‘O dear. Horror of horrors. Please don’t do that. Remember you are a Darcy Thormond you know. And we rather haven’t even had our brandy yet. Which let us please request is the very best in the house. And you will won’t you. Have a cigar.’
She did with her first douche make one’s pole go down. And as equally quickly, merely by purringly lowering the octave of her voice, make my pole go up again. Just as one was recalling her stallion she hunted who once during an attempted gallop across a bog, actually tried to shaft my little mare Molly. And of course I was totally unprepared for what she did next. As I felt a nudging at my crotch under the table. From her shoeless toes. Whose incredible prehensibility actually enabled them to enfold the spheroid shape of my delighted goolies. I of course trying to focus on the arrival of the exquisitely ancient brandy, was rapidly going more than slightly out of my mind. And she, leaving all chiropody and other musculature entirely out of it, absolutely pretended as if nothing at all was happening. God one can really end up paying even when it goes on someone else’s bill. The dust of the brandy bottle could have smothered us. And now uncorked and poured in our snifters it did no help for my heart pounding all over my chest as I nearly swooned. No question, the damn girl is damn lavish. And god. If she said she could buy people. I had just put myself up for sale.
‘Darling.’
‘You are, ha ha, speaking to me Baptista.’
‘Yes. I like calling you darling. Better than dearie, or you old fart, isn’t it.’
‘Yes. I suppose.’
‘Well. Do you suppose that we can make, when we arise from this table, a conspicuous departure from one another.’
‘I see.’
‘No, perhaps you don’t yet. I’ll go alone to the lift.’
‘Certainly. Do.’
‘I haven’t finished yet. And you. You darling have another brandy in the lounge.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My you are uncontrollably pessimistic. Then dear, when you have finished it. Go up the stairs. To number three nineteen. Don’t knock. The door will be open.
And I
Trust madam
It will be
To enter
Much more
Than your
Room
23
Centre lobby, Baptista and I quite formally and conspicuously put out our hands to shake. The Manager coming out of the lounge nearly made me nip behind a pillar. But again nodding benignly in my direction. And bowing to Baptista. Who did stick me for the bill for dinner. Conveniently forgetting at the opportune time it was she who invited me.
‘Hello there Baptista.’
‘O hello.’
Dear me she does attract much attention from the gentlemen. Batting her eyes as she smiles looks of vague recognition in various directions and at those who one imagines must be the late night revelling members of Dublin’s smart set. Playing her little role so well, one was on the verge of believing her words.
‘Do call on us, won’t you, if you come to England. We are positively infected with snipe and Harold would so like to see you.’
We parted. And on this, the advent of the greatest carnal conviviality one could ever conjure in one’s wildest ranthest dreams, I portrayed a glacial calm. Busying myself with the porter, pretending one was interested in a tip for the next day’s races. One wasn’t listening as he reeled off a series of possible winners. But I certainly was looking and not wanting to believe my eyes. To suddenly see. Over the porter’s shoulder and just pushing her way in the door, to plant herself squarely in the middle of the lobby with her mutt. None other than the lady from Greystones. And one had to believe one’s ears. She had of course already called me everything under the sun, but she further loudly announced.
‘So there you are. I’ve finally caught up with you at last, haven’t I. The wicked shall be inflicted with their just punishment.’
Holding her umbrella like a lance, her dog clutched under one arm, she charged. As an American lady screamed. The lance digging me straight in the solar plexus. But happily making no progress whatever through my black thornproof Manx tweed waistcoat. But nevertheless what a bloody nice how do you do. I was about to pretend to faint, which wasn’t too difficult as I was in fact fainting. But I retained enough vestige of sensibility to put hands over my stomach, as I went down. Groaning. Holding to the tip of the umbrella so that it could better appear speared deeply into me. Closed my eyes. Let a sigh of breath from my lips. To sound distinctly like my last. As the porter, quite uncharacteristically, got quite over excited.
‘Good god. She’s kilt him dead. And Mr Kildare is private secretary and equerry emeritus to the Earl of Ronald Ronald. Sure he’ll have a fit to hear of this in Monte Carlo.’
I lay as dead as I possibly could. In spite of my tendency to want to get up and correct this ridiculous role one was being given by that unbelievable bastard Rashers. But at least the two porters were busy escorting the lady from Greystones out of my vicinity, and thankfully, to just the other side of the front doors. One just barely hearing her voice.
‘I’ve been wanting to do that to that heinous gentleman all afternoon.’
I did play the role of murder victim so perfectly that I had to jump up from the surprisingly comfortable carpet to stop the porter telephoning an ambulance and the Guards.
‘I’m alright I assure you. Just winded me. I only ask you return her umbrella and please, don’t let that lady back in. Thank you so much. Goodnight.’
Collecting my key. Jumping three at a time up the stairs. Till naturally I had to pull a ligament. And limp the rest of the way to the third floor. O god. Dare I. Now do what I’ve actually wanted to do. For years previous. And for these last hours especially. To mount upon her quarters which mounds one can pound till dawn do us part. Giddyyap dear girl. Could have used another brandy. Feel now limping in these empty halls that one is the only one left awake in this entire hotel. If I can only make it. Discreetly over this bright crimson carpet. Without being seen. Or shouted at. Or assaulted. Or collapsing in leg pain. Can you imagine. What if that maniac from Greystones ever finds out where I live. Lead an entire fife and drum band up the front drive. Placards aloft.
REPENT THOSE WHO SIN IN CHIROPODY.
Darcy Dancer stopping outside the shiny brass numerals on the door of number three one nine. Facing out the back of the hotel, Baptista must require a noiseless night. My private, dear me, is engorged like a crowbar that could splinter straight through this mahogany door. Don’t knock. She said. The door would be open. Turn the knob. And it is. Open. And now it’s pitch black closing it behind me. What a bloody strange smell. Horses and stables. After the marvellous fragrance of her perfume. My god she must have all her saddlery and equipage ready for being whipped back and forth across her floor. I say. Damn strange sort of snort she’s making. Must mean we get down to basics straight off. As equines do. My god she must be insatiably randy. I’m about to sample some real debauchery. Can hear Rashers say. Keep your morals up dear boy, never let your psyche sink into this Dublin abyss of iniquity, get thee Satan behind me is the catchword.
‘Baptista. Baptista.’
O jesus. What is she trying to do. Making that bloody noise. But my god this is exciting. In the pitch black. And even in the slight aroma of horse piss. Just feel my way to enough free space. Get off my jacket, waistcoat, tie. And drop my trousers. To the utter relief of my explosive penis. Ah. Dat ist besser or something to that German effect as Miss von B used to say.