if I should.’

      ‘Oh, go on, be a devil. Can you put some on me? No, the oil, I mean.’

      Richards is starting to pour his drink down the front of Audrey’s