I can’t stop thinking about what it felt like to be held in your arms, to have your lips on my nipples, and to feel your hot male strength throbbing deep inside me when you thrust and thrust. . . .
I’ve been an upholsterer for thirty years now, but I’ve never found a letter stuffed down the back of a sofa that was quite like this one.
When I strip a sofa or an armchair the usual suspects that lurk out of sight are normally children’s toy cars, bits of plastic dolls, coins, earrings, ancient sweets, old Christmas cards, you name it. I once found a hearing aid, I even discovered a diamond ring, and another time a Rolex watch. If they’re valuable items, I always immediately contact the client to give them the good news, usually to rapturous delight at the mention of the long-lost treasure. But as a rule everything else that isn’t rubbish I simply put into an envelope to hand over when the job is complete.
But finding this sexy love letter presented me with a conundrum. I must confess, I couldn’t resist going on to read all of it, and was shocked to find that it left nothing to the imagination, indeed, it was absolutely pornographic in detail, quite shocking in fact. It was obviously a woman writing to her lover, who appeared to be quite a stud if her account of their antics was to be believed. For instance: My husband mustn’t find out about us. But my darling you’re so hot! I couldn’t believe it when we did it for a fourth time. . . . . You get my drift? Well, I’m blushing remembering, so that’s quite enough said about that!
I had collected the large antique sofa from Erdingly Manor early this morning. It was a huge stately manor house, and I’d seen on TV last month that it was the home of that famous theatre impresario, Sir Roger Guard and his wife Amanda. Their recent marriage had caused quite a stir in the media, since Sir Roger was eighty-five years old, and voluptuous Amanda Chipchase was in her early twenties. Amanda was in fact a very attractive woman, who had until recently been a member of a girl band, Sexocracy, a trio of women who were known for dancing and gyrating provocatively in revealing costumes as they performed their music.
To make things even more bizarre, Amanda was quite tall for a woman, five foot nine, in stark contrast to Sir Roger, who was a good six inches shorter, and so puny that he looked as if he’d blow over in a high wind.
I even remember my pal, coarse Bert Tharby, making jokes to us in the pub about money-grabbing young brides deliberately persuading their geriatric husbands to have exhaustive sex, as a way of hastening their journey into rich widowhood.
The sexy note had been stuffed down the back of the sofa, and made its way through a hole in the fabric, so that if I hadn’t dismantled the sofa it would never have seen the light of day. Clearly, Amanda had been writing the note when her husband came into the room unexpectedly, so she had stuffed it hurriedly out of sight. Then later she forgot all about it, and never even subsequently discovered it because it had disappeared.
As I made a cup of tea, I wondered what to I should do with it. After all, it wasn’t my property, and according to the old upholsterer’s ‘honesty code’ I should return it.
But if I returned the note, Sir Roger might read it, and leap to the obvious conclusion: that his wife had a lover. Logically, I could see that it was only natural that a young, vibrant woman had needs that were unlikely to be satisfied by a tiny, fragile old gent. So what business of mine was it if a young virile man was filling her void?
This morning, when I’d collected the sofa, Sir Roger’s wife had seemed a really agreeable, friendly lady, even mildly flirtatious. She had told me that she wanted to have the family heirloom re-covered as a surprise for her husband. However don’t get me wrong. Amanda wasn’t a cheap, trashy lady by any stretch, in fact she was thoughtful and considerate, and, well, she was just nice, and I liked her.
As an example of her kindness, when I had said I’d come back to collect the heavy sofa this afternoon, with help to carry it away, she was concerned that I’d waste my time making an unnecessary journey. As luck would have it, Sir Roger’s physiotherapist, an extremely tall and muscular German lady called Heidi, had called unexpectedly, not realising that Sir Roger couldn’t keep their appointment. Huge Heidi, who was built like an Amazonian warrior, cheerfully picked up an end of the sofa with one hand, while I struggled as I took the other, and we managed to get it downstairs and out to the van, with Heidi assuring me that helping me with the ‘little sofa’ had been good exercise for her.
As I say, Lady Guard, née Amanda Chipchase, had seemed like a genuine, likeable person, and I didn’t want to cause her any trouble. And if she had a lover it was certainly no concern of mine. The best plan was, I decided, to tear up the note and throw it away.
As I continued working on reassembling the webbing support and the horsehair stuffing of the fine old settee, I couldn’t help wondering if Amanda and her lover had actually made love on this actual item, but banished the thought, deliberately directing my thoughts back to my morning Sudoku puzzle.
Anyway, I soon forgot about the note and became absorbed in the job, pleased to have made good progress by the end of the day. As I was about to lock up and go home for the evening, a huge old Rolls Royce car came around the corner and screeched to a halt.
“Hello, are you David Underwood, the upholsterer chappie?” asked the man, who leapt out onto the pavement and jogged across to me. He looked a but flustered and upset, face all red as if he’d been shouting.
“Yes.” I recognised him as Sir Roger Guard, who looked even smaller and more fragile than he did on the TV screen.
“Oh, David, how lucky I am to have caught you!” the tiny man said, clasping my arm gratefully. “I’m Roger Guard, and my wife told me that you had kindly collected a sofa from our home this morning, and you’re going to re-cover it, and renew the insides and padding or whatever.”
“That’s right,” I explained.
“Great! We really appreciate you taking on such a tricky job at short notice – the old thing’s been in my family for generations, time it was rejuvenated. I wondered, have you started the job, yet?”
“Yes, I’ve stripped it down to the frame and started rebuilding the inners – would you like to take a look?”
“No need old lad, wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble.” He frowned, and I noticed that he seemed even more flushed and uncomfortable as he chewed at his lower lip. “Thing is, I just wondered – er – did you find a letter inside it?”
Oh no, I thought! What was I going to say? Had Amanda admitted to her affair, and they’d have a blazing row about it? Was that why he looked so uncomfortable? Did he want the note to use as evidence for a divorce?
But what could I do? I could hardly lie to him.
“Um – er, yes. Actually I did find a letter – right inside, slipped down into the cavity below the seat.”
“Did you now, David? Ah! Well I’d be very grateful if you could give it to me now, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, it’s your property, after all.” I gulped, led the way into my workshop and, with a feeling of deep dread, folding the letter in half so the handwriting was inside, handed it to him.
“Er, um, d-did you read it?” he asked, looking even more worried as he peered up at me.
“No, no, of course not,” I lied hastily. “Didn’t even glance at it.”
His face broke out into a broad smile for the first time.
“Thing is, old lad, it’s a note to me from Heidi, my physiotherapist, suggesting some new exercises she had in mind.”
I remembered the huge Amazonian lady called Heidi who’d been kind enough to help me carry the sofa out to the van. I thought of her warm smile and her friendly manner. And how her handshake had practically crushed my fingers.
Sir Roger coughed to cover his embarrassment. “Stupid I know, but I wouldn’t like my wife to see this note. Can’t have the little woman leaping to silly conclusions, now can we?”