The wretched man! He must have known I wouldn't sleep after that. I lay there, listening for any sound that might suggest he was stealing my pots and pans or packing away my precious clock. If sixteen minutes should elapse without my hearing a chime, I'd go at once and phone the police.
Meanwhile, in the intervening quarter-hours, I mulled over what he'd been saying, wondering what kind of an organisation he represented. Catering for unconventional needs? Something a little dfferent? It sounded like a cross between a holiday camp and a brothel. I pictured dancing nymphettes performing obscure classical ballets in a vast open-air park, and then allowing the merry onlookers to tease away their seven veils one by one until...
Suddenly it was morning. I awoke to the inviting aroma of bacon and eggs, fried tomatoes and sausages - the very kind of breakfast I'd fancied the night before! I couldn't decide whether to be grateful for this man's efforts or annoyed by his audacity. I got up, put on my frumpy dressing-gown and gently unlocked the bedroom door.
There he sat, fully dressed at my table, writing. He glanced up with a guilty stare, took off his glasses and hastily folded away some papers.
"Ah, at last," he smiled, rising to his feet. "Good morning. Come and join me. Breakfast is all ready. Do you know, you've scored extremely well so far. I shouldn't really confide in you at this stage, but I sometimes bend a few rules when I think it'll serve the end-purpose."
"Good," I grinned back. "Bend another and explain this end-purpose."
"Hush!" he said. "No questions yet. Maybe over breakfast I'll spill a few beans and drop just a hint or two."
Exasperated almost to the point of hurling pillows, I sank onto the settee and began brushing my hair while my enigmatic guest took full control in the kitchen.
"It's never easy," he called out, "striking a balance between telling someone facts you'd rather they didn't know in case they're not interested, and finding out whether they are interested without giving away too many details. How's that for a profound concept on a Sunday morning?"
He turned as if expecting a coherent reply, but I was mesmerised by the sound of his deeply relaxing voice, and could only offer a few mechanical nods.
"I'd like to propose a contract of good faith," he continued, bringing our plates to the table, "the faith of two individuals - you, Jennifer, and me. We have had cases in the past which were - how shall I say - distressing to all concerned? So naturally we go out of our way to avoid any repetition of that sort of thing."
I nearly yelled: "Waffle!" This hypnotic man seemed determined to avoid the main issue, a common ploy among salesmen. Whenever I sought a direct answer, he'd respond with the same rippling laugh, as carefree and disarming as any confidence trickster.
As we faced each other across the table, I challenged him again.
"You mentioned something called Intimate Breaks," I said. "I'm now giving you exactly one minute to come clean and tell me precisely what it means."
"Newcomers invariably ask that," he nodded pleasantly, "and I always trot out the same answer. Our range is so comprehensive, I can safely promise a client any facility he's looking for, provided it's legal. I might add we sometimes widen our scope to include longer-term relationships where it's deemed mutually beneficial."
So that was it!
"You're a dating agency!" I shouted. "Well, I'm not interested."
"In one respect," he said, waving his fork dismissively, "maybe we are - but very highly specialised, suiting everyone to his needs. We work on a strictly personal basis, delving for a client's precise requirements, then doing our utmost to fulfil them. Naturally such individual tailoring costs money, but we do allow extended credit for all our services, and clients are free to withdraw during the first month with no obligation to make further payment if they feel we're not offering the facilities they seek. Sorry, I'm spouting blurb at you. Do you mind if I pause for a quick mouthful?"
I gave up. "You managed to find what you wanted in my fridge?"
He shook his head. "No. You were out of bacon and, for the life of me, I couldn't locate the marmalade, so I nipped out at six-thirty and found a handy little corner shop - one of the benefits of your multi-ethnic neighbourhood. I didn't know if you normally take a Sunday paper?"
"Only when I can afford it. I suppose you're about to tell me your services are all neatly displayed in the Sunday Times?"
I wilted under a glare of moral indignation. "I beg your pardon! Let me assure you, young lady, we have less blatant ways of passing the word, and far more discreetly, too. Do you mind telling me precisely how old you are?"
This was too early in my day. Before I knew it I'd admitted to being twenty-six.
"Excellent. Any strong family ties?"
I shook my head. I related how both my parents had died when I was fifteen, how I'd been forced to change schools at a crucial time and live with an elderly aunt who didn't believe in allowing girls a higher education. Far from expressing sympathy, the man actually smiled.
"And single too," he nodded. "Currently unemployed - which is all to the good - not averse to taking personal risks - good again - kind-hearted to a fault, dedicated to helping all manner of lost souls - and reasonably good-looking. Mind you, I frankly prefer a waitress image to this morning's homespun simplicity, but I maintain you're still modestly presentable."
"You left out Happy-to-Remain-Unattached," I said. "It so happens I'm not looking for any kind of relationship, and I doubt if I could afford your kind of set-up anyway, so it's a waste of time trying to convince me."
Again came that serene smile and the slowly shaken head.
"Patience, Jennifer! No need to be defensive. I'm simply telling you what we offer; and as for wasting my time, that is not a problem. I've greatly enjoyed your company, even if it doesn't lead to a signed contract. You don't mind if I call you Jennifer? I should point out, we use first names exclusively in our business. It gets to be a habit."
I wasn't aware we'd actually exchanged first names, and I said so.
"No," he grinned, "but apart from the badge you wore as a waitress, it was also on an envelope in your kitchen. Sorry - only doing my job. Besides, I get a kick out of meeting people, exploring their aspirations and fantasies, not to mention their kitchens. I love visiting other peoples' homes, don't you - you get so many fresh ideas. Yours is lovely."
"Then at least you can see I don't need any home improvements."
"Ah, but what about life improvement? I could introduce you to some unique facilities where the lives of all of us - you, me, politicians, the Royal Family, anyone - can be enriched with one vital ingredient - fulfilment! Spare a thought for those poor wretches who live out in the sticks and work each day in the city. Frankly, I couldn't stand it, catching a train before dawn and coming home barely an hour before bed-time, living in a virtual strait-jacket, fettered to conformity - where's the fun in that? We at Intimate Breaks seek to bridge that gap between our clients' deep-seated needs and their mundane obligations to a conventional world - sorry, I'm quoting sales blurb again like a tame parrot. What it boils down to, Jennifer, is that we pander to those very private and personal desires we all need to have satisfied."
I tried to stem his boundless enthusiasm by denying I had any such desires.
"Nonsense," he bounced back, "everyone has desires and already I have a shrewd idea as to what yours are, though I still need more from you. We can't deal in non-specifics, Jennifer, any more than a garage mechanic can help if you simply complain there's something wrong with your car. Let me assure you, none of us gets embarrassed - in fact, much of our inspiration comes from talking frankly to people such as yourself. Right now I'm seeing you more as a potential employee, but the same screening still applies. Shall I run through a few basics? If I touch on anything too personal, I apologise, but it's my job to pry, and it's unlikely you'll shock me with any weird hang-ups I haven't encountered before."
He handed me a colourful brochure. "I'll allow you a brief glance at this, though I must take it away with me when I leave. Highly confidential, except to permanent employees."
"Impressive," I said, thumbing through the pages until he suddenly snatched it from my grasp as if I was about to read something I shouldn't.
"As you say, Jennifer - impressive, and rightly so. It's simply to show we mean business. A shabby brochure might imply we didn't care, which couldn't be further from the truth. We've all of us had extensive training at the Centre, not only in psycho-therapy and the art of promotion, but in our entire range of services. A fascinating range too, believe me. We love our clients, Jennifer, and we want them to love us."
Glancing at his watch, he reached into his briefcase for what looked like an application form.
"Sorry," he said, "but you spent longer in bed than I'd anticipated, and now I'm sorely pressed for time. So," he added with an encouraging grin, "a few frank questions, if you wouldn't mind - no need to answer any that you'd rather not. First, I take it you're not a Lesbian?"
I blushed, telling him I was normal and proud of it.
"You're quite sure?" he asked with a look of concern as if I might have been daft enough to give the wrong answer. "You never wanted to make love to a woman, or become a man yourself?"
I found myself laughing. "Why? Is that what you're offering?"
His face remained earnest. "Could be - if that's what you always wanted. We're not talking surgery, of course, but we do fulfil a multitude of gender reassignment fantasies. So, pressing on - have you any interest in bondage, chains, leather, rubber, spikes, mutilation..."
I stopped him. "Please! I've only just had breakfast. That sounds horrible, like those pornographic 0900 numbers."
He smiled disarmingly. "No doubt your prudish disapproval does you credit in church circles, my dear, but the precise definition of pornography is very much open to debate. And we certainly don't deal in mere recorded voices rabbiting on about some particular quirk or fetish to tantalise a thwarted sexual need. We provide realism, in a real-time environment. Your average dating agency confines itself to worldly interests - music, sport, art and literature. We blend our couples on the basis of their deepest and most personal needs. And for those folk who can't decide what they're after, we offer weekends of self-discovery. We often attend these ourselves to make up the numbers, and believe me, they are fascinating."
Throughout this eulogy I felt myself being scrutinised with a look of warm, caring concern. Did my silence convey hidden messages? Was my body language screaming of primæval needs I knew nothing about? By nature, I'm a night-owl, and this was all happening far too early in my day.
"Jennifer, listen," he went on, "we're not out to make a quick buck from off-beat cravings. Those who attend our courses endorse their worth by coming back for more. You'd be amazed how many people go through life wanting something they can't define, longing for some elusive thrill that never seems to materialise. We help such people to realise their dreams. And to be fair, you won't find many a weekend break for less than we charge, inclusive of meals and transport both ways."
"Sounds like Fantasy Island!" I said facetiously. "And where does this orgy of self-indulgence take place?"
My visitor watched in amusement as I reached again for the brochure. I studied its back page and looked inside the front cover, but saw no name, address, nor any phone number.
"Security," he said, gently taking it away again. "You'll never find Fantasy Island on your own, nor can you walk unaided down Dorothy's yellow brick road and hope to reach the Emerald City."
"Maybe not. But I'm confused by all this talk of bondage and kinky goings-on. I'm not into any of that. What are you offering me?"
"At the very least, Jennifer, an experience, an awakening, maybe the start of a whole new career, who knows? Put it this way; if you wanted to act, you'd join a drama club, right? A golfer would find himself a nine-hole golf-course. Jennifer, trust me - I don't want your money, nor the number of your credit card, so is there really anything else you need to know at this stage?"
"Yes!" I flung my frustration full in his face. "Plenty, but you won't ruddy well answer. For the last time, what do you want from me?"
"Fair question," he smiled. "Why not pay us a weekend visit? Every month we hold a self-discovery seminar which includes transport, meals, and two nights' accommodation, all charges to be waived in your case as a prospective new employee. We currently have a few vacancies on our specialised team, and one of them could well be yours."
He leaned back and glanced at the clock. "Damn! I was hoping to spend a lot more time with you. There's fresh coffee in the kitchen, but in view of the hour I'm afraid you'll have to help yourself!"
"I suppose you'll blame me," I said, "making you late for your next appointment. It just proves lateness isn't always one's own fault. Do you have far to go?"
"I couldn't possibly discuss that," he replied stiffly. "The identity and location of any contact is always held in the strictest confidence. Likewise I must urge you not to reveal to anyone the nature of our discussions this morning. However, off the record, I will leave you this pamphlet with my home phone number. Yes, I do have a home. The lino gag was part of your aptitude test. Thanks for supper. Breakfast was on me. My mother would love your kitchen."
As I watched him dropping the brochure and other papers back into his briefcase, I was puzzled. I was sure he hadn't had brought anything with him the previous evening, but before I could ask where it had come from he placed a soap-scented forefinger across my lips.
"Save your thoughts and questions till we meet again, Jennifer. I'm sure you won't be disappointed, and I'll personally sign for the waiving of all charges. In short, my dear Miss Bewley, I really don't see what you've got to lose."
After he'd gone I found under his plate a twenty-pound note, by far the most generous tip I'd ever received. Beside it lay a folded leaflet containing lavish promises of unparalleled ecstasy, corroborated by anonymous testimonials from seemingly satisfied customers - yet nothing specific, except for a pencilled telephone number.
Throughout the day I thought long and hard, and finally flipped a fifty-pence coin. Heads, I'd treat the whole charade as a monumental joke and forget all about it: tails, I'd phone his number, and fling myself headlong into this free weekend of so-called self-discovery. In the man's own words, what had I got to lose?
The coin landed showing nine hands clasped in a prophetic ring of caring and mutual support. Accordingly I reached for the telephone.
It had only just been installed and now the line sounded dead, as if engineers were still working on the connection. I was about to trudge down the road to a phone box when I thought of the alleged dragon opposite, the woman who could illuminate her rooms with fiery nostrils. Curious to see if she really existed, I went across and boldly rang the bell.
A small girl came to the door. She stood staring at me.
"Excuse me," I began. "My name's Jennifer Bewley. I've recently moved into that house opposite but my phone's not working properly. I wonder, please, could someone kindly report it for me?"
A young man appeared, bright and clean-shaven.
"You're welcome to use ours," he offered with a friendly smile, and he led me to a phone on his sideboard.
After making my report I thanked him, and asked whether he had a pay-phone installed for the use of his tenants.
He laughed. "Our only tenant is young Petra here. Normally it's just me and the wife. Petra's our niece from Blackpool, staying with us for a couple of weeks while her Mum goes into hospital for a minor op." He paused to fondle the girl's head. "This little one kept us awake half the night, didn't you! She felt a bit icky after yesterday's long journey down the motorway. Still not feeling your best, are you, sweetheart?"
It seemed I'd made a prize ass of myself, yet I was sure I'd picked the right house. The scope of my visitor's inventiveness was broader than I'd thought. A pity, though. Somehow the notion of his dragon landlady was strangely appealing.
"Just a word," the man added, following me to the gate. "I wouldn't say this in front of the child, but it's best you keep your door on a chain after dark. My neighbour reported seeing a prowler last night, and this morning I found footprints in my rose-bed. You can't be too careful."
"No, indeed."
I glanced at the rich red roses that grew in abundance along the man's front wall. Nearby I also saw several clumps of parsley.
An hour later my phone rang, and a voice assured me the line was now in full working order. So I took a deep breath, dialled, and a woman answered.
"Ah!" I said stupidly. "I was hoping to speak to a gentleman who gave me this number - sorry - I seem to have mislaid his name."
"Would this have anything to do with a party he visited last night?" she enquired. She certainly sounded friendly. Did she know the truth, or was my man in the habit of lying to everyone?
"You know what it is," I said, "these all-night parties! But I assure you, your friend behaved impeccably and left after a hearty breakfast."
I heard a chuckle. "Oh, I love your tact. You must be Jennifer. Call me Cindy. I've heard glowing reports about your kitchen. So you were curious enough to phone? He seemed certain you would, but I wasn't sure after hearing some of the tales he spun you. My dear, have you any idea what you're getting into?"
"Not the vaguest. To be honest, I don't know what to believe. Last night this man - I don't even know his name - he spoke convincingly of a dragon landlady across the road, but now I've discovered she's only a myth."
"As dragon's often are," Cindy sighed. "But then, people do tell all kinds of tall stories at parties. I'm glad you phoned. We'll proceed with the next phase, if that's agreeable to you."
"Sure, but what is the next phase?"
"Ah! You and I will meet."
"Fine," I said. "Where do you suggest? I've no idea where you live."
"Don't worry. We'll meet, I promise. And I'm most curious to see this kitchen of yours."
A dozen times that evening I thought of phoning again, but my better judgement warned me not to. Presumably matters would unfold at their own pace.
All the same, I realised I was fast becoming paranoid, wondering who was spying on me, even to the point of scanning my kitchen for hidden cameras. Was it just a coincidence, my phone being out of order? Had my line been tapped? What if the man across the road had also contacted Cindy after my spontaneous visit? Just who was watching me, and from where? Was it safe to use my own bathroom?
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