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in aid of dead cats or something. It'll be a real nobs' night
out at some mansion in the country, diamonds and tiaras on show,
you know. And she's got all her posh clients in on it, that Italian
singer Melissa Whatsit and the composer Sebastian Silk and Brick
Tempo - I love Brick Tempo, I'd die to be on the same stage as
Brick Tempo - and that smartarse cow won't let me in on it. If you
ask me, she's the worst exploiter of the lot. She'll take fifteen
per cent of my boobs till they drop to my belly button and then
I'll be on the scrapheap. I'm a woman and an artist and I'm not just a pair of
tits!'
    Tracy shot
bolt upright in her fury and suddenly there they were, the Nation's
Number One Knockers, dangling in front of Billy's pop-eyed gaze in
all their swollen rosy-pink free-swinging glory. Enough to make a
man's mouth water, his palms itch and his trousers swell - all of
which reactions hit Billy at precisely the same moment.
    'Well,' demanded the steaming nymph, 'what do you think?'
    'I think,'
replied Billy, goggle-eyed, 'that those are the most fabulous
breasts I've ever seen in my life—'
    As soon as the
words were out of his mouth he knew he had made a mistake. He was
cut off by a wall of water as, furious and spitting, Tracy lunged
for him, catching him by the collar and plunging his head into the
bath.
    Despite her
extravagant proportions Tracy was only a small woman, but she was
fit, energetic and fighting mad. A few minutes before Billy would
have died for the pleasure of getting into the tub with her, now it
looked as if he was going to do just that. She held his head under
with manic fury, at the same time trying to bash his skull against
the side of the bath. Then there came a terrible ringing in his
ears and it was this that saved him.
    Billy lay
panting and spluttering on the floor for a full minute before he
realised Tracy was talking on the telephone. He had noticed the
receiver hanging above the bath during the interview. Thank God for
ritzy hotels, he thought.
    'But he's
here, Pandy,' Tracy was saying, 'and I think I've half drowned the
bugger.'
    Still shocked,
Billy listened in a daze. And, despite the evident dangers in so
doing, he openly admired her dripping curves. She stared right back
at him as she spoke.
    'No he hasn't.
No beard, no hair except on his head, lots of it, curly black, blue
eyes, broad shoulders, about six foot and not bloody bad if you
like that sort of thing.' Just as he had concluded he ought to take
it on his toes out of her delectable presence she winked at him and
plonked the handset back on its rest.
    'So,' she
said, 'you're not here to do an interview.'
    'No.'
    'And your name
is not Maurice.'
    'No.'
    'But you like
my tits and you're soaking wet.'
    'Yes.'
    'Well, why
don't you get out of your clothes and do something useful? Like
soap my back.'
    What man could
refuse an invitation like that? Billy wondered. And though there
had to be a catch he began to strip.
     
     

Chapter
6
     
    'MY DANNY IS A DIRTY DOG' blazed the tabloid headline. 'By the
Woman He Left Behind' read the more modest sub-heading. Sophie
devoured the story on sight, her hands shaking as she leafed
through to its continuation on the centre pages of the Blizzard . Her gin and
tonic stood untouched on the shelf just by her chair and the
panoramic vista of the Thames at dusk, as seen through the window
of Ambrosia Spicer's Docklands apartment, no longer held her
admiring attention. She only had eyes for the stirring prose of Mrs
P Fretwork, as told to Pandora Britches.
     
    Though I
sussed in those early days that my Danny was on the fiddle, I knew
he couldn't be up to anything really bad. I thought he might be a
little late with his VAT or taking advantage of loopholes in the
tax laws but nothing more serious than that. He was, after all, a
bright young businessman keen to make his way in Margaret
Thatcher's Britain of the early eighties.
    Nor did I
believe the rumours that he had a string of girls on the side.