Confessions of a Lady Courier

Harriet Green is the latest in a long line of Mrs Greens and seems to have much in common with her old man when it comes to instant relationships. I am glad I don’t have a mother and father like that. Natalie is the nearest to what you might call being promiscuous in our family.

‘I know just what you mean,’ I lie – Penny is so ‘with it’ that I don’t want her to think that I am as natural and unaffected as I really am. I am certain that she thinks of me as being very dull. ‘I’m finding it very boring here,’ I say. ‘In fact, I’m already thinking of becoming a lady courier.’

I do not expect Penny to be very enthusiastic but she jumps at the idea. ‘Sizzling privates!’ she exclaims. ‘What a top hole wheeze. Give me the particks and I’ll flash them my credentials. Mumsy was always bemoaning the fact that I never did anything with my French.’

‘You speak French?’ I say, wishing that I had kept my mouth shut.

‘Only fluently,’ says Penny modestly. ‘It’s not as good as my Italian. I was finished on the continent, you know. In fact, I started there. Did I ever tell you about the man who rented out the parasols at St Trop?’

‘The one with the hairy wrists and the big – er, the big –’

‘Yes, that’s the one,’ says Penny cheerfully. ‘Beginner’s luck I always called it – though I wasn’t so certain at the time. It comes as a bit of a shock when you’re thirteen. Just as well I’d done a lot of riding.’

‘Quite,’ I say. Thirteen! Just think of it. I was eighteen when Geoffrey Wilkes first took advantage of my condition behind the heavy roller – or tried to. I’m still not quite certain what really happened.

‘Why are you blushing?’ hisses Natalie at my elbow. ‘Is it an obscene telephone call? Just breathe right back at them, that’s what I always do.’ In the end, I give Penny the particulars and rush upstairs to make quite certain that my letter of application gets in the post first. I am a little surprised that Climax Tours operate from Dalston High Street but I suppose that they can’t all have smart West End offices. Probably just as well when you think about it. It could be why so many of them go bust. All these overheads and ritzy brochures and things.

Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg is the name of the man I have to write to and I find it very reassuring when I see it written on an envelope. He sounds like a real gentleman, doesn’t he? I expect that he has travelled extensively and visited all the hotels we will be staying at. I don’t want to sound too unkind about Sammy Fish but he was not what Mum refers to as ‘being out of the top drawer’. I must take after her, I suppose, because I always have this hankering after someone smooth and well bred who will sweep me off my feet and introduce me to a world of elegance and luxury. Maybe Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg will turn out to be the ‘Mr Right’ I have been saving myself for – spiritually, that is. As I have said many times, virginity is a state of mind and nothing that happens to the body can affect one’s untainted status provided that one’s will is not a party to it. I have found myself in many unpleasant predicaments but never one, thank goodness, in which I have felt my Everest-high principles to be in danger of compromise. I pop the letter in the post and spend a couple of nerve-racked days waiting to see what the reply will be. I should think that such a glamorous sounding job will encourage a lot of girls to write in and my fear is that quite a few of them may share Penny’s proficiency in foreign languages. I carefully study the parts of the sauce bottle label that have not been obscured by Dad’s sloppy pouring – ‘cette sauce est de haute qualité. Une mêlange, etc’ – but in my heart of hearts I know that I have left it too late.

On the fourth day the appearance of a lilac-coloured envelope on the front doormat coincides with the sound of our neighbour’s dog trying to rip the back out of the postman’s trousers and I know that the moment of truth has arrived. With faltering fingers, I tear open the envelope and dart my eye over its contents: ‘Thank you for … letter. Hope you can … attend … interview. … 11.15 Monday. Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg.’ My heart leaps. The first hurdle overcome. Now all I have to do is make a good impression at the interview.

On the appointed day I take a bus down to Dalston and make my way along the High Street. It certainly gives you a reassuring feeling of ordinariness. There is nothing sharp or flashy about it. I am wearing my blue wool interview suit with a yellow blouse that has just the trace of see-throughs about it. I don’t want to be brazen but on the other hand, my breasts are one of my best assets. There is no point in being over-prim. I have no difficulty at all in seeing the ‘CLIMAX’ sign. It projects out into the street and flashes on and off. Mr Rafelson-Bigg is obviously switched on to the benefits of advertising. Below the sign is a large expanse of coloured glass with the drawing of a man and a woman on it. They are stretched out in a position that can best be described as horizontal and don’t appear to be wearing any clothes. I suppose they are meant to symbolise the sense of freedom you experience when you book a Climax holiday but it does seem a bit near the knuckle.

I take a quick look at myself in the mirror of my compact, make a few last minute repairs, and push open the door. The interior is not what I had been expecting. There are a lot of counters and at first glance it looks like the interior of a rather posh Woolworths. Perhaps Mr Rafelson-Bigg shares the premises with another firm.

‘How can I help you?’ The voice at my elbow is warm and reassuring and belongs to a pleasant-faced woman of about thirty.

‘I’m looking for Climax,’ I murmur.

The woman shakes her head admiringly. ‘If only everyone could be so frank. It would be so much easier to help them.’

‘Yes,’ I say, wondering what she is getting at.

‘Do you want something you can use with your partner?’ She moves towards one of the counters and I follow her, feeling more and more confused.

‘I don’t have a partner,’ I say. ‘There is my friend, Penny. She may be coming. I’m not quite sure.’

The woman stops and looks at me strangely. ‘Penny?’ she says after a pause. ‘I see. And you’re not quite certain whether she’s coming. Have you asked her?’

‘Not in so many words,’ I say. ‘I sent her all the particulars in a letter. She was very interested.’

‘That’s half the battle,’ says the woman. ‘But you must be careful. If you get too interested, too overwrought, then tension can set in. You must try and maintain a balance between freedom and control.’ She smiles at me sympathetically and I gulp. What is she talking about? She picks up a box from one of the counters. ‘Have you ever thought about a Cosiprobe Vibro-Massager?’ The woman is obviously labouring under some misapprehension about the purpose of my visit.

‘I’m – er looking for – er something – Bigg,’ I splutter. I always forget names when I get flustered.

‘Something big!?’ The woman’s face registers amazement. ‘This is the biggest we do. I don’t think there is a larger size. Maybe if you teamed it up with one of our slip-on Sensation Builders? Have you ever tried the Tweaker? Or the Stroker? Or the Squidger?’ She holds up something that looks like a finger stall with varicose veins and I take a step backwards.

‘I’m looking for the Managing Director of Climax Tours!’ I say, noticing that a degree of strain is creeping into my voice. ‘Can you please direct me to him. I do have an appointment.’

‘Climax Tours?’ Now it is the woman’s turn to look bewildered. ‘You’re looking for Climax Tours?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You mean, I’ve come to the wrong place?’

‘This is Lovecraft,’ says the woman, shedding the charm like it is an old skin. ‘You want the top floor flat next door.’

‘Lovecraft!?’ I squeak. ‘You meant that – oh no!!’ I start to retreat towards the door and knock over a pile of books entitled Eros Blows His Horn. The picture on the cover is – well, I just can’t bring myself to describe it. It certainly has nothing to do with playing the trumpet. When I get out on to the street I am still blushing. How silly of me not to notice the big sign saying Lovecraft. It is certainly a lot easier to see than the dog-eared card pinned under one of the bell pushes next door. ‘Climax Tours’ it says, plus the name of an outfit called ‘Sunfun’ which has been crossed out. There are also two other names beside that of Rafelson-Bigg which have an untidy biro line through them. I can’t really be certain but one of them looks like Sidney Noggett. Changes have obviously been made in the organisation since the cards were printed. Whilst I look and ponder, two figures appear beside me and start to scrutinise the column of names eagerly.

‘That’s him, Henry!’ says one of them triumphantly. ‘You get up there and sort him out.’ The speaker is a large suntanned woman wearing a plastic mac and a determined expression. Her companion is male and less forbidding, but equally suntanned. He stretches out his hand, gulps, and presses the bell.

‘Don’t do that, you fool! You don’t want to let him know you’re coming.’

‘I’m sorry, Edna,’ says the man, meekly. ‘Don’t you think it would be best to try and achieve retribution though the medium of a solicitor?’

‘Don’t weaken, Henry,’ says the woman, seizing him by the elbow. ‘That’s not what you were saying in Timbuktu. You were going to tear him limb from limb.’

‘I know, dear. But I was a bit overheated.’

‘I’m not surprised, it was a hundred and twelve degrees in the shade!’

While the couple argue, I wonder about the reason for their suntans and the fact that the man is wearing one of those burnous things that Omar Sharif used to dress up in before he became an all-round entertainer. Could it be that they are dissatisfied customers of my, hopefully, future employer?

‘We were told not to leave the camel train,’ says the man meekly. ‘I never thought that there was going to be a short cut across that desert.’

‘Don’t weaken, Henry!’ says the woman. ‘We would never have had to go on those camels if the coach hadn’t broken down. The only thing that kept me trudging along under that merciless sun was the thought of this moment. Now, get up those stairs!’

Henry is still protesting as he makes his way up the narrow staircase but he clearly knows who wears the baggy trousers. I follow, eager to catch my first glimpse of Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg and see how he deals with what could, potentially, be a ticklish situation. The staircase winds up and up and I am quite exhausted by the time I see the fanlight. Edna and Henry have obviously been hardened by their experiences and their breathing shows no signs of having quickened as they pause by the final flight of stairs. At its head is a door with a frosted glass panel bearing the legend ‘Climax Tours – where the other people don’t take you’.

‘You can’t argue with that,’ says Henry, wryly.

‘Don’t just stand there,’ says Edna. ‘Get in there and have it out with him. We want our money back and compensation for all the hardships we’ve suffered.’

Henry swallows hard and edges his slight frame towards the door, brushing the pyjama cord round his burnous out of his eyes. I shrink back into the shadows.

‘Miss Dixon?’ The voice is barely a whisper and comes from directly behind me. I turn and see a sign which says ‘Please leave this toilet as you would be amazed to find it’. The suave, upper crust whisper has come from behind the door which is slightly ajar.

‘Yes,’ I murmur. ‘What –?’

‘Sssh!’ A jacketed arm revealing one and a half inches of crisp white cuff appears round the door and a long finger oozing character and decisiveness beckons to me. I watch Edna follow Henry through the door of the Climax office, and do as the finger bids me.

Standing in front of the toilet is a tall, elegantly dressed young man carrying a briefcase. I am glad to be able to report that everything about his clothing is as it should be. He draws me towards him and closes the door.

‘Sorry about this,’ he says. ‘I’m Jeremy Rafelson-Bigg. It must seem a bit strange, interviewing you in the loo.’

‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘That’s quite all right. I mean, well – I suppose it is a bit unusual.’

‘Going through a very trying time at the moment,’ says Jeremy, offering me a cigarette and nonchalantly tapping one against the cistern. ‘The trouble with this business is that you’re at the mercy of other people. Hotels, drivers, mechanics –’ he pauses and looks me up and down – as much down as he can in such a confined space ‘– couriers, even. It’s a swinish responsibility trying to tie up all the loose ends.’

‘It must be very difficult,’ I say.

‘And of course, you know who carries the can? Old muggins, yours truly. Sssh!’ He applies a cornflower blue eye to a crack in the door. ‘They’re still up there.’

‘Who are they?’ I whisper.

‘Our North African tour. They’re the first ones back.’ Jeremy shakes his head. ‘I suppose it was a bit ambitious really. Forty-eight tribes in seven days. Half of them had blood feuds against each other. I got a ransom note the other day.’

‘How awful!’ I murmur. ‘Are the family going to pay?’

Jeremy taps his briefcase. ‘They already have. I’m going to handle the drop myself – eventually. That’s why I’m in here. I don’t want anything to happen to the money.’ He nods towards his office. ‘Of course, I have tremendous sympathy with those people but I think my first duty is towards Abdul Ben Schmuk.’

‘Abdul Ben Schmuk?’ I say. ‘That sounds like an Arab name.’

‘It is an Arab name,’ says Jeremy. ‘He’s the one whose being held to ransom. Some of the people on the coach turned very nasty and said that they wouldn’t give him back unless we flew them home. We get some shocking troublemakers, sometimes, you know.’ Jeremy brushes the hair from his eyes and I feel really sorry for him. It must be a terrible responsibility running an organisation like this.

‘I know I’m very stupid,’ I say. ‘But how does the ransom money get to be in this country?’

‘It’s all invested here,’ says Jeremy, peering through the crack again. ‘It’s oil money. A lot of the Arabs invest over here, you know. Damn! They’re still not going. We’ll have to climb out of the window.’ He turns to me almost as an afterthought. ‘I take it you want the job?’

My heart leaps with excitement. Can he be serious? Jeremy misunderstands the reason for my hesitation. ‘You won’t have to go to North Africa. I was a fool to try and compete with those safari boys – especially with a double decker bus.’

‘It must have been very handy for looking over the sand dunes,’ I say.

Jeremy shakes his head admiringly. ‘I believe it was,’ he says. ‘Damn clever of you to pick up on a detail like that. You’d be a real asset to the company. It’s not often one comes across your mixture of extravagant beauty and stunning brainpower.’

I blush and look down into the toilet bowl before raising my eyes swiftly. Nobody has ever paid me a compliment like that before. I warm to the man immediately.

‘I’ll have to think it over,’ I say, ‘But I’m very interested.’

‘Capital!’ says Jeremy. ‘Stand on the seat and I’ll help you out on to the ledge. The fire escape is just round to the left. Don’t look down and mind out for that thing the window catch slots on to – oh, sorry!!’

CHAPTER 3

When I think about it later, I must have been mad! But Jeremy does have a very strong personality. You need one in this business.

‘Now where?’ I say when we get to the bottom of the fire escape.

‘The Jag’s parked in the alley over there. You’d better come back to my place so I can show you the ropes.’

‘We could have done with some of the ropes just now, couldn’t we?’ I say.

Jeremy laughs agreeably. ‘You’re a funny little thing, aren’t you – well, not so little really.’ He looks at my boobs and I feel myself blushing again. If only I could take this kind of thing in my stride like Penny. Penny. I wonder if she has been in touch.

‘Has a girl called Penelope Green contacted you?’ I ask.

‘Saw her on Saturday,’ says Jeremy, gripping his briefcase tightly and striding purposefully into the alley. ‘And a bit of Sunday, too. Are you like her?’

I am so taken aback by the speed at which Penny has moved that I don’t answer for a moment. There is something almost underhand about it, considering that I saw the advertisement first. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Well – er, in some ways. We have worked together before.’

Jeremy nods. ‘Amazing girl. Very open. Refreshing attitude of life and what you can get out of it.’ He looks me up and down quickly and runs his tongue along his top lip. ‘I’m thinking of hiring her.’

‘Oh, good,’ I say, wishing that I could make it sound more sincere. ‘How many girls do you have altogether?’

‘It varies a lot,’ says Jeremy, stopping beside an immaculate scarlet XK12. ‘There’s a big turnover in staff in a business like this.’

I nod and look at the car. After the fairly ordinary office, I had not been expecting anything quite so glamorous. Of course, I am not the kind of girl whose head is turned by mere possessions but I can’t help being a little bit impressed.

‘What do you have in mind for me?’ I ask.

Jeremy looks deep into my eyes and produces an ignition key which he sheathes between finger and thumb. ‘Very much the same as for your friend Penny,’ he says. ‘Hop inside and I’ll tell you about it.’

Almost trembling with excitement, I steady the door that is held open for me and settle into one of the sculptured leather seats. I have read about thick pile carpets and walnut fascias in the advertisements but it is not often that I am exposed to them. ‘It’s lovely,’ I say.

Jeremy smiles and shrugs. ‘Not a bad old bus. It will do until the Citröen Maserati shows up.’

‘You must be doing awfully well,’ I say. ‘I would have thought that business was bad with all these tour operators going bust. Do the public still have confidence?’

‘It’s a question of pricing,’ says Jeremy, revealing lean, hairy wrists as he slips the Jag into gear. ‘A lot of people were sceptical about the cheaper holidays. They didn’t think we could do it for the money.’

‘So what did you do?’ I say.

‘We doubled the prices,’ says Jeremy cheerfully. ‘People felt much more secure once they were paying more.’

‘But it was the same holiday?’

‘Absolutely.’ Jeremy smiles at me and narrowly misses an old lady who is pushing a basket on wheels across a zebra crossing. ‘I hope you don’t mind me telling you all this? It’s just that I like to be totally frank with my staff – with everyone, in fact.’

‘It’s a very good policy,’ I say. ‘Are you going to have to deliver the ransom money today?’

‘Ransom money?’ Jeremy’s features perform a few gymnastics as he registers puzzlement quickly followed by distress. ‘Oh dear. I left the address in the office. I’ll have to do it tomorrow. I don’t expect another twenty-four hours will make a lot of difference.’ He smiles his perfect smile and I find it easy to agree with him. ‘Now, tell me. What are your languages like?’

Oh dear. This was the question I was dreading. ‘I speak a little bit of French,’ I say. ‘Un petit morceau.’

‘What?’

I feel myself blushing again. ‘Un petit morceau. A little bit.’

Jeremy’s face lightens. ‘Is that what it means? Jolly good! I don’t speak any of these foreign lingos myself. If these chaps want to do business with us, I reckon it’s up to them to learn English, what?’

I nod thankfully. ‘You don’t think languages are going to be a problem, then?’

‘Not at all. Ninety-nine per cent of the customers are going to be British, aren’t they? They’ll be able to understand you. Have you ever been abroad?’

I shake my head. ‘No. I was going to Paris with my school but I got measles.’

‘That’s bad luck,’ says Jeremy sympathetically. ‘But don’t worry about it. I mean, not having been abroad. It’s probably quite a good thing really. You won’t be blasé, will you? Everything will come as a surprise and your enthusiasm will convey itself to the punters.’

What a sympathetic and understanding man, I think to myself. So different from the pushy Sammy Fish. I really think I could be happy at Climax. ‘I hope you’re right,’ I say. ‘I’d certainly try very hard. I’d look up everything in a book.’

‘Capital,’ says Jeremy. ‘You can’t ask much fairer than that, can you? When could you start?’

‘Er – almost immediately,’ I say. ‘Notice won’t be any problem.’ I don’t like to say that I am out of work.

‘That’s fine,’ says Jeremy. ‘I’m just putting together a package at the moment. “A European Whizaround”, Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, and – get out of the way you half-witted bastard!’ The last remark is directed at a cyclist who has swung out in front of us ‘– and France.’

‘That sounds marvellous,’ I say. ‘Tell me, what do you mean “put together”?’

Once again, Jeremy shakes his head admiringly. ‘You don’t miss a thing, do you?’

‘I wasn’t trying to be nosy,’ I say.

Jeremy touches the back of my wrist reassuringly. ‘I know, I know. I was complimenting you. We need people in this business with sharp, agile minds.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Let me try to explain it to you. I want to make sure that every coach we hire is going to be full.’

‘Hire?’ I say.

‘Oh yes. I want all my capital assets utilised to produce maximum liquidity. Coaches are expensive and they’re even more expensive if they’re standing about empty.’

‘Quite,’ I say, trying to look intelligent and wondering what he is talking about.

‘Every prospective customer has to give a choice of three dates. In that way I’m virtually certain of being able to fit sixty people into one period. Then I hire the coach.’

‘What a good idea,’ I say.

‘It’s no more than common sense,’ says Jeremy. ‘It’s more profitable to run one full coach than three half empty ones.’

‘What about the people you can’t book in?’

‘I write and tell them that owing to unprecedented demand we’re completely booked up. It makes them twice as keen to get in early next time. Ah, here we are. It’s not much but it’s home.’

We have glided into the forecourt of a small block of luxury flats. You can tell that they are posh because there are no icecream wrappers on the grass, only the statue of a naked athlete about to throw a stone through the front door.

‘That’s Fred,’ says Jeremy, seeing me looking at the statue. ‘Small but beautifully marked.’

‘I don’t think he’s small,’ I say. ‘He looks pretty big to me.’

‘Really?’ says Jeremy, turning on his pleasant smile. ‘I think we can do better than that.’

‘You’ve got 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.