Confessions of a Gym Mistress

“That was a bit thick,” says Geoffrey as we drive away. “Did you hear what that chap said?”

“Yes. He said ‘Schweinhunds!’”

“No. I mean about reporting us to the Race Relations Board.”

Marvellous, isn’t it? Unless you watched television all the time you could be excused for wondering who won the war.

“I need a drink after that,” I say.

As it turns out, this is my second foolish suggestion of the evening. Spirits play havoc with me on an empty stomach and Geoffrey makes me bolt back a second enormous scotch in order to “get it in before closing time” as he puts it.

“Do you fancy a packet of nuts with it?” he says. “They have eighteen times the protein value of steak, you know?” Something tells me that I can say goodbye to my supper.

“You need a bit of steak for that eye, don’t you?” I say.

“It’s much better now,” says my lark-tongued cavalier. “It’s no hardship looking at you through one eye.”

“You mean, it would be even better if you couldn’t see anything?”

“No! Rosie, why do you have to take everything I say the wrong way?”

“Because that’s the way it comes out,” I say. “Ooooh! I felt quite funny then. I think I’d better sit down.” It must be the scotch.

“I felt funny when you touched my arm like that,” breathes Geoffrey, sinking onto the moquette beside me. “Oh Rosie. I fancy you, rotten.”

“Well, that’s the way I feel at the moment,” I tell him. “I think I’d better go outside.”

“If you want to use the toilet, there’s one in the passage. I saw it as we came in.”

“Thank you, Hawkeye,” I say. “But I don’t think that will be necessary. You’d better take me home.”

We get outside to the car and, thank goodness, Geoffrey’s eye does seem to be a lot better. Just as well because the cool air hits me like a slap in the face and I hardly know what I’m doing.

“Comfy?” says Geoffrey as he shuts the door. “You wait till I turn the heater on. Then you’ll be really snug.”

He is not kidding! After about five minutes I feel as if I am sitting in a microwave oven. Geoffrey is talking to me about teaching but I just can’t keep my eyes open—I believe that lots of people have this trouble with Geoffrey. When I wake up it is because the engine has been turned off.

“Are we home?” I ask drowsily.

“Not quite,” says Geoffrey. “I brought you up to the common because it’s such a beautiful night.”

A glance out of the window shows that Geoffrey is not the only nature lover in North West London. Cars are parked all round us and inside them I can see the shadowy outlines of struggling figures—no doubt fighting to get a better view of the pitch darkness.

“It’s raining,” I say.

“I like rain,” says Geoffrey. “I think it’s very romantic. Water turns me on.” He proves it by trying to slide his hands up my skirt.

“Stop, cock!” I say wittily. “What are you trying to do? I thought you were taking me home?”

Geoffrey transfers his attentions to my breasts and one of my blouse buttons hits the windscreen.

“If you start teaching down in the country I won’t see you,” he pants. “I want you to know how I feel about you.”

“I’ve no problem knowing that,” I say, wishing he could be a bit gentler with his hands.

“Do you remember that time up the tennis club? Let’s do that again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. Of course, I do remember but I don’t like to think about it. I mean, there was something funny in the fruit cup and Geoffrey took advantage of me—at least, he tried to. I’m still not certain what happened before he was sick behind the roller. As anybody who has read Confessions of a Night Nurse must know I am not a girl of easy virtue who bandies her charms about. I have a romantic nature but I try not to let it go to my head—or anywhere else.

“Just kissing you isn’t going to do any harm.”

Geoffrey is right, of course. There is no sense in being ridiculously prudish. We have known each other for some time and after Natalie’s remarks I am glad to find that I can arouse some feelings in the man. Also, the whisky is making it difficult for me to say no—that and the fact that Geoffrey’s mouth is firmly clamped over mine.

Oh! I wonder where he learned to do that? I always remember Geoffrey as a rather useless kisser. Perhaps Raquel Welchlet has been giving him lessons? The thought makes me determined to demonstrate that big sister knows best.

“Oh, Rosie!” The inside of the windows is beginning to steam up.

“Geoffrey! Please!” Without me realising what was happening he has raided my reception area. How awful that I am so befuddled with drink and hunger that I am practically powerless to resist him.

“That’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Geoffrey!” Now the condensation is running down the windows in rivulets.

“Feel how much I want you.” Geoffrey takes my hand and guides it to—OH! This is too much! Can this be the boy who shyly pressed a cucumber sandwich into my fingers at the Eastwood Tennis Club Novices’ Competition?

“Geoffrey!!”

“I must have you!” Geoffrey presses something between my legs—I mean, presses something situated between my legs—I mean, presses a lever situated on the floor between my legs—and the back of my seat drops down to the horizontal position. Hardly have I realised what is happening than Geoffrey is trying to scramble on top of me. I have never known such a change come over a man. It must have been that German giving him ideas.

“Are you mad, Geoffrey!?” I screech.

“Mad with love!” Somehow—don’t ask me how he manages to do it—the great idiot gets his foot hooked in the driving wheel. The horn lets out a high-pitched shriek—and then refuses to stop.

“Get your foot away!” I shout.

“I have!”

One of the good things about a nurse’s training is that it teaches you how to handle yourself in an emergency: take a long, critical look at the situation and then—panic.

“You’ve turned the ignition on!”

Geoffrey turns off the ignition and immediately the horn stops and smoke starts billowing out of the front of the car. He turns on the ignition and the smoke dies down while the horn starts again.

“Do something!” I scream. All around us I can see people reacting to the noise and one or two cars switch on their lights and start to pull away.

“You’d better get out!” shouts Geoffrey. He is pressing every switch and knob on the dashboard and I hear something making a spluttering noise like a fuse burning down. “The wiring must have shorted,” he yells.

I don’t wait to hear any more but start scrambling out of the car. Unfortunately, for some reason that escapes me, my tights are round my ankles and I am blinded by the headlights of a car that is pulling away. How embarrassing! I try to pull my skirt over my knees and fall down as I hobble towards the protection of some bushes. This is the last time I will ever let Geoffrey Wilkes take me out to dinner.