Sex, Lies & Crazy People. John Hickman

arm around her shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze. “You’re giving me tremendous

      confidence. If only I can ensure everyone who pushes away from their table is happy.”

      “Oh, cheer-up,” Gramps encouraged, “If they’re happy, you won’t have to go sobbing outside in the gutter or running around like Chicken Little crying, the sky’s falling.”

      I held my head in my hands. “I haven’t a clue where to start and Dad’s no help. I’ve never cooked anything before.”

      “We’re in safe hands then,” Gran muttered, her head in a cupboard looking for the self- raising flour.

      Shirley Bassey’s What Kind of Fool Am I? belted out of the wireless while I searched for the Bisto gravy mix.

      In reception I paused to admire Gramps’ handiwork with the astonished looking

      melon-breasted Greek styled ladies. To me they looked more beautiful every day.

      I wondered how long it might be before Medusa the Gorgon would look attractive.

      My thoughts were interrupted when Dad felt the need to summarise.

      “With you bogged down in catering I’ve decided to manage front of house and the hotel finances.” His eyes searched mine for a response. I gave him none.

      He resumed, “Essentially the administration, the book-keeping, banking, accounts

      payable and receivable.”

      He noticed my far away look. “You do know the Greeks claim to have invented sex,” he smiled.

      “So they may have,” I replied tersely, “but we introduced the idea of using women.”

      Back in the kitchen, Gramps leaned in close and whispered to me. “He’s become our chief bean counter, a role in which he feels supremely comfortable.”

      “I’m glad he’s in his comfort zone,” I replied. “What about mine?”

      “At any given time your dad will know exactly how much he owes.”

      “True; and hopefully he doesn’t forget how much he owes us. Little gems like pay packets are yet to be discussed.”

      “At reception, in-between opening window-faced envelopes, he counts how many heads are in the restaurant.”

      “And calculates his losses while sucking a Valium.” I paused. “He’s moved on from Whisky.”

      “He also,” Gramps pointed out, “bores the tits off anybody silly enough to listen to him. But if there’s anyone listening to whom he owes money, I’m sure he’d be prepared to forget it if they are.”

      “For that, and other reasons, how’s about we nick-name the reception area—our

      arena of doom.”

      “I like that,” and then I confided to Gramps. “I feel adrift as though the kitchen is about to choke me.”

      “Tinned food may yet prove a deadlier weapon than the machine gun,” Gramps

      sniggered.

      Chapter 11

      On the Prowl

      In our arena of doom, Dad wore his cheesiest grin. He looked embarrassed when he said, “I’ve decided to turn some focus to my social life.”

      I looked bewildered.

      He continued, “Outside of family I don’t have a social life! Your mum and I were

      married for nearly twenty years. I’m unhappy being alone.” Dad turned away. I guessed he was misting up. “I miss her dreadfully, but now I’ve decided to do something about it.” He paused and brightened. “A new wife, and for Pandy a new mum is to become my principal interest in life, outside of the hotel.”

      That night at dinner Dad told us, “I’ve joined some singles agencies to go out on dates to meet women.”

      Gran and Gramps exchanged looks that conveyed they had mixed feelings.

      I could understand their point of view. Pandy was content cared for by Gran, and

      provided she didn’t misbehave, she had almost full run of the hotel. Run being the operative word. She’d been told to act as an adult, no running, no giggling in public. We were after all a business.

      Dad asked me to cover for him while he went out on a few dates.

      From the stories he told afterwards he’d been disappointed how mostly they were

      hardened control types with their own agendas.

      “That surprises me,” I said, “I’d thought there would have been a greater element of romance.”

      “Maybe they’re fed up, sitting alone in the dark, sipping gin and bitching about men,” Gran said shifting uncomfortably in her chair.

      Gramps was thoughtful. “What if they didn’t start off in the dark?”

      Gran let out another of her long, low sighs and mustered a pre-emptive strike by Groucho Marx. “I was married by a judge. I should have asked for a jury.”

      Gramps leaned close to me, “If your Dad’s not careful he’ll become tagged.”

      “Tagged as what?”

      He grinned. “That quiet, fucked-up bloke from the Harewood Hotel.”

      Chapter 12

      Wild Oats

      I had not had a girlfriend since before the death of Mum.

      I thought it appropriate to ask, “If you can get out and socialise, what about me?”

      “All right. You continue to hold the fort for me and I’ll reciprocate for you.”

      “That’s good but I see a problem.”

      “What?”

      “Well, you’ve sold your car. You needed the money and told us we didn’t need it,

      remember?”

      Dad shrugged. “You’ll have to use public transport or taxis like me.”

      At first I thought not having a car would cramp my style. That is if I had style. But quite quickly the penny dropped, who needs a shagging wagon when they’ve got a hotel?

      It was time to apply the Brylcreem, and drench myself in Old Spice. Look out ladies I’m sprinkled with horny dust and on the prowl.

      Bonking became the gastronomical equivalent of eating unbuttered, dry toast but there was no famine. Most nights a dry hump comprised a few grunts on top of a featherbed.

      Being lazy I never wanted to remake the entire bed if I could avoid it. I’d suggest we lay on top rather than within the crisp, clean sheets.

      Despite the manufacturer’s promotional blurb about their amazing sensitivity, I was convinced the downside was wearing a condom.

      I told Dad, “I might as well take a bath with a raincoat on.”

      He didn’t agree.

      Sex with a motionless woman was a bit of a mood killer. A bit like copulating with a statue, but guaranteed not to crumple the bedding too much. Self-esteem issues meant I

      remained semi-dressed, although more comfortable by far, if and when I loosened my tie.

      Never short of input from my loved ones, although not always complimentary, my family’s contribution after dinner continued in a deprecating vein. My grandparents were supportive but blunt.

      “That girl from the fruit shop was nice enough, dear, but her make-up’s a bit heavy, don’t you think?”

      “Heavy?