These British
Cunts
3
For the moment at least, the odd dilapidation in this commodious town house hardly mattered as Schultz’s landlords were frolicking in distant Bermuda. And just as his Lordship’s sharp eye had estimated, it slowly turned out that nearly everything in the house was ersatz of some sort.
“Nothing but sham and imitation Schultz, but of course, in their pretentious way, they do rather tart the premises up a bit.”
But back that evening Schultz couldn’t have cared less about the furnishings. As clearly from the feels he got of this gorgeous creature’s upholstery, hers was the real McCoy. And entirely worthy of the further desperate and up to now hopeless pursuit of entry between those baby soft thighs.
“No no you mustn’t.”
“For christ’s sake come on honey.”
“No no you mustn’t.”
“For christ’s sake honey, what’s the matter.”
“I’m not that sort of girl.”
Between these nightly caviar gorging visits to London’s most elegant restaurants and her usual midnight departure by Schultz’s prepaid taxi home, the struggle continued. Each nightly skirmish providing Schultz with a minuscule advance over this enemy territory towards the bitterly defended objective. And as Schultz progressed inch by inch up between her stunningly slender silky smooth legs and was yet again finally halted within a finger length of victory, he was on the phone.
“Hey Jesus christ almighty Al, what the fuck did you send me over this time. Eight relentless days and I can’t get to first base.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said. I told you already, the girl’s a real lady. What the hell do you need to do that kind of thing to her for so soon.”
“Hey Al, you serious.”
“Of course I’m serious. That girl if she only knew it, could have anybody important in London she wants. Respect her beauty for christ’s sake.”
“Respect her beauty for christ’s sake. I should have my wallet respected. In one fucking week she’s already cost me three hundred and sixty two pounds.”
“So you got it counted, charge it up to production expenses.”
“This is no production, this is false imprisonment of my prick.”
“Sigmund, don’t ring me anymore if that’s the kind of attitude. The girl’s a lady. Treat her right. She’s gorgeous. And if you can’t be patient for what she’s going to give you in the end then you don’t deserve it.”
“Holy shit Al, what the fuck’s becoming of you.”
“Nothing’s becoming of me. It’s what ought to be becoming of you into a gentleman. That’s what ought to be becoming.”
Schultz booked a table under the cherub painted ceiling of the Ritz, and ordered a predinner vintage Roederer to be ready for sipping in the Palm Court. And in black tie and in the largest limousine the car hire firm had in its stable, he ferried himself to Notting Hill Gate. Ringing her doorbell among a dozen others on the doorstep of this tall victorian building and lugging a cellophane wrapped corsage and bouquet of red roses up three bleak dark, dog smelly landings to a dour victorian overstuffed sitting room. Where Pricilla radiantly awaited in a black clinging evening gown which made Schultz gulp in his tracks.
“These are for you honey.”
“O aren’t you so sweet. You are really.”
“I thought we might just amble over on our wheels and pop back a drink at the Savoy. The curtain is at eight. We are having supper later at the Ritz.”
“O I must give you a little peck on the cheek.
The electrically operated windows, telephone and air conditioning instruments at her elbow did not, as Schultz thought they might, absolutely rivet her attention. But her eyes did open wide as she carefully stepped down the grimy wet steps and was conducted over the greasy evening pavement to the monstrous warmth of this perfumed interior flooding out the limousine’s chauffeured opened door.
“Just take a pew anywhere you like honey.”
Pricilla sat herself plonk center on the soft grey upholstery and regally proceeded to ignore London’s passing evening pedestrians. But she did momentarily pay attention to look down her nose at the bus queues waiting. Who in turn stared at the longest Rolls-Royce in London. And Schultz suddenly had a rapier thrust like feeling that he was some kind of specially stunted footman stationed in the confines of this whirring limousine purring down the Bayswater Road in all its black majesty, transporting this radiant queen untouchable behind the gleaming glass.
At the Savoy she made an entrance. The doorman sweeping the way ahead through the doors. With Schultz nearly left behind on the pavement. At the theatre she was only mildly impressed as champagne was served in their private box with compliments of the stage manager who returned three times to ask was everything alright. And at the Ritz, following further champagne and the usual copious portions of Beluga plus crepe suzettes and the house’s best brandy, Schultz sat with his cigar.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself a little honey, this evening.”
“It’s been very nice Sigmund.”
And back in Belgravia, the jet black Ambassador astonishingly gave Schultz the hi sign and a broad, night illuminating smile as both of them appeared simultaneously out of their limousines and up their steps with their respective beauteous creatures clinging to their respective arms. Schultz delighting in this sudden camaraderie.
“Who’s he.”
“He’s the Ambassador honey.”
“And what’s that.”
This latter remark was expostulated by Pricilla a few seconds later in the hallway at the foot of the stairs up which Schultz was just about to begin his nightly coaxing of this gorgeous creature.
“I got a pet monkey down the cellar, that’s all.”
“Sounds like a woman crying.”
“It’s a female chimpanzee.”
Her mouth did open wider to Schultz’s kisses. And her lower legs parted wider for his hands. But whenever, that thing, as she called it, was rigidly pressing towards home, she struggled in resistance. Till half her gown was ripped and wrapped around her ankles and neck. And when this long careful evening was followed now with an heroic continuous battle till three a.m., Schultz finally gave up. Ushering the rose petal skinned future wife into a guest bedroom. And throwing her a towel, and as a poignant afterthought, a bible to read.
“Here honey, the good book, make yourself at home.”
Schultz headed downstairs in dressing gown and his custom made slippers. Taking into the basement with him bedding and locking the door behind him. The grateful au pair spouting a stream of Dutch, sobbed with relief and clung and hugged Schultz as he shifted her up on a pillow softened kitchen table and rogered her in continuo glissando till dawn. As his Lordship later remarked to Binky when relating the story.
“I do not think that Schultz’s behaviour was of the most chivalrous.”
Schultz’s future wife had been educated at various convent boarding schools in far off Canada and Argentina and she objected strenuously to Schultz’s frequent foul language. She also refused to again stay overnight in Schultz’s town house. For following Schultz’s having downstairs done the au pair on the kitchen table, he at first light of dawn, came back up to the future wife in the guest room, dislodged her from bed and whipping off his dressing gown, gave naked chase of her with his restimulated perpendicular pointing in all directions all over the chamber. Before he ended up agonizingly stubbing and breaking two of his middle toes.
“Holy Jesus fucking christ.”
“You’re profaning again.”
The Dutch au pair, despite or because of daily increased proddings still refused to shift out of the locked basement. But this did not stop Schultz’s future wife from making the upstairs butler’s pantry fully operational to provide Schultz and herself with the odd tasty snack. When now late afternoons, departed early from her job with Big Al, and finding herself temporarily safe from Schultz who limped and sported an open ended sandal on his right bandaged foot, Pricilla donned rubber gloves and dusted and polished all the upstairs rooms.