Thursday Morning
I check the small clock on my bed table, though I know the precise time, as I invariably awaken at four AM without prompting. Still, each morning, when I open my eyes, the clock face is the first thing my gaze alights upon, and I find it reassuring – comforting, almost – to note that the large hand points to 'twelve' and the small to 'four'. It is a routine that never alters.
I sit up to wind the clock, as I always do. I find it an appropriate way to begin the day. As I listen to the click and the crank of the mechanism gathering energy for the day's revolutions, I feel my muscles strengthen and galvanise, and my mind sharpen. By the time the clock is wound, I am fully awake and prepared for whatever challenges the day might bring.
This morning, however, on the first turn of the winding key, my hand slips, and it falls into the covers.
To retrieve it, I must reach beneath Mr. Wooster's arm.
He seems quite deeply asleep, which is something of a relief, as I am loathe to wake him. I slide my fingers carefully beneath his warm, bare flesh, and gain purchase on the key.
His eyes flicker open, and look at me holding the clock in one hand, the key in the other.
'Jeeves,' he says, his voice rough with sleep. 'Why are you winding a clock?' He coughs to clear his throat, and then asks, 'What time is it?'
The scotch in my stomach roils and rises up to burn the back of my throat. My head is still swimming. I have been asleep for only three hours.
'Four in the morning, Sir,' I say.
He lets out a low groan.
The air in the room is warm, heavy and cloying. Thick with the smell of unwashed bodies. There is a sharp undertaste of alcohol to it.
'I couldn't remain abed any longer, Sir,' I say, blinking to clear my eyes.
'Blast it,' he says. 'Go back to sleep. I am.'
I look at him, sprawled on his stomach beneath the covers, his bare arms flung above him across the pillow. His hair is a terrible mess. From here, I can catch the slight smell of stale sweat that rises off him. My bed is not large, and there is little space between us.
'You will have to rise before long in any event, Sir,' I say.
'Why will I?' he asks, opening his muddled eyes again.
I replace the clock and the key on the side table. There is a most terrible crick in my neck.
'Because, Sir,' I say, fixing him with a forlorn look, my stomach turning over once more, 'today is your wedding day.'
6PM the Previous Evening
I am placing a cut tulip in the small, sky-blue bud vase for Mr. Wooster's tea tray, when he enters the flat in a state of some agitation. His clothes are slightly rumpled, his hat askew and his face pale.
I take his hat and coat.
He immediately eyes the tea tray, bud vase and tulip with consternation.
'No tea, today, Jeeves,' he says, fingering his top button, but not undoing it. 'Something a little stronger, I think.'
'Very good, Sir,' I say, and move to the drinks cabinet, pouring him a strong scotch and soda. I am concerned for his wellbeing, but confident that he will tell me all within minutes.
He collapses into a chair, covering his eyes with his hand, as though the light hurts them.
After a moment's thought, I place the scotch and soda on the tea tray beside the flower, and hand it to him on that.
He removes his hand from his eyes and takes the drink with a wan smile.
'I appreciate the gesture, Jeeves,' he says, 'though not even tulips in small, sky-blue bud vases can cheer this Wooster today.' He swallows half the drink in one gulp. 'Something distinctly rummy has transpired.'
'Indeed, Sir?' I ask, still holding the tray. 'Is it any matter in which I might be of assistance, Sir?'
'I don't know, Jeeves,' he says. 'I just don't know.'
'If I may venture, Sir, to enquire as to the specifics of the situation, I may be able to assess the circumstances and determine the probability of a desirable outcome.'
'Yes,' he says, a little absently. 'Well. Desirability is as desirability does, Old Thing.'
I am disconcerted. This does not conform to Mr. Wooster's usual pattern of behaviour upon finding himself in dire straits. He is wont to come to me in a panic, declaring his difficulty dramatically and with little prompting. This quietly-troubled rumination does not suit him at all. It prompts me to ask, quite bluntly,
'What has happened, Sir?'
He looks at me with wide, dazed eyes.
'I'm engaged to be married, Jeeves,' he says.
This is at once a relief and a disappointment. It is a familiar dilemma, and one I can solve with little expenditure of effort. It is not, however, the slightest challenge.
'To whom, Sir, are you engaged?' I ask in a clear, confident tone.
'Angela, Jeeves. My Cousin Angela.' He begins to worry at his bottom lip with his teeth – something I have seen him do very seldom.
'If I may, Sir, I would like to remind you that I have successfully extricated you from many unwanted engagements in the past. Including, if I recall correctly, one to the lady in question. Is there any particular reason why this time should be different, Sir?'
He bites at the nail of his right forefinger.
'I asked her, Jeeves.'
I feel the strong urge to take hold of his hand and pull it away from his mouth, for he had his nails manicured only yesterday.
'If you do not desire the match, Sir,' I say, 'might I ask why you felt the need to propose?'
'I thought it would be the best thing to do.'
'Sir?'
He sniffs, and looks at the carpeted floor between his feet.
'She's with child.'
6:30PM
Neither of us has said a word in nearly half an hour.
Mr. Wooster has remained pale and quiet in his chair, sipping at the second half of his drink. I have busied myself with tidying, and have wound every clock in the flat until the mechanisms are tight enough to snap. This is usually an office I perform first thing of a morning, though I do not know with what else to occupy myself. I had completed my duties for the afternoon.
It is approaching seven, however, and soon I find that I must cross to Mr. Wooster and ask,
'Is there anything in particular you would like for dinner this evening, Sir?' I school my voice to remain clear and level.
He looks up at me, as though he had entirely forgotten my existence.
'Would you be terribly hurt, Old Thing,' he says, 'if I said I wasn't hungry this evening?'
'Not at all, Sir,' I say. A touch of panic, though, skitters upwards from my stomach to my breastbone. I am at a loss as to how I will fill the rest of the evening.
Perhaps I shall retire to my room and read.
I suppose, as well, that I will need to pack my things. This will not take long. I have few possessions. The books will be the most troublesome to transport.
If I am entirely honest with myself, I am flabbergasted. This particular turn of events has astonished me beyond what I thought possible.
I had thought Mr. Wooster bungling and naive, but never capable of such a mistake as this, either due to naivety or, more unthinkably, awareness and intent.
To be truthful, I had chosen Mr. Wooster's employ for this precise reason. From the account of his exploits, escapades and temperament in the Ganymede Club Book, it had been evident that he largely avoided the romantic company of women. Matrimonial entanglements seemed anathema to him.
And I have found this borne out by my experience with him. A kiss on the cheek from a lady is enough, I've found, to cause him to blush and to stammer.
I had thought to remain with him until retirement age.
But I am adaptable. I have weathered greater changes than this. I will peruse the Club Book more carefully this time.
Still. The thought of him in a lady's bedchamber. Coercing or coerced into such acts as might lead to this eventuality. I cannot imagine it.
'Might I speak frankly, Sir?' I say, at once, desperate to air something of my opinion. I cannot hold it in any longer.
'Be frank as you like, Jeeves,' he says, in a hollow voice. 'I'm all for the frankness.'
'Very well, Sir. ' I steel myself for his disapproval. 'I was meaning to enquire, Sir, why you did not take all reasonable precautions.'
His brow furrows quite deeply.
'Precautions? You mean...?'
'It is scarcely my place to say such things, Sir. Though, prophylactics, of a kind, Sir, might have been advisable.'
I dislike talking of such matters. I feel the worst kind of prude, admonishing him like this. Though I am angry that his carelessness has led to this circumstance. I am angry that it has caused the upheaval of our quiet domestic situation. I am angry, though I am loathe to admit it, that I must leave him. I have grown fond of Mr. Wooster. Very fond.
'Oh Lord. No. Jeeves – you misunderstand, Old Thing. I've never so much as laid a finger on Angela.'
At this, my anger twists itself into a tangle confusion. It is not a state to which I am used, and it makes me feel slightly ill.
As I struggle to piece my thoughts together, I can only reach one conclusion.
'Sir..' It is quite unthinkable that I should have to explain this. That no one has ever enlightened him on this matter. 'I must tell you that it is quite...' I seldom, if ever, hesitate and review a sentence. In this case, however, I find that my mind will not work nearly as fast as my tongue. 'If you have, as you say, never laid a finger upon your cousin, then it is quite impossible,' I continue, 'that the child could be yours.'
'What are you babbling on about, Jeeves?'
'I mean to say... Sir... I mean to ask, I suppose, Sir, whether anyone has ever explained to you the particulars of...' I can scarcely believe that this stumbling, broken utterance is emerging from my own mouth. '...of the coming together of a man and a woman, Sir,' I finish, 'and how this results in the... propagation of mankind?'
He lets out a bark of a laugh.
'Oh Dear, Jeeves. I fear I've given you the wrong impression.'
'How so, Sir?' I ask, feeling my cheeks heat.
'I know that the nipper's not mine, Jeeves. I might be mentally negligible, but I understand that there's certain things need to be... done, as it were, to bring about... as it were, what? And I'm fairly sure I've been party to none of them in the past. Nowhere near anything like it. No. There's a bun in Angela's oven all right, but be assured that this Wooster's never worn a baker's hat.'
At his new revelation, my confusion deepens further still.
'I apologise, Sir,' I say. 'Your words gave me the distinct impression that-'
'Yes, yes. I know what impression they gave you. Let's speak no more of it.'
'Might I enquire as to the identity of the father, Sir?
'I haven't a blasted clue,' he says. 'Evidently he's scarpered without trace or spoor.'
'May I ask a further question, Sir?'
'Go right ahead, Jeeves.'
'If the child is not yours, Sir, and you are aware of this fact, then why do you feel obligated to marry your cousin?'
'That's the rummy thing, Jeeves. You see. Well, I rather hope you see, because I'm not sure I see, if I'm truthful. She came to me, this afternoon, all of a sudden – I was lunching at the Drones, don't you know, and she paid me a call there.'
'Most irregular, Sir.'
'Rather. I took her to tea at the Savoy.'
'A sage course of action, Sir.'
'I thought so. Yes. And during tea, she rather opened her heart to me, in a manner of speaking. Confided all. Began to – and this was especially hairy, Jeeves – began to cry. Spoke of loss of virtue and a woman's honour. The family name might've been mentioned. And before I knew it, Jeeves, I was down on one knee. Offering to disguise her l. of v. and protect her w.'s h. And save the f. n. from scandal and all other sorts of other dashed noble and selfless abbreviations. She seemed so very grateful, Jeeves.'
He looks remorseful, yet at the same time proud. He holds his chin in the air, as though he expects argument and is ready to refute it.
'It's perhaps the first selfless thing I've ever done, don't you know? I couldn't wriggle out of it. Aunt A.'s over the moon. She knows all, Jeeves. Works out perfectly for the Old Dragon. I can't see a way out of it.'
My mind ticks over like an automaton, scuttling blindly and futilely around the landscape of my thoughts, bumping up again and again against useless ideas.
'I must admit, Sir, that at present, nor can I.' And I truly cannot. 'For what date is the wedding planned, Sir?' I ask.
'Tomorrow, Jeeves,' he says. 'It's tomorrow. St. Mark's Church in Sevenoaks. Afterwards to the Savoy for a cold finger buffet and drinks. The orders of service are going to be in magnolia.'
7:15PM
'If you will not take dinner, Sir, might I pour you another drink?' I ask, unable to think of anything else to say.
It is the early autumn, and the sun is already beginning to set. I illuminate the electric lamps on the mantle and the side table, and then cross to close the curtains. It washes the room in a dim, melancholy light.
'Thanks, Jeeves,' he says, though he does so with such a distracted air that I am not certain he heard the question. 'You must be at a bit of a loose end now, what?' he says. 'No dinner to make. Everything dusted. Clocks wound, what? Pour one for yourself, if you like.'
He takes his silver cigarette case from the coffee table, removes one and lights it. When I turn back to him, his head is wreathed in a thick ring of fragrant, faintly-blue Turkish smoke.
'Thank you, Sir,' I reply, 'though I rarely imbibe, and never when I am working.'
'But you're not working,' he says, 'are you, Old Thing? You've finished your work. And if I run my own bath tomorrow and skip breakfast, then you'll never work for me again.' His voice cracks, and I think for a moment that he may be about to cry. I am inexpressibly glad when he does not. I do not relish weathering extreme displays of emotion.
I hesitate for a moment, and then cross to the drinks cabinet and pour myself a scotch and soda – far more soda than scotch. Then I look at him, sitting dejectedly, his posture slumped and his hair in a terrible mess. My hands itch to smooth it down. He has moved to the chaise longue to spread out.
'Sit down, Jeeves,' he says, realising that I am waiting for a cue.
I cannot sit beside him. I take the straight-backed chair opposite.
The scotch and soda tastes bitter on my tongue. I dislike scotch. My preference is for wines – deep, aged reds, French or Italian – and, if I have my choice of spirits, ports or brandies. Drinks distilled from fruit. Anything fermented from grain sits uneasily upon my stomach.
'Sir,' I say, 'I will run your bath tomorrow morning. And make your breakfast. You will no doubt require sustenance for the long day ahead.'
He drains his glass and gets up to pour another.
'Let's not think that far ahead, ey?' he says. On his way back to the chaise longue, he presses another drink into my left hand. 'We've got a good few hours before we have to think of all that, what?' I am now holding a drink in each hand, and feel rather ridiculous doing so. I quickly drain my first, and get up to replace the glass on the cabinet. When I return to my seat and taste the second, I realise that Mr. Wooster has poured it neat. I sip at it slowly. It makes my lips purse as though it were lemon juice.
'It is not long, Sir,' I say. 'Not long at all.'
I can hear the clock ticking loudly on the mantelpiece.
He drops back down onto his seat unceremoniously.
'I don't want you to leave me, Jeeves,' he says. 'I'd like you to stay on. As my valet.'
'A married man has no need of a valet, Sir,' I say. 'Your wife will no doubt take adequate care of you.'
He looks surprised at this. Almost mortified.
'Oh,' he says. 'Oh.' He drinks from his glass. 'Come to work as my butler, then,' he says. 'We'll have to take a house, I suppose.'
'I have buttled before, Sir,' I say, 'and am not keen to do so again.'
'Right,' he says. He does not ask why. I am immeasurably grateful.
'I'll hire you as the sproutling's tutor, then,' he says. 'I've always believed strongly in the benefits of home schooling.'
'A kind thought, Sir,' I say. 'Though I am a valet. And will remain so.'
'Right,' he says. 'Right. Right. Thought I'd try, you know.'
He opens his silver case again, retrieving another cigarette and lighting it a little clumsily. Then he offers me the case. I take it from his hands, remove a cigarette for myself and close the case. I tap its end lightly against the closed lid, and then accept the lighter from Mr. Wooster's outstretched hand.
Mr. Wooster's cigarettes taste so much better than my inexpensive brand of gasper.
It seems almost unthinkable that it should come to this. That I should leave him with such suddenness. With no fanfare, storm or loud catastrophe. With simply a woman's indiscretion, Mr. Wooster's misplaced valour, and a depressed, regretful 'farewell, Old Thing.'
I find with some surprise that I have nearly drained my glass.
'Sir,' I say, feeling the muscles in my legs slacken and relax as the scotch seeps through them, 'I wish to commend you for your valour in this matter.'
He does not smile.
'Thanks, Old Thing,' he says. 'Do you think I'll regret it?'
I draw long and deep on the cigarette, rolling the smoke around in my mouth, pressing its taste against my palate with my tongue.
'I could not say, Sir. Your intentions, however, are noble. This can only lead to a favourable outcome.'
The mouthful of smoke escapes in increments, one puff with each word. I watch the sentence rise away from my face and dissolve in the air between us.
'I suppose,' he replies. 'Never did hate Cousin Angela, in any case. Always biffed along in a fairly chummy fashion, she and me. And with a nipper to take care of, well. There'll hardly be much time for anything else, what? We'll be fairly cosy. I'm sure.'
'I'm sure, Sir.'
I find with some surprise that I am rolling my empty glass languidly between my fingers. I am not given to idle displays of restless movement. I still my hands immediately. Not, however, before Mr. Wooster has noticed.
'Fill it up, Jeeves,' he says, nodding to the bottle of scotch. 'And bring the bottle back over with you.'
I do so.
As I regain my seat, a thought strikes me.
'Where is the young lady at present, Sir?'
'Aunt Agatha's,' he says. 'I doubt she's having a wedding shower, eh?'
'Very unlikely, Sir,' I say.
'I say,' he exclaims, all of the sudden. His demeanour at once becomes so cheery that I wonder if the story of betrothal has been a practical joke – a ruse to get me to sit down and share a drink with him. Perhaps he will say, 'Gotcha, Old Thing. Who's mentally negligible now?'
Instead, however, he simply says,
'I suppose this is my bachelor party, what?' He sounds both excited and remorseful.
Something tightens in my chest, and I find myself saying,
'I am honoured to be in attendance, Sir.'
At that, he throws me a genuinely grateful smile. He leans forward, takes the scotch bottle from the coffee table and refills both our glasses.
'To matrimony,' he says. I must lift myself slightly from the chair and lean forward awkwardly to touch my glass against his.
The words, 'To matrimony,' however, stick in my throat.
'I am not especially fond of toasts, Sir,' I say, instead.
'No?' he says, draining his glass in one. 'I am. Especially in the morning. With butter.'
'Toast,' I say. 'You are fond of toast, Sir. I am not especially fond of toasts.'
'What?'
'Grilled bread, Sir. I do not dislike grilled bread. I am not especially fond of raising a glass to the health of some intangible concept.'
'You've lost me, Jeeves.'
'That's almost true, Sir.'
My eyelids begin to feel heavy and warm. It seems that they scratch against my irises as I blink.
Mr. Wooster unbuttons his waistcoat, squinting down at the fastenings as he struggles with them. I make to rise and help him.
'No no,' he forestalls me. 'I've got to learn to deal with this myself, what?'
I settle back into my seat and watch him awkwardly undo every stud, and then the Windsor knot of his tie and the top button of his shirt. His collar springs apart. He peels it off and drops it onto the carpet beside him.
He looks at me with a touch of guilt and embarrassment, as though he has made a social faux pas.
'If you want to make yourself more comfortable, Old Thing,' he says, 'feel free.'
'I am quite comfortable, Sir,' I say. This is at once perfectly true and an outright lie. I have never been more comfortable, or more uncomfortable, in my entire life.
'Tosh – strip off some of the old soup and fish,' he demands.
I can scarcely believe I am considering it. But the whiskey has dulled the edges of my inhibitions.
I slowly and precisely unbutton my waistcoat, letting it hang either side of my chest. I unknot my tie and let it hang down similarly. Finally, I undo the top button of my shirt, and breathe deeply as the cool air hits my neck.
'Jeeves, Old Thing,' he says, slowly, 'did you really believe that I knew nothing of... what goes on... you know... in regards to-'
I could sense what he was hedging at, strangely, from the very first word of the sentence.
'You did give that distinct impression, Sir,' I say. 'I apologise,' I add.
'Well,' he says. 'Don't.' He sniffs. He colours from the bottom of his neck to the top of his forehead. 'You were right.'
'Right, Sir?'
'When you implied that I know nothing of a filly and a cove's... joining. I really don't, Jeeves.' He crushes his gasper in the ashtray on the side table, and then picks up the ashtray and hands it to me. I place it between us on the coffee table and carefully snuff out my smouldering cigarette butt in its centre. He takes another gasper, and offers me one for myself.
'I don't understand, Sir,' I say, taking his lighter and leaning to light his gasper.
'I mean just that, Jeeves. I mean... I mean. I know there's something that goes on. Some sort of... something. Something I've never been privy to.'
'Do you truly not know, Sir?' I ignite my own cigarette.
'No one's ever told me. That's hardly my fault, what?'
'Indeed not, Sir.'
He looks at me nervously. His cigarette is balanced on his bottom lip. He pours himself another sloppy slug of whiskey.
He speaks around the cigarette.
'Would you tell me now, Jeeves?' he asks, his voice awkward, his syllables indistinct.
'Tell you, Sir?' I know precisely, though, to what he refers.
'Tell me what goes on? I rather think I ought to know it, before I hitch myself to a filly. Might be expected to do it, after all, before long.'
I know at once that this is a terrible idea.
'I do not think I could be your guide in this particular matter, Sir,' I say. 'It might be more appropriate for you to discover such things yourself. Alternatively, there are several anatomical and medical books I could recommend to you.'
'No, Jeeves. It's got to be now. I need to know.'
'For your wedding night, Sir?'
Though I cannot help but think his need goes further than this.
'That's rather it, Old Thing.'
Once more, I attempt to picture him in a woman's bedchamber. Now that the gears of my mind have been oiled with whiskey, the images are cranked out more easily. He is standing at one side of the bed, she at the other. The covers are white and pristine. He is in full evening dress, she in a nightgown. He is worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth, his own hand rubbing fiercely at the back of his neck.
I think long and hard.
'If I explain this, Sir, you will never tell a soul from where you garnered the information?'
'Not a soul.'
'You will forget immediately that it was I who told you?'
'Immediately.'
I look quite seriously into his eyes.
'If, after I have left your employ, we should meet again, at the theatre, or on the street, or perhaps at a country house at which you are guesting and I am serving, you will never speak of this, or refer to this night, or the information I have gifted you?'
'Never.'
He seems genuine. I have never had reason to doubt his honesty.
'Then I will tell you.'
'Thanks, Old Thing.'
I launch into it before I can reconsider.
'Firstly, Sir, there are the 'bare bones' of the thing. The clinical explanation.'
'Will this be tiresome?'
'Perhaps, Sir.'
'Don't tell me that bit, then. Put it poetically. Like you always do.'
10:00 PM
The scotch bottle is empty. We have opened a new one. A 15-year-old Laphroig that Mr. Wooster was saving for my birthday. My mouth is growing numb to sensation, but more and more alive to the taste of the whiskey. The fumes fill my mouth, my head; rise up into my eyes – I am squinting through an amber cloud.
We have strayed somewhat from our conversational track, lurching down byways of golf, literature and moving pictures. It seems the more we talk of trivial, distracting things, the more serious and emphatic I become.
'You must read Spinoza, Sir,' I urge him.
'Trying to mould the Young Master, Jeeves?' he says.
'Not at all. I believe you would enjoy it. You are so much... cleverer than many give you credit for.'
'Ha!'
'I know it to be true, Sir.'
'Not a patch on you. You're just bally... Marvellous. There's no other word for it, Jeeves. None. Marvellous.'
'You are too kind.'
'I'm never too kind.'
I cannot feel the seat upon which I sit. I might well be sitting upon a cushion of thin air.
'I hope you do not... it is not my accustomed to become recreat-' somehow the last four syllables of the word seem several miles in the distance, '-ionally drunk. Not my custom. I am not accustomed.'
'Not at all, Old Thing,' he says. 'Far be it for me to judge a cove for having a snootful.'
'Indeed, Sir. Far be it.'
He is also extremely drunk, I can tell. But he wears it well. As stylishly as his dinner jacket and white tie, when he gives me full reign to dress him as I would. On me, this level of inebriation is ill-fitting, uncomfortable and rather ridiculous. It is fine to become scandalously intoxicated when you are an affluent, amiable, carefree buffoon. When one is a dignified and respected professional, it is less acceptable.
'You've hauled this corpus to bed in worse states, I dare say,' he goes on.
'I have, Sir. Hauled you to bed. If I say anything untoward, Sir, I hope you will stop me.'
'I won't.'
'Thank you, Sir.'
I find myself wishing that I had never been reserved and graceful, just so that I would not now have an image, so clear as to almost be an hallucination, of scales pouring from Mr. Wooster's eyes and scattering on the newly-cleaned carpet.
'Have you ever been this far under the surface, Jeeves?' he asks, staring at me now as though I'm a curiosity pickled in a jar. 'I can't imagine you have.'
I sway slightly in my seat, and steady myself with a hand on the chair arm.
'I believe, Sir,' I say,' that had I... I would surely not remember it. I will no doubt forget this, come tomorrow. Which is something of a relief.'
'In my experience,' he says, 'one usually remembers more than one cares to.'
'I enjoy a drink at Christmas,' I say, my thoughts blending into one another, forming lazy, attractive patterns like oil dye upon water. 'I believe I have been tipsy once or twice. On Boxing Day.'
'Boxing Day?'
'Pardon, Sir?'
'What, Jeeves?'
'Did you say, "Boxing Day," Sir?'
'What are you on about, Jeeves?'
'Boxing Day, Sir. The day that follows Christmas.'
'Have you ever boxed, Jeeves?'
'As a matter of fact, Sir, I did. In my early youth. I was quite accomplished at the... sport.'
'Is that how you broke your...'
'Nose, Sir?'
'That's the appendage.'
'No, Sir. That was a discreet incident. I was twenty-four, and-'
'Oh, you're going to tell me about it?'
'Do you not wish to hear, Sir?'
'No. No, I do wish to hear. It's just not the sort of thing I can imagine you telling me.'
'Nor can I, Sir. I was twenty-four, and second underbutler at a certain house. The specifics are irrelevant. A chamber maid... she became enamoured of me.'
'Really?'
'Indeed. She was affianced, however, to the first underbutler. He fetched me a sharp blow in the centre of the face. I did not lose consciousness.'
'Gosh. Gosh.'
'Indeed.'
'I mean to say – Jeeves,' he looks at me in awe, 'did you steal the girl from this cove?'
'I did not pay court to her during their engagement, Sir,' I say, feeling ashamed now that I didn't. 'I did, however, woo her after its severance.'
'Tell me more, Jeeves.'
'More of what, Sir?'
'More of this wooing women lark.' I can scarcely remember when we were talking of wooing women. But I follow him. 'You've had them, then?' he asks.
'Yes, Sir. Not a great many. But I have.'
I think of the three women I have been with.
Esther – round, happy and plump, with rosy cheeks, when I was fifteen. She bounced up and down on top of me like a clown at a rodeo.
Gertrude, whose mother was a schoolteacher – curves like a Botticelli painting, and would take me into her mouth without my even asking.
Marigold – the chamber maid – slender, solemn and dark, too much like myself to arouse me much.
At this moment, their names, faces and bodies all meld into one, indistinct, anonymous lover. I cannot describe her.
'Tell me about it,' he says, looking eager as a child waiting for a bedtime story. 'Tell me what it's all about.' And I find the thread of our conversation from before, glowing red like Theseus' string in the labyrinth.
'You must have found a woman beautiful, Sir,' I say. 'Admired a fine profile?'
'Yes. I have. Many a profile.'
'And you must have felt a stirring in response.'
'A stirring? With spoons?'
'An arousal, Sir.'
'I don't follow, Old Fruit.'
I look as pointedly as I can at the front to his trousers. He follows my gaze, and when he realises where it rests, claps his hand over his groin.
'Oh! That. That stirring. Yes. Now and again.'
'This is a response, Sir, that...'
'Sometimes in bed, when I-'
'-You will feel an urge, and you will want to-'
'-and sometimes in the mornings-'
'This is the instinct that leads to reproduction.'
'Jolly good.'
He spreads his legs a little further and unclips his braces from the tops of his trousers.
'So,' he asks, holding his glass by the very rim, his finger on one side, his thumb on the other, swinging it, swirling the scotch inside it so that it licks up the sides of the glass. 'How does one get from a stirring to... baking the cake, as it were?'
'You will have no doubt seen depictions of the anatomy involved, in books of biology, Sir.'
'One or two. A long time ago. They looked like nothing human I'd ever seen. A little like a ram's head and a diving snorkel, as I recall.'
I am growing impatient with his ignorance, which I feel must be partly affected. I suspect, moreover, that he may be exaggerating his lack of knowledge purely in order to urge a description of the act from my mouth. To hear his staid manservant articulating scandalous acts. I am not keen to be his novelty.
'You truly do not understand, Sir,' I say, quite bluntly, 'where you must put the evidence of your arousal, in order to achieve sexual congress?' My tone is admonishing.
'Well... I.'
His mouth is drawn into a think, tight line.
He looks chastened.
'I had an idea that that was the case,' he says. 'Though it's good to have it confirmed.' He shifts on his chair. 'I had... I had all of the pieces of the puzzle, you know. I just... wasn't quite certain how to fit them together.'
This is uttered genuinely, and with quiet embarrassment. I feel I have been a little hard on him.
'It becomes clearer, Sir, when one has engaged in the act one's self. It can seem nonsensical. Comical even. Until one has...'
I grip my thighs quite tightly, holding onto them to steady myself. I feel as though I might float away like a boat unmoored if I did not. My eyes fall closed quite of their own accord. I lose my train of thought. My anger melts like sugar in absinthe. With the knowledge that he is not manipulating me into improper talk, I become suddenly more willing to say things such as,
'Until one has... made love. Then it does become clear.'
'What becomes clear, Old Thing?'
I take a swallow of my whiskey.
'The purpose for it all. The reason for... risking impropriety. Scandal. Unwanted... children. The reason for the stories and the sonnets.'
'Have always wondered.'
'So did I, Sir, until I first felt it. I have-'
I break off, for quite unexpectedly, he has started to sing.
'What'll I do, when you...'
'Irving Berlin, Sir?'
'That's the chappy. How do you know it?'
'Perhaps you sang it for me once, Sir.'
'...are far away, and I am blue,
What'll I do?'
'Indeed, Sir.'
'When I'm alone, with only dreams of you
That won't come blue...'
'..."True", Sir.'
'...true, what'll I do?'
'You have a... charming voice, Sir.'
'What'll I do with just a...'
I take up the melody myself,
'...photograph, to tell my troubles to?'
And he joins me in the final few bars,
'When I'm alone with only dreams of you
That won't come true,
What'll I do?'
'You have a terrible voice, Jeeves.'
A bubble of laughter escapes from my chest.
'Oh, my goodness,' he says, quickly, 'Sorry, Old Thing.'
'It is quite alright, Sir,' I say. 'I do have... I have quite forgotten what we were saying, Sir.'
'Me too. Oh. We were talking of The Reason For It All. Of... making...'
'Love, Sir,' I finish for him.
'Tell me of making love, Jeeves,' he asks, half-dreamily, half-earnestly.'
'I do not know what there is to say, Sir. I cannot...'
'Surely you can...'
'...I cannot describe what it is like to be inside a woman, Sir.'
I hear him draw in a sharp breath. I fear I may have gone too far.
'Try,' he says. 'Won't you?'
And in attempting to picture it, to put it to words, an astonishing sensory memory washes over me. I am drawn down into my own fantasy as though it is quicksand, and cannot stop myself sinking. I cannot, I find, stop myself speaking.
'It is... it is exquisite,' I say. 'It is the most pleasant physical sensation I have heretofore experienced. You will not be disappointed.'
I open my eyes, and see that he is looking at me intently. His pupils are dilated in the lamplight. His hands are upon his thighs in a posture that almost exactly mirrors my own.
'What sorts of fillies do you like, Jeeves?' he asks.
This is an intimate question. It leaps across the bounds drawn between master and man. At present, however, it seems as innocuous as, 'What sort of day is it, Jeeves?'
'All types, Sir,' I say, with none of the sanguine certainty of 'Clement, Sir, with a light north-easterly breeze.'
His eyes glitter.
'If you had your pick of those amongst our acquaintance?' he asks. 'Which would you choose first?'
It is something I have never thought of. I have not been with a woman in so long.
'Under what circumstance, Sir, might I ever have my pick of those women?'
'Say they were lined up and ready for you,' he licks at his lips, leaving them shining. 'If each of them wanted you. Offered themselves to you for a spot of this 'sexual congress' business. Which would you have of them?'
I do imagine them. In a line, just as he describes. Each grateful for some service rendered. It is an intoxicating thought.
'It is difficult to say, Sir.'
'Difficult because you can't imagine it? Because you don't like to bandy a woman's name about? Because you'd want them all?'
'Miss Honoria Glossop, Sir,' I say, all of a sudden.
His eyes snap to mine.
'By Jove. Really?'
I nod.
'Have you ever looked upon Miss Glossop, Sir?'
'Honoria? What? Yes. I've looked upon her.'
'With that kind of an eye, Sir? I have.'
'I say, Jeeves.'
'I am not ashamed to say it, Sir.'
'I should be.'
'I've always thought that Miss Glossop... has a fine... behind, Sir.'
'I say.'
'If you have glimpsed it in her riding trousers...'
'I'm not entirely sure I want to hear this...'
I am now, however, warming to my theme.
'I find her most attractive, Sir. I have entertained fantasies about her.'
'You absolute cad.'
Now that I have begun, I cannot stop. It is as though I have climbed aboard a mine cart and been dragged down a pitch black tunnel – I must hold on until I emerge into the daylight. 'I would take her roughly, and wish relish, and I believe she would enjoy it.'
Against my better judgement, I find myself stirring, stiffening beneath my trousers. It is compelling, speaking of these things with him. I have never had a close male friend with whom to compare erotic fantasies. 'I would make her whinny,' I say, in a low voice, 'like one of the horses she dotes upon.'
He looks oddly affected by this. He shifts in his seat, and I can see that he is aroused.
'Tell me what it's like, Jeeves,' he says. 'Exactly. Tell me about your first girl, and how you got there.'
'It was a long time ago, Sir.'
'Remember for me.'
I have scarcely even remembered for myself. Perhaps I could, though, for him.
'I went to a mixed school, Sir,' I say, slowly. 'There was a girl in my English grammar classes. I would have been fifteen, she fourteen. I recall she was water monitor. She was slightly overweight, and I recall, when looking at her rump, that I would grow...'
'You like behinds, it seems, Jeeves.'
'I believe I do, Sir.'
I should feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment, but I do not.
'Carry on.'
'...When I noticed her...'
'...Her backside?'
'...I would become...'
'What are you trying to say, Jeeves?'
I knock back the remainder of my drink.
'I would be left with the most terrible cockstand.'
He smiles. I feel the corners of my mouth tugged up along with his, as though they were attached by strings.
I begin to laugh. Small pants of breath at first, through my nose. I feel a wave of laughter gathering strength in my pelvis, frothing at the top like a wave in the ocean, and I am not aware of how great and powerful it has grown until it crashes from my mouth in a loud guffaw. After this, the waves of laughter come quickly and irrepressibly.
Mr. Wooster joins in.
'I say, Jeeves,' he says, 'you're completely smashed.'
'I regret so, Sir,' I say. Then I grow suddenly and desperately serious. 'One night,' I say, 'I asked her to come fishing with me. I believe she knew what I genuinely intended, for neither of us brought along a rod, and neither seemed surprised. She let me lie her down upon the wet grass. I put my hands upon her breasts, and then...'
I am looking at the clock on the wall just above his head. In the periphery of my vision, I see movement, and look down at Mr. Wooster.
I draw in a sudden, shuddering breath.
He has placed his hand between his legs, and is rubbing at the front of his trousers. His eyes are fixed, it seems, upon the flesh of my exposed neck, above where I have undone my top shirt button. I am aware that I have paused in my narrative. Though his hand still moves, throughout my silence. Slowly. Deliberately. I allow myself to watch the motion of his hand candidly, for some indeterminate period of time. Then I catch his eyes for a moment, before returning my gaze to the clock. I continue.
'One hand upon her breasts, Sir,' I say. More quietly. 'And then, Sir, I put one hand down between her legs.'
His hand moves firmly against himself, rubbing at first slowly, and then more brazenly, from the bottom of the long, thick bulge beneath his trousers to the very top. And, like my smile mirrored his involuntarily, my own hand comes up, playing at the crease of my trouser front, tickling at the thick, aroused flesh beneath.
He looks at me as I did at him.
'We did it many times after this, Sir,' I say, all breath. 'We went at it quite wildly. There were scarcely any preliminaries. I would slide right inside her. I am astonished to this day that we did not make a child between us.'
'Jeeves,' he says, his voice oddly strained, 'do you mind very much if I...'
Time stands quite still.
I float in a vacuum, dark and warm, outside of Mr. Wooster's flat, outside of Berkeley Square, outside of myself, perhaps for seconds, perhaps for centuries.
Then the gears and mechanisms of time grind back into action, and Mr. Wooster opens his trousers and takes out his prick.
I scarcely catch a glimpse of it before he wraps it in his fist, pumping it with greedy, staccato strokes.
'I would occasionally...'
'...What would you, Jeeves? What would you do occasionally?'
My own hand, now, is moving more firmly against my own confined cockstand, better matching the brazen, un-self-consciousness of my words.
'I would occasionally please her, Sir, by putting my face in between...'
The more I look at him, stirred by my description, the more I am stirred by it, too. The more I am stirred, perhaps, by the spectacle of him, appreciating it.
'...in between her legs. She had such fine legs, Sir. Thick, firm thighs. I would go between them with my... with my face. With my tongue.'
'Did you, Jeeves? I didn't know such things were...'
'... I assure you it was quite pleasurable, Sir. She tasted of cognac, oysters and dark Soy sauce.'
'I've never tried Soy sauce.'
'She would let me put my tongue right inside her. She would grow so wet for me...' My hips begin to move in slow circles, remarkably precise, for all of the Scotch inside me.
'If you want to make yourself more comfortable, Old Thing,' he says, his voice so much lower and more pointed than the last time he said this, some hours ago, 'feel free.'
I know precisely what he means, and yet I cannot bring myself to comprehend it.
'Sir...' I say – something of a token protest, as I gave before unbuttoning my waistcoat and loosening my tie.
And then, almost eagerly, I undo the buttons on the front of my trousers and draw myself out into my hand.
Mr. Wooster lets go of his cockstand for a brief moment, bringing the back of his hand up to swipe at a drop of sweat that threatens to slide into his right eye. I see, for the first time, that his cock is long, but not thick. The hairs at its base are sandy. It bobs almost amusingly in its sudden release from his grip, shining and stiff.
'Who would you have, Sir,' I ask, 'amongst the women of your circle?'
'Oh,' he says. 'Gosh. I've... I've never really... Wouldn't be preux, what?'
'We are not being "preux," at present, Sir,' I say, feeling injustice that he has encouraged lewd talk from me, before refusing to reciprocate. 'There are no ladies present.'
'I...'
The oddest look comes over his face. It is one of concentration, puzzlement, and intense, focused imagination. As though he is striving to remember something.
'Do you desire none of them, Sir?'
'Well,' he says. 'Well. Florence has a corking profile.'
'She does, Sir. She's a strikingly attractive young woman. Do you look at her body, Sir?'
'You mean..?'
'Her form, Sir. Her hips and her thighs. Do you think of her bosoms?'
He seems entirely struck dumb.
A thought occurs to me. It may not have, under the influence of one fewer drink. But my thoughts are ricocheting in outrageous directions.
It is quite an atrocious thought. But I cannot shake it.
'When you look at a man, Sir,' I say, fixing him with a slightly accusing but un-rebuking stare, 'what do you think then?'
'Jeeves!' he says, clearly outraged. His hand, however, does not slow upon his member.
'I apologise, Sir,' I say, 'though I am curious... to ask... when you see...' I wonder for a moment whether I should pursue this line of thought. Though it is only a moment. My decision-making faculties seem entirely disabled. 'When you see a fine gentleman...' I go on, '...a handsome gentleman of your own class, at a party, or at your club, or at your country house...'
'Don't, Jeeves,' he says. I ignore him.
'...Perhaps a slim, fair undergraduate when you visit your old college at Cambridge. One eager to take a punt down the river with an alumnus...'
'Shut up, Jeeves,' he says. There is something dark and genuinely warning in his voice.
'Or a labourer, working in the fields to bring in the harvest. A rough, uneducated fellow, shirtless in the midday heat, his...'
'Quiet!' he says, angrily. Commandingly.
And I do fall quiet for a second. And then I say,
'When you look at me, Sir,' keeping my eyes upon him, 'what do you think of then?'
His eyes widen at the question. He is shocked – scandalised, even.
Yet his hips buck upwards with a little jolt, as though someone has passed a current through him. I watch his cock swell ever so slightly, and a tear of cloudy fluid leaks from the tip.
'Sir,' I say again, indicating quite clearly that I have seen every nuance of his reaction.
'Jeeves,' he says, looking quite lost, intrigued and desperate.
'It's quite alright, Sir,' I say.
'Is it?' he asks, quite seriously.
'Quite alright,' I repeat, pulling a little harder at myself. And then I make a decision. Not a terribly momentous decision, after all. For I know we have been leading up to this since he pressed that first drink into my hand. 'Perhaps we can help each other, Sir.'
And I move without hesitation to sit beside him on the chaise longue.
He does not turn to look at me as I lower myself onto the cushions.
'Spread your legs a little more, Sir,' I say, spreading my own. Then I reach across and take his cockstand into my hand, using only my peripheral vision to guide me.
He apes my movements tentatively, and closes my member in his fist.
Our arms cross at the elbows, and the spot where the inside crease of my elbow touches the hard knob of his elbow, rubbing there steadily, is almost as sensitive as my prick.
Apart from this contact, we are not touching, save our hands on each others' pricks. His hand is cautious at first – his grip quite loose, but it soon tightens. His movements grow as confident as mine. Our undignified noises of mounting excitement form a strange counterpoint to each other. It is the least-romantic sexual encounter I have ever had. And the most electrifying.
'You will make a splendid lover, Sir,' I say, in a low whisper.
'Do you really think so, Jeeves?' he asks.
'Oh yes, Sir. You will lay her down upon the bed...'
'Ah...'
'...And you will kiss her, ever so softly. You will pull loose the strings at the front of her nightgown...'
'Ah...'
'And she will whimper, waiting, knowing what you will do next...'
'Oh...'
'You will let your hand run down her side, until you find her bottom hem...'
'Gosh...'
'...And you will hitch it ever higher, uncovering the pale flesh of her thigh...'
'...Lord.'
'...You will look at her delicate face, and kiss her lips softly, wondering if you should remain to kiss her cheeks and her neck. But you will reconsider. You will place your legs on either side of her, and you will draw your face down the centre of her body, brushing the place between her bosoms, down past her navel, and further down, Sir... further down... with the tip of your nose. You will draw up her nightgown, and touch the bare flesh of her thighs with the flats of your hands, and you will nuzzle at her curls, burrowing deeper until you taste her.'
All the while we work at each other, fisting with quickly-mounting urgency, so fast, hard and gracelessly that we might be working at ourselves.
'You will work at her with your tongue until she is keening and moaning and begging for you to take her. Then you will rise up on your haunches and press inside her, moving within her tight heat...'
He squeezes me a little too hard, and I hiss, but do not stop,
'...first slowly and then more desperately, until she peaks and curls her fingers in your hair.'
We seem connected by a current that passes between us, sparking where our flesh touches.
'Only then will you allow yourself to spend.'
I turn my head, rolling it where it rests against the back of the chaise longue, and look at his flushed, sweating face and his screwed-shut eyes, his wet red lips hung open to draw in great heaves of breath.
'You are so beautiful, Sir,' I say, in what I am painfully aware is a drunken, sentimental voice.
Still, it makes him roll his own head on the back of the chaise longue to look into my eyes.
Before I know it we are leaning towards each other to kiss, softly, experimentally. Inexpertly. We touch our closed lips together, first, and though mine are numb from the whiskey, I can feel his warmth quite distinctly, and the pressure of his mouth on mine. I part my lips and nudge them against his, and he mimics me, so that soon we are pecking at each others' open mouths, sucking out the warm air from inside as our lips seal again and again.
He draws back from me.
'What's this, Jeeves?' he asks.
'I haven't the faintest, Sir,' I reply, and take his mouth in a rougher kiss, opening quite wide and sucking in his tongue to taste against my own. He makes a drawn-out, revelatory sound – an entranced 'hum,' and his hand stalls on my cock, his other hand flailing to grab at my open waistcoat.
'Keep at me, Sir,' I say. 'I'm close to spending.'
And I am. So close that I can almost taste it. I can feel the tickles of shivering pleasure build deep in the bones of my pelvis, anchoring me to a tether of pure sensation. I thrash against it, straining towards a pinnacle just out of reach. My hips jerk minutely – the barely-perceptible evidence of the extraordinary trembling enjoyment filling my insides.
His hand picks up pace again.
'If you were a filly, Jeeves,' he says, talking close against my mouth, 'would you want me to take your honour?'
'I may let you, Sir,' I say. 'If you were persuasive.
'Would you let me do such a thing?'
'I'd let you ride me, Sir.'
'What if I filled you with a child?'
'I'd marry you for fear of scandal, Sir.'
'Would you?'
'Yes. And I'd make you fire your valet.'
And I finally spend quite powerfully, not at all embarrassed that the glossy strings of my seed land over the back of his knuckles.
Through the pleasure of my climax, I continue to fist him, but when I have regained my breath, he still has not come off. More concerned with properly finishing a job started than reciprocating pleasure, I slide to my knees on the floor, position myself between his legs and bend to take his prick into my mouth.
He jerks and gasps, his thighs spasming, his feet rising up minutely from the floor. I move my mouth on him until my lips are stretched quite painfully, and I feel the tip of his cock tickly my soft palate. He tastes nothing like oysters, cognac and soy sauce. I do not know what he tastes like.
I look up at him with eyes so wide and unblinking that the air begins to sting them.
'Jeeves,' he says, through a thick throat, 'was there a filly used to do this for you?'
I bob my head in a nod, and then draw back, the head of his wet prick slipping down my chin.
'Yes, Sir,' I say. 'I found it enthralling. Do you enjoy it?'
'Oh yes,' he says. 'Oh yes, Jeeves, I do.' His thighs twitch against my ears. 'Take me back, Jeeves,' he says, and I slide my mouth over him again.
I am entirely unskilled at this – an inept novice. But so is he, and he is easily impressed. Or must be, for after several seconds of my head bobbing quite messily upon his prick, he screws his face up into an unattractive, focussed grimace, his top lip curled upwards, his teeth bared and his eyes pressed shut, and he lets out one great bellow of relief, his thighs convulsing suddenly about my head. My mouth and throat are full, all at once, with a taste at once clean and filthy, and it leaks from the corners of my mouth as I attempt to swallow it, pleased, repulsed and aroused.
He follows his momentous shout with a number of small, exhausted utterances – tiny 'Oh's that eventually fade into quiet, rapid breath as his erection wilts on my tongue.
I pull my head back from him and sit back on my knees. Then I let my body follow its own momentum backwards, unfolding my legs and collapsing onto my back on the carpet, panting for breath. Swallowing back his taste. All of a sudden my mouth fills with sweet saliva and my stomach spasms. I flip over onto my hands and knees and gag.
'Jeeves,' I hear from above me, through a persistent ringing in my ears.
'I believe I may vomit, Sir,' I explain, my voice loud in my own head.
'Poor thing,' he says, and I am certain that I feel a soft hand in my hair.
Meanwhile, I wretch once, but bring up nothing. I take a deep, deliberate breath and the wave of nausea passes.
'I am alright, Sir,' I say at last. 'The moment has passed.'
His fingers are still carding through my hair. I realise that he is now sitting on the floor beside me. I roll onto my side, and he draws my head into his lap. I try to breathe steadily and slowly against the fabric of his trousers, which I note he has fastened again.
'Oh Lord, Sir,' I say. 'Oh, Lord. This was a terrible idea.'
He laughs softly.
'Poor thing,' he says again. 'Poor Old Thing.'
For a moment, I think that I am in my childhood bed – the small cedar frame with toadstools on the headboard. I have Scarlet Fever, and my Mother is feeling my brow with the back of her small, cool hand.
'Poor boy,' she says. 'My poor little boy.'
And then a thought jerks me back to the present.
'Christ in Heaven,' I say, 'I would have ruined the carpet.'
This time, he does not laugh.
'I don't care about the bally carpet, Jeeves,' he says, his voice still slurred. 'Not in the least.'
'Don't leave me, Sir,' I say at once, feeling ill, feeling small, feeling eight years old, lost without my Mother.
'Silly Thing,' he says, and then hauls me to my bed.
The last thing I am aware of, before I slip into unconsciousness like a bather sinking beneath warm water, is the clock ticking steadily and loudly on the bed table.
4:30 the following morning
I have been unable to rouse Mr. Wooster sufficiently for any meaningful conversation. I decide to leave him to sleep until I am dressed, have breakfasted and gathered my faculties enough to face the day.
'Sir,' I say, to his prone form, 'I will return in half an hour to wake you.'
'Still squiffed,' he murmurs into his pillow. 'Know I am. Headache hasn't even started.'
I, too, am still very much 'under the surface.' I find it difficult to remain steady upon my feet, and the studs on my shirt seem to elude my grasp.
I am only half-dressed, when an horrendous hammering commences at the front door.
Mr. Wooster pulls a pillow to cover his head.
I am entirely unsuitably-attired to greet visitors. At present, however, I do not quite seem to be able to comprehend this. I make my way out into the hallway, gripping doorframes to steady my progress.
The pounding is so loud that it shakes the front door quite violently.
I engage the lock chain and open it a fraction.
Before I can get a glimpse of who is without, the door is kicked inwards, breaking the chain as though it were made of liquorice rope and catching me sharply upon the point of the chin. I am knocked backwards onto the carpet.
I feel moisture on my chin, and when I raise my hand to my face, I realise that I have bitten my bottom lip, and it is bleeding quite profusely.
Before my vision clears, I hear a bellowing voice.
'Get up off the floor, you miserable, deceitful, loathsome worm.'
I blink, and squint at the intruder. He is broad, but not tall, with little hair, and a most abominable soft-fronted shirt. His face is flat and pasty, shimmering with a light sheen of sweat.
I do attempt to gain my feet. I could easily overcome this man if I was sober.
Instead, I fear I shall have to talk my way out.
'Sir, whatever grievance you might...'
'-Shut your despicable mouth. I must say, you're a dashed sight less ugly than I thought you'd be. I had it on the best authority that you were bag-over-the-head material.'
I square myself before him. I am still entirely ignorant of his identity and the reason for his presence, or his ire.
'I fear there may have been something of a misunderstanding,' I say, as placatingly as I can.
'Misunderstanding?' he shrieks. 'I think not. Look at you. You reek of sex.'
I look down at my rumpled clothes and realise with horror that I have donned my trousers from last night. There is a substantial dry stain upon the right knee.
I have never been so dishevelled before a stranger before. Perhaps I am dreaming.
'Is she in there?' he shouts, making to barge towards my bedroom door. Feeling adrenaline strengthen all of my limbs, I block him with my body, raise my arms and push him backwards against the opposite wall. His head impacts with an audible 'thump.'
When the expression of surprise falls away from his face, it reveals one of incredible ire.
'Lay a hand on me, will you, Wooster?' he takes me by the shoulders and attempts to pull me into a wrestling hold. My head at last clearing, I catch his right arm and twist it behind his back. This allows me to bend him forward and grasp his other arm, keeping him in a tight lock, his head between his knees.
It has now occurred to me who this gentleman must be.
'I'll have you arrested for assault,' he says, quite hypocritically, I feel. 'Theft not enough for you, eh?'
'I have stolen nothing,' I say, quite emphatically. I do not bother to correct his misapprehension regarding my identity.
'That's a joke, Wooster,' he hisses. 'You've stolen my fiancé.'
