From what I've since been told, it all began the day Allen and his mysterious friend came hurrying into Scrooge's café, seeking shelter from a sudden wintry squall. I suppose I must have served them too, though I don't remember. I was always kept on my toes there, trying to cope with the workload of three agile waitresses entirely on my own.
But this was apparently when Allen's chance remark threw my entire life into total disarray, culminating in my headlong slide down a very dark and slippery slope.
And what of his enigmatic colleague, the man in the dull brown raincoat who for weeks afterwards came trotting back for his nightly Coffee-with and Bun, merely to linger for an hour or more watching my every move? No, I admit I didn't take much notice of him either - not then. Besides, I had other issues on my mind, an intuitive foreboding that my own short-comings had nudged my term of employment well into borrowed time.
I recall a sudden lurch in my stomach as my boss's scrawny neck protruded ominously from his office doorway like a weary turtle, his voice as lifeless as the cold jaundiced eyes that always reminded me of two fried eggs plonked on top of a pink blancmange.
"Spare me one precious moment of your day, Miss Bewley."
The dull summons was long overdue.
"Twenty minutes!" he gloated, heedless of our one remaining customer, "you were twenty minutes late again this afternoon. Is that for the fifth or sixth time? I'm losing count."
The yellow eyes narrowed, squeezing every ounce of juice from a moment he clearly relished.
"So, since you're determined to come and go as you please," he went on, "I've decided to grant you your full freedom as from tonight."
He slapped a thin pay-packet into my palm.
"And don't bother turning up on Monday," he croaked, wagging a bony finger close to my nose, "because your replacement will already be busy learning the ropes, and she won't appreciate a scene."
A scene? Did the loathsome creep really imagine I'd kick up a song and dance in front of his devoted customers? Did he expect me to throw a tantrum, to bid for clemency by howling on the pavement like an underfed cat? On the contrary, I remember the thrill of waltzing into my winter coat and thrusting both hands deep into its pockets where I gave old blancmange-face a private two-fingered salute.
I remember too how my euphoria evaporated the moment I stepped outside into night air, some twenty degrees below comfort zone.
I crossed the road and stood stomping my feet at the bus-stop, brutally conscious of the biting March wind while my teeth vigorously debated the injustice of my plight. It wasn't far short of midnight, and the lack of anyone at the stop hinted that my usual bus might already have gone! Should I turn around and begin the arduous three-mile trudge back to Ealing?
I didn't know it at the time, but half-hidden in the doorway of the now darkened café stood the man in brown, his eyes feasting on my shivering silhouette. I do vaguely recall something that flapped nimbly across the road as the welcome bus loomed into sight, but his presence didn't fully register until after we'd reached Ealing Common.
I'd already got off the bus and was walking diagonally across the open green. I remember hearing a distant clock strike twelve, and chuckling to myself as a surge of girlish glee made me swing my bag full-circle over my head and enjoy a few unladylike expletives.
That particular Saturday had been long and arduous, even before I'd worked the extra two hours, all to no avail. Still, the café job was only temporary, so who cared? In truth I was thankful to be rid of the place with its evil smell of stale bread and lecherous, toady-eyed manager.
My hand closed tightly around my newly-cut front-door key. In another ten minutes, I'd be safely tucked up in bed with a good book, a warm mug of cocoa, and my comforting hot-water bottle.
The western edge of the common is bounded by a quiet residential road, the gardens of its large Victorian houses backing onto my own. And along this road, unseen in the darkness, came the man in brown who'd abandoned our bus somewhere between stops and was now measuring his stride against mine, evidently aiming to arrive at the corner just as I did.
He timed it to perfection.
"Aha!" he exclaimed pleasantly, raising his hat as if to greet an old friend. "Two night-owls together! Was that twelve I heard just now? If so, I'm in deep trouble. My landlady takes a sadistic delight in bolting the door on the stroke of midnight."
By the light of a street-lamp I checked my watch.
"Then you'd better hurry," I advised him.
He did indeed hurry on, but only as far as the next corner where he waited till I caught up with him, my heels clicking out an echoing tattoo clearly heralding my approach. Again his timing was meticulous.
"Well, that's my goose cooked," he sighed, suddenly stepping out in front of me.
I caught my breath and halted. "You again? Locked out?"
He nodded like a guilty child. "'Fraid so!"
Perhaps I should point out here and now that, whilst my caring nature sees only the good in most people, I'm hardly so naive as to be duped by a nocturnal prowler.
"Try the police station," I suggested. "Better still, the Salvation Army. They often help out in emergencies."
"Commendable advice, my dear - and would that I deserved salvation! But they're sure to be closed. I don't suppose you've a warm hallway I could occupy, just for a few hours?"
Before I could phrase a suitable reply, his look of tired concern gave way to an infectious smile.
"No, I guess I must appear a bit of a tramp. Eighteen hours since I had a shave. Sorry - no harm in asking, eh? You're right, of course - I'd best surrender my dignity to the local constabulary. Where would I find the nearest police station?"
I intended a discouraging sigh, but it emerged through chattering teeth as more of a chuckle.
"Good question," I shivered. "I'm new to this area. Haven't had time to explore yet, but I imagine it's up on the Broadway."
A more helpful reply might have sent him on his way, but mine did not. Damn the man! I'd waited years to get my own private flat with its very own front door. But my new-found privacy meant having no formidable landlady to protect me, no unshaven neighbour in a grubby string vest yelling at his rat-haired wife across the landing. With both floors above mine still empty, the building's sole occupant that frosty night would be vulnerable Miss Jennifer Bewley, which is why I resolved not to produce my key while some dubious loiterer stood and watched.
"Are you waiting for something?" I asked, tilting my head in a sudden burst of bravado. "Because I am in rather a hurry."
He responded with an amiable grin. "To be honest, I was giving you one last chance to be charitable. You never know - some folk have this irrepressible soft centre which eventually oozes to the surface, especially when they're in serious trouble themselves."
"Trouble?" I raised my brows. "Me?"
"Yes, my dear. Didn't you just lose your job as a waitress? You don't call that trouble?"
"Not at all," I retorted defiantly. "It so happens I make a habit of changing jobs as often as I please - not that it's any of your business."
He eyed me with a curious smirk. "You never know, Miss Bewley. You never know. Suppose I were to offer you an exciting new alternative."
"You?" My scornful laugh was another masked shiver. "Locked out by a cheap landlady? I'd say you're in no position to offer me anything."
"Prejudice!" he admonished me with a slow shake of his head. "A prime example of blind prejudice, coupled - may I say - with a hint of unwarranted rudeness. You know damn-all about me, yet your blinkered mind sees only a worthless vagrant. Let me bed down in the warmth of your hallway and I'll soon convince you of my impeccable integrity."
Oh, no doubt! I hit back hard.
"You think so? One foot inside my door and you'll knock me senseless, or make a grab my life-savings. Well, not this girl, matey - tough cheese - I wasn't born yesterday. Besides, I've just squandered all my savings, so hard bloody luck!"
The man chuckled warmly. "My, my, we are feeling the frost tonight. An ice-cold heart geared to a red-hot tongue. You'd make a mean landlady."
His rebuke, transparently light-hearted, was tempered with that same provocative grin, half-mocking, half-friendly. But he was right about the frost, which had seriously begun to affect my brain.
"I'll tell you this much," I said as evenly as I could. "I'm no sucker, and if you don't move on at once, I'll simply walk off and leave you."
"You reckon I couldn't keep up?" he countered with a boyish grin.
Heedless of sleeping neighbours, I raised my voice.
"Look, I find you intensely irritating. What the hell do you want?"
"Hush, Miss Bewley. Rude again! I told you - a few square feet of lino in your nice warm hallway. Two feet by six would be ample. And maybe the loan of a blanket, not wishing to push my luck too far. I'll be gone by dawn, I promise, unless you care to make it open house for breakfast?"
"You cheeky sod!" I said - or words to that effect. "Go and plague the Salvation Army before I call the cops."
At this, the man clapped his hands in mock applause and stepped back into the middle of the road like a classical actor taking centre-stage.
"Bravo!" he proclaimed. "Spoken like a born British citizen. And what precise charge will you level against me, pray? Lingering in the moonlight? Conversing sociably with an attractive ex-waitress? Have I molested you, or made the slightest attempt to impose my unwelcome attentions on your delectable person? I trust you're not under the impression that I'm the worse for drink? I seldom take anything stronger than good Colombian coffee, as recently served by your good self."
He approached again with a contrite smile. "No, truly, I am sorry. Something's made you inordinately edgy, and if I'm the culprit I apologise in all humility. I trust the Salvation Army won't insist I play second trombone outside the Town Hall at Easter. Apart from being tone-deaf, I'm in no frame of mind to be converted. Well, I bid you good night!"
With that, the man raised his hat, took a graceful theatrical bow, and headed off into the night.
I felt unaccountably mean and uncharitable as I watched his majestic stride receding down the road. From his dignified bearing and manner of speech, he was clearly no regular down-and-out. And I certainly could have offered him shelter. Two whole floors of it!
My burgeoning sense of guilt nearly made me call him back, but this would have woken half of Ealing. Instead I waited till he was well clear, then hurried the last forty yards to my own front door and slammed it thankfully behind me. Passing the hall mirror I conceded that at twenty-six I was still a presentable spectacle, though a potentially helpless victim in the clutches of any muscular male who yearned for female comforts. It's all very well, wanting to live alone, independent of greedy property-owners - but when a girl needed a shoulder to cry on, there was no-one. Not only had I been given the sack for bad time-keeping. I'd just been propositioned by some wily, menacing character in a raincoat who loomed out of the darkness, half-scaring me to death.
Yet I had to admit the man had been nothing but sociable - a regular visitor to Scrooge's café too, and a good tipper - a little forward perhaps in asking for an overnight patch of lino, but hardly a criminal. How would society fare if no-one dared to voice his basic needs? And why did I feel unwilling to trust him? Why must every woman imagine that if Nature ran its course she'd inevitably become another victim of rape? Was no man to be trusted these days, all because a few isolated maulers couldn't keep their grimy little hands to themselves?
I closed my front curtains and slumped onto the settee as the clock on my mantelpiece uttered a single chime. A quarter past midnight! Never mind, tomorrow I'd have the luxury of lying in bed, all day too if I felt like it. If only meals would prepare themselves!
Oh, for a cooked breakfast - bone china on a silver tray, brought to my bedside by a uniformed butler! I smiled at the thought of accepting instead a mug of early-morning brew from a tramp who'd camped all night on my lino. Offer me a career? The damned arrogance!
Back in the café he'd obviously overheard my name a number of times, but what else did he know? Like a frightened child I went to the window, praying to God I'd find no evil face pressed against the glass outside.
My heart bounded as I saw him - that same tall figure, wandering back up the road, and peering over every hedge as if looking for somewhere to spend the night - a garden shed perhaps, or some gullible girl's hallway?
This was most definitely a time to bolt one's door, turn off all lights, and hide. Any sane woman would confirm this. It was bad enough that I'd already pulled back the curtain. Why did I crown my folly by raising the squeaking sash and calling as the man turned?
"You still locked out?"
He grinned beneath a street lamp and came slowly towards me, his cultured voice ringing out like polished silver in the chilling air.
"One could claim," he echoed quietly, "to have taken a sudden interest in astronomy or the nocturnal habits of the suburban tomcat, but that would be deceitful. No, I was merely hoping to find a piece of carpet or some discarded sacking to keep the frost out. I'll be fine tonight, I assure you. Don't you trouble your dainty feminine conscience over me."
That did it! I never could withstand a sexist jibe, never mind the promptings of my lamentably naive good nature.
"Wait," I relented in a loud whisper. "At least I might lend you a blanket."
The man kissed his fingertips, then held his arms wide like a Messiah. Seconds later he was through my gate, and advancing eagerly up the path.
"So the warm soft centre oozed out at last," he responded with crystal charm as he came to lean his elbows against my window-sill. "Sorry, I'm being flippant when I should express gratitude. Was I dreaming, or are you truly prepared to be charitable? It's so perishing cold out here I'm practically at death's door - or at least her window," he added with an impish chuckle.
I still had my winter coat on - suitably frumpy I observed as I passed my reflection in the hall. Cautiously I opened the front door, and as the stranger stood there trembling on the threshold I heard my own dumb question:
"Why do I get the feeling I'm going to regret this?"
"I don't know," he chirped. "We often regret some of our more impulsive gestures, but I pledge my honour not to be the cause of your regret. And your hall seems ideal. I really would be content to sleep here in the corner - no frills expected! If anyone walks by, I'll simply say I broke in - making sure I keep your reputation suitably intact."
"Thanks," I nodded mechanically, "but you look as if you could do with a hot drink."
The man continued to smile. "At this hour, more coffee would undoubtedly keep me awake, but I confess a cup of tea would be most welcome. Should I drink it standing here in the garden, or does your magnanimous offer include the comfort of a chair?"
Despite his good humour, I knew I was being mocked.
"Look," I snapped. "There's no need for that. I'm merely being cautious, that's all. Who wouldn't be, in this day and age? I call it being sensible."
"Sensible, I'm sure, to the needs of others. But take care you don't catch cold standing in your doorway - there's a biting wind out here."
In defence of my folly I can only say - given the circumstances - could any humanitarian have denied him simple warmth? Moreover I had been well-trained in the art of self-defence - and it wasn't as if I didn't recognise the man. Besides, it was a lot warmer in my front room.
So, fool though I be, I invited him in and offered to take his hat and coat.
"You truly are a good soul," he said, rubbing his hands and peering hopefully around for a warm fireplace. "I had visions of spending the night in some fearful cell, branded as a common vagrant. Once in the hands of the law, one might have been shunted off to the Old Bailey, and then - who knows? Dartmoor?"
"For being homeless?" I shook my head. "I doubt it. Besides, you're not homeless. You're simply locked out, remember?"
"A marginal improvement, perhaps, on being locked up! But to be fair to the good lady, it was entirely my own fault - a chronic failure to pay the high rent she demands of me. I had hoped a fellow inmate might have left the door on the latch tonight, but it seems the dragon got there first."
I asked where this dragon lived.
"Directly opposite, look!" He lifted the curtain and pointed to a brightly-lit first-floor window. "See? She's up there now, oiling her whips, revelling in her sadistic life-style. Don't be fooled into thinking she uses electricity," he added earnestly. "That entire house is illuminated by the fire of dragon-breath! Ah!" he paused, "I do hope I'm not slandering a friend of yours?"
"I don't know anyone in this area," I blurted out. "I only moved in two weeks ago."
"I see. And now you're out of a job? Oh, my dear lady - beware they don't get you too. I always think they sound like marauding creatures from outer space - repossessing our souls the moment we default on our dues. For my part, I fell only three months behind with my mortgage, but that was enough. The vultures moved in and I was moved out - reduced at a stroke from the rank of honourable householder to under-privileged tenant, and at my age humility comes as a tough lesson. But then, don't our entire lives consist of ups and downs? Like your dismissal this evening - I was sitting in the corner, remember? The long drawn-out coffee and the Chelsea bun? One couldn't help overhearing your boss thanking you for loyal devotion in the face of insurmountable odds, and giving you his gracious farewell blessing. However, you did hint that you often flit from job to job."
"Yes," I replied, "and you said you could offer me a new one."
"Pardon me," came an indignant frown, "pardon me, I said no such thing. I merely put forward a hypothesis, no more. As I recall, I said: 'Suppose I were to offer you an exciting new alternative?' I deliberately used the subjunctive."
"You mean you can't?"
"I didn't say that either, though I did suggest that if you gave me a sporting chance, I might convince you of my integrity. Interested?"
Of course I was, but was it wise to listen? Gullible as ever, I cast aside my frumpy coat and went to fill the kettle.
He followed. "Nice place! You know, if I were trying to sell you a new kitchen, I'd be hard-pressed to improve on what you have here. Tell me, what made you decide to change your mind about letting me in?"
"Stupidity," I replied, dead-pan. "Mutual sympathy? Two lonely souls fighting for survival in a harsh world? Or perhaps I felt mean, owning this vast empty building while you stood out there shivering."
His face clouded. "Empty? You're surely not saying you have this entire house to yourself? You admit living here all alone, yet you open your front door to a strange man who might as well be an escapee from God knows where? Miss Bewley, are you nuts?"
"Very likely. I can't help it. All my life I've done nutty things, hoping they'll turn out okay. Do you want to know why I was late for work this afternoon? A little girl on a skate-board came hurtling round the corner and crashed to the ground, badly grazing her chin on the footpath. Her companion ran off frightened by the sight of blood, so I picked her up and carried her to a nearby chemist. Naturally I waited while he patched her up, and then felt bound to escort her home. Result? Late once too often, proving what a thoroughly unreliable employee I am."
"Just the once? I distinctly heard a reference to five or six times."
"Okay, okay! Could have been eight or nine, but it was hardly ever my fault. Delayed buses, bomb-scares, minor hold-ups, all beyond my control. It's not that I don't care, quite the reverse. I just keep getting suckered into being someone else's Good Samaritan."
"You like meeting people, helping them unravel their tangled affairs?"
"Exactly! Even you - though how much of a risk I'm taking right now, only time will tell."
"Doesn't it occur to you, young lady, that I'm taking an equal risk? Assault and battery are no longer an exclusive male preserve, you know. I'm placing my life and health in your hands right now, trusting you're not about to poison my cup of tea."
"And what could I possibly hope to gain by that? If you're in any doubt, go ahead - search my cupboards for arsenic or a sharp hatchet."
"I respect the offer," he sighed, "but frankly I'm too weary. I've had an exhausting day, and very little to show for it so far."
It seemed appropriate to ask what he did for a living.
"Oh - this and that," he dismissed my question. "I'd say you and I have much in common, Jennifer. We drift from job to job, absorbing slices of other people's lives, living from day to day in the diminishing hopes of attaining the ultimate bonanza. For my part, I boast no particular skills, beyond a gift of the gab. Mind you, I have had plenty of experience. I simply lack marketable expertise, that's all. I joined the Merchant Navy for a while - saw most of Africa and the U.S.A. - savoured the pungent aromas of Cairo and Karachi. I served at table once to a Maharajah in New Delhi and drove a bus in Hong Kong - unofficially that is, in fact, to be honest, I stole it! For a while I held a clerical job in Chicago, then worked as a lumberjack in Montana - both, I regret, without the knowledge or approval of Uncle Sam. Back home I ran a fairground carousel before working behind the counter in a provincial bank where I handled tempting amounts of other people's money. My trouble is I'm too honest."
"Except when you stole your bus," I reminded him smugly.
"Ah, yes, but that was an emergency - helping a mate re-board his ship - it seemed the only way to get him there on time. Besides, I did drive the damned thing back to the depot afterwards, long before they knew it had gone missing. Oh, and I once stood for Parliament."
"Really? Did you get elected?"
Again I saw the sly grin of a guilty child.
"Perhaps if I'd stood for a different party, and more people had liked me. No, I gained national fame for all of fifteen seconds and lost my deposit. There! I see you're impressed. What about you? What have you done to improve the world?"
For some reason I already felt lulled into accepting this man as a trusted friend. While waiting for the kettle, we relaxed in the front room where I recounted how I'd buttered a million rolls, unfolded a million lettuces, fried a million sausages - and now hated the sight, sound and smell of tomato ketchup. I described wrapping countless pieces of fried cod, dousing mountains of chips with cheap vinegar, and microwaving God-knows-how-many meat pies.
"Yet at the end of the day," I concluded, "I still come home feeling peckish."
"Are you peckish now?"
"Yes," I admitted, "but I'm also very tired. I think the hunger just lost its deposit."
"Would you allow me to cook for you - say, an omelette? By way of a verbal testimonial, I might mention I once worked as deputy chef in a prestigious Paris hotel."
"In that case," I agreed, "I give you carte blanche to use whatever's in my fridge, but do you mind if I first take a shower?"
"Mind? Why should I mind? It's your house. And in case you ever saw Psycho, Miss Bewley, I suggest you bolt your bathroom door. I'll call out when your omelette's ready. Oh, may I take the liberty of tasting a small portion myself, just to check that I haven't overdone the arsenic?"
Ten minutes later, I emerged in my robe to find the table set with an immaculate white cloth and a single red rose standing in a sherry-glass. I expressed suitable delight, and asked where the rose had come from.
"Nearby," he confided with transparent glee. "Shades of the Hong Kong bus. Besides, nobody saw me. If she keeps a head count, I'll offer to replace the entire bush tomorrow morning. Pray be seated. I like your outfit."
I knew he was being sarcastic. I had considered getting fully dressed again after my shower, but reasoned that if the man had plans to molest me he'd do it whatever I wore.
As I sat down, I noticed that he'd set the table for only one.
"We ate our small portion in the servant's quarters," he explained.
"Stop being so damned unctuous," I said. "There's enough here for two. Grab yourself a plate and keep me company."
The man clicked his tongue disapprovingly.
"Bad form, Miss Bewley! Shows you never lived in the colonies. Never treat staff as equals, my dear, it upsets the status-quo. You'll only end up having to sack someone who'll go on to become impossibly matey with the next family. Thoroughly bad form!"
"Maybe," I argued, "but this isn't the colonies - this is Ealing."
He smiled infectiously. "Getting harder each day to tell the difference. However, if you're determined to spoil me, I'll concede. Oh," he added, bringing my best china to the table, "I also took the liberty of pouring two long-awaited cups of tea."
Whoever he was, this man was a superb cook. He'd made one of the finest omelettes I'd ever tasted - seasoned to perfection, fried to a crunchy golden brown and decorated with a small sprig of fresh parsley.
"Again," he blushed modestly, "courtesy of Hong Kong."
"I hope you never progress beyond plundering neighbours' gardens?" I warned him. "Or are you a professional burglar?"
"Not even an amateur. But on this occasion, I felt the end might justify the means."
Staring him straight in the eye, I enquired what end he had in mind.
"Aha! To impress, no more. It's certainly not the thin end of any wedge. I fully intend sleeping on your lino tonight, and I'll be gone long before you wake in the morning. By then your shabby visitor will have become no more than a curiously improbable dream."
I knew I was being teased, yet I revelled in the unaccustomed pampering.
"We'll see," I said simply. "What are your plans for tomorrow?"
"Sunday? Maybe if it's quiet I'll have another stab at breaking into Number 10 Downing Street. If caught, I'll claim to be a reporter from the tabloids seeking to enlighten the British public as to the colour of the Prime Ministerial lavatory paper. How are you planning to spend your day?"
I said I hadn't decided, adding that my own toilet paper happened to be white.
"I felt sure it would be," he beamed. "What else would suit such a perfect angel in disguise?"
He eyed me curiously as if about to add more, but I'd had my fill of being taunted. I took the bull by the horns.
"You're very frivolous," I challenged him. "Talk, talk, talk! You keep on talking, yet there's none of it I can take seriously."
He sighed heavily. "That's me, I fear. Inoffensive, but oh! so ineffectual."
"And just how did you plan to convince me of your integrity?"
Back came the broad smile. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten. I'll begin right this minute, if you'll promise to stay awake. Let's talk first about your next job - any thoughts as to what kind of a job? Can you, for instance, drive a bus?"
"No," I declared, "nor do I wish to see the inside of a Hong Kong jail. I just want an ordinary job, not too far from here, reasonably well paid, with sensible hours, preferably in pleasant sunny surroundings..."
"Bong!" he exclaimed, thnping his forehead with his wrist. "My dear, you've effectively just pulled the rug from under my feet - ruled out nearly everything I had in mind."
"Which was?"
"Aha! I'm not at liberty to say - not yet - not until I'm sure we're prepared to take you on."
"We?" I queried. "Who's we? Are you from some kind of agency?"
"You might more accurately describe me as a talent scout."
"Talent? You mean like singing? Oh, no! If you think I want to go on stage or get into films or television," I said, "forget it. Not my line at all."
"Hush, Jennifer! Hush! Don't be so impetuous. Let me explain. Instead of waiting until people apply for certain posts, my colleagues and I quietly go head-hunting or talent-spotting. We then interview potential candidates to see how well they measure up."
He paused, his eyes focused on my waist as if trying to visualise the nakedness beneath my robe.
"Well, thanks for doing my omelette," I said, glancing at the clock with a meaningful yawn. "I'm sure you're positively oozing with integrity, but right now I need my beauty sleep."
"There's no such thing," he argued. "One of the ugliest women I know can sleep twelve hours a night and still resemble a gargoyle from hell. You, on the other hand, could stay awake till mid-week and remain no less the perfect angel."
I brushed his compliments aside, saying my looks weren't a subject to be haggled over. I said I was sorry I didn't have a spare bed to offer him, but I gave him a couple of blankets and a pillow, suggesting that the settee might be more comfortable than bare lino.
"Not only an angel, Jennifer - a veritable archangel incarnate! If only we had a handy bottle of champagne, I'd drink to your long life and well-deserved prosperity."
"Thank you," I said, "but there's no need to overdo the flannel. I don't know whether you're proposing to get undressed, but I can hardly lend you a nightie, so you'll have to improvise. Do you need a shower before you retire?"
"A blissful thought, my dear, but I haven't yet fulfilled my mission. We were discussing jobs."
"Yes, and then you started ogling me and so I felt it was time we went our separate ways. Since I no longer have the energy to kick you out, you may use the settee, and I'm going to lock my bedroom door - just to avoid any misunderstanding."
"Oh, come, come! If you feel the need for that extreme, I'd say there's a monumental misunderstanding we should clear up at once. In case you're in any doubt, young lady, I've no intention of approaching within six feet of your bedroom door. And as for my so-called ogling, I was merely trying to assess, through professional eyes, how you might look wearing a somewhat different kind of outfit."
"I never doubted it," I said. "How different?"
"Well, pardon my candour, but something less frumpy? I'm sure that's a very cosy dressing-gown, but - forgive me - it does little to enhance either your figure or your vibrant personality. And as for that coat you wore earlier, the less said about that the better."
"Sorry," I said, "but in March I dress for warmth, not to tantalise any passing Romeo."
"I see minimal danger of your doing that!" he retorted. "But come, come - surely a girl of your tender years yearns to look attractive? There's nothing immoral in a woman displaying her assets to best advantage. This isn't Cairo, and I presume you're not about to take holy orders. I'm not saying I'd set out to flaunt myself if roles were reversed, nor would I forgo my dignity or self-respect, but..."
"No, but if you had any sense," I butted in, "you'd still lock your bedroom door. You'll find blankets in the bathroom cupboard if you need them. Make yourself at home, and if you're still here in the morning, perhaps I'll be a little more sociable."
"I don't suppose you've heard of Intimate Breaks?" he said as I was about to retire. "No matter, it's all to the good. We keep a very low profile till we've had the chance to screen each applicant. Think of us as a specialist organisation, catering exclusively to the needs of those who seek something a little different from the experiences they'd find at a more conventional resort."
"Fine," I yawned in the doorway. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Just testing you, that's all. I've been assessing you every day since you first served me with coffee three weeks ago. Good night, Miss Bewley. Be sure to lock that door of yours. Safe dreams!"
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