Confessions of a Lady Courier. Rosie Dixon

a bigger one inside, have you?’ I say, not, quite certain what he is talking about.

      ‘Come and find out,’ says Jeremy softly, spinning the wheel so that we dart into a convenient parking space.

      A few minutes later I am gliding upwards in one of those whisper-quiet lifts and feeling small shivers of excitement pass through me. I am going to visit a man’s flat. It is only a business visit, of course but I am still nervously tense. It is because I find Jeremy so attractive, I suppose. The lift stops on the top floor – just as well really! – and the doors slide open to reveal a roadway of carpet stretching away between wood-panelled walls.

      ‘It’s a fantastic place you have here,’ I say.

      Jeremy gazes at my body thoughtfully. ‘Uum,’ he says.

      ‘Wonderful views.’

      ‘Absolutely,’ breathes Jeremy.

      ‘I still haven’t seen that statue of yours.’

      Jeremy looks confused. ‘Statue?’ he says. ‘I find it very difficult to keep up with you sometimes.’

      I decide not to press the matter and follow him down the corridor. When a confusion arises I always find it better to pass on to something else.

      ‘Here we are. Sixty-nine.’ Jeremy holds my eye and winks and I wink back. I find his cheerful, down-to-earth approach very refreshing.

      Jeremy turns the key in the lock and ushers me in before him. I had been expecting a luxurious apartment and I am not disappointed. The furniture is very modern and uncomfortable looking and there are a number of those chairs that look like half-filled bags of cement. The lights hang in clusters like runner beans.

      ‘It’s very nice,’ I say.

      ‘Not bad, is it? What would you like to drink?’ Immediately he speaks, a warning bell rings in my ear. I have a notoriously weak head for strong liquor and attempts to be sociable have, in the past, led to incidents which can best be described as unfortunate. Experience has shown me that there is a certain type of man who sets out to achieve his way with women by getting them into a state of intoxication where they find it difficult to resist his blandishments.

      ‘You do drink, don’t you?’ A note of unease creeps into Jeremy’s voice. ‘Your job will require a fair amount of socialising with the punters and our continental contacts. If you’re teetotal I think we’d better forget the whole thing straight away.’

      ‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘I was just thinking what I would like. Do you have any cider?’

      ‘Cider!? They don’t drink cider on the continent – well, a bit in Normandy, maybe, but not very much. You want to choose something sparkling and zestful.’

      ‘A Babycham?’ I say, hopefully.

      Jeremy closes his eyes. ‘That’s not what I had in mind,’ he says with a sigh. ‘I think I’ll have to take you in hand. As a Climax representative you’ll be expected to introduce the punters to all the local drinks. It makes for good relations with the hotels, as well. They’ll be more favourably disposed towards us if they’re making a good profit in the bar. They might even give you a slice of the action. In France for instance you can ask for a “blanc cassis”, that’s a drop or two of blackcurrant liqueur topped up with white wine. It’s also known as a kir. Hang on a second and I’ll make you one.’

      Jeremy goes over to a trolley full of drinks and I think how kind of him it is to go to all this trouble. In the circumstances it would be very rude of me to turn my back on his advice.

      ‘It looks just like vin rosé,’ I say, when a glass of the sweet but pleasant mixture is put in my hand.

      ‘That makes a very good aperitif, too,’ says Jeremy, picking up another bottle. ‘I’ve got a very dry little number here that pops up just near St Trop. Knock that back and I’ll give you a snort.’

      ‘I’ll have to be careful,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to get tight.’

      ‘This kind of thing can’t hurt you,’ says Jeremy. ‘The French drink this all day and never come to any harm.’ His face becomes serious. ‘If you’re seriously worried about your ability to withstand the effects of a few social drinks, I suggest we abandon –’

      Quick as a flash, I pour the contents of my glass down my throat and stretch out a hand for number two. There is no point in becoming obsessive about my past experiences. A little more practice is probably just what I need. It may be because I drink so little that I get drunk so quickly.

      ‘Delicious,’ I say, taking a sip of the rosé.

      ‘There’s a suppressed fizz, isn’t there?’ says Jeremy. ‘A hint of high-spirited nuttiness that might bubble over into a froth of frivolity at the drop of a grape.’

      ‘The grapes of froth,’ I say, trying to show him that I have a sense of humour.

      Jeremy winces and I wonder if he understands my joke. ‘Then there’s schnapps,’ he says. ‘Very popular in the Low Countries. You know what Bismarck said?’ I am forced to shake my head. ‘Red wine for children, champagne for men, schnapps for generals.’

      ‘What about women?’ I say.

      Jeremy takes my empty glass and presses a small one full of a colourless liquid into my hand. ‘What about women, indeed!’ He makes a low growling noise and parts my hair with his nose. I am so taken aback that I nearly spill the contents of my glass. ‘I wish I found it easier to conceal my feelings,’ continues my prospective employer as if talking to himself. ‘You’re so overpoweringly beautiful that I just can’t control myself.’

      I feel sorry for the man immediately. What might have been construed as a crude pass takes on another meaning when allied to his confession of honest impetuosity. If he finds me attractive, can I really blame him? After all, I do feel drawn to him myself. The best thing is probably not to say anything about the incident.

      ‘It’s strong, isn’t it?’ I say, taking a sip from my glass. ‘A bit like gin.’

      ‘How perceptive of you,’ says Jeremy. ‘My goodness me, you are a find. I can’t wait to try my Bols on you.’

      ‘I beg your pardon!?’ I say.

      ‘Another favourite with our Dutch friends,’ he says, holding up a bottle. I read the label and feel guilt sweep over me. I am becoming almost paranoid in the way that I allow suspicion to prey on my mind. This friendly, open man is looking for assistance in running a highly complex and demanding business and I am treating him as if he is some kind of sex maniac. Shame on you, Dixon!

      ‘Leave the schnapps if it’s too much for you,’ says Jeremy, helping to make further mock of my unjust suspicions.

      ‘Waste not want not,’ I say, showing the bottom of my glass to the ceiling. Jeremy draws the empty glass from my fingers and switches on a smile that warms up his face like the bars of an electric fire. ‘I hope you don’t have the same effect on the customers that you have on me,’ he says. ‘If you do they’ll ask for their money back.’

      ‘What!’ I say, taken aback. ‘Surely I’m not that bad?’

      Jeremy laughs and takes my hand. ‘They’re paying for a sight-seeing tour of Europe. If I was one of them I’d spend all my time looking at you. I wouldn’t see a single sight.’

      ‘You are kind,’ I say. ‘I’m certain you don’t mean a word of it. You’re just trying to boost my confidence.’

      Jeremy kisses me lightly on the side of the cheek. ‘I mean every word I say. As surely as my name is Justin Cartwright.’

      ‘Justin Cartwright?’ I say, taken aback. ‘Your name is Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg.’ Jeremy snaps his fingers in irritation. ‘Of course it is. How stupid of me. I was using a pen name for a book I was writing and I got confused. You must think I’m mad.’

      ‘Oh