The Reginald Perrin Omnibus by David Nobbs Read Free Book Online Page A

trousers. ‘Have some more sherry?’
    ‘No thank you.’
    The world was full of her bony knees, thin arms, magnificent bust. She would repulse him, smack his face, ask for a transfer to another department.
    ‘Where are these other people?’ she asked.
    He took her in his arms and kissed her pert lips, her snub nose. He had expected resistance, not a hard little tongue feeling its way into his mouth, and hands groping for his thighs.
    His hands grasped her legs and felt their way up her thighs. Ponsonby decided that he had seen enough and left the room.
    Suddenly Joan went tense. Reggie took his hands away.
    ‘What about your wife?’ she said.
    ‘She’s gone away for the day. She’s at the hippopotamus’s.’
    ‘The what?’
    ‘Oh – er – I mean her mother’s. She resembles a hippopotamus. Her mother, I mean. Elizabeth doesn’t resemble a hippopotamus at all.’
    He poured her another sherry. They drank. He kissed her glistening, medium dry lips.
    ‘What about the neighbours?’ she asked.
    They can’t see in.’
    He ran his lips along her thin right arm.
    ‘Why now?’ she said. ‘Why today, after all these years?’
    ‘Suddenly it all seemed such a waste,’ he said.
    For forty-six years he had been miserly, miserly with compliments, miserly with insults, miserly with other people and miserly with himself.
    She kissed his right ear. He was pleased that she was so amenable, yet he felt cheated of the pleasures of seduction.
    The phone rang. He tried to ignore it, but the habit was too strong for him.
    It was Elizabeth. He stiffened, motioned to Joan to keep quiet.
    ‘Yes, I’m all right . . . No, I haven’t had lunch yet . . . No, I’m not working too hard.’ Joan leant forward to run her tongue gently over his ear. She was irresponsible, exultant, not a bit the way he’d imagined. He tried to look stern and frightened. ‘Do I? I don’t think I sound funny . . . It’s probably just the line . . . No, I’ll be having it soon . . . Pickle . . . Well of course it’s on the shelf where you keep the pickle, in the jar marked “pickle” . . . No, I’m not angry . . . I’m perfectly all right. How’s your mother? . . . Oh dear . . . Oh dear . . . Yes . . . No, I’m all right . . . Of course I’m sure . . . Bye bye, darling.’
    He put the phone down.
    ‘Anything wrong?’ said Joan.
    ‘Her mother’s got to go into hospital.’
    ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
    She kissed him gently on the lips. He stood up, held out his arms to her, and pulled her up off the settee. She raised her eyebrows.
    ‘Is it safe?’ she said.
    ‘Of course it is,’ he said.
    They left the room. The orange cushions which his wife had embroidered herself were crumpled evidence of his betrayal.
    ‘I don’t like to go into our room,’ he said. ‘We’ll use Mark’s.’
    ‘Your son?’
    ‘It’s all right. He left home two years ago. It won’t be aired, but it shouldn’t matter in this heat.’
    ‘No.’
    They went into Mark’s room. Mark had decorated it himself – green and purple paint – posters of Che Guevara and Mick Jagger. It had the sad air of an abandoned bedroom. Nothing had been altered – but it was tidy – and without Mark’s dirty socks and pants strewn all over the floor it looked cold and lifeless. But it would make a suitably unsuitable setting for their love.
    ‘All right?’ he asked.
    ‘Fine.’
    ‘I – er – I haven’t got any – anything – we don’t use them – Elizabeth’s got a thingummybob,’ he said, embarrassed.
    ‘It’s all right.’ She was embarrassed too. ‘I’ve got something in my bag.’
    ‘You mean . . . ?’
    She blushed.
    ‘I always carry it, just in case.’
    He showed her the bathroom.
    ‘Joan?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Don’t . . . er . . .’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Don’t come back undressed at all. I want to . . . you know . . . undress you.’
    He sat on Mark’s bed. Well, Mark old thing, your old dad’s not a has-been yet.
    Che Guevara looked at him