The Oyster Volume VI

To his credit, my boss instantly hauled himself up and attempted to shield Annabel's naked body with his own. 'Andrew, would you please wait for me downstairs in my office,' he said coolly with an admirable level of composure in his voice, 'I will be with you as soon as possible but you must allow me time to get dressed.'

'Of course, sir,' I murmured and backed out of the room, taking care to close the door firmly behind me.

Five minutes later he came into his office together with Annabel whose face was flushed. She was the first to speak, blurting out her apologies, but I held up my hand and interrupted her by declaring: 'Please say no more, Miss Thompson, you had no reason to expect me to breach your privacy. Why, I shouldn't even be in the office today! So if any apology is due it should be from me for my unwelcome intrusion.'

Naturally this fine speech impressed Mr. MacArthur who told Annabel to make the three of us a nice pot of tea. After she had scurried out of the office, he turned to me and shook me warmly by the hand. 'Thank you, my boy. I said to Miss Thompson as we came downstairs that I knew you could be relied on to be discreet.

'How could I have been so foolish? It was almost criminally stupid not to have locked the door. My goodness, it's as well that it was you who caught us in the act and not someone like our chairman who would affect great shock and displeasure at my immoral behaviour and then demand my immediate resignation.'

I gave a wry smile. 'Would he really? Well, that's not my style and not only because I too have been surprised in a similar embarrassing situation. No, it is because, in my experience, moral indignation is often simple jealousy with the addition of a halo instead of a hat!'

'I couldn't agree more though, to be fair to Lord Neumann, I don't know whether that stricture would apply as far as he is concerned,' said Mr. MacArthur as he plumped himself down in his chair. 'Still, I've learned my lesson, Andrew. If I ever manage to persuade Annabel up to the boardroom again, I'll make damned sure to lock the blasted door! It's not as if either of us are married but as Moliere's sardonic little couplet puts it: “Le scandale du monde est ce qui fait l'offence: et ce n 'est pas pecher que pecher en silence.”'

Mr. MacArthur let out a thoughtful sigh and continued: 'Anyhow, what brings you here today, Andrew? Are you going to tell me you have found a nugget amongst the dross of the “slush” pile?'

'Well, I don't know if this novel could be called a nugget,' I said doubtfully as I unbuckled the catch on my holdall and passed Miss Wiggins's manuscript across the desk to him. 'But it's certainly very different from anything else I've been given to read.'

However, somewhat to my chagrin, Mr. MacArthur only glanced at the top page before handing the sheaf of paper back to me. With a slight smile on his face, he said: 'Mea culpa, I should have warned you about Abigail Wiggins, she's been sending us one of these racy stories about every six months since the old Queen died. This one must have slipped through the net because these days we return them to her promptly with only a printed rejection slip. I'll give this latest effort to Annabel and she'll put it in this afternoon's post.

'I do hope you didn't get too excited about your find, Andrew, though I dare say you didn't find it too much of a chore to read through Miss Wiggins's latest steamy story. As it happens, her scripts are rather well-written-but of course I would find myself at the Old Bailey if I tried to publish them! Really, the only way she will ever get into print is if she goes to Paris and shows her stuff to a French publisher. I can think of two or three firms there who would be very interested in her naughty novels.'

Annabel now came into the room bearing a tray with a silver teapot and jugs of milk and hot water. But, feeling rather crestfallen about the dismissal of Miss Wiggins's script, I politely declined the offer of tea and made my way out into the bright sunshine. I decided to go home and see if Teddy Carmichael had returned from Paris but as I was walking towards the taxi-rank in Tottenham Court Road, I heard someone behind me shout out: 'Hey, Andrew! Andrew Scott!'

I turned round to see a swarthy well-built chap of my own age walking briskly towards me from the comer of Bedford Square. At first I had no idea who he could be but as he came nearer I recognized him as Antonio Rubira, a delightful Spanish gentleman with whom I had chummed up when we had met some two years before at a house party given by Lord Philip Pelham's parents, the Earl and Countess of Cheshire.

So I held out my arms and we hugged each other in the Continental style as I greeted him. 'Buenas dias, mi amigo viejo, que tal?'

'Soy muy bien, gracias and all the better for seeing you, my dear fellow!' he exclaimed (and I should add here that Antonio spoke perfect English for his half-Scottish mother brought him up to be bi-lingual). 'Do you know, I was just on my way back to the Savoy where I was going to telephone you to see if you were free to dine with me tonight at Bickler's.'

'Well, if nothing else I have saved you the cost of a telephone call,' I replied. 'And I am free this evening. But I'll be frank with you, Antonio, I can't really afford to go to such an expensive restaurant.'

Antonio smiled broadly and grinned: 'Your father keeping you on a tight rein as usual? Well, that won't matter because our dinner will be on the house. You see, my father has an account with Bickler's because he comes to London quite frequently since the Spanish government invited him to lead a committee to promote Anglo-Spanish trade. He was told that it would be more convenient for the bureaucrats if he would arrange for his bills to be sent directly to the Foreign Ministry in Madrid.

'Mrs. Bickler caters all his receptions in the restaurant or at the Embassy and she's so grateful for the business that she insists on treating me every time I come over here,' he explained. Then he clicked his fingers and said: 'Andrew, I must rush away as I'm having tea with a distant relative of my mother's. But I'm so pleased we can meet up again later. Eight o'clock all right for you?'

'That would be lovely,' I answered as I hailed a passing cab which I insisted Antonio should take as I was in no particular hurry. I waved goodbye to him as I decided that, although I would have a free feed tonight, it was unnecessary to splash out one and six on a taxi when I could sit on an omnibus which would take me to within some hundred and fifty yards of my front door for twopence.

I came home to find that Teddy Carmichael had returned from France just after mid-day. Whilst we munched through the cucumber sandwiches left by Mrs. Pelgram, he recounted the details of an extraordinary sensual affair in which he had been involved during his brief stay in Paris. He leaned forward over the tea-table and said: 'Andrew, you might not believe me, but the day before yesterday after a slap-up luncheon, I fucked the pretty young wife of the naval attache at the American Embassy.'

'Well, lucky old you,' I rejoined with a chuckle. 'But what was so extraordinary about this occurrence? Many ladies attached to naval officers find themselves with an itch which occasionally they find it necessary to scratch in a discreet manner. To be blunt, it must be especially tempting for them to enjoy the cocks of passing acquaintances such as yourself who can be relied upon to keep their secrets and are most unlikely ever to be seen again by their husbands.'

'Yes, yes, I realize this,' he said impatiently. 'However, in this case it was not the lady in question but her husband who asked me to poke her!'

I stared at him in amazement and exclaimed: 'Oh come now, Teddy! Are you trying to pull my leg?'

'Not at all,' he said sturdily. 'Without a word of exaggeration, I tell you that's precisely what happened. Look, it all began the night before when I met Captain Gordon Dashwood at a private view of the latest works of Alfred Kleiman, the German abstract painter whose paintings are the current rage in highbrow Parisian circles. He was sitting by himself on a sofa with a glass of wine in his hand and I could see from the glum expression on his face exactly what he thought about Kleiman's colourful daubs. Anyway, I sat down next to him and when I cautiously mentioned how difficult I found it to see the merits of avante garde art, his face lit up and, putting down his glass, he grasped my hand and shook it vigorously.