Confessions from a Health Farm. Timothy Lea

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СКАЧАТЬ go any further there is one question that I must ask you.’

      ‘My cards are stamped up to date,’ I say.

      ‘Are you frightened of the human body?’

      This was not the question I was expecting but it is still pretty easy. ‘No,’ I say.

      ‘Good.’ Miss Zonker suddenly unties the sash of her robe and – eek! She has shed her threads before you can say Roger Carpenter. ‘It’s only flesh, isn’t it? Shoulders, breasts, hips –’

      ‘Yes!’ I gulp. ‘But –’

      ‘Nothing to be ashamed of. We’re all the same underneath these dust sheets we call clothes. Take your trousers off.’

      Oh dear. I never feel at my happiest when I am up against one of these forward ladies – especially when they come from somewhere in Eastern Europe. You never know what they’ve been used to, do you?

      ‘Is that really necessary?’ I say.

      ‘If you reveal signs of an inhibited nature you will be no good to us at Beauty Manor. Think of yourself as a sculptor and human flesh as your clay.’

      I try to think about it but I find it difficult. Maybe it is because Miss Zonker is wrestling with my zipper. My, but she is a strong girl. She grits her teeth and – wheeeeeeeeeeh! The opening at the front of my trousers now goes down to my knee.

      ‘So sorry,’ she says. ‘Now you will have to take them off.’

      ‘They’re not even split down the seam,’ I say miserably. ‘I’ve only had them a couple of weeks. They were French.’

      Miss Zonker removes a screen and starts fiddling with a large stills camera. ‘At Beauty Manor you will wear a toga,’ she says. ‘Right. Just a couple of snaps for the album. We intend to keep a case history of each of our employees. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind posing with that discus.’

      ‘Sidney didn’t discus this with me,’ I say, wittily. Miss Zonker does not say anything. I expect that, being foreign, she finds it difficult to understand our British sense of humour. ‘How’s this for the pose?’ I say.

      ‘Very nice,’ she says. ‘But I think it would be better if you took the discus out of your mouth. You look like one of those African women with a plate lip.’

      ‘Just trying to make it more interesting,’ I say. ‘How about this?’

      ‘That’s much better. There’s only one thing. It loses a lot with you standing there in your shirt and underpants. The socks don’t help a lot, either.’

      ‘I don’t like them much, myself,’ I say. ‘My gran gave them to me. You know what it’s like?’

      ‘Take everything off,’ says Miss Z firmly. ‘I want you naked.’ She starts clicking on spot lights and I have to shield my eyes against the dazzle. ‘Come on.’ I respond to the tone of brisk efficiency in her voice and start sliding down my Y-fronts. After all, she is a professional, isn’t she? If she has cabinet ministers on her books, she must be above suspicion. Funny about that photograph, though. I must talk to her about that.

      ‘Shove it up by your ear,’ she says.

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘The discus.’

      Oh. For a moment I thought we were on to the remedial contortions.

      ‘This is just for the record, is it?’ I say.

      ‘That’s right. Bend your knee a bit. That’s lovely. Of course, we might get a cover shot out of it.’

      ‘A cover shot?’

      ‘ “Butch Male on the Rampage”, “Health and Dexterity”, something like that.’

      ‘But I’m not like that!’ I squeak. It’s funny how your voice always breaks at the wrong moment, isn’t it?

      ‘It doesn’t matter. Nobody’s going to know. It’s going to make money and that’s beautiful.’

      ‘Is it?’

      Wanda Zonker speaks what I later learn is one of the great truths of the beauty business.

      ‘Anything that makes money is beautiful,’ she says, almost reproachfully. ‘Drop your shoulder and turn a bit more to the right. You’re showing too much puppy fat. We’ll have to work at those inches, won’t we?’ Her voice suddenly goes all husky and her shadow falls across one of the lights. ‘You’re still tense, aren’t you?’ She is now standing so close to me that her bristols are brushing my shoulder,

      ‘I’m not used to this caper,’ I say.

      ‘It’s the sex thing, isn’t it?’ she says.

      ‘Not exactly,’ I say.

      ‘You’ve no need to be ashamed. It’s a fairly common hang up.’ While she talks, her fingers are brushing against my hang down. ‘I come up against it every day.’

      ‘Really?’ I say. ‘Can I put this thing somewhere for a moment? My arm is getting tired.’

      ‘Of course.’ Miss Zonker brushes her lips against one of my biceps. ‘I think it would be a good idea if we broke off for a bit.’ Percy is now in a very breakable condition and I clear my throat nervously. Miss Z moves her hands to my shoulders and I breathe easier. ‘You’re thinking of me as a sex object, I can tell.’ She looks down between our bodies and we both know what she is talking about. ‘I think maybe we’d better get this thing out of the way, don’t you?’

      I am not quite certain what ‘thing’ she is talking about but I am too shy to ask. That is why I learned so little at school. If I had my time again I would always ask.

      ‘Uuum,’ I say, to show that I have been thinking about it. ‘Whatever you think is best.’

      ‘I don’t want a sound working relationship to be sullied by any feelings of guilt emanating from a suppressed libido.’ She is a lovely talker, isn’t she? They must be very handy with the languages in Lithuania – very handy with the hands, too. Percy is practically going into orbit. I feel so uncouth behaving like this, but then, when you have an action man kit like mine you don’t have a lot of alternative. It sort of takes you over.

      ‘Excuse me.’ Miss Zonker peels herself away from the front of my body and pulls open a cupboard. Like a shelfful of imprisoned moggies, a bundle of furry rugs bounds into her arms. She tosses them onto the floor at my feet and prods one with her toe. ‘Lie down,’ she says.

      I am very glad of the opportunity to wriggle into a bit of cover because I feel a right nana standing under the arc lights without as much as a dab of athlete’s foot powder to deaden the shine on my shimmering torso. Down at floor level it is much cosier. That fur feels fantastic against your skin! I do hope it is not habit forming. I would hate to feel that I had to borrow Mum’s fox stole next time I felt like a spot of nooky. You would have to watch the teeth, too, wouldn’t you?

      ‘That’s nice. Face me. Don’t smile.’ CLICK!

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