Murder Most Fab (18 page)

If I
was feeling frisky and picked someone up, she would give them the once-over. If
my choice met with her approval she would pour him a glass of champagne. If
not, she would say: ‘No. Pig ugly. Goodbye, whoever you are.

Tim —
or, at least, the memory of him — still consumed my emotions, which freed me to
have cold but convincing sexual relations with all and sundry. It was better
than thinking too much.

It was ten minutes into
one of Georgie’s
après-sex
comfort cuddles that he mentioned a TV
producer friend of his called Bernard. ‘Do you think sex is good for the soul?’
he began.

‘Er,
probably. What do you think?’ Like any good therapist I had learnt to listen
when my clients began to chat.

‘I’m
sure of it. My soul is singing now, you can almost hear it. I forget that I’m
old and ugly. You’ve performed a very valuable service.

‘So
glad to have given satisfaction.’ There was a pause as Georgie sighed
contentedly. I managed a surreptitious glance at my watch. Seven more minutes,
then I’d be off.

‘Bernard!’
he declared, sitting up in bed. ‘You’re just what he needs! I wonder …?‘

‘Does
Bernard’s soul require a bit of a sing-along too?’

‘Oh,
yes. He’s been quite a worry. Bernard and Barry were a very happy couple.
Together for fifteen years. But Barry died last year and Bernard … He’s not
taken it well. A frolic with you would do him all the good in the world. Put a
spring in his step again. Would you consider it?’

‘Of
course,’ I said. ‘He sounds like he could do with a touch of the JD magic.’

‘How
kind of me to share you!’ Georgie got up out of bed and put on his
dressing-gown. He picked up the soiled tissues that were, as well as his
cheerful disposition, the result of our afternoon together, and moved towards
the door. ‘I’ll give him a ring.’

I got
out of bed and started putting my things together. As I neatly coiled the
clothes line and popped it into my leather rucksack, along with the pegs and
rubber mask, Georgie returned, all smiles, clutching a gin and tonic. He slipped
a roll of twenty-pound notes into my pocket with a piece of paper.

‘Bernard
will be expecting you at six tomorrow evening. See if you can put a smile back
on his face.’ He gave me a knowing look.

‘If I
can’t, no one can,’ I boasted.

‘One
other thing, though,’ he added, swirling the ice in his glass and turning
ninety degrees from the fireplace to face me —very Katherine Hepburn. ‘Bernard
doesn’t know you’re being paid. He works for the BBC and he’d be horrified.
I’ve told him you’re cute and bright and that you’re interested in becoming a
TV presenter. Your job is to act the part and make sure one thing leads to a
bit of the other.’

‘I
see,’ I said, raising an eyebrow. ‘And is the casting couch that much more
respectable than using a prostitute?’

‘It is
as far as he’s concerned.’

‘I’ve
never wanted to be a TV presenter, actually. The sets always look so cheap.’

‘Role
play,
darling. Weren’t you an actor once? Seduce
him. I can see you now, sitting on his sofa with your legs spread wide,
explaining how you want to become the next Peter Duncan. Don’t take your bag of
tricks — it might give the game away. Just do what you can to make the poor
dear happy again. A glimpse of your beautiful cock would make a condemned man
smile.’

‘All
right, Georgie. I’ll do it.’

‘And
don’t forget to let me know how it goes.’

The next afternoon I put
some thought into my appearance. How would Bernard expect me to look? Masculine
and youthful, obviously, but in an unselfconscious way, I decided. In the end
I put on jeans and a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I wore
trainers and took the unusual step of shaving, moisturizing and deodorizing.

It was
strange, making my way to a client’s house and already feeling sorry for him.
Perhaps, if I dealt with the situation carefully and acted my part
convincingly, I could pull this grieving soul out of his misery — and wasn’t
that a good deed, whichever way you looked at it? It helped that I’d been paid
handsomely in advance.

I could
tell that Georgie was getting a weird thrill out of setting up the whole
scenario. On his part, it amounted to deception although the lie had been born
of empathy and concern. He had entrusted me with a dear friend’s emotional
well-being and I alone could cure him of his malaise. I could make him feel that
life was worth living again. In short, I felt it my duty to ensure that Bernard
felt … if not the sun on his face then a similar sensation of warmth that
can, with equal certainty, be declared a gift of Nature.

Bernard
lived in a portered block of flats in St John’s Wood, one of those seventies
arrangements with large ashtray balconies that looked like they might fall off
at any moment and that enjoyed limited glimpses of Regent’s Park.

When I
got there he was in slacks and a red v-neck cotton jumper over a white shirt.
He looked sprightly enough, clearly in his late fifties, but his blotchy pink
skin and home-dyed hair were a worry.

‘You
must be JD,’ he said, when he opened the door. His ‘Do come in!’ was a little
breathier than he might have hoped, but he skipped down the hallway to the
open-plan lounge-kitchen-diner in a revealingly expressive way. ‘Is it too
early for a glass of Wither Hills?’ he asked, opening the fridge and taking out
a bottle of chilled white Sauvignon Blanc, which he held to his cheek as if it
were a cleaning product and he a house-proud wife.

‘What’s
that?’ I said.

‘Dry
white wine,’ he answered quickly, holding the pose.

‘Yes.
OK,’ I said, sounding convincingly bashful, and Bernard relaxed his arms and
put down the bottle. Two wine glasses were whisked out from behind the pine
bread-bin and placed carefully on the counter that divided us. I perched on a
stool and ran my fingers across my bristly head.

‘Oriental
snacks?’ enquired Bernard, pushing a bowl of unlikely-coloured crackers in my
direction. His hand brushed mine, and as I lifted the glass to my lips, I
tilted my head downwards and engaged him in some serious eye-contact. He
hesitated, looked away, and then, in one sweeping movement, brought his face
close to mine and shut his eyes. ‘So. You want to be a TV presenter, I hear?’

His
depression was hidden far better than his erection, I thought. ‘More than
anything,’ I lied.

‘You
have a very good face for television,’ said Bernard, earnestly. ‘Very
photogenic. And, as it happens, I’m developing a show at the moment. We’ve
interviewed dozens of would-be presenters but none of them quite fits the bill.
Perhaps you could come in for an audition …’

‘Oh,’ I
said, ‘this could be my lucky day.’

‘And
mine,’ said Bernard, and I felt a bony hand creep along my thigh like a
centipede.

The next morning Georgie
met me for coffee, squawking with delight. Bernard had called him first thing
and was brimming with excitement.

‘He
thinks you’re adorable! And, of course, he’s in raptures about your penis. Such
a relief to hear my old chum happy again. I think he’s in love.’

‘Well,
you know, Georgie, that isn’t supposed to happen. Strictly speaking, this is a
business transaction and nothing to do with love.’

Georgie’s
face fell. ‘Oh.’

‘It’s
breaking the rules. Bernard’s already called me this morning. He’s invited me
for an intimate dinner on Saturday night. If he’s not aware that I’m a working
boy and is getting emotionally involved with me, I ought to say no.’

‘Don’t
do that!’ Georgie said hurriedly. ‘Poor old Bernard. Rejection would be too
much for him. Not now, when we’ve finally managed to get a sparkle back in his
eyes!’

‘I’m
not in the business of deceiving people.’

‘Let’s
compromise. You go along on Saturday and give Bernard another thrilling night
of love, then let him down gently the next day. Would you do that?’

‘I’m
not sure …’ I frowned. The truth was, I had no desire to repeat the
experience. Bernard had been all over me, slobbering and squeezing me, within
minutes of my arrival. His girlish excitement over the phone seemed to
indicate that there was a lot more where that had come from. Hours of it, no
doubt. As he wasn’t paying me, he was under the impression that I liked him. It
seemed wrong and tedious. ‘So who’s paying this time? I told you, I’m a working
boy, Georgie. I don’t do freebies, I’m afraid.’

Georgie
gave a short-tempered little moan.

‘If I
have to stay the night with Bernard, it’ll work out as a rather expensive
evening for you,’ I warned.

‘Quel
dommage,’
Georgie muttered. Then he roared with
laughter and his eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘I don’t give a fig. Do it, JD!’

That Saturday night I
arrived at Bernard’s to find the table set for four.

‘Hello,
my dear. What joy to see you again. Now, I’ve got a surprise for you!’ he said.
He led me into the lounge. ‘I want you to meet my two closest friends,’ he
announced, and there, sitting on the sofa, beaming at me and barely disguising
their glee at my befuddlement, were Sammy and Georgie.

‘Here
he is!’ said Bernard. ‘Sammy, Georgie, meet JD. Isn’t he a dream?’

They
looked me up and down knowingly, their eyes resting on my crotch.

‘We’ve
heard so much about you,’ said Sammy, standing up and shaking my hand manfully.

‘Indeed
we have,’ added Georgie, following suit, though his shake was limp with mirth.
‘I’m so glad you and Bernard have hit it off so well.’

I
smiled uncomfortably. Clearly Georgie wanted to see how his money was being
spent.

‘I’ll
bring in the champagne,’ said Bernard, oblivious.

‘We’ll
chat to JD. What are your hobbies, what do you do, where do you live? Or don’t
you like to be tied down?’ asked Sammy, brightly.

Bernard
was out of the room just long enough for Georgie to slip a wad of notes into my
hand and whisper, ‘Now earn it, baby.’

Bernard
returned with a tray of glasses foaming with pink champagne, which he passed
round. ‘Now,’ he said, holding his aloft, ‘I’d like to propose a toast. To JD. My
new special friend.’

We
chinked glasses.

I was
silently cursing Georgie for getting me into this situation when Bernard made
an astonishing announcement: ‘JD is going to have a screen test!‘

‘I beg
your pardon?’ This was the first I’d heard of it. I’d assumed all the talk of a
TV show had been Bernard’s way of getting my trousers off.

‘I
can’t discuss it at present — all very hush-hush — but this afternoon I called
my commissioning executive at the Beeb and told her I thought I’d discovered
the face for our new show!’ Bernard beamed at me. ‘She was very excited. And I
do mean
very.’

‘Whoa
there!’ I said. ‘Listen, Bernard—’

Georgie
cut me off mid-sentence. ‘You must be thrilled! What an opportunity for you!’

‘I
wasn’t going to tell you until we were alone,’ Bernard squeezed my knee
suggestively, ‘but I couldn’t wait.’

‘Good
luck with your new opening,’ added Sammy.

‘Yes, indeed,’
said Georgie. ‘I’m sure you’ve got what it takes. In fact I think you’ll be
HUGE!’

‘Thank
you,’ I said tartly.

‘What a load of old
bollocks,’ said Catherine, when I told her about Bernard’s plans for me.
‘That’s the oldest trick in the book. But allow him his casting-couch fantasy.
It doesn’t matter whose purse the money’s coming out of— cash is cash. Our job
is to make these old men feel good. We just say, “Yes, sir, no, sir, two bags
full, sir. Allow me to empty them for you.”’

‘And if
I find myself in front of a camera being screen-tested for my own TV show?’

‘If
that happens, I’ll eat my own tampon.’