Sex, Lies & Crazy People. John Hickman

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      sniggered.

      Chapter 11

      On the Prowl

      In our arena of doom, Dad wore his cheesiest grin. He looked embarrassed when he said, “I’ve decided to turn some focus to my social life.”

      I looked bewildered.

      He continued, “Outside of family I don’t have a social life! Your mum and I were

      married for nearly twenty years. I’m unhappy being alone.” Dad turned away. I guessed he was misting up. “I miss her dreadfully, but now I’ve decided to do something about it.” He paused and brightened. “A new wife, and for Pandy a new mum is to become my principal interest in life, outside of the hotel.”

      That night at dinner Dad told us, “I’ve joined some singles agencies to go out on dates to meet women.”

      Gran and Gramps exchanged looks that conveyed they had mixed feelings.

      I could understand their point of view. Pandy was content cared for by Gran, and

      provided she didn’t misbehave, she had almost full run of the hotel. Run being the operative word. She’d been told to act as an adult, no running, no giggling in public. We were after all a business.

      Dad asked me to cover for him while he went out on a few dates.

      From the stories he told afterwards he’d been disappointed how mostly they were

      hardened control types with their own agendas.

      “That surprises me,” I said, “I’d thought there would have been a greater element of romance.”

      “Maybe they’re fed up, sitting alone in the dark, sipping gin and bitching about men,” Gran said shifting uncomfortably in her chair.

      Gramps was thoughtful. “What if they didn’t start off in the dark?”

      Gran let out another of her long, low sighs and mustered a pre-emptive strike by Groucho Marx. “I was married by a judge. I should have asked for a jury.”

      Gramps leaned close to me, “If your Dad’s not careful he’ll become tagged.”

      “Tagged as what?”

      He grinned. “That quiet, fucked-up bloke from the Harewood Hotel.”

      Chapter 12

      Wild Oats

      I had not had a girlfriend since before the death of Mum.

      I thought it appropriate to ask, “If you can get out and socialise, what about me?”

      “All right. You continue to hold the fort for me and I’ll reciprocate for you.”

      “That’s good but I see a problem.”

      “What?”

      “Well, you’ve sold your car. You needed the money and told us we didn’t need it,

      remember?”

      Dad shrugged. “You’ll have to use public transport or taxis like me.”

      At first I thought not having a car would cramp my style. That is if I had style. But quite quickly the penny dropped, who needs a shagging wagon when they’ve got a hotel?

      It was time to apply the Brylcreem, and drench myself in Old Spice. Look out ladies I’m sprinkled with horny dust and on the prowl.

      Bonking became the gastronomical equivalent of eating unbuttered, dry toast but there was no famine. Most nights a dry hump comprised a few grunts on top of a featherbed.

      Being lazy I never wanted to remake the entire bed if I could avoid it. I’d suggest we lay on top rather than within the crisp, clean sheets.

      Despite the manufacturer’s promotional blurb about their amazing sensitivity, I was convinced the downside was wearing a condom.

      I told Dad, “I might as well take a bath with a raincoat on.”

      He didn’t agree.

      Sex with a motionless woman was a bit of a mood killer. A bit like copulating with a statue, but guaranteed not to crumple the bedding too much. Self-esteem issues meant I

      remained semi-dressed, although more comfortable by far, if and when I loosened my tie.

      Never short of input from my loved ones, although not always complimentary, my family’s contribution after dinner continued in a deprecating vein. My grandparents were supportive but blunt.

      “That girl from the fruit shop was nice enough, dear, but her make-up’s a bit heavy, don’t you think?”

      “Heavy? She looks like she’s applied her cosmetics with a trowel, Girl.”

      “What about the pretty one, dear? You know, the pretend blonde with the tightly

      buttoned blouse and hard-nosed stare.”

      Little did Gran realise her cold blonde beauty raised my pulse even before she’d

      allowed me to attempt to unfasten her bra. For me that was a two handed visual job only

      attempted slowly with her holding her long hair back away from the action. After her locks became caught in the clasp we needed to stop and find scissors.

      “Yes, I noticed her,” Dad said, puffing enthusiastically on his pipe, “very attractive. Looks like she’s perfected an advanced beauty technique. Her dyed roots are a darker

      contrast closer to her scalp. She must use a brush to get a straight line.”

      Gran’s voice softened. “You should get out more, John, it’s natural for a young man to want to sow his wild oats, but please, please, meet someone nice for settling down.”

      Gran didn’t whole heartedly approve of my lady loves but, being a peacock in my prime, I continued to seduce much as a desert wanderer might devour an orange, and about as selfishly.

      Chapter 13

      Paradise!

      On good days kitchen life was a struggle. On bad days, it was an absolute nightmare.

      My grandparents who’d always been loving and caring became snappy, and there were more frequent tears from Gran.

      “Daddy, Gran and Gramps are upset,” Pandy reported, with a concerned frown.

      “They’ll have to get un-upset, Sweetheart. I’m committed. There’s no turning back now. Failure isn’t an option. What I need most is for your brother to master that damned kitchen.”

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