Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions. Rosie Dixon

you later. ’Bye!” I ring off as Natalie comes out of the front room.

      “Who was that?” she says.

      “Just Geoffrey,” I say, stifling a yawn. “He wants to take me out to dinner and the Wembley tennis.”

      “Should be very nice if you don’t mind eating off your knees,” says my revolting little sister. “I had to pack him in. He’s so mean and he only thinks about one thing.”

      I ignore her bitchy remarks but at the same time I can’t help thinking about the sex angle. Natalie has suggested before that Geoffrey is a bit of a handful passion-wise. With me he has always acted as if weaned on Horlicks tablets. Could it be that he finds me less desirable than Natalie? Of course, she does behave like a little trollop and wear the most obvious clothes—I will never understand why Mum lets her get away with it—but I would have expected Geoffrey to see through that. Still, he is a man—I think—and they can be very stupid sometimes.

      I stick my head round the front room door. “Sorry, Dad,” I say.

      Geoffrey arrives just when I knew he would. At ten to seven while I am still in the bath. This is not a great hardship because he goes into the kitchen and helps Mum with the potatoes—I can tell by the peel down the front of his Eastwood Tennis Club blazer. Mum thinks that Geoffrey is the greatest thing to happen to a girl’s marriage prospects since Artie Shaw. She is always telling me what a gentleman he is and what good prospects he has. I think she fancies him a bit, herself.

      “Sorry I was a bit early,” he says when I come down at twenty past seven. “Gosh, you do look nice.”

      “She’s not a bad looking girl, is she?” says Mum, almost swinging up and down on the bell rope.

      “Mum, please!” I say. “Geoffrey, will you look after these, for me?”

      Geoffrey pockets my lipstick and compact and leads me out to the car. I must say, it does look snappy. Pillar box red with white wall tyres.

      “I can let the seat back a bit if you find it cramped,” says Geoffrey.

      “That’s all right,” I say. “Just give me a shoe horn to get in.”

      I am not kidding. With both Geoffrey and me inside we have to open one of the windows before the door will shut properly.

      “Precision engineering,” explains Geoffrey. “No draughts.”

      “You mean, if we have all the windows closed, we suffocate?”

      “Not if you remember to switch on the air conditioning.”

      “That’s reassuring,” I say. “This wasn’t made by the same firm as the kamikaze planes, was it?”

      “I don’t know,” says Geoffrey seriously. “I’ll have to look at the handbook.” Poor Geoffrey. He doesn’t cause Jimmy Tarbuck any sleepless nights.

      “I heard a rumour you were giving up nursing,” he says.

      “Natalie told you?”

      “Well, she sort of mentioned it.”

      Typical, I think to myself. I’ll have to wait until Friday to see if she has put an advertisement in the local paper.

      “I decided I couldn’t make it my life work,” I say.

      “What are you going to do now?”

      “I haven’t really made up my mind. I might go into teaching.”

      “I hear there’s a big shortage.” Geoffrey makes it sound as if that is my only hope. I think he said the same thing when I told him I was going to become a nurse.

      “I think it could be stimulating,” I say.

      “I think you’re stimulating.” Geoffreys hand drops onto my knee like a lead spider.

      “Keep your hands on the wheel,” I scold, secretly glad that there is asign of red blood coursing through the Wilkes veins.

      “It’s not easy,” pants Geoffrey. “It’s been so long.”

      I am not quite certain what he is talking about so I don’t pursue the matter.

      “We’re going to the tennis first, are we?” I ask.

      “I’ve booked a table for ten.”

      “But there’s only two of us.”

      “I meant ten o’clock,” says Geoffrey.

      “I knew you did!” I nearly scream at him. “I was making a little joke.”

      “Oh, I see. Yes, very good.”

      “Where are we eating, Geoffrey?” I say patiently.

      “This new place I was telling you about.”

      “I remember that, Geoffrey,” I say grimly. “What is it called?”

      “Oh, um, Star of—no. The White—no. It’s somewhere near Goodge Street.”

      “You’ve been there?”

      “No. A bloke I know told me about it.”

      “Can you remember what his name was?” I say sarcastically.

      “I think it was Reg Gadney. No, wait a minute, it was—”

      “It doesn’t matter.” Honestly, Geoffrey is impossible. I can think of people I have seen on the party political broadcasts who inspire more confidence.

      “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll recognise it when I see it.”

      Unfortunately, Geoffrey reckons without the fiery Latin temperament of one of Stanley Kramer’s tennis stars. He hits a ball at a line judge and it catches Geoffrey smack in the eye. I am furious—Geoffrey’s choc ice goes all over my new skirt—and poor Geoffrey can hardly see anything. His eye swells up and he sits there for the rest of the match with his handkerchief over his face. The officials offer him a free ticket but I can’t see what good it is going to be if he can’t see anything.

      Some of these lithe, superbly muscled tennis stars with their film star good looks and brown hairy legs ought to make more effort to control themselves. They may think that they can get away with murder but as far as I am concerned, they are absolutely right. When I look at them and I look at the star of Eastwood Tennis Club I think that Geoffrey would be better off strapping both his tennis rackets to his feet and emigrating to Alaska.

      I keep hoping that the player who zapped Geoffrey will come over and apologise so that I can ask for his autograph, but at the end of the game he vaults over the net, punches his opponent senseless and disappears—goodness knows what would have happened if he had lost.

      “It’s over now, Geoffrey,” I say. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to see to drive to the restaurant?”

      “I think so,” he says. “You may have to help me get the food in my mouth, though.” Geoffrey is very English because he only makes jokes when he is suffering.

      The journey to the West End is a nightmare because I can’t drive and Geoffrey has to control the car with one hand over his injured eye and the other changing gear and holding the wheel. I start off by trying to help but when we have driven over the flowerbeds outside the town hall I leave it to Geoffrey. I feel such a fool because he has to cock his head to one side to see properly and I notice the other drivers nudging each other at the lights. They must think I have just socked him one for getting fresh. Fat chance of that!

      When we get near Goodge Street it is absolutely hopeless. Geoffrey can’t see anything and can’t remember anything and we drive up endless streets full of parked cars and dustbins.

      “You call out the names and I’ll see if any of them rings a bell,” says Geoffrey. “What’s that place over there? ‘Felice’? That rings a bell.”

      “Is