Roskov, Book 1:
Author: Geoff Wolak
Date: 2021-05-07T18:00:00+00:00
Description: Football team captain and popular school president, Ricky Roskov leaves school in England to start work in his uncle's factory, to make enough money for college, a future in politics planned. Modelling for the company brochure, he gets noticed, and he accidentally starts a lucrative parallel career in modelling and acting. Involving himself in charity work and politics in his home town, a dying women sets him on the trail of uncovering corruption, rape and murder at the hands of the town's elite. Contains politics, sex, modelling, acting, conspiracy, undercover work ... progressive series

Ricky Roskov

Book 1

Copyright © Geoff Wolak

Written in April, 2021, from an idea first formed in 2006.

This book is a work of fiction based in fact, technically accurate in the detail of geographical locations.

Email the author: gwresearchb@aol.com

www.geoffwolakwriting.com

End of June, 2000

With a cooling breeze felt on my face, I took in the tranquil lake, and despite the picturesque summer scene set out before me I heaved a giant stress-related sigh, my heart pushing against my chest, and I felt as if I might collapse at any minute, the weight of an elephant pushing down on my shoulders.

I felt a migraine coming on, which was rare - yet not unexpected given the situation, and my nose felt odd, as if I had been punched, a cold sensation felt in my sinuses despite the pleasant summer weather here in Sweden.

The picture-postcard scene was broken by a small Swedish Naval patrol boat speeding past, armed men seen in the back, those armed men here to protect me, and to protect me willingly - if not keenly. To protect a young British politician oddly enough, a very young British politician.

Above the distant trees, an army helicopter buzzed past and headed off down the lake towards urban Stockholm, this lake being a slightly saline fresh water lake that fed into the nearby Baltic Sea.

I turned back, back to Rolf and the Swedish Interior Minister, behind him a dozen armed men seen patrolling around the house and offices. Rolf and the minister waited expectantly, three steps away, the soldiers and police far enough away not to hear what was being said.

Worried now, gravely worried, and intensely annoyed, I took in their faces and held up my mobile phone. ‘If … if I make a call, or not make a call, Britain suffers, the victims suffer, everyone suffers, and … no fucking good can come of this whichever way it goes.

‘If I release the evidence … then Britain is screwed, soldiers on the streets of London keeping the peace, Britain’s reputation abroad ruined. I think it’s fair to say that tourism to London will be down some,’ I sarcastically told them.

‘And the evidence we have, that’s a fucking copy, the original is still out there, and the dirtbag that has it could release it. We, us three, we know about it, and if we do nothing and he releases that fact to the media then we all go to prison.’

The Interior Minister, dressed now in casual clothes but with a practical green raincoat held, began, ‘You were sent the evidence for a reason, as before. They trust you, they like you, they believe in you – unusual for a politician, even here in quiet Sweden.

‘You were tipped off all along, from day one, and this man – whoever he is – he trusts you as well, and he wants you to do something with the evidence.’

‘Release it?’ I barked. ‘And what the fuck does that do to Britain?’

Rolf, calm as ever, asked, ‘What is your gut feeling, as to what to do with it?’

I took in their faces. ‘My gut feeling is … to deal with it quietly, even if that breaks a few laws. If it’s my career, my life lost, then that’s a price I’ll pay to save this getting out.’

‘And there lies the reason why they tip you off – you always do the right thing,’ the Interior Minister pointed out.

‘Can it … be dealt with quietly?’ Rolf posed.

‘If the Prime Minister cooperates, then yes, I know that other matters were dealt with quietly by our intelligence services. But if the Prime Minister becomes aware of it, then he … may be duty-bound to do the right thing.’

‘Not after he sees those fucking videos,’ the Interior Minister scoffed. ‘After he stops being sick he will want it dealt with quietly as well.’

Rolf put in, ‘The European news is going crazy nuts, they know the Army is here protecting you, two hundred soldiers, sixty police. You can’t hold off giving them a story, it’s on the news all around Europe and the world.’

‘I don’t dare hint at this, not yet,’ I told him as I took in the soldiers patrolling the estate, the pressure in my chest increasing.

My phone trilled, and I glanced at it. ‘The Prime Minister,’ I informed them.

‘Best you invite him here … for an unpleasant chat,’ the Interior Minister suggested. ‘It’s your summer recess, so … he can put it down as a holiday here.’

After a few seconds staring at the phone as it quietly trilled, I hit the green button and raised it to my ear. ‘Roskov.’

‘What the hell is going on over there? Why the protection?’

‘I … took delivery of some evidence, it was delivered here in Sweden for privacy, and … I can’t risk travelling with it or … risk going back to London yet.’

After a long pause came, ‘Enough for a court case?’

‘Ten times more than is needed.’

‘And … it’s what you thought it was?’ he nudged.

‘Worse, much … much worse, all caught on high quality video tape.’

‘They taped themselves!’ he burst out.

‘Can you fly here tomorrow? While you still have a country to run.’

‘Oh Christ.’ After a long pause came, ‘I’ll be there, tell them to expect me - and not to shoot me.’

‘Just you, or a small team, no mention to anyone yet, if this gets out … it’s all over. But … I … had an idea.’

‘An … idea?’

‘Can you get me the phone number for the Deputy Head of the Freemasons, Rawlings? And when you come, bring … the head of Mi5, Mi6, CGHQ, and the Met’s Commissioner, Baker.’

‘What the hell for?’

‘For dealing with this quietly, not in the tabloids.’

After another long pause came, ‘I’m surprised that you of all people would suggest that, given all that they’ve done to you…’

‘You want this in fucking the tabloids? The Met Police shut down, soldiers on the streets, you forced out of office in disgrace and hounded for the rest of your life?’

After another long pause came, ‘I’ll get you that phone number and … summon the others. But quietly.’

Call ended, I stared at it for a moment and then took in their expectant looks. ‘Did I just become as bad as they are?’

The Interior Minister responded, ‘The ends justifies the means, and if you sell your soul to save a nation … so be it. I would in your place, I would sacrifice my life to save Sweden.’

‘I’ll … need to brief your Prime Minister, he has a right to know, he’s paying for all this protection.’

‘Ha, these soldiers have nothing to do anyhow, let them have a big exercise here and earn their damn pay, eh.’

1995

It was the first day after I had finished my “A” Level exams, the first Monday, and it felt odd – no school any more. It was … oddly quiet, and my regular routine had not just been broken - but smashed to pieces and swept away. I felt … adrift.

The end of my school days came as a regret, since I had loved studying, I had loved playing football even more, and I had enjoyed my schooldays greatly.

As captain of the football team, since I was ten years old, I had been popular, and I had loved playing football every chance I got, evenings and weekends, as well as in the school lunch breaks.

But as my parents had noticed, my studies had not suffered as a result and I had always produced good grades. My first passion was football, my second passion was reading, so I had not been a difficult son to raise, not even as an only son.

My father had worked his entire life as a draughtsman in a local Leicester office, and he was a quiet man that also loved to read, my mother someone who had her small circle of friends and was content.

I could not say that she was happy, she was not that kind of person, and I could definitely not say that my father was happy. He had once won a few grand on the lottery, and had not even lifted an eyebrow. ‘Oh,’ was all he had said at the time.

As a teenager, I had been out of the family home most of the time, or reading the rest of the time, and my parents were … in attendance when I needed them, and when I had been injured playing football they were there and ready to help.

They were not the hugs and kisses type, but they were available, and never once had I heard them shouting at each other; it had been a quiet house of an evening.

On occasion I had asked my father about historical topics, and he was a readily-available amateur expert on many of those historical topics. He liked to read history as much as I did, and it was only last year that I had found out that his father, my grandfather – who I had never met, had been part Jewish.

I was not sure how that made me feel since I had been raised Christian, and my father never once indulged in anything remotely Jewish. When I asked him what that genetic heritage had made us, his reply had been, ‘No one is born Jewish, it’s a religion not a genetic condition.’

At most, I was maybe 25% Jewish by bloodline, but as my father had said: no one was born Jewish, it was a religion and a way of life that had to be adopted, practised and maintained.

Not long after the revelation I had spoken to a kid in school who was known for being Jewish, Mark Cohen, and I had confided in him about my grandfather.

‘I’m proudly Jewish,’ he told me.

‘Do you go to Temple?’

‘Nope, did when I was young, hated it.’

‘Eat pork?’

‘Always, love it.’

‘Study the … Old Testament?’

‘Fuck no.’

‘So … why are you proudly Jewish?’ I had puzzled.

He had shrugged. ‘Just am. We’re Jews. Do you … feel Jewish?’

‘Nope.’

‘Then you’re not Jewish, not a proper Jew.’

That day, I had the feeling that he was not a proper Jew either, but I had held my tongue.

Afterwards, I had discussed him with my father, who had responded, ‘In America, like Britain, fifty percent of Jews marry Christians and don’t practice, they don’t go to Temple and they know very little about the history.

‘I’m not Jewish, but I know the history very well, and it seems very odd that someone can label themselves as Jewish and yet never observe the practices. Their tribe is defined by their religion, like Islam. Can a man call himself Islamic when he never prays, just because he was born to an Islamic family?’

‘Well … I’d say no. Could I label myself a Mormon?’

‘Do you have three wives?’ he posed.

I smiled. ‘Not yet.’

‘Then you’re not a Mormon, but you could adopt it. Do you … feel anything for the Jews?’

‘I read the history, feel sorry for them, but I feel sorry for the historical underdog always.’

‘My father, he was taken in 1943 as a five year old boy, from a train wagon heading to the death camps, kept by a German officer and his wife in Denmark, but in the same year – 1943 - they escaped to Britain and were interned.’

My eyes widened. ‘Shit … what a great story.’

‘I … have the original papers, ID cards, you can study them if you want.’

‘Definitely. But I’m still leaning towards Mormon.’

He had smiled, which was rare. ‘Wait until you have just the one wife, then you’ll change your mind about three. And your grandfather, he made my mother pregnant at seventeen years old, and out of wedlock. She was fifteen at the time.’

‘What a rascal. But I think the rascal gene skipped a generation.’

‘It did,’ he emphasised, shooting me a look.

Now, early on a Monday morning and dressed smart-casual in a dark grey suit I had bought for myself - no tie over my grey shirt, I walked a few blocks to my uncle’s factory. The rain was holding off, and it was a warm June day.

As I walked I passed a few other kids from my school, waves and smiles exchanged, and as a former school pupil president and local student political activist I was well known. I had also coached the junior football teams, so the younger kids and their parents all knew me.

I passed two giggling girls from my school, and I smiled politely and nodded at them, but I was not interested in them sexually, not least because I was known locally as the “Football Virgin”, no intercourse for me yet.

My current part-time girlfriend, who labelled herself as a “soccer widow”, had tossed me off many times, I had even enjoyed a blowjob, and we had recently started the 69 position, but I was not about to risk a teenage pregnancy.

I had, however, promised her that we would have sex with a condom before the summer was over, and that we might have a holiday away together.

A glance up at the familiar facia, and I entered my uncle’s glass factory. But he did not actually make the glass, he bought it and made the frames, and he made custom security windows for businesses here in Leicester.

I walked up grubby wooden steps that creaked, and into the main office.

‘Oh my god, here comes handsome,’ came from the office manager, Julie, a good looking and curvy thirty-two-year-old. Since I had worked here a few weeks last summer I was known to the staff, and to the sex-mad creature that was Julie.

A cute girl turned towards me from her computer screen, all cleavage, and she was perhaps twenty-one. ‘The famous Roskov. Remember me?’

‘Err … nope.’

‘I was three years ahead of you in school.’

‘That’s why then. Developed some curves since school haven’t you.’

‘Thanks for noticing,’ she purred, her chest out.

A bald man in his forties lifted his head from behind a computer. ‘Do you lot have any work to do?’

‘We’re on a break,’ Julie told him. ‘Admiring the new employee. He’s not old, fat and bald, he’s a hunk.’

‘Thanks for that,’ the man said as he lowered his head and attended his computer.

‘How tall are you now?’ Julie asked.

‘Six one, just about.’

‘And well hung?’ she teased.

‘I never use it, I just play football,’ I quipped.

‘Best way,’ the man said without looking up. ‘Save some money.’

‘How old are you now?’ Julie puzzled.

‘Eighteen. And a half.’

‘You look more like thirty.’

‘I get that a lot, yes.’

‘And you look Italian, olive skin, black hair. God sent us a real gift,’ she teased.

Embarrassed, I lowered my head, but I saw my uncle put down the phone and so walked into his office, the man a carbon copy of my dad and just as sedate; he was not someone who smiled much. ‘Ricky Roskov, reporting for duty, boss.’

‘If only all the staff were as punctual as you, and as polite,’ he complained, a glance through the partition glass.

‘So what you got for me?’ I asked as I sat.

‘How long do you intended on staying?’ It sounded like a complaint.

I held my hands wide. ‘I … have no plans, but I want to make enough money for university. So at least a year.’

‘You had an offer, from Leicester City Football Club, good money?’

‘I did, and Watford, and a try-out for Man Utd, but … I want to go into politics someday.’

He nodded as he considered that. ‘You can study all of the products we sell, then work in sales. We’ll send you to the female customers for sure,’ he quipped

I smiled. ‘I have no idea what you mean.’

‘Don’t be in a hurry to grow up and get old, enjoy it while you can,’ he told me, and I could see the sadness behind his eyes; I knew he had lost a daughter to a car crash.

I had been young at the time, too young to have been bothered by it, and they had not been regular visitors to the house anyhow.

‘I’ll make a start then, and do some reading.’

‘Core prices plus mark-up, labour, travel, and always allow for more time to fit them than we estimate, something always goes wrong. Have a look at the job-costing system on the computer, get a feel for it.’

‘Right, Boss.’

‘If only the other staff were that polite,’ he sighed out as I left him.

Jacket off, computer adopted, and I started on the products whilst trying hard to ignore the cleavage on display and the sexual tension in the room. But the girls did make me tea and coffee regularly.

By the end of the first week I had the products in my head, the mark-up and the labour costs, and I now knew what an “hourly overhead recovery rate” was. I now knew basic glass, tempered glass, safety glass, security glass and Perspex, I even knew what a square metre of each weighed.

But by using the computer I had spotted a few mistakes, I had corrected a few rates, I had recalculated the recovery rates, and I had found a technician fiddling his expenses, the man fired.

That man returned the next day, and drunk, wanting at my uncle, so I had placed myself in the way, only to get punched. In reality I had allowed myself to get punched, because after years of playing football I knew all about ducking the punches and hitting back.

With the punch at me witnessed by many, I floored the forty-year-old man with three good punches, and he was out for the count, police and ambulance called, normal office work disrupted with some gossip-creating excitement.

When the police arrived, they smiled as they recognised me. ‘Roskov, why did you turn down Man Utd, you dope!’

‘Well … I’m hoping to make enough money here to go to university. And a football career can be cut short by one twisted ankle.’

‘I hear ya, mate,’ the officer had agreed. ‘It can end quick. And then what are you qualified for, eh?’

They handcuffed the man as he recovered and groaned, statements made and notes taken, but it was all very black and white.

My uncle was concerned for my face and cut lip.

‘Trust me, I’m used to it. You don’t play football for years without getting hit, and without hitting back.’

‘You fight well,’ he agreed. ‘When the staff step out of line … thump them! Women included.’

The following week was my first real sales test, and I would travel out as lead salesman for a particular lady customer, another salesman driving me since I had not passed my test yet, nor had any driving lessons for that matter.

Arriving at a caravan and accessories shop, we were looking at a shit load of glass. And I was soon looking at a curvy middle-aged lady manager as her eyes twinkled.

‘I’m Ricky Roskov, Leicester Glass.’

‘You the boss’s son?’ she asked as I shook her hand.

‘No, his nephew. A young twenty-six,’ I lied as she held onto my hand way too long. ‘Got the kettle on, love?’

She led me into her office, tea made as we chatted about my uncle before she led me out to the showroom and showed me the cracked glass. ‘Can it be fixed?’

‘There’s a special liquid that can be squeezed into the cracks, yes, like a car windscreen, but if someone used his shoulder against it the whole thing will shatter and you’ll pay for their injuries. For show, yes, for testing it on stupid humans … you’ll take the risk.’

‘Well we got the insurance money anyhow, some idiot backed into it.’

She showed me the second piece, but it would have been impossible for anyone to have nudged it in a vehicle.

‘The frame is wrong, it moved and twisted, and cracked the glass. Who installed it?’

‘Was here when we came.’

‘Nothing you can do then but replace it, a new and decent frame.’

‘So no one hit it?’ she puzzled.

‘No, it’s a pressure crack. If it was ours we’d swap it for you free.’

‘Cost for both?’ she nudged.

‘I’ll do the maths and email you a quote,’ I promised, but I knew that I was on a commission, and that if I sold two large panes with frames I would earn an extra … two hundred and sixty quid just about.

In her office, door closed, she sat as I took in her family photos on the wall. ‘Two daughters? You don’t look old enough, love,’ I teased.

‘Ah, such a sweety.’

‘Kept your figure as well.’

‘Not that my husband notices,’ she lightly complained.

‘Oh no, sounds like a stressed lady boss.’ I stood behind her and began to massage her shoulders.

‘You shouldn’t really do that,’ she told me. ‘That’s naughty.’ She moaned.

‘No, a massage is not naughty, doing this would be naughty.’ I reached down and massaged a large boob. ‘But since you think it’s naughty I should stop.’

‘Yes … probably best, someone might walk in.’

‘I’ll send you that quote, today,’ I promised, and she walked me out, ignoring her staff as they called to her. For some reason she was focused only on me.

Back at the office, I worked late after checking the pieces and the prices needed, an old employee helping me work out the sizes and weights, and the installation time. I finally typed it all into the computer and my uncle checked it.

‘Good opportunity, if it comes off,’ my uncle finally stated, email sent with attached quote.

In the morning my uncle was pleased, since my quote had been accepted, and before 9.30am. He was scheduled to go in and see them on the Wednesday, so I made a point of popping in on the Tuesday lunchtime.

The lady boss was pleased to see me, a coy smile for me, so I guessed that her husband was still ignoring her. Showing me around the yard, I had a look at a few caravans, then a camper van - basically a caravan that you could drive.

Inside, door closed, I began, ‘There’s something you can help me with.’

‘Huh?’ she puzzled.

‘I wanted an opinion on something,’ I told her, and unzipping I pulled out my cock, getting stiff quickly. ‘I’ve not had much luck with girls, and … I was wondering if it was big enough.’

Without a word, she knelt, and she swallowed my cock like a woman that had not had sex in a very long time, my mind on the two hundred and sixty quid commission over my basic salary. But as she sucked I was enjoying it greatly, not least the chance of being caught.

I came quite quickly, my head thrown back after just a minute or so, and she swallowed without comment nor complaint. Unlike my current girlfriend, there was no loud ‘Yuk!’

Cock away, she stood. ‘Seems OK, you naughty boy.’

‘I guess so, and you’re not old enough to call me a boy,’ I told her, certain that she was old enough. I opened the door and we stepped out, no one around. ‘Are you good at keeping secrets?’

‘Very, my husband has no idea – not that he cares,’ she said as she adjusted her hair and wiped her mouth.

‘Then once in a while I can justify popping in to check your windows.’

When the end of the month came around my uncle paid me my bonuses, six good sales under my belt and a dozen small sales, all lady clients. There was definitely a pattern emerging.

My pay pleased me greatly, I had never made as much working part-time in the school holidays, and my bank account suddenly had a thousand pounds in it, which for a recent school leaver seemed like a fortune.

In a mad rush to waste some money, I ventured out Saturday morning and bought a complete twenty-book box set about the Second World War, my father very pleased to be getting access to them.

I handed my mother two hundred quid and asked if that was enough, my parents insisting that it was too much. I insisted they keep it, but I did buy a new casual suit, dark grey, and a few grey shirts, a few dark blue shirts. And no ties.

A call made on the house phone, and my school friend Bonza came around at 3pm.

His real name was Barry Smith, and I had forgotten why we called him Bonza. He had played football with me until he grew too big, and then switched to rugby with his older brother, who was even bigger. Now, Bonza was six-five and heavy set.

He had turned up in his car, the reason for the call.

‘I want some driving lessons,’ I told him outside my house.

‘Easy enough, just get some beers in and pay the petrol. How’s that job going?’

‘First month’s pay was over a grand.’

‘Yeah? Good money then.’

‘I get a commission for extra sales, above a certain value.’

‘You need a provisional driver’s license, from the Post Office, fill in the forms. Come on.’

He drove me off to the post office, form collected, and back at the house I filled it in as Bonza spoke to my mum about his mum, the document soon in the post. I would get a document back, a green one he told me. Cup of tea down our throats, and he drove me to a quiet car park, an hour’s tuition given.

But his father was the driving specialist, so he could teach me properly till I paid for lessons. Just that his father was a bit of a dick, and grumpy with it.

1993

Mickey limped onto the football pitch and joined the rest of us as I briefed the team, his big brother with him but in school uniform not football kit.

‘Mickey, what the fuck you doing here!’ I shouted, all eyes now on our wounded player.

‘Feels better now -’

‘Don’t give me that shit, you tore a tendon and that takes time to heal, and if you play today you could make it worse and be off all season, and I don’t want you off all season – we need you.

‘So stop being a hero dick and rest it properly, more ice, and then we have you for the last five matches, not lose you for the whole fucking season.’

I wagged a warning finger. ‘You can make that worse today and lose the season, or you get the last five games, idiot. Hands up all those who want him to risk it today?’

No one raised a hand.

‘Hands up all those that want him in the last five games?’

All raised their hands, and Mickey’s big brother slapped the back of Mickey’s head.

‘Go and rest,’ I told Mickey. ‘And heal it properly.’

‘They shoot injured horses,’ Bonza loudly stated, the team laughing. ‘Can we shoot him?’

I saw the new kid walk out, a black kid, tall and fit looking, and I walked towards him as the team stretched. ‘You the new lad?’

‘Yeah, Jonesy.’

‘I’m Roskov, team captain.’

‘Heard all about you in my last school.’

‘You any good with a ball?’

‘Better than most.’

‘Come on then, let’s see. And if anyone gives you any shit, you tell me, you don’t punch the idiot – that’s my job. If you do react then you’re off the team before you even get started. Discipline is my area.’

We already had two black players, our best players after myself, and I introduced Jonesy to the team.

‘Listen up. This new lad is supposed to be good, so we’ll give him a try, and this a friendly anyhow, so – Bonza – friendly means no fighting.’

The team laughed at Bonza.

‘Who me?’ Bonza protested.

1995

At work on Monday I mentioned driving lessons to my uncle.

‘Go see old Derrick, have some lessons when you have the provisional license, no cost, we need you driving soon and seeing customers further out.’

‘How far away do you sell?’ I asked.

‘If the money is good, a hundred miles out, right down to London. Oh, Julie wants to photograph you.’

‘I told her no to the naked photos,’ I quipped.

‘Marketing literature. And yes, I can believe she asked that as well.’

‘She did, first week.’

He shook his head, and I asked Julie about these photographs.

‘My cousin, she does our brochures, needs a model and they cost a pigging fortune, so we want you to model for us, my handsome man.’

‘Clothes on?’ I teased.

‘Unfortunately, yes. Can you do tomorrow?’

‘What has my uncle said?’

‘That you do it damn quick and save us some damn money.’

‘Typical. OK, I’ll not book any appointments for tomorrow.’

In the morning I was picked-up by Julie’s cousin, a fat frump that shrieked when she saw me; I had to wonder if she wanted naked photos as well.

She had a bag of make-up ready but decided there and then that I needed no work at all, my hair just fine, my suit great – even if I did not want to wear a tie.

Camera ready, I stood next to our company’s glass-handling stillages and forced a smile.

She told me, ‘Not too happy, not sexy, just a twinkle in your eye. That’s it … hold, still holding.’

Moving on, I stood holding window frame designs with old Dereck next to a huge framed glass, then next to a company van, and finally in the office sat behind a computer.

The fat frump drove off happy, and I got back to some leaflets, certain types of companies targeted, those that had large windows, I even walked around Leicester, pushing flyers through the post boxes of shops after hours.

The following week the fat frump was back, the girls in the office loving the brochure photos, a few pages torn out and stuck to the walls already – which embarrassed me greatly, the men in the company taking the piss.

My uncle was happy with the brochure and flyer adverts, and I had signed a disclaimer, allowing my photos to be used for years to come. And, the icing on the cake, was a hundred quid cash bonus from my uncle.

But the frump had an offer for me; could I meet her friend who was up from London, from a modelling agency.

‘What for?’ I had asked with a shrug. ‘I’m not moving to London.’

‘Some part time work, similar work, stood next to a car maybe. It could be your big break.’

‘I’m … planning on going to university next year, not going into male modelling.’

‘You could work part time, and you’ll need the cash for university,’ she insisted, so I agreed the meeting since I would need the cash in university. And that university funding, that was a worry that was morphing into a concern as time went on.

The meeting took place the following evening at the printing company’s offices, her friend an obvious former model that was now aging, wrinkles around her eyes. I guessed that she was forty something.

‘Oh wow, even better in the flesh,’ she commented as I shook her hand. ‘I’m Trish Markham.’ The three of us sat. ‘How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘Eighteen!’ came from two mouths at the same time.

‘I would have said late twenties,’ Trish noted. ‘And you don’t carry yourself like an eighteen year old.’

‘Good, they’re mostly idiots,’ I told them.

‘British?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have an Italian look about you. Who does your hair?’

‘I … shower, dry, and use a hand.’

‘God, I hate men like that,’ she huffed out. ‘Costs us girls a fortune. And your suit?’

‘This was the first one I found on the rack in Marks and Spencers cheap clothing.’

‘Cheaply done with a fab finish,’ she sighed out.

‘So, you have some part time work for me…’

‘We take photos and create a portfolio, then the customers decide if your face fits the project.’

‘Project?’

‘Girl on your arm, gold necklace looked at in Ratners. Get your girl something special this Valentine’s Day.’

‘Sounds straight forwards. And no, I don’t want to pay for the portfolio, you can take it from anything I earn.’

‘Mature, for eighteen,’ she noted.

‘I was captain of the football team, from age ten. I understand people well, I balance both sides of the equation, and I never take anything anyone tells me at face value – for all I know you’re a lousy midfielder with two left feet.’

She smiled. ‘Mature, yes, you’ll go far. This weekend I’ll do the shots. What does your skin look like, any pimples?’

‘Acne, no, had some a few years back.’ I stood, jacket off, shirt unbuttoned.

‘Oh wow,’ Trish let out. ‘A six pack and muscles.’

‘Years of football practise.’ I put my shirt back on.

‘I’m sure I can get you a few projects,’ Trish offered. ‘What about a speaking role?’

My eyes widened. ‘Speaking? TV?’

‘It’s possible, you have a deep rich voice for eighteen, so it will only ever get better. It would be daytime TV, shopping channel stuff, mostly middle-aged ladies sat at home watching it.’

‘I … have some experience of middle-aged ladies taking an interest in me, yes. My uncle at the glass factory, he sends me to the lady customers. Sales are up.’

They giggled, very loudly, and it was a done deal.

Saturday, and I posed in front of a white screen; with my suit on, with my jacket off and held, in a t-shirt, with my top off, and in my clean boxers. She took a few close-up shots, a variety of facial expressions requested, and that was that.

I went home to my books, my sometimes girlfriend popping in at 5pm, my parents greeting her. She had bad news, and she was off to Cyprus to stay with her uncle and help in his bar. I figured that meant she would get a good shagging from tourist lads, and I told her so in front of my parents, so she stormed off cursing.

My parents were a bit shocked at what I had said.

I faced my father. ‘A girl like that in a bar in Cyprus in the summer…’

He exchanged a look with my mother. ‘Well …, yes, there would be ten men a day after her.’

‘And she would ignore them all for me?’

‘Hard to tell, but a gamble, if you were planning on waiting for her.’

‘I’m not, and no – I’m not cut-up about it. No plans to settle down, to get married and to produce kids, just plans for university.’

‘You always were single-minded,’ my father pointed out. ‘And level-headed with it, we never needed to worry about you.’

‘Still a virgin,’ I told them. ‘No expensive teenage pregnancies for you to worry about.’

That evening I needed a drink, not least because I had been dumped, and Bonza suggested the new wine bar because the women were older there.

I found it hard to imagine any woman being interested in eighteen-year-old Bonza, but he was a good friend, even if he did drink too much, eat too much - and fart a great deal.

Now, I was dressed, as usual in my work suit, a clean grey shirt on, and I met Bonza near the wine bar at 8pm, which was early he told me; I had no clue, I was no drinker nor local socialite.

Inside the posh place, we ran straight into Julie from the office, who shrieked, a big hug for me, her friends all wanting hugs as well and embarrassing me, one of them squeezing my balls.

‘Ladies, I’m eighteen years old, barely old enough to be in here. So please don’t eat me.’

‘A few more drinks and we will,’ one threatened.

Oddly enough, Julie was looking younger, and good with it, her great figure on display. Bonza could not believe that I worked with her, and that I had been resisting her.

But when one of Julie’s friends, a larger and curvier lady, led Bonza out from the wine bar I decided that Julie would do, and that it was time to let my hair down a bit. After all, I was nursing a broken heart. Technically.

At her nice city apartment, a short walk, she could not wait and she unzipped me, soon knelt and sucking wildly as I finally felt her large boobs. Oddly enough, they felt heavy and muscular, and when she slipped off her dress and bra they hung high and pointed out, not falling – as I had imagined they might.

‘Your boobs don’t fall much,’ I noted.

‘Lucky like that, so far, they’re solid not floppy.’

With my clothes off, her bed made-up and looking like a pristine hotel room bed, I went for the 69 since I had practised that a few times - and since I did not want to seem like an inexperienced idiot, soon moaning as I came in her mouth.

I suddenly felt immature, since I had wanted to make it last longer.

A little nervous, and a little clueless, I kept at her pussy, finding it to be just a slit with little hair, and parting the lips I had found two neat pink parallel lines joined at the top and bottom.

She moaned loudly, and she was soon instructing me. One finger in, wiggle it some, a minute later second finger in, wiggle it some, thumb pulling back the clit hood, and she bucked like a rodeo bull as she came, a loud scream issued.

Whilst wondering if the neighbours were calling the police, she pushed me down and straddled me, a hand down to get my cock in. ‘Good size, and it’ll get bigger the more you use it. They stretch.’

The big boobs were swaying there, my hands up to play with them as she started to rock backwards and forth, the end of my cock sending me the kinds of pleasure waves I had not experienced so far, not with a hand job from my ex-girlfriend.

‘First shag,’ I told her. ‘I’m a virgin, so be gentle,’ I joked.

‘Really?’

‘Yep, I was avoiding teenage pregnancies.’

‘I’m on the pill, we’re OK.’

She moaned as she rode me, and I was loving the sight of the big firm boobs above me. I did not think I would come a second time, but she kept going, and going, and going, and moaning more, and I did eventually feel the release – yet a painful release for me.

Dragged into the shower, she washed me all over before she dragged me back to the bed, a right old bossy boots. ‘I teach massage technique, and I can teach you. Give a girl a massage and she’ll be impressed.’

‘Can you … teach me how to make a girl happy?’ I genuinely asked.

‘Just turn up, babes, just turn up.’

My face was soon down on a large towel, smelly oils out, and she started to give me a massage. ‘You massage the muscles, not the bones, not the spine. But girls like a skin massage, men like a muscle massage. Girls like a hotter temperature, so if you rub the skin you get the temperature up.

‘When you massage a girl, don’t press the muscles and squeeze them hard, you’re trying to make her happy not fix her tennis elbow. Ankles are good, inside of the thighs is a must, arse is a must, back massage is nice, head and neck is better.’

‘Noted. But write it all down for me, eh.’

I was soon enjoying the massage, and it lasted almost an hour. Showered, the oil off, and she wanted to eat, so she cooked for me whilst dressed in a robe that hid little.

A fantastic toast-omelette thing inside me, and we sat, cups of tea in hand.

‘Will you tell your uncle?’ she finally asked, and I was waiting for just that question.

‘He thinks you’re a sex maniac anyhow.’

‘No, last boyfriend was a year back, I’m all front.’

‘Definitely all front,’ I joked, and I pulled her robe open to have a look. ‘And no, I won’t tell anyone, not a soul.’

‘You’ll do some modelling work?’

‘Sure, if it pays – I need the money for university. My parents can help, but it’s still expensive and a strain on them.’

‘You’re making good sales with us,’ she noted with a grin. ‘All the lady clients.’

‘They do like to chat to me, yes,’ I agreed, not about to list the one blowjob and a couple of touch-ups that had assisted my monthly sales average.

‘So how come you were never shagging around town?’

‘Well, first I’m only eighteen – no money and no car, and second I had my football. I had every girl in school after me, but I wasn’t interested for some reason, no sex drive.

‘I like sex, and with you it’s great so far, but in school I just had no sex drive, I preferred to read a good book.’

‘Late developer. I’ll teach you how to massage, and you can practise on my friend Susan.’

‘Whoa, what?’

‘You massage her and I correct you.’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘Relax, she won’t eat you. I might, but she won’t.’

And she did want to eat me, half an hour sucking on a cock that was not about to finish again.

At 11pm I made my excuses, not wanting to be explaining an overnight stay to my parents, not yet. I wrote down Julie’s home number, but I would see her in work on Monday anyhow.

I told her as I left, ‘In work on Monday, be the sex maniac as usual, no one needs to know – I’m good at keeping secrets.’

The following Wednesday, and Julie gave me a nice blowjob when no one was in the office, and she repeated that on the Thursday, a definite perk of the job. Friday night, and I was destined to learn some massage moves.

Arriving at her apartment, I found a lovely vision in a blonde Susan, petite and slim, and already in a robe – and nothing else.

‘My god, he is a hunk,’ Susan noted, a quick kiss for me as she squeezed my cock; I got the impression that there was more to the massage lessons than they were letting on, and I was suddenly a worried and inexperienced eighteen-year-old.

Stripped down to my underwear, Susan walking around naked and displaying small pert boobs and a shaved pussy, she finally lay face-down on the towels on the bed as Julie stripped naked, Susan’s pussy slit staring up at me.

Julie told me, ‘You do the left side, I’ll do the right, copy me. Oil on your hands, make sure it’s not cold, rub it up and down twice.’ I copied.

‘OK, squeeze the toothpaste…’ She squeezed the calf muscle up on the right leg. ‘…every little bit.’ She used her thumbs in rapid motion, as if squeezing a tube of something. ‘Squeeze the toothpaste, every little bit.’

I tried the technique.

‘Good,’ Susan told me, a little muffled.

‘Ankles, around the cone shape, gentle, it’s for fun,’ Julie instructed. ‘Back of the knee, gentle rub.’

I repeated everything, my cock stiff in my pants, wondering if I would get points out of ten afterwards.

‘Inside of the thigh is very important, overlapping hands, pulling upwards, right up to the pussy but don’t touch, it’s a tease.’

I tried as shown, Susan moaning. ‘Good boy,’ she commended.

Julie showed me how to massage an arse, the back and shoulders, then the all-important neck massage for a lady, finally a head massage as Susan sat up facing me.

But sitting up meant that she pulled down my clean boxers and fiddled with my stiff cock.

‘Jules, I’m breaking our rule,’ Susan stated as she grabbed my cock and swallowed.

‘Figured you would. We can teach him the triangle.’

‘Triangle?’ I repeated.

Boxers off, I lay down, Jules with a knee up and her pussy in front of my face, and as my eyes widened Jules started to lick Susan’s pussy, my cock about to explode.

Laying there, I was suddenly thinking that I had been missing out as I started to lick Julie’s pussy, but no two girls from my school would have done this anyhow.

So this was ‘The Triangle’, I noted.

A minute later I came to a loud moan, Julie moaning as I licked her clit whilst hoping not to embarrass myself here. Susan swallowed, then slowed right down, Julie passionately licking Susan’s clit as I fondled a large boob.

‘Yoga,’ Susan gasped out. She rolled to her side, knees up and out, flat and down as Julie directed me forwards, and to insert my cock into Susan’s wet pussy as I stood at the side of the bed. Suddenly worried about pregnancies and STDs – but forcing the thoughts away, I leant in and leant forwards, Julie’s hand on my cock and guiding it in.

‘Arch your back,’ Julie told me, and I made enough room for Julie to lick Susan’s clit as I thrust back and forth slowly.

Slipping out by accident twenty seconds later, Julie grabbed my cock and sucked for a few seconds, soon guiding it back in, and this was mad Karma Sutra time.

‘What’s this one called?’ I asked.

‘Fuck and lick.’

My cock was still tingling from the blowjob, and Susan seemed to be squeezing her vagina muscles, a great sensation created, and a whole new experience for me; I had seemingly gone from the soccer virgin to a sex maniac in a very short space of time.

It was soon Julie’s turn, my cock inserted by Susan, Julie just as supple, her knees well up and held tight, and as with Julie I pulled out and let Susan suck for a few seconds.

Looking down at Susan tasting Julie did it for me, my body working in ways that I had no idea about till this week, and I moaned as I neared a climax, Susan grabbing my cock out so that I could finish in her mouth to a loud cry from me.

But Susan was not done with me, and she directed my cock back into Julie. I had the stamina, and was in no way tired or weary, just that the end of my cock was now hurting.

I thrust slowly, and I recovered some as I took in Julie’s apartment and watercolours, Julie arching her back and letting out a loud cry as Susan hit the clit.

‘Cuddle time,’ Julie finally gasped out, the three of us soon under a sheet and cuddling. I had two heads on my chest, glad now that my cock would get a rest.

‘I think my cock needs more practise, this is hurting a bit,’ I told them.

‘It’ll toughen up, like the skin on your knees,’ Julie told me. ‘Don’t worry. Wank every day as well, that helps it.’

‘Odd, for girls to be telling a guy to wank.’

‘Our own selfish reasons, we want a strong cock,’ Julie responded. ‘But Susan rarely does cock, a few times a year. I told her you could not be passed up.’

‘A real catch,’ Susan agreed. ‘Even for a rug muncher like me.’

‘Well I’m learning all the catch phrases at least. So … what are you then, Julie?’

‘I’m bisexual, but seventy percent man eater.’

‘And Claire in the office..?’

‘Straight, but her boyfriend is a dick. She’s going to leave him.’

‘A fresh eighteen year old virgin,’ Susan purred, a hand on my balls. ‘Well worth the wait. We can corrupt him.’

And they did corrupt me, twice a week as I worked on my glass-pane sales technique, the middle-aged ladies targeted. But when I was visiting companies in Leicester there was usually someone I knew from school or from football, and one lady manager had a son coached by me.

Bonza had given me a few driving lessons, but I had passed on the opportunity to have lessons from his grumpy father, instead I paid for a few lessons a week from a man who had a son coached by me - and he also knew my father. It was a small town.

After my driving lessons he would come into the house and greet mum and dad, a quick chat and a cuppa before his next lesson.

The turn in the road

Trish Markham, the modelling agent, had finally put together a portfolio, and she had a “non-union” one–off commercial job lined up for me, a contract sent in the post.

Cautious, I gave that contract to my father to read, and he advised against it; I would be signed-up to her and committed for life, but with no agreement to increase rates annually or to negotiate rates, ever. I would be a slave.

I called Trish and told her straight, that the contract was unjust, and total bullshit; I would not be signing, I would do a job-by-job if she wanted me to.

She still wanted me to complete the project, and she offered me a thousand pounds for the weekend. I thought I had heard her wrong, but yes – a thousand pounds for the weekend but with no residuals.

Residuals was the term for a small commission paid when they used an advert that featured my photos, and I could either be paid a lump sum and no residual, a mix, or all residual.

If the advert ran wide I could make more on the residual commissions, but those numerous small royalties would take six months or more to appear. I went for the lump sum, and no commitment, soon on a train to London with a bag, a change of clothes.

At the dirty old warehouse they called a studio I met the producer, a tall and skinny gay who I was ready to punch straight away, but I held my tongue and smiled politely.

His camp assistant asked me, ‘Do you do nudes?’

‘Do you heal well after you get punched?’ I countered with, and he got the message.

The client was in to observe the shoot, a middle-aged lady, and I greeted her as if selling glass, her hand held for way too long, soon sat with her for a cup of tea and chatting about all sorts.

She owned a chain of jewellery shops in London, and in the warehouse there were huge printed wooden screens behind a mock-up of a shop, the glass cases supplied by her company, the jewellery supplied by her company – and now being well guarded.

With a firm suggestion from me that I wear my dark grey suit, and that I did not need make-up or my hair done, I stood next to a sexy young model and held up a chain for her to look at as the camera – attached by wire to flashlights – loudly snapped away, no less than twenty people stood watching.

The model was quite taken with me, and we flirted, the photographer snapping away, and whilst going off-script I chose earrings that I thought might suit the model, and a gold chain for her neck.

‘I love these two kids,’ the client told the gay organisers. ‘I want to try video.’

An hour’s break, and they were finally ready for sample videos, and getting paid to do this was so easy I was almost ready to swap careers there and then. I politely told the frustrated make-up lady to get lost, and then suggested to the client that they let me ad-lib.

They filmed the jewellery-hunting young couple entering the make-believe shop, then I stood alone with the lady shop assistant. Video camera running, I glanced over my shoulder, and leant in. She leant in.

‘My new girlfriend is my boss’s daughter, so I need something … classy, but … I’m on a budget.’

The assistant nodded, and brought out a range. ‘Earrings and necklace as a set, five hundred pounds, down from nine hundred.’

I glanced over my shoulder. ‘Could you … accidentally leave the original price tag on it?’

‘Of course, sir,’ she said with a smile, and they filmed me placing the necklace around the model’s neck.

It was a cut, and the video team would show the owner the cut-up and edited footage as we all had a cup of tea and sandwiches.

I finally got to see the end result, even if it had the time stamp in seconds displayed all over it, but I found it hard to relate to myself on the screen. The client, however, liked it, and we would all come back tomorrow with a professional film crew.

Outside, an offer from the model politely turned down – an offer for some cocaine and sex, I called Trish Markham.

‘Oh my god, Ricky, they just called, we got TV adverts!’

‘We can go to TV … for a negotiated rate, you said stills.’

‘I can get you two grand and the residuals.’

Stood in a state of shook, I forced a breath. ‘I’ll take it. I’ll let you know tomorrow how it goes.’

I stayed the night in a cheap crap hotel, food in the hotel bar and early to bed, and in the morning I retraced my steps on the tube to London Docklands, where the trendy people lived and worked – so they said.

Again I upset the make-up lady, but the client was OK with it, and my hair … was my hair, little they could do with it. The lady model took an hour in make-up and hair, and when finally ready - microphones adjusted and tested, we ran through the same steps, but we completed five or six versions of each one.

The video technicians would now do their thing, and the client thanked me.

‘Pleasure, love, I’ll pop by your shops sometime.’ I gave her a hug and squeezed her arse, making her go all red and flustered.

Outside, the model again made me an offer, but I had to rush off – so I told her, a little white lie. She had my number, and she would call if any suitable work came up for me.

My glass sales were doing great, and I had landed a large deal in Watford after chatting to the company’s owner about my offer from Watford Town Football Club. My uncle was pleased, several large shops to now fit out plus a factory showroom, plus security glass on that showroom’s offices.

The Watford company owner had introduced me to his brother, another football fanatic, and that man was in erections, which I soon discovered meant a shell of a building on a base, and that someone else would finish the building after him – usually a sister company.

As such he had a need for glass, lots of glass, all types of glass, and I could provide the glass. And with that deal under my belt I had more than doubled my uncle’s turnover.

To secure the deal, I travelled down to Watford a great deal, and I was always available on the phone, day or night, a new Motorolla 9600 mobile phone to use, the phone as heavy as a house brick. I also had a pager, to call the office.

A week later, I stood staring at a cheque with my father, two thousand pounds, both of us quietly stunned. It was fair to say that I could afford more driving lessons now.

And when the cheque cleared I handed my parents a thousand pounds, and I insisted that they keep it. After all, they had paid for me for eighteen years, it was the least I could do.

In work the next day, a call came from Watford, the erection manager. ‘Ricky, did you … make a TV commercial, jewellery?’

‘Yeah, why?’

‘We saw it, gob smacked that it was you.’

‘It’s part time modelling work, and they offered me a shit load of money.’

‘My daughter saw it, said to say that she wants to marry you.’

I smiled widely. ‘I have my hands full as it is.’

‘I can imagine, yes, lucky bastard.’

‘Did it seem … professional? The advert?’

‘Yeah, nicely done.’

‘I scripted it myself.’

‘Shit, you’ll be famous soon.’

‘What area will they show it in?’

‘London and the home counties, that chain of jewellers is up here in Watford, one shop, nothing further out. Wife goes there, will go more now, she wants to marry you as well.’

I laughed. ‘I’m sure you’d never trade her in…’

‘If the price was right I would.’

I laughed again. ‘How are your erections?’

‘Got a school football pitch and stand to do, that’ll keep us busy for a while.’

‘We have this new safety glass, unbreakable, if you have a need for it. It has a layer of clear plastic, and if you ram it with a truck it bends not breaks.’

‘I may have someone for that, yeah, he was ram-raided. But … could I send my daughter up to you for a few months?’

‘No! Fuck off!’

He laughed loudly before he hung up.

Trish sent me a tape a week later, and I watched it with my parents.

‘You seem older,’ my mother noted.

‘Camera is supposed to make you look older and fatter, so they said.’

‘You don’t look fat,’ she noted. ‘Taller maybe, or the girl was short.’

I showed the staff in work the next day, my uncle now worried that I might leave him, his best salesman, so I assured him that I had no plans to be a full-time model.

Trish came to visit, and she had a new contract. It would allow for annual reviews, residual commissions at good rates, negotiated lump-sum jobs. I thanked her and told her that I would have it reviewed, which upset her a little; I could see it in her eyes.

‘Look, I work with you, no one else, and I’m not about to approach anyone else, I have my day-job. And I spoke to the girl model at the shoot, and she sometimes goes three months with no work then a rush, then nothing, so … the modelling industry seems to be a bit hit and miss.’

‘It is, yes, you could be busy or dead quiet,’ she admitted. ‘Some make ten grand a week for a year then get nothing for a year.’

‘Reason enough for me to keep my day job.’

I sent her packing, but I did give her a big hug at least, no arse cheeks grabbed.

Trish called me a month later, and excited, she had a chance to pitch for a Mercedes car advert. I agreed the sampler videos and photos for just five hundred quid; I had to be in Watford anyhow.

Sat in that evening, I penned out a sketch and sent it to Trish, who had a professional-looking script typed up and sent to the agent. A week later, and the Mercedes UK marketing person liked it, but could we do multi-language and Europe wide?

Trish had almost fainted, but I had no idea what that meant. I had studied German in school and liked it, so I could do the German line at least. As for other languages, I could learn one line easily enough.

Two weeks later, the weather getting cold, and I travelled down to London on the train early one Saturday morning, and in the posh and busy studios – accessed from a shit alleyway - I met the Mercedes marketing person, who was a lady, as well as Trish and the TV commercial agent.

I had an idea for them, and I showed them all a recent photo of former British actress with a French name, Jacqueline Dupont, now past fifty years old, and I had read that she lived in France and not America – she could get to the UK without too much hassle.

The Mercedes marketing lady loved the idea, she was from Belgium, and we had a lady model in the studios that was forty years old, to practise the shots with.

They had a suit for me, which I hated, so I used my own suit, the make-up girl again frustrated, my hair the same.

Green screen ready, ten sexy young models ready and all dressed very smart, all holding champagne flutes, and I walked into the make-believe room like I owned the place and was a billionaire, ignoring the tall models as they all followed me with their eyes.

At the end of the make-believe bar I held a hand out to the older model and walked her back down the bar. Halting, I told a disgruntled young model, ‘Quality, not quantity.’

A shocked young model looked at me as I led my older model out. Scene two, and outside the studio I opened the Mercedes car door for the older model.

Six shoots later, and with me trying hard not to get annoyed with the perfectionist director, it was a wrap. Now I would wait as the green-screen background hotel bar was adjusted, and as the final test-shoot was edited.

A week later I was called back, to be at a posh hotel at 4am. I had to check the detail, but yes – 4am, when the hotel bar was empty of course.

Travelling down on the Friday night, I booked a room in a hotel around the corner, more than a hundred and fifty quid, a shock for me, a big shock. To bed early, at 7pm, my alarm was set, the hotel asked to wake me at 3am.

The next morning, although it felt like night time, I was at the hotel at 3.50am, a less than-fresh Trish waiting, the models being attended by what looked like fifty make-up ladies.

‘God I hate you,’ Trish told me. ‘You always look fresh. Did you get some sleep?’

‘I went to bed at 7pm, so yes – fresh and ready.’

I had been studying various languages and practising my lines, just the one line of three words, and in Leicester I had found a Spanish lady and an Italian lady, both keen to assist me in a simple task.

Coffee grabbed, I chatted to the Mercedes marketing lady, the poor woman also looking less than fresh, then noticed my co-star up from the South of France, now in her fifties but still looking good. I had loved her early action movies as a kid, and now I walked up to her as she sat having her hair done.

She stood as I approached. ‘I recognise you from the test shots.’ We shook.

‘I hope you get your lines right, because if you don’t I’ll drag you into my hotel room and ravish you.’

She cocked an amused eyebrow as the two hair girls dropped their jaws.

‘I’ll try and avoid the … cock-ups.’

‘I can handle German, Spanish and Italian. Is there more?’

‘French. I can teach you.’

‘Great, and … can you help me with my lines as well?’

She tried to resist her smirk and failed. ‘I’ll hold your hand.’

‘I need it, I’m younger than I look.’

She puzzled that. ‘How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘My god, you look thirty.’

‘I’m young and fresh, so … be gentle with me, eh.’

‘They say you scripted this, and the jewellery advert they showed me…’

‘I had the ideas, yes.’

‘Impressive young man.’

‘Careful, you may turn my head.’

I left her to have her hair done, and an hour later I was called, the director shouting at people. The bar staff had their positions, the models had their positions, Jacqueline had her position stood at the end of the bar but facing away from the first camera angle.

Action!

Playing my role, I walked in as if I owned the place, the young models ignored, my eyes focused on the end of the bar.

Cut!

I repeated that twice, the director happy with it, then I repeated it further down the bar three times. My date reached, she turned and gave me a hint of a coy smile, and with her forearm held I led her down the bar four times.

Halting next to a leggy and beautiful young model, I told her in English, ‘Quality, not quantity,’ six times, four times in German, four times in Spanish, and then came the French, which I nailed in two shots.

Break, everyone!

For the break I sat with my new co-star. ‘Do you get many jobs like this?’ I asked her.

‘They come and go, and I’m no spring chicken anymore. I did a line of jewellery a few years back, just headshots, and the residuals still come in.’

‘Did you save any money with the hit movies?’

‘Yes, I was sensible, I own houses in France.’

‘You were born in the UK?’

‘Yes, not far from London, this was my playground, but back then it was much better, no thugs on the streets.’

‘And playing opposite Paul Newman?’

‘A total hunk, but married, we never flirted.’

‘Your last man was rather young…’ I teased.

‘So,’ she responded with a coy smile.

‘My current part-time lady is thirty-two, and she taught me all I know about sex.’

‘Best way, yes, a mature woman,’ she agreed.

‘I’m learning massage techniques for ladies.’

‘When you perfect it, call me, eh,’ she said with a glint in her eye.

‘I have a day job, not much free time. The modelling work makes great money for a young lad like me, but … will it last?’

She leant in. ‘No, is the answer, and never trust these shits.’

‘I was offered a contract, for life, so I said no.’

‘Hell no, get a good agent, join the union, and check everything three times. I found my jewellery adverts running in Germany, no residuals for me. A slip-up, they said.’

‘How do you check?’ I puzzled.

‘You can’t, you just hope for the best.’

I nodded. A glance over my shoulder, and I said, ‘The leggy models do nothing for me, all show, make-up and cocaine.’

‘Many are ruthless, but some have degrees in medicine and just need the money. And the hours are terrible, the travel is terrible, and you could fly ten hours and be expected to do make-up at 5am, fly back the same day. It’s hell … when you’re supposed to look fresh.’

‘I shower, no make-up, a hand on my hair and I’m ready, told the make-up girls here to get lost.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Leicester.’

‘You look Italian almost.’

‘That seems to be helping me make money,’ I quipped.

‘Take the work while you can, it never lasts,’ she firmly advised, and I could see a sadness behind the eyes.

After the break, we shot outside, a car door opened eight times, and we waited as they checked the footage. Finally happy, it was a wrap, and I headed back to Leicester feeling drained. But I did have my co-star’s email address, now adept at emailing customers in work.

In the office on Monday I emailed her my still images, of the glass factory brochure shots, and she responded with her early career set-up shots.

Trish called at the end of the week to say that there were no issues, no re-shoots needed, and that the customer was happy. The video crew had been cheap, I had created the idea, so Trish had made extra money, and she sent me a cheque for four thousand pounds with a promise of more to follow.

I was quietly shocked, but they would show the video in several countries, and then there was the daily usage, the residuals. Buying a car was now on my mind, and the following weekend I underwent three hours of lessons on the Saturday, two hours on the Sunday, seeing Julie and Susan on the Friday night, tales of my modelling work told.

An email came from Jacqueline the following Monday. ‘They’re showing the advert in France already! Residuals to follow!’

I sent back, ‘I’m learning to drive, will sit my test soon.’

‘My dear sweet driving virgin, your life ahead of you.’

Fame and fortune

Two weeks later, and a scream came from my mother one evening. I rushed into the lounge with my father.

My mother was stood pointing at the TV. ‘They just showed you, Ricky, the advert with Jacqueline Dupont.’

‘More residuals then,’ I casually noted.

The phone rang, and it kept ringing, family and friends having seen me on the TV, and at 10pm they ran the advert again, so I got to see myself, the hot young man with the classy older lady on his arm.

My father noted, ‘You do look a bit bigger in the video, and older, yes.’

‘I’ll diet, tighter clothes maybe.’

Trish called late, excited, and to report that the advert had been “test sampled” in Europe, a very high approval rate gained, and that it was now being shown in eight countries.

‘Eight?’ I queried.

‘Austria, Holland and Belgium, they all understand German, Denmark as well.’

‘And the agreed number of countries?’ I complained.

‘Don’t worry, contract says we get a lump sum for each country and then the residuals, so … I might need to send you another six thousand, and about two thousand a month for the residuals.’

My eyes widened. ‘Well … that’s … better than a kick in the teeth.’

Call ended, I told my father, ‘They’re running that advert all over Europe, and I’ll get another six grand plus two grand a month ongoing.’

‘My god. What will you do with it all?’

‘I … have no idea.’

‘You’ll have to pay tax, don’t forget, end of the year.’

I called back Trish. ‘I’ll have to pay tax, yes?’

‘Yes, so get yourself an accountant. But you can claim for rail fare, hotels, suits, things like that.’

Dad’s old school friend, Neil, was an accountant, and I would go see him soon.

The next day I had the lads in work taking the piss out of me all day long, a few offering to set up a date for me with their mothers. I also had a dozen emails from clients and – was that me on the TV?

It was an opportunity to do some sales work, and I deliberately chatted to each client in turn about the commercials, and - would you like to buy some glass while you’re on the phone?

That evening Bonza came around with a gang, and they took the piss over the commercial, jealous as hell about the money I was making, so I bought them all a curry and some beers.

When I finally got to see the accountant the news was not good, I would pay a great deal in tax potentially. Following the advice of Neil the accountant, I would let him create a limited company, with my mother as second director, and to then have the modelling income paid into it.

I updated Trish, and she was happy to pay the company, other clients of hers also had limited companies, so it was all quite common and legal.

Tenerife

As the winter weather made the British days short, dark and damp, I considered a holiday somewhere warm.

I was in part-time relationship with Julie, kind of, and sometimes Susan joined in, but Julie only wanted sex on weekends, sometimes a blowjob in the office, and given that it was a small town we might be seen together if we ever went out for meals or … did anything that a couple might do.

I was learning how to give a lady a massage, and Julie was teaching me how to massage a vagina, possibly a useful skill for later life, but not one – I was sure - that my mother had hoped I learnt right after leaving school.

My sexual technique was getting better, and I was now far more confident, my cock getting stronger, and I was reasonably sure that if I met a girl after Julie that I would not make a complete fool of myself.

But what was becoming a drag, a concern, and a topic for chats with Bonza about, was the lack of the relationship stuff; walks in the park, cinema, meals out together. It was simply a case of her telling me to get my cock out and to get on with it.

In general terms, I did not mind “getting on with it”, but something was nagging at me, a feeling that I was missing something.

I now had the money, and I hated the weather here, so I considered a holiday some place warm, my first holiday without my parents, my first adult holiday.

Julie was not keen because my uncle might find out about us, the office staff would gossip, and besides - she had used up her holiday allocation anyhow and had to wait until April.

Bonza was my first choice as wingman, but he was now going steady, something of a shock for me, a shock that any girl would put up with him. So that just left me, myself and I, and I booked a week in Tenerife at an expensive hotel, hoping to avoid drunk Brits abroad – and punching them.

Two weeks later I was on a plane from Birmingham Airport, a four-hour flight south, two nice girls sat alongside me, and I had the time to think. To think about the modelling work, or selling glass panes for my uncle, since I had made more from the modelling work in a few days than I would working six months for my uncle.

Finally at the hotel, I dumped my case in my room and stood on the balcony in brilliant 4pm sunshine, the sun reflecting off the water in the pool, a few kids splashing around, a few adults swimming, most of the hotel walls an odd dark pink-orange colour, the roof of each building appearing a little Mexican.

It felt odd, being away from mum and dad, and then a minute later … it felt just right, and I was relaxed and glad to be here. So much for being home sick, I considered as I tackled fifteen minutes of sit-ups and press-ups in my room.

Setting out for a walk, I found the beach straight away, two rock jetties protecting the beach from nasty ocean swells but also creating a funnel, probably on purpose, a few men now surfing on two-metre waves created by that funnel.

I ambled along, a few tanned boobs on displayed, and at the first bar I happened across I sat, a cold beer ordered, but I was yet to drink like an adult or to develop a taste for beer. Bonza had assured me that the more I drank the more I would like it, which seemed odd.

In the warm sun, I sat staring out at the ocean, thinking, and wondering what I should do next - and why men liked beer. University was the aim, and if the modelling work was sporadic then I could stay with my uncle and earn a little extra.

I also needed to apply for university soon, something to sort out when I got back. But if I was truthful with myself, the big wide world was calling to me, more so than three years of study was calling to me.

Back at the hotel I ate a light meal in the bar, a few nice girls walking in and out, then changed into swimming trunks in my room, a towel grabbed.

As I reached the pool, two well-tanned skinny gay men lifted up from their sunbeds. ‘Well hello ducky, what can you do?’

I stopped and peered down at them as an older man with a neatly trimmed grey beard turned his head from his newspaper. ‘Gay men make up less than half a percent of the men in Britain, so that makes you a minority – like Mexicans in Britain.

‘You also reflect on the way your parents raised you, how well you were raised or … how bad a job your mothers did.

‘So why don’t you be ambassadors for your minority and not cause trouble, not cause the straight men to dislike you, and not let down your own mothers by behaving like rude pricks.’

They lowered their heads and shut up, the older man studying me before I walked off.

Towel on a vacant sunbed, and I swam up and down as most people left the pool for a rest before their evening meal. From a young age I had been a good swimmer, and now I completed twenty lengths of the big pool, feeling better for it.

Emerging from the pool, a lady in her thirties stopped dead and smiled my way. I smiled politely and nodded, and I sat down whilst ignoring her, but she was curvy and very pretty. Maybe tomorrow, I told myself, I just got here.

But what about Julie?

‘What about her?’ I asked myself as I sat there in the later afternoon heat, and I had to stop and consider what Julie meant to me.

That evening I found a small bar with an old black American singer crooning a few dated numbers, and I sat drinking quietly. Stood at the bar later, a middle-aged Spanish lady turned and stared at me.

‘Quality, not quantity,’ she said in Spanish.

I put a finger to my lips as I smiled. She grabbed my arm and led me off, whether I wanted to be led off or not, and she had eight friends with her, a mix of middle-aged Spanish men and women.

She explained me to the group, eyes widened, and the cameras came out as the singer was on a break, soon everyone in the bar wondering what was up as the group posed with me.

A German couple walked up. ‘Mercedes advert, yes,’ the man said in German.

I nodded, they posed for photos with me, and this was all a bit odd. But the common thread was that they all loved Jacqueline Dupont, not me.

Escaping that bar half an hour later, I headed back to the quiet hotel bar, a drink ordered, but there again a group of middle-aged Germans grabbed me for photos.

Back at the bar and on a stool, the man with the trimmed grey beard came and sat next to me. ‘You do not look comfortable with the attention,’ he noted with an educated voice, a slight accent evident.

‘I … did a commercial with Jacqueline Dupont, and it’s her they love.’

‘Me too, I confess, she was my idol. She lives in France now?’

‘Yes, south of France.’

‘You are an actor?’

‘No, I sell glass for my uncle in the English town of Leicester, as I wait to get enough money for university. The modelling work is part time but it pays very well.’

His brow pleated. ‘How old are you?’

‘I turn nineteen in a month.’

‘I would have said thirty. You have a maturity about you.’

‘I was the captain of the school football team for many years, and I learnt how to deal with people, all sorts of people.’

He nodded. ‘And what will you study?’

‘Politics and history, then … a career in politics maybe, but not an elected politician, I just want to fix things. I was a student president, and in my home town I helped organise students to help the pensioners.’

‘Who you appear to be … does not match what you really are,’ he noted. ‘But if you can make money you can use it to change things around you, and you can use your fame to the same ends.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I run a consulting firm, Stockholm and Copenhagen, European political projects and statistics and … I spent twelve years working direct for the European Commission, before that a journalist.’

‘Here alone?’

‘No, my wife and daughters are here, and I think we are next door to you, above this bar.’

‘I’m 305.’

‘I’m 307 with my wife, my daughters are 303. We have you surrounded.’ He looked past me. ‘Ah, there they are now – we have friends to meet off a plane. Good to meet you.’

He headed off, and I glimpsed his blonde wife, the lady seemingly taller than he was. I sipped my beer, the Spanish barmaid looking good enough to eat as she smiled back at me.

Ten minutes later came what sounded like a complaint. ‘Drinking alone?’ The man was British, fat and balding, and had attitude from the first syllable.

‘Yah, gute here, no?’ I said in a terrible fake German accent.

He sneered, and turned away. I went back to my beer, and to the view of the delightful barmaid.

A ‘click-click-click’ preceded two tall girls in high heels, and in dresses that hid nothing, accosting me, but since they were both stunners I was not objecting any to the accosting as I stood up.

‘You are the actor, yes?’ came from the first girl, the fat slob now listening in.

‘I am. Where are you from?’

‘Slovenia.’

I had to wonder if the adverts were showing in Slovenia.

‘But we work in Germany, modelling.’

‘Clothes or commercials?’ I asked.

‘Clothes is ninety-percent, yes.’

‘You’re British,’ the fat slob realised.

In German, I told the girls, ‘This fat slob wants a fight.’

They faced him, and both barked at length, the fat slob backing up as I grinned at his discomfort.

Leading the girls away, and not wanting to upset the fiery pair, we found a quiet corner, soon a debate about pay and conditions, pay rates in the UK compared to Germany – the rates being much better in Germany of course.

And they were amazed that I was getting paid so quickly.

‘I’m not a union commercial advert actor or model, I get a set rate, a one off, sometimes the residuals. The Mercedes advert was good because they’re showing it in many countries.

‘I’ll get residuals from eight country campaigns. And next month … maybe I’ll have no work, so I have work in a factory as well.’

‘We sometimes have no work,’ they complained. ‘So we take the cheap clothes work, fifty outfits a day and just three hundred Euro.’

A man walked in, a right poser – muscles and black hair, the girls waving him over. I stood and shook his hand.

His eyes widened. ‘You!’

The girls explained that the newcomer was an Italian model, and popular. Drink ordered for him, and we sat

‘I see you in the Mercedes advert,’ came with an accent. ‘It was good money?’

‘Four thousand Euro upfront, ten thousand total maybe, and residuals of maybe two thousand Euro a month.’

‘That is good,’ he commended. He pointed at the girls. ‘I meet them here, they recognise me.’

‘You look like a porn actor,’ I told him, my new lady friends laughing loudly, the man, Agosto, putting a finger to his lips.

‘I do some, yes. You?’

‘No, not yet at least, I have job in a factory with my family. My uncle, he sends me to all the lady customers.’ They again laughed loudly. ‘I doubled his sales this year!’

For half an hour I picked the brains of Agosto, who was more sensible than he let on, and quite well educated, family in Milan. He was all front, a larger-than-life persona projected.

He finally said, a check of his watch, ‘We go clubbing, no?’

I was ready for my exit plan, not sure about the two girls, or where they had been – and with whom.

‘I have friends flying in tonight, I’m supposed to meet them at the airport or be here. Tomorrow I see you around the hotel.’

Hugs exchanged, they headed out, just as two large German ladies grabbed me for photos. Photos done, I went and hid in my room, sitting on the balcony for an hour, an early night needed. That early night was past midnight, but here the nightclubs were open very late.

In the morning I had an early breakfast, a few smiles and waves from people I did not even recognise, and after a long swim I sat on the balcony.

‘Morning,’ came a voice, and I turned, a very pretty blond staring back at me, platinum blonde hair to her shoulders, wide shoulders like a swimmer, and a slim waist, a white t-shirt on the top not hiding her pert boobs, and just pink thong-style knickers on the bottom.

She had grey-green eyes, an inquisitive look and a soft face, the face of someone not yet angry with the world, not yet disappointed with life. She appeared … innocent.

‘Do you swim?’ I asked.

‘Swim?’ she puzzled. ‘Yes...’

‘Do you swim competition, I meant. You have the shoulders.’

‘Ah, many people say that, yes. You met my father.’

‘Ah, the man with the neat grey beard, European Commission work?’

She nodded. ‘He likes Jacqueline Dupont.’

‘She still looks very good for her age.’

A second girl appeared, and I blinked. They were identical, even the t-shirts and knickers. They both had wide square shoulders and perfectly straight backs, wide hips and long legs, and they had the words “super model” written all over them.

‘Twins?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘So which one is evil?’

They laughed, and exchanged a look. ‘We like this joke, and Rita is the evil one. I’m Frieda.’

‘Swedish?’

‘Not technically, dual citizenship. Father is from Denmark, mother is from Sweden. They met in Copenhagen, and we have a house there as well. Two.’

‘Your English is good.’

‘We studied languages, and so much American TV is shown in Sweden. You are a model?’

‘No, I work for my uncle in his glass factory, and model part time, to make money for university next year.’

‘University? How old are you?’ they puzzled.

‘Eighteen, nineteen in a month.’

‘You look older, and you look Italian not English.’

‘Both good qualities in a young man. How old are you two?’

‘Seventeen,’ said the first girl.

‘Seventeen and two minutes,’ said the second, and they laughed. ‘And we have a few modelling projects in Sweden, clothes and jewellery.’

‘Contract?’

They saddened. ‘We had problems with an agent, court was involved, we broke the contract.’

I nodded. ‘My first contract offer was for life, I said no.’

They exchanged saddened looks. ‘We made a mistake. Father fixed it.’

‘I take a lump sum, plus residuals, and I get paid within a week.’

‘A week!’ They were shocked.

I stood, now seeing the legs better, and the legs and arses were perfect, both girls around 5’10” tall. ‘You both look like you do sports.’

‘We did in school, and we run,’ one of them answered, and I had no idea who was who. ‘And you?’

‘Football, from age ten; I was the school captain.’

‘What will you do in university?’

‘History and politics.’

‘Father will love you,’ they agreed with nods.

‘There are two lady models in this hotel, I met them last night, one Italian male model. You went to the airport?’

‘Yes, friends of father, EU diplomats.’

‘I got rid of the two ladies before they ate me.’

They laughed. ‘You are the shy type, no.’

‘Not sure what type I am, I avoided girls in school, then started work for my uncle, then met a thirty year old that taught me how to give a lady a massage.’

‘You give massages?’

‘I do.’

They exchanged coy smiles.

‘But you’re not allowed to eat me either,’ I told them.

Their father appeared behind me. ‘Ah, you’ve met.’

I faced him. ‘Rita is the evil twin, and they both doubt that EU inflation will parallel average block GDP growth.’

‘The first one I can believe, the second one … would bore them. Why don’t you join us today, we can talk politics.’

‘I need some place to hide away, last night the bar was full of people wanting to be photographed with me.’

‘We can hide you, yes.’

An hour later we set out as a group in a mini-bus, the girls’ mother – Ingrid - introduced, and she was in very good condition for forty-four, Rolf the husband now fifty.

At a nice villa on a hill we pulled up, soon inside, the man I met at the door puzzling me.

‘Where do I know you from?’

‘The Mercedes car advert.’

‘Ah, my god. You know Jacqueline Dupont?’

‘A little, yes, we chat.’

He wanted all the details as tea and coffee was made, his wife introduced with their grown son, the wife a fan of Jacqueline as well. When I explained that I had scripted the advert and chose Jacqueline for the lead role they were amazed.

The twins stripped off, boobs out, the pool sampled, those in the household not reacting in the slightest as I spoke to Rolf and the diplomat, Eric, about EU policy – and the historic Marshall Plan, an hour used up.

Eric’s wife made snacks, and we all got on well, no one measuring a dick or competing.

Another couple turned up, German, and they recognised me, so I posed for photos. Again. But the new man, now sixty, had once shared a hotel room with Jacqueline during filming when a nasty storm had cut the power and flooded their hotel in southern Italy.

The villa owner had a computer, so I sent an email: Can you talk, got a phone number? The number came back, a house phone used to call it.

‘It’s Ricky Roskov.

‘Darling, how are you, bad line.’

‘I’m in Tenerife. Listen, think back to a hotel in the south of Italy, a nasty storm, the hotel flooded, and you shared a room with a German couple.’

‘My god, yes, such a lovely couple. How did you know?’

‘Hold on.’

I put the man on, and he spoke in English as many people listened in.

‘I’m sorry for snoring, and my smelly socks … yes, Wolfgang and Fren … she is here in Tenerife ... we are good, yes, keeping fit … Hamburg … I am now the director … we got a free room in that hotel the next year … yes, we went back … no floods, no.’

A few minutes later he put his wife on, a chat in French, finally the phone handed back to me.

‘Small world, eh,’ I told Jacqueline.

‘Very small.’

‘Last night I had fifty people want to be photographed with me, that damn advert is all over Europe.’

‘That’s good, darling, more residuals, so milk it while you can, my lovely boy.’

‘Eight countries, did they tell you?’

‘Yes, soon to be twelve countries.’

‘Twelve? Shit, I’ll be rich, but what about the languages?’

‘Most people speak some English, so some will be in English, like Norway.’

I glanced at the German man. ‘Should I tell this German off for his smelly socks?’

The group laughed.

‘They were horrid, but he fetched food for us, got soaked, had to swim some of the way. Without him I would have starved, the roads were out.’

‘Tell me, what’s the difference between them running the advert twice a day or four times a day?’

‘They have to declare it, in the contract, the slots. But if they show it at 3am we get much less.’

‘Sounds like a pain in the arse to monitor it.’

‘It is, so we have to trust the little rascals.’

‘You watch your channels in France, I’ll do England, and I’ll have my new friends do Germany and Sweden.’

‘I have my spies out there, don’t worry.’

‘All the people I meet, they all love you to bits, not me.’

‘Ah … that’s nice, to be remembered well. But I like the secluded farm I have, no autograph hunters. Trust me, my darling, you’ll get fed up with it. ’

‘I’m already fed up with it, might stick to selling glass. Anyway, take care, and we can swap intelligence reports on the usage.’

‘Have a nice holiday, my lovely young man.’

I placed down the receiver. ‘Small world, eh.’

We sat with drinks.

Rolf asked, ‘Fed up already?’

‘People wanting to be photographed with me, it … gets in the way of a quiet night out.’

‘Of course, but you get the money, a trade off.’

‘Next year I’ll go to university, then … then something else maybe.’

‘You have the time, and you are young,’ Eric told me. ‘Have fun, don’t grow old.’

I gave them the story of how I organised students in Leicester to help the local pensioners against house burglars. They were most impressed.

Shirt off later, I sat with the twins in the sun, both of the girls topless. I was trying not to look. Or to get an erection.

‘You called Jacqueline…’ one noted.

‘Yes, the German man had met her, shared a hotel room in a storm. Small world.’

‘You don’t sound eighteen,’ one of the twins noted.

‘If I looked eighteen, and sounded eighteen, I would never have landed the modelling work. I told a few people I was twenty-six.’

‘Girlfriend … back in England?’

I considered lying. ‘Girlfriend, no, lady to visit sometimes … yes.’

‘Why only sometimes?’

‘She works in the same factory, we want it kept quiet, we never go out together.’

‘Not very romantic.’

‘No,’ I agreed, and I was now considering my future with Julie.

‘If you went to university, would you see her?’

‘No.’ And that answered my own lingering questions about Julie.

‘And in school?’

‘I had girlfriends, but we were never very close. One girl, she made me laugh and we got on well, but then she was killed in a car crash. My last girlfriend in school, I … preferred playing football, so it was not love.

‘And we never had intercourse, I was avoiding a teenage pregnancy, my first time was a few months ago, the lady from my office.’

‘We shared a boyfriend, two, father knows but … we told him afterwards.’

‘Did your parents want you to have different personalities?’ I asked. They exchanged concerned looks, a nerve hit. ‘So that would be a yes then.’

‘Mother was a twin as well, but they grew up separate. We did everything together.’

‘When you both took an apple into school for teacher, did Rita’s apple have a worm?’

They laughed hysterically, their mother asking what was up, so they explained in Swedish.

Ingrid explained to me, ‘They are both what you call very mild mannered, but Rita is the forwards one, by about five percent.’

‘I would have tattooed their names on their foreheads.’

‘Trust me, I wanted to, we had the man lined-up ready,’ she quipped, a mildly scolding look issued to her daughters.

I had boxers on, so went for a swim, the girls joining me, and rubbing up against me or just downright holding onto me in the pool and embarrassing me; their parents were close by.

‘So what do your parents want for you?’ I asked, a deep question.

They took a while to answer. ‘They want jobs for us in an office maybe, close to home, but father travels all the time, all around Europe.’

‘And you still model?’

‘We have a contract with an agent, a friend of father’s, and we can break the contract. It makes some money, but father is not keen.’

‘And as for boyfriends, you share?’

‘We did, yes.’

‘And are boys put off because you’re twins?’

‘Sometimes, yes, or they are total idiots and just want a threesome and are rude.’

‘I’d worry about not satisfying you both, not boasting to my friends about you. None of my friends know about me and the lady in the factory, none, nor my parents; I hate it when people ask me about girls.

‘In school, every girl wanted to go out with me but I just played football. Maybe if I had been ugly I would have made an effort to find a girl.’

‘And now?’

‘And now … I have no plans, no desires, just thoughts about university. But these adverts I’ve made, I could do that as a job I think, to create the script and organise the photoshoot. Maybe in the future I won’t be a model, I’ll run a company that creates the commercial adverts.’

‘We speak about doing that, father as well, he thinks it’s better than modelling.’

‘Well, maybe someday I can cast you, the evil twins.’

They laughed loudly, so they were definitely not the evil twins.

Rita began, ‘In school one year, a new girl arrives and she looks just like us, so we dress her in our clothes and we go home, and we sit and watch TV, and when father comes home there are three of us, and he just stops and stares at us, then mother stares at us. They were shocked, then realised the joke.’

‘Yep, the evil twins.’ I placed a hand on each arse. ‘So how am I going to get your parents to relax … and to let you go and to be yourselves together, eh?’

They exchanged knowing looks.

‘You can do it?’ one asked.

‘I can try. I … have an idea, and fate always lends a hand. I was thinking … that the Mercedes advert needs twin models; quality, not quantity.’

‘We would be seen all around Europe?’

‘Are you worried?’ I countered with as we stood in the pool.

‘No, it would be good money. But Father would have to approve it.’

‘Of course, that’s the whole plan, ladies.’

‘Father is very smart.’

‘And I’m very genuine, so we’ll see who wins.’

Later, sat drinking beer with Rolf in the shade, he asked, ‘You will look at local politics?’

I sighed heavily. ‘That I can’t decide. I … have a desire, I have some experience of local politics, but … the local elected member goes to sit in London and does nothing for my home town, and the local council men do even less, some new road signs and a bypass.

‘I organised the pupils when the houses of elderly people were being broken into, and the pupils took it in turn to sleep in lounges, and we caught the burglars, some beaten up.

‘I then had the pupils earn favours with me if they would visit the old ladies, those ladies frail and living alone, half an hour each day, and that made a difference to the old ladies.

‘I want to do something practical, and … do it today, not a five year road plan or some crap like that, so I don’t know what suits me, and … with this modelling work, as you said, I have the money to do something practical.

‘I’m not sure if three years in university will assist that process, or about doing something practical instead, but if I made a success out of modelling and commercial adverts then I’d have the money to do something political in a small way, to make a difference in a small way, just that I don’t trust the agents.

‘My first contract offer was a trick, to sign me up for life for shit money. My father read it and said no, or I could have made a mistake.’

He nodded. ‘For us as well, the girls were tricked.’

‘How do these shits get away with it?’

‘There is no law against it, and people are expected to take the contract to a lawyer to check – and some don’t, it is expensive.’

‘I have no contract, I have a loose arrangement.’

‘With the Mercedes adverts running you could sell well,’ he noted. ‘So don’t wait for after university, by then they forget you.’

Now it was my turn to nod. ‘The girls said you have a friend, an agent?’

‘Yes, my cousin’s wife, a small agency, and the girls get some work through it. Some advertisers ask for twins.’

‘Hmmm,’ I let out as I looked away.

‘What?’ he finally asked.

‘That’s what I need, an agency I can trust. Or I create my own. Jacqueline would work with me, and the point is … I don’t want a million pounds a year, just some part time work, a few jobs a year. I want a small agency, one I can trust.’

I smiled widely. ‘I could cast your twins. Jacqueline did ask, what about twins, models, when I say quality not quantity. It seems odd now, that I say that to just one model, even though there are twenty in the room. Do you think they would look too young?’

He shrugged. ‘They are tall, and make-up makes them look older.’

‘I hate make-up on women.’

‘Me too.’

‘And tattoos.’

‘Me too.’

‘And smoking.’

‘Me too.’

We exchanged a grin.

‘The girls never smoked?’ I asked.

‘They tried it once, didn’t like it, and I shouted at them.’

‘With the EU rules, can an agency do work in all countries?’ I asked.

‘The simple answer is yes, the rules are there for that, but the correct answer is that each country has different rules, and in France the rules are a big book of rules, and in Eastern Europe you just bribe people still. It’s a mess.’

‘Did you not get paid to fix that?’ I teased.

He shrugged. ‘As someone working in the EU you get to fix one phone number in a phone directory book, you make a very small difference.’

‘Sounds like you were frustrated…’ I noted.

‘I was a small part of a very big machine, so yes, frustrated.’

‘My target is my home town, one street at a time.’

‘Then you may succeed.’

‘And if I make money from modelling, and become famous, then … that street should be easier to fix.’ I nodded. ‘Maybe you’re right, the money can help me fix small things, small projects – not the whole EU.’

Asking to use the house computer again, I sent an email to Jacqueline, a mention that I had found twin girl models for future Mercedes adverts. Quality not quantity.

Before we left, I told them all, ‘Two tall and frightening older lady models tried to drag me nightclubbing last night, so I told them I had people to meet at the airport, so you’re that people if they ask – OK.’

They laughed and nodded.

‘You are not a nightclub person?’ Rolf asked as we boarded the minibus.

‘Hell no.’

Back at the hotel, we arranged to meet later on the balcony, drinks to be delivered with food, the balcony dividers low enough to climb across.

After a shower, I was sat with the family on the parents’ balcony, chairs and tables carried over, tales told of the terrible twins when they were younger. But the tales were very mild, the twins behaving well, just that small indiscretions made them laugh.

Rolf told me, ‘Rita was once caught short on a bus, a school trip, and pooped into a plastic bag. She then dumped it out the window, a police car hit, which pulled over the bus.

‘Questions were asked, no one owned up, and my girls appeared too sweet and innocent to be guilty of something, the police leaving frustrated.’

I shook my head at the girls as they laughed. ‘One time, the father of a girl I knew was treating her badly, his car parked behind the goal posts on the football pitch, so I accidentally missed the goal and smashed his headlights with the ball – left side, then the right side.

‘Everyone thought it an accident, but he came onto the pitch to shout at me, then tried to punch me. Six boys jumped him, put him in hospital. If anyone bothered me they were in trouble, most all of the boys in my school would run to my aid.

‘When the police came, I knew an officer, and I hinted that the daughter’s home life should be looked into, and the girl and her father moved away, we never saw them again.

‘And when a new pupil came to the school, and he hit a teacher, we kicked the shit out of him. I would never let a pupil hit a teacher, but the law in the UK is crap – no prison for teenagers any longer, they can do what they like.

‘And if a teacher had a problem, they came to see me. One lady teacher was being pestered by a male teacher, so we trashed his car and house, a note to say: move away, or else.

‘And in the schoolyard, if a boy or even a girl was being bullied I got involved, and it stopped quickly – or else.’

Rolf nodded. ‘I can see your interest in local politics. But such a schoolyard approach would need refining for the outside world, where it’s hard to change anything.’

‘Well, it’s a few years away yet, I need to learn all about politics and procedures, laws and social financial structures. Gives you time to tell me everything … about what the girls did when they were young.’

‘I have video of Rita trying to pee into a milk bottle -’

‘Father!’ came a complaint in stereo as I laughed.

Rolf told them, ‘Ricky thinks you two would fit well into any more Mercedes commercials, as twins. Quality not quantity.’

‘There will be more?’ they asked.

‘I don’t know, but Jacqueline said that it was odd, that I say the line to just one girl. It would be better for two, so in the video I would be upsetting you two.’

‘What would it pay?’ Ingrid asked.

I faced her. ‘Whatever it pays, the exposure would be huge, all across Europe.’

They exchanged a look.

I added, ‘My next job, I can ask for more money because of this sudden exposure.’

‘Can you get the girls the part?’ Ingrid asked.

‘I can suggest it, see what they say, but the marketing lady at Mercedes likes me.’ I held Ingrid’s hand, and in a mock voice began, ‘You don’t look old enough for grown children, my lady.’

The girls laughed.

Rolf said, ‘Please don’t do that to my wife.’

‘Shhhh,’ Ingrid told him. ‘He’s holding my hand.’

I gave them the story of my glass sales as the wine went down well on the balcony here.

Rolf finally noted, ‘As far as sales techniques go, it works, so you should be selling to ladies’ fashion managers. Or indeed to lady agents in the modelling business, you’ll do well.’

In the morning we met for breakfast, Rolf and Ingrid to hire bikes and to cycle the 10km+ promenade, the girls to come exploring with me.

Bags in hand, I led the girls left at the beach – the parents cycling off to the right, and we walked slowly towards Los Christianos, finding a nice beach and claiming sunbeds with shades – at ten Euro each, the girls soon topless.

I had the sun cream in hand, and I did their backs, then their fronts, legs and arse cheeks, as if we had been together for years. In the water we swam out, the girls proficient and not afraid, a large yellow inflatable sat on for a few minutes.

Back at the sunbeds, I had Rita lay face down under the sun shade as I massaged her with sun cream, starting at the ankles – squeeze the toothpaste, every little bit - and working up to a neck and head massage.

Frieda’s turn, and I repeated the process, both girls complimentary about my style.

It was my turn - as they insisted, and I lay down as they started on my legs.

‘Oy, mate, I’m getting an erection back here,’ came in a British accent, but I picked up on the tone.

‘Sorry, mate. No football on in that pub back there?’

‘It starts at 3pm, Wolves versus Spurs.’

‘Spurs, two-one.’

‘You’re not wrong. Just distracting.’

‘I’m a male model, well paid, so … don’t be jealous, it goes with the job, a pair of Swedish blonde ladies that give massages.’

‘You’re with both of them?’

‘Yep. Third back in the UK. You?’ The girls were on my inner thighs, and nudging my balls.

‘With my wife and nipper, who are in the hotel with dysentery.’

‘Sorry to hear that, but as George Best would say: suck it up and watch.’

‘He had Miss World, didn’t he?’

‘He did, yeah, then drank himself to death. At seventeen I had an offer, Watford, and a junior residency at Man Utd offered.’

‘Shit … and you choose modelling?’

‘One twisted ankle and it’s a career going nowhere, mate.’

‘I hear you, yeah. Modelling makes money?’

‘Four grand a weekend.’

‘Fuck me … I’d stick at that.’

‘Seen the latest Mercedes advert, Jacqueline Dupont?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s me.’

‘No way!’

‘Yep. I get paid every time they show it.’

‘She’s old, but still hot.’

‘Classy, yes,’ I agreed.

‘And these two lovely ladies?’

‘Will be in the next Mercedes advert most likely, so look out for it.’

He came and sat near me, football the topic as the girls massaged me, and he finally asked for a photo. Easing up, I had the girls put on their bikini tops, and we stood and posed for him, and then with him.

Back at the hotel, a man with a big camera rushed towards me. In German he began, ‘You are Roskov?’

‘Yah?’

‘Sorry to disturb you, but my editor sent me down, he wanted a story after a few people told him you were here.’

‘You can try and photograph me and get punched, or we come to a deal.’

‘A deal sounds good, yeah, I have a budget.’

I glanced at the girls, who spoke perfect German. ‘How about, I invite Jacqueline Dupont down here and … you pretend we’re in an off-screen romance, and I don’t deny it or take legal action. But you have to show these two Swedish models as well, somehow.’

‘How much do you want?’

‘How much is the story worth?’ I countered with.

‘At least twenty thousand Euro.’

I faced the girls as I controlled and hid my shock. ‘Two thousand Euro each for you, that enough?’

‘What do we have to do?’

‘Staged photos in a few places, that’s all.’

‘You decide.’

‘Then I say yes, some exposure for you and your modelling careers.’

I led the polite reporter inside, and got him a cold beer, a few sneaky plans made, but we had to get Jacqueline here. After a quick change I led the girls down to the internet room and emailed Jacqueline: can you get to Tenerife quickly, I have a paparazzi wanting some shots, twelve thousand Euro for you, a hint of an off-screen romance, just that.

I waited, a response soon coming.

‘Oh my boy, you know how to work the system already. Would I have to kiss you?’

‘Yes, it’s required, but just acting.’

‘Just acting? Damn, but I can do that.’

‘I have friends down here, and two lovely Swedish twins, you can meet them.’

‘They’d be good for a new Mercedes advert?’

‘Yes.’

The girls had been stood behind me, and had read all of it, now excited.

‘I’m on my way.’

‘Hotel Bellavista, east side, front, near Los Christianos. I’m in room 305.’

‘See you soon.’

I logged out and exited the web page. Standing, I told the reporter in German, ‘She’s on her way down, so get a room and a beer. You can do some pool shots today, evening wear later. If we go to this nearby bar with the black singer I get mobbed, so you can photograph that.’

‘Great. Thanks.’

‘Talk to your boss, wire some money, eh,’ I said in German.

‘I speak English some,’ he told me.

‘Be at the poolside for 4pm, it goes quiet. I’m in room 305.’

Leading the girls up a flight of stairs, I asked them, ‘Do you have evening wear?’

‘Yes, some nice long dresses.’

‘Heels?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not too high on the heels, but some. No broken ankles.’

At my room they followed me in, pushing in and closing the door.

‘Ladies, is … your own shower broken?’

‘Yes, we need to use yours.’

Bags down, they stripped off, soon undressing me and leading me to the shower. It was a walk-in shower not a tub, so there was room for us, and this was not my first time with two girls; Julie had trained me well.

They washed the sun cream off me, and worked down my body.

‘Many scars on your legs.’

‘Yes, from football.’

Moving back up, they washed my balls and stiff cock gently as I fondled them both, no pubic hair seen just a small slit each.

‘Do you … wash each other?’

‘No.’

‘Could you?’ I nudged.

They shrugged, and started to wash each other, soon giggling and slapping each other. It could not get much better.

Keen now, I helped with washing them, soon drying off and out onto the bed, a kind of triangle planned, but they were not lesbians.

I dived my tongue into a pussy, no idea which twin it was, and it was very similar to Julie’s pussy, neat parallel lines of pink skin, but now I could see the small clit and I hit it.

Someone, no idea who, was sucking at the other end, and it was definitely four hands at work down there.

A finger in at the right time, then two, thumb used, and she moaned loudly, soon getting a hand down to stop me, and I was doing a good job of not coming too quickly.

‘Swap places,’ I instructed, a mass of legs and arms seen as they did swap, not that I could tell who was who, and I hit a new clit, an identical one.

I came a minute later, my swimmers swallowed, my tongue thrust deep into the pussy to a loud moan, finger in, second finger in, thumb applied, and I caused a louder moan.

‘Frieda is the loud one,’ came a voice, so it must have been Rita.

‘Cuddle time and rest, to be fresh for the photographs,’ I told them, and we were soon on the pillows, two heads facing me. ‘Will your parents be mad at me?’

‘No, they think you’re sensible, and good for us.’

‘I hope so, but I want some modelling work out of you as well. We can help each other make some money, and then … your father can’t complain. But what about school?’

‘We are in Gymnasium.’

‘What?’ Sports?’ I puzzled.

‘No. In Sweden, upper school is called Gymnasium. From sixteen to age twenty.’

‘Age twenty? Like university?’

‘Almost, but we still have university, but some of the university course is covered, or you get a diploma. We are taking a year out, Father wanted to travel more, and Mother complains to him that he works too much.’

‘They often do, parents. But mine were OK, always there, no problems. But … I say no problems, but also they never needed to encourage me, I knew what I wanted. And I studied without being told to.

‘I never once went for a beer with my father, and he never tried to teach me about the world, I learnt that from football.’

With the sun beating in through the curtain cracks, I placed a hand on each perfect arse. ‘I was an only child, and sometimes I wished I had a big brother, but my friend Bonza was that big brother. I spent all my time helping the younger boys, so … I was the father figure to many.’

‘What makes a good relationship, boy and girl?’ one asked me.

‘It’s you and him against the world, not against each other. You help each other, a team.’

‘Our parents are a good team, yes.’

‘Try and rest, no wrinkled eyes later.’

‘You have good skin,’ one noted.

‘Thanks, you too, no blemishes. Now rest, I’m the boss.’

They did doze off, so did I, and I woke to find the three of us on our sides. I moved, they moved, and we checked the time. It was photo-session time.

They headed back to their room, I put on my swimming shorts and tracksuit bottoms, and I stepped onto the balcony. Rolf was sat there with a book.

‘Girls OK?’ he asked.

‘No, I’ve been corrupting them.’

‘Corrupting … them?’

‘A paparazzi guy cornered me, wants a negotiated deal for some photos with Jacqueline, at least twenty thousand Euro. I said yes, because he could just sneak about and take them anyhow. Oh, Jacqueline is on her way down for the shoot.’

He stood. Shocked. ‘She is?’

‘Yes, we worked a deal, a hint at an off-screen romance with me, she’ll play along.’

‘How old did you say you were?’ he joked.

I smiled. ‘Eighteen.’

He shook his head. ‘She can … meet my friends?’ he risked.

‘Of course. Smart eveningwear later, some staged photos. Just follow me and act natural. Warn your dear lady wife, about looking nice, but she does anyhow. And I’ll get the twins a few thousand Euro each.’

‘What for?’

‘Some posed shots, keep the paparazzi guy happy. But not topless.’

He shrugged, and with a peeved look adopted he told me, ‘They go topless every chance they get, they don’t listen to me – I’m just their father.’

‘We’ll do the pool bikini shots soon, head out around 8pm? Warn your wife.’

‘I’ll shock her.’

‘And Rolf, it’s OK to have a crush on Jacqueline, I do.’

He put his finger to his lips and stepped inside.

I waited for the girls, fresh bikinis grabbed by them, but I asked for the white ones. The girls had a slight tan anyhow, and they looked good in white.

Robes over them, bags grabbed, and we walked down as if on holiday and to the pool, the photographer sat there. I pointed him across the pool and gave him an angle after looking at the low sun, myself and the girls stripping down to our swimming costumes.

I stood at the side of the pool and looked towards the girls as he knelt and snapped away, soon diving in but getting out quickly - and now wet. Stood again, I posed wet, as if studying the pool water, the girls joining me.

They knew not to look at the photographer, and I pointed out the pool drains before they dived in like professionals and swam a length. Back out, and soaking wet, they posed near me, as if in a conversation with me, then we sat and posed.

Agosto walked out with the girls, and I was hoping for no cat-fighting here. I waved to them and they walked over as I stood.

‘These are my lady friends, twins from Sweden.’

‘My god, twins!’

‘No, you can’t!’ I told Agosto. ‘And I have a paparazzi friend over there. Strip down, start posing, I’ll get you some good exposure.’

‘Good man.’ Agosto stripped down to his tiny yellow trunks and dived in, soon back and wet, the Slovenian girls posing as they chatted to him or to me, the Slovenian girls going topless – despite a hotel sign about not doing that.

‘Should we be topless?’ a twin asked.

‘Not here.’

I finally walked around to our photographer. ‘Got all you need?’

‘Who are the others?’

‘Agosto, Italian male model, and two models from Slovenia that work in Germany. They’ll cooperate, but … no money for them, no talk of money, OK.’

‘Yah, sure.’

He approached them and wrote down names, and they agreed usage of the photos. I told him, ‘Cave Bar, 8pm, just go out the hotel and walk right down the main strip 200m.’

‘I find it.’

‘Get some rest if you need it, we’ll eat.’

‘And Jacqueline?’

‘On her way she said. Oh, I have a side story for you.’ I detailed the German man who had helped Jacqueline in the flood.

‘Great story, yes. He will cooperate?’

‘Why not?’

He headed off, maybe for some food of his own, the twins now bonding with the Slovenian girls.

I told Agosto, ‘Jacqueline is on her way here, old friends to visit.’

‘She’s old, but I’d fuck her.’

‘Perhaps, when she’s here, you behave, eh.’

He laughed. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘And when I create my own model agency I get you some work.’

‘You will do that?’

‘I think so, I think I like to produce and direct people.’

‘These twins…’

‘Are delicious, yes, and all mine, you have your own. Oh, what was the club like?’

‘All stupid British kids fighting, all sixteen years old,’ he complained.

‘Is there a quality club?’

‘No, only the casino here, the pyramid.’

‘Interesting. I wonder if they’d pay for Jacqueline to visit.’

‘Already you are the director, no?’

‘I am.’

Collecting the girls, we headed up to their parents’ room, room service ordered. ‘I need to pop next door, be back soon.’

I headed out of the hotel and to the pyramid and inside, but it was closed. ‘I want to see the manager.’

‘Who are you?’

‘An actor and model.’

The security man puzzled that and led me in, where I found an old Spanish manager.

He frowned at me. ‘You look familiar, sir, is … there a problem?’

‘You seen the Mercedes car advert?’

‘Ah, you!’

‘Jacqueline Dupont will be here tomorrow -’

‘My god.’

‘I could bring her here, pose for photos, we have a paparazzi guy with us, for an agreed fee of course. But the photos would only be shown in Germany.’

He pulled a face and shrugged. ‘Most of our customers are German. And I know some people to send photos to.’

‘So, half an hour, staged photos, what will you pay?’

‘Two thousand, cash, no tax.’

I nodded. ‘Tomorrow, 8pm, if she is not jet lagged.’

‘I can … bring my friends to greet her?’

‘Sure, I’ll confirm tomorrow. I’m Roskov.’

‘My wife likes you.’

‘I get that a lot,’ I told him, making him laugh. ‘And no, I will not take her off your hands.’

He laughed even louder. ‘I’ll tell security about you, and my wife.’

Back in the room, I sat, food soon delivered, and we chatted as we ate, Ingrid shocked at the idea of greeting Jacqueline.

‘I spoke to the manager of the casino, two thousand Euro for half an hour.’

Rolf sighed theatrically and shook his head. ‘You are cut out for this, aren’t you?’

‘I’m still learning,’ I told him with a cheeky grin.

Food in us, we took it easy for an hour, soon dressing up. I had some smart-ish clothes and now put on a white shirt I had ironed over light brown slacks that I had borrowed from my father. My shoes looked expensive but were definitely not.

I was ready, and I knocked on the girls’ door half an hour later. ‘Wow,’ I let out, both in long white dresses to the knee, a split at the knee, the dresses hiding nothing, no pants on underneath, the stomachs as flat as flat could be.

On the balcony, I peered down at the empty pool as the girls got ready, but I told them: not too much make-up. As a rule, they wore little anyhow, and did not need to wear much.

Finally ready, we knocked on their parents’ door, the parents ready of course, Ingrid a little flustered and nervous; she was no model. Rolf was in a blue blazer with a white shirt and white slacks, Ingrid in a black dress.

I led them down one flight of stairs, keys handed to the nice lady on reception, and out we stepped, the girls on my arms. I clocked our paparazzi guy across the street. ‘Twins, walk as if you own the street but are happy to meet the peasants.’

People in the street glanced at us, a few stopped to stare, and we walked past the pyramid casino, the security men from earlier nodded at as they looked back a little shocked.

At the Cave Bar we ambled in, the singer about to start, and I was stopped mid-room by a German from last night wanting a photo. His camera flashed as the guests wondered who we were, soon ten camera flashes, the singer puzzled as to who we were.

But the girls looked beautiful as they posed, and they smiled nicely, our paparazzi man walking in and taking snaps from way behind, soon stood on a chair and aiming his camera down. Grabbing a high table with enough stools, we ordered drinks, only to be told that they were on the house.

‘On the house?’ Rolf whispered.

‘We’re looking good in the owners’ joint, so why not.’

Agosto turned up with the ladies and they joined us, more free drinks, and more photos – the Slovenian girls were being recognised by catalogue-clothes-buying German ladies here, middle-aged ladies.

Agosto was recognised by a man, from a porn film, and admitted it, Rolf shooting me a look. I just shrugged and tried not to grin.

The owner finally came over. ‘Can we use photographs of you, on the wall?’

‘Yes, we got some drinks. Tomorrow there’ll be a few celebs coming.’

‘Which … people?’

‘I can’t say. Maybe we come here.’

He was pleased, to say the least.

The singer started, and he was good, the old couples all observing him, some observing us.

Eric and his wife arrived, greeted, soon Wolfgang and Fren, questions about Jacqueline’s pending arrival.

I leant into the twins. ‘You look beautiful.’

They were pleased, and blushed a little, and it was odd to think about what Rolf had told me, that they lacked confidence and did not think they were good looking.

I waved in the paparazzi guy and introduced Wolfgang and his wife, and I asked Wolfgang to detail the story of the flooded hotel.

Half an hour later, and an aging German James Bond bad guy actor walked in, recognised by many. He stopped and puzzled me. ‘Mercedes?’

‘Jah.’ I had him and his aging lady friend join us. ‘Jacqueline Dupont will be here tomorrow.’

‘I met her, twice, we filmed together.’

‘You still killing people?’

He laughed. ‘In real life I like dogs and cats and a quiet life.’

Our paparazzi guy moved closer, a nod given, and I asked our bad guy to pose, an arm around me to the background singing and piano, a few shots taken. A few German couples asked for photos, our aging actor more than happy to pose.

He wrote down his local number for me – he had retired down here, and I promised to tell him when Jacqueline arrived, giving him my hotel room number.

When I went to the toilet I closed on our photographer. ‘Anything you need?’

‘I have all the shots so far, just wait for Jacqueline. This German man I loved as a kid.’

‘He was in a few James Bond movies, yes.’

‘Your twins look nice dressed up.’

‘They are, no complaints from me. Tomorrow, we talk money, after she gets here and agrees the deal.’

‘I have her agent’s detail, wire transfer, quick,’ he assured me. ‘This Italian actor, he was in porn movies?’

‘You remember him then?’

He grinned. ‘Maybe.’

‘Yes, a porn actor.’

‘In Germany this is not a sin,’ he pointed out.

‘We’ll do the casino next, fewer people there I hope. Watch us leave.’

He nodded.

Half an hour later I suggested the casino as being quieter, and I led the gang out. At the casino the security staff treated us now like royalty, all let in, and we found a quiet area of the bar, the roulette tables ignored.

The German man and Eric chatted to the aging Bond actor, Ingrid spoke to that man’s wife – about cat rescue, and I spoke to Rolf about life in Sweden, Agosto and his ladies trying the slot machines.

The manager came and handed me some chips.

‘I have no idea how to play,’ I told him.

Rolf did know, and he led myself and the twins to a table, explaining the odds. I handed chips to the girls, who won large piles of chips, but just about a hundred Euro, our photographer snapping us as we tried not to look at the camera.

I lost all my chips, but I had learnt the odds and the procedure, the girls better off financially.

Back with the gang, I sipped my beer and chatted to most of the people here, something I had learnt in football; include everyone, leave no one out.

The manager wanted a photo, so I posed with the twins next to a table, pleasing him.

I told the twins afterwards, ‘I have no photos of you, but all these people do. I’ll have to get copies.’

The aging actor made his excuses and was waved off, the rest of us soon sat chatting quietly, mostly in German.

At midnight, Eric and wife and the German couple headed off, so we ambled slowly back to the hotel, early still for Europeans, who generally stayed out late when on holiday in places like this.

On the balcony, we held cups of tea and sat under the stars, relaxed, as if on holiday.

‘So, Ingrid, how is the high life?’ I asked.

‘I’m no celebrity, not good in front of a camera.’

‘You look fine, don’t worry,’ I assured her. I faced the twins. ‘Did you cash your chips?’

‘Yes, hundred eighty Euro.’

‘Good, some beer money for you.’

‘We don’t drink much, mostly wine.’

‘Can you tell them apart?’ Rolf asked.

‘No, and I’m not going to try. If they don’t want to wear name tags or dress different … they’re a pair. I’ll call them each Babes, to keep it simple. Did you try and separate them?’

‘Yes, many times, but it was hard. At times they wore name tags in school, or the school would kick them out.’

‘And exam results…’ I posed.

‘Rita was always two or three percent above Frieda.’

‘I was a twin as well,’ Ingrid put in. ‘But we were separated, different schools, my father would not have us together. We developed different hair and habits, different friends.’

Rita put in, ‘One time I colour my hair pink, Frieda brown, and we rebel.’

‘I think your parents would have liked different hair colours.’

‘We would have, just not pink,’ Rolf told me.

I faced Rita. ‘Will you get annoyed if I can’t tell you apart?’

‘They will,’ Rolf cut in.

‘Then they wear names tags and make do,’ I told the twins. ‘Or they don’t get annoyed with me. And if they get annoyed with me I walk off. Simple.’

Rolf grinned as the twins shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Ingrid told her daughters, in English, ‘He’s not someone you can fool, or mess about. He’ll be good for you.’

An image of Julie popped up in my mind, and I would have to break the news to her upon my return, the news that I preferred the twins.

I made my excuses, that I was tired and needed to sleep, and I headed out without hugging or kissing the girls, still not sure how the parents would react. Expecting the girls to knock on my door or climb over the balcony, I went to bed.

I woke at 7am to find that they had simply gone to bed like me.

My room phone trilled after I had taken a pee. ‘Ricky, darling, I got here late and went straight to bed.’

‘No problem, we had some quiet drinks - whilst being photographed everywhere we went.’

‘I’m in 297.’

‘Just down the corridor, I’ll pop down in half an hour or less, put some clothes on.’

A quick shower, teeth done, nice clothes on but casual, and I walked down and knocked the door.

The door opened. ‘Darling, come in.’ We hugged.

‘Did you sleep on the plane?’ I asked.

‘I always do, but I was still tired.’ She made me a coffee.

‘Listen, paparazzi guy seems OK, and he has your agent’s bank details.’

‘She said, yes, so he’s serious and not a total dick. But I needed some sun anyhow.’

‘And I got you a promise of two thousand Euro at the casino, a thirty minute slot posing at the tables.’

‘My god, my agent would kill you, not least because you have the killer instinct which she lacks.’

‘The German couple - you can meet them, from the flooded hotel, and last night we met a Henrick Dorgman, Bond actor.’

‘I know him, yes, we did a few movies.’

‘He’ll be out tonight as well.’

‘God, all my old friends, and you found them by chance.’

‘No, just that you’re a dirty stop-out and know everyone.’

‘I’ve been in the biz a while, yes.’

We sipped our coffees.

‘I have a pair of twin Swedish blondes, young and perfect, but not a scratch on you, so don’t be jealous.’

‘You’re with both?’

I nodded.

Her eyes twinkled. ‘My god, what stamina.’

‘My first sex was with a lesbian pair, they taught me well – I hope.’

‘And the plan here is…’

‘We get photographed meeting in secret, just us, long lens, a hint at something off-screen.’

‘Just a hint? I’m deflated,’ she teased.

‘I’d not turn you down, but I have my hands full. Besides, if there’s more work then we need to be keen with the on-screen chemistry and not deflated like an old married couple.’

‘You are learning all the tricks,’ she approved.

‘I read a great deal.’

‘And these twins…’

‘Need their parents approval, yet … don’t, and shouldn’t need it, but they love their parents. They want the work, they’re gorgeous, but I need to get the father on board and not … worried for them.’

‘All fathers are worried for their daughters. How old are they?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘So young and sweet.’

‘Not quite so innocent, but sweet, yes. Maybe a job in any further Mercedes adverts.’

‘I spoke to the Mercedes agent yesterday, she loves the idea, but if you farted in polite company she’d love that as well – it’s you.’

‘Don’t know what you mean,’ I feigned.

Her mobile trilled, a small Erickson, not like the house brick I had in work. She spoke in French near the balcony. Returning, she reported, ‘German tabloids have you with the twins, quarter front page and a two page spread inside.’

‘What will that marketing lady at Mercedes make of that?’ I worried.

‘Oh god, they’ll love it, they got a mention in the papers. All news is good news. And in Germany, a lady newscaster quoted you as a joke to her younger anchor: quality not quantity. Mercedes will be jumping up and down and rubbing their hands.’

Her phone trilled again. Back with me, she reported, ‘I have an interview booked, French TV show, so you’re giving my career a boost, my darling boy.’

‘You can help with the twins then, some coaching.’

After a coffee and a chat I led her to the twins’ room, the girls shocked to see Jacqueline despite the foreknowledge, hugs exchanged, and I asked the twins to dress quickly for breakfast.

Along at Rolf’s door, we found them up and ready of course, hands shaken with Jacqueline, all of us heading down to breakfast together - those hotel guests already sat eating a little shocked, Rolf and Jacqueline chatting about houses in France; Ingrid had always wanted to buy one.

We managed to enjoy a slow breakfast without being pestered, but we were being observed on all sides, the twins very taken with Jacqueline, who now adopted them like a mother.

At one point I had Jacqueline detail payment structures, something that everyone at the table was interested in; some countries took the tax out and paid a model net. I now had my own limited company in the UK, to lose some tax, so I was annoyed that they could take my tax out at a higher rate.

Jacqueline explained that I would get a tax document from the agent, because dual taxation rules applied to many countries, and that my accountant would adjust for it, maybe even get some tax back.

And if the twins had tax taken out they could claim much of it back since they were under eighteen, and in some EU countries that meant a different tax rate to an adult; child actor rules.

I faced Rolf. ‘Remind me, what’s the point of the European Union again, because it sure as hell isn’t a unified system!’

He shrugged apologetically. ‘They keep their own tax laws and fight any changes like jealous children.’

After breakfast I spotted the photographer. ‘My balcony from the poolside, ten minutes, we sit and eat and hug.’

He nodded before he walked towards the pool to get the shot.

I grabbed Jacqueline and told the others to close their curtains and stay off their balconies for a little while. On my balcony I sat with Jacqueline but side-on to the pool, a nod at the photographer, and we posed as if eating and talking.

Standing, I held her forearms. ‘Darling, it’s not you, it’s me, but I will visit our six kids.’

‘They may forget what you look like, and not send postcards,’ she joked.

‘I’ll send money, kids like money.’

‘Good idea.’

‘Hug time.’

We hugged.

‘Oh, this feels good. Smooch kiss?’

‘No, because Mercedes will see these shots.’

We headed inside.

‘Well that was quick,’ she mock complained.

‘Us youngsters finish quickly.’

‘Practise with your hand, my darling boy.’

‘That’s what my thirty-two-year-old lady told me.’ I smacked her arse as she left my room.

At 11am we boarded a larger minibus, soon back at the hillside villa, and Wolfgang and Fren greeted Jacqueline like a long lost friend, tales told of the flooded hotel.

The photographer turned up as planned an hour later, Wolfgang and his wife posing with Jacqueline, the story detailed for our paparazzi guy. He thanked us and headed off.

After a spot of lunch, Eric and his wife very taken with Jacqueline, Jacqueline sat with me in the shade next to the pool, drinks in hand.

I asked, ‘Do they hound you in France?’

‘Not these days, no, but this is nice – a lady of my age out from retirement and popular. It started off as being nice, and necessary for a young actress, then I had men with long lenses trying to sneak around my house, and then it was a drag, but when they forget about you it’s even more of a drag – you miss the limelight.’

‘I fancy directing more than posing.’

‘You have a knack for it, yes.’

‘Did you call your agent?’

‘Yes, the money was wired an hour ago and she agreed a secret deal, and no legal action.’

‘All of it wired?’

‘I think so.’

‘I promised the twins their cut.’

‘Don’t worry, my darling, you said twelve so I’ll send you the rest. Besides, I would have done it for free, I needed a holiday, and the exposure will nudge Mercedes, more work for me.’

‘Can I ask … what you made?’

‘Fifty thousand.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I’m the lead actress, and you’re unknown, no track record, so that’s normal. For someone untested I’m surprised you made anything, most aspiring models or actors would have accepted two hundred quid.

‘But now that you have the exposure you can negotiate rates better, play hard to get -’

‘I was stunned at ten thousand, and I don’t need the money, it’s all fun at the moment,’ I told her.

‘You’ll go to university?’

‘Well … I’m starting to question what good it will do. People with degrees make less than a used car salesman, and way less than models and actors. I want to do something in politics, just not sure what yet.’

‘Run with it for a few years, because that’s all you have, then if you’re seen on-screen too much they don’t want you, too much exposure. You need the right balance, enough exposure and not too much, and no drunken fights and hookers.’

‘That’s unlikely,’ I told her.

‘To think that your career will last ten years is a pipe dream. A good actor can last twenty years maybe, one film a year with breaks, but no one does forty years.

‘Madonna, Elton John, they’ve lasted, but few do, and few actors. Actresses get old, have kids, settle down.’

‘You never had kids?’

‘No, not the maternal type. I thought about it many times, had friends with babies and it never suited me. I have friends close by with kids, I do the aunty thing, but I’m glad of my quiet farmhouse, me and the dogs.’

‘Who’s looking after them?’ I puzzled.

‘I have a small farmhouse inside an estate, plenty of people there. We have horses - I love a dawn ride, and there’s a vineyard, chickens and pigs, goats. Always lots of interesting things to do.’

‘Sounds nice. Good beaches nearby?’

‘Yes, come visit.’

‘Tonight will see a few autograph hunters…’ I warned.

‘It’s mild here, so don’t worry about me. Not like Paris or Nice at festival time. And I have you to protect me.’

‘Playing football all those years, I learnt to fight.’

At 4pm we headed back to the hotel, to meet at 8pm at the hotel bar, Jacqueline off for a sleep; she had been at the wine.

The twins, however, were not sleepy, not a bit, and just about raped me, but it was very nice kind of man-rape.

They were on the pill to ease period pains, so I thrust into both tight pussies in turn, yet quietly, since their parents were right next door, and we soon lay down as a sweaty threesome to rest, the sun beating in through the open balcony door, the screams of kids in the pool rising up to us.

‘I think I have some sunburn,’ I noted as we lay there.

‘More sun cream.’

‘I have some cheap British cream.’

‘No good, use ours.’

‘Jacqueline has already been paid, money to be sent to me for you two. Won’t take long.’

‘So we have to be grateful…’ one teased.

‘No, you stay with me if you like me, if we’re good for each other, and if we’re a team, but never for the money.’

‘How do we know if we’re a good team?’

‘I worry about your safety, you worry about mine.’

They considered that, asleep a few minutes later.

At 8pm the twins were stood in grey dresses, identical to the previous white ones and figure hugging, grey bags on arms. They looked “classy”. Rolf looked the same as last night, Ingrid not so nervous now.

Jacqueline now displayed an expensive blue dress, sparkly in a few places, and she definitely looked classy, Eric and his wife dressed smart, Wolfgang and Fren dressed smart.

I held Jacqueline’s forearm as stunned guests stopped to stare. ‘Ready, my lady?’

She smiled but said nothing.

‘Twins, behind us please. Look like you own the street but care.’ I led Jacqueline out, the reception staff all staring, and into the busy street, people stopping to do a double-take, and I clocked my photographer across the road again.

Ambling along, we walked the short distance to the pyramid, two surprised policemen nodded at. Security opened the doors, but tonight they had a red carpet and golden poles holding a red rope. Inside, I led the group on, the manager lined up with who I presumed were his wife and family.

I shook his hand and introduced Jacqueline as someone snapped at us from the side, someone not organised by me, and she worked her way down the line, family members greeted and thanked for their hospitality.

At the bar we ordered drinks, which were free for us all, the same man snapping away. Drinks in hand, I led Jacqueline to an empty roulette table, chips handed to us by the manager, but low value chips. He handed me high value chips, four five-hundred Euro chips, and I whispered to Jacqueline that we had been paid.

Rolf and the others bought chips, and none of them were in any way short of cash, so the owner was getting his money back. With the local snapper ready, Jacqueline made small bets as I sat observing, and after three spins she won a small pile of chips, the gang now with us, the twins at my side.

Asking the manager fifteen minutes later, they did have a poker table and dealer, so I led the men folk that way, the aging Bond actor finding us after greeting Jacqueline, photos taken.

I told the lady dealer that we wanted to just play for fun, she issued special chips to us, and I soon had my poker face on as we chatted, our ladies at the roulette table.

Rolf was subtle and sly, a low raise always, Wolfgang more direct, and I was trying to win big. Rolf ended up winning, a sly player; he was all about the bluff.

At 9.30pm we thanked the manager, the place now busier than when we entered, and outside I led Jacqueline to the Cave Bar, the old black guy still belting out the dated songs.

He stopped dead, stood, and he explained to Jacqueline that they had met in Vegas, Jacqueline remembering as camera flashes start to blind me. I held Jacqueline’s forearm and faced the customers, more flashes blinding me, the twins lining up, the black singer lining up near us, and we waited for the flashes to ease.

I finally said in German, ‘Quality, not quantity,’ getting a laugh.

They found us tables, the manager about to burst, drinks on the house again.

Seeing our paparazzi guy, I leant in close to Jacqueline. ‘Earn your keep, sexy lady, we need some sexual tension for our man.’

She cupped my cheek with a hand as I stared into her eyes, our guy getting the shot, my gang well aware that it was all for show. I held a menu for us, and we appeared to be studying it, our heads almost touching.

‘Well I’m feeling the tension, my boy. Should we … dance?’

‘Ah … yes, later, a … slow one. But I can’t dance.’ I beckoned the manager with a look, and he leant in. ‘Thirty minutes, then slow dance music for ten minutes please.’

He nodded his agreement.

I turned to the twins. ‘Tell the gang, they join in the slow dance music later, please.’

Jacqueline said, ‘Just follow my lead and ignore those around you.’

‘Excuse me, woman, I have a nice big cock, I lead.’

‘Don’t tease me,’ she quipped, and neither of us were play-acting as her eyes twinkled.

The time came, tape music put on, and I led her a few steps away, Rolf leading Ingrid, Eric with his wife, Wolfgang and Fren. The audience keenly joined in, which made for very little room to move.

I led my dance partner towards our snapper, he snapped away, and I only stepped on her toes twice.

Turning five minutes later, I saw the distressed look on the twins’ faces, and I moved quickly through the crowd without shoving people. Reaching them, I put my nose up against a Spanish man in his thirties and reeking of aftershave.

‘You got a problem with my girls?’

‘Who the fuck you?’ he snarled, and I shoved him back against a high table, people nearby shocked, the manager rushing in. Sharp words from the manager, pointed fingers, and the man was ejected, Rolf suddenly at my shoulder and watching the man go.

The manager approached. ‘Sorry, my nephew.’

‘We can’t choose our family,’ I quipped, and I turned to the girls. ‘You OK?’

‘Stupid idiot wanted a threesome.’

Rolf consoled his daughters as I went and found Jacqueline chatting to excited German tourists.

‘What was that?’ she shouted in my ear.

‘Local Spanish prick wanted a threesome with the twins and was not taking no for an answer.’

She stared past me towards the door, angered, then shook her head. ‘They OK?’

‘They are now. And we nearly got snapped as I nearly hit that guy.’

‘Don’t worry, that sort of thing makes for good copy.’

‘Tell me if you want to go -’

‘No need, it’s great here, lovely crowd. And I have you to protect me.’

An arm around her, a tight hug, and the couple in front of us snapped away as we posed. Wolfgang was now on her arm, and he was a big man, so I headed back to the twins.

As I reached them I caressed two arses. ‘You OK?’

‘You protected us, so does that makes us a team?’

‘A team, no? You should have smiled at that guy, distracted him them kicked him in the balls. That … would have been teamwork.’

‘Father would shout.’

‘Maybe not, and I can back you up next time. Don’t take any shit from men; you’re with me, not with your father.’

Rolf closed in a few minutes later. ‘You scared off that man?’

‘I was about to hit him, and Jacqueline says that would have been a better story.’

‘Yes, the tabloids would have loved it.’

‘Your fault.’

‘My fault?’

My face soured, and I leant in to shout above the background music. ‘Your fucking daughters are so afraid to upset you they held off shouting at that man or hitting him. Stop being a jerk, they could have been in danger. They need to fight back not worry about what you might think of them!’

He was shocked. A look at the girls, and he nodded. ‘Yes, they need to fight back, and as a father of girls I worry greatly for them, so … maybe they need to be more aggressive in situations like that.’

‘They do, so give them your approval for fighting back and not being touched - or raped.’

Nodding, he closed in on the twins through the crowd.

The snapper closed in. ‘I got a photo of you in that guy’s face. What was the drama?’

‘He would not take no for an answer, the twins a little frightened by him.’

‘Can I use that?’

‘Sure. A quote from me: women should always fight back. A woman chooses who she is with, and no means no.’

I chatted to the old black guy about Vegas, and he had been a backing singer for Elvis back in the day, interesting tales to tell, my arse being felt a few times by middle-aged ladies. I had to wonder how the pretty girls of the world put up with things like that.

An hour later the manager had a suggestion, and he somehow had a set of small step ladders. We knocked off the music, and I waved my gang forwards, around the piano, then rudely waved in all the guests, but they were keen anyhow.

With more than two hundred people all looking up at the photographer on the step ladder, he snapped away, and copies would be available tomorrow from the bar.

I thanked everyone and led my gang out, and back to the hotel bar, the streets now busy, many a shocked look aimed at us. At the hotel bar we stood in small groups, drinks bought – no free drinks here.

In my pocket was two thousand Euro in large notes, my chips cashed in, and I told Jacqueline I had her pay.

‘Hold onto it, my lovely, or give it to the twins, German media is going nuts. I might get a film role from this.’

‘An aging beauty who lives with cats, seduced by James Bond?’

‘No wet t-shirt shots any more, but I was offered a role as a madam.’

‘You as a hooker? You’d make millions.’

‘Ah, my sweet boy, so kind.’

‘Do you get men offering to pay you?’

‘I did, many, one a year back, an aging Italian billionaire. I was tempted, but no’

‘How much did he offer?’

‘A hundred thousand.’

‘Cheapskate!’

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ she giggled.

Rolf approached me later. ‘I spoke to the girls, and … yes, they should fight back, I even suggested self-defence classes, every father does.’

‘Do they have your blessing … to behave as any other girl would have done?’ I scolded him.

He studied me. ‘They do now, yes. I can deal with a law suit, not a rape.’

‘If they’re with me I’ll die defending them,’ I told him. ‘Worry less, you’ll get wrinkles.’

‘I already have wrinkles, raising daughters is not easy.’

With the girls waved over, I handed them a thousand Euro each. ‘Modelling work pays well enough. And now you don’t have to ask your father for money for shoes. We wait to see what appears in the German tabloids, but if it all goes well … your friends will ask if I’m with you yet shagging Jacqueline behind your backs.’

‘We can pretend to be sad,’ one quipped.

‘German media is going mad they said, so Mercedes will be happy with me.’ I faced Rolf. ‘Call some people in Germany, ask about the coverage.’

He nodded, and cheekily asked the bar staff to use a hotel phone. Back with us, he began, ‘That saying: quality not quantity, is being parodied in a comedy show, and Mercedes are getting ten times more free publicity than they planned.’

‘I had an idea, about a follow-up advert,’ I told them. ‘I ignore the twins for Jacqueline, we get the car, screech off, the twins covered in mud.’

Rolf laughed, the twins putting fists on hips and squinting at me.

‘It’s acting,’ I told them. I waved over Jacqueline. ‘Next advert, I ignore the beautiful twins, we get in the car, I screech off, the twins get covered in mud.’

She bent over laughing. ‘Sorry, girls, but yes – I’d love to see you covered in mud.’

I was a bit drunk as we finally climbed the hotel stairs, and I told the twins I would sleep, and that that Little Ricky did not come out to play after a drink.

A kiss goodnight, and they headed to their room. I needed a desperate pee, and a sit down and a cup of tea. But as I had found out with Bonza leading me astray back in Leicester, I could not sleep after drinking.

In the morning I woke with a bad head, and I needed a drink of cold water from the mini bar, followed by a chocolate bar and a nice cup of tea. Finally, I stepped onto the balcony in my pants, squinting.

‘Late for you,’ came from Rolf on the next balcony.

‘What time is it?’

‘Gone ten.’

‘I’m no drinker.’

‘Girls are by the pool. And I called my friend in Germany, our night out somehow being sent back by digital image I think, front cover and two pages inside, and to be in a glossy magazine. You’re listed as having hit that man, and I’m seen with Ingrid in the background.’

‘And the twins?’

‘They got a half page photo, and look good apparently.’

‘And the sexual intrigue?’

‘They stay inside the law and question your closeness to Jacqueline, a firm hint.’

I shrugged. ‘So we get paid for what we agreed. Job done.’

My room phone rang. ‘Hello?’

‘Ricky, it’s Trish, been going mad trying to find you.’

‘It was all planned and a stunt.’

‘What was?’

‘The German newspaper approached me, I got some money.’

‘My god, I thought it was real. And who are these super-model twins?’

‘They … are Swedish, they’ve done some modelling yes, just seventeen years old.’

‘Seventeen! My god, they look older, you as well. Mercedes have been on, they love it, the publicity, and talk show hosts parody it in Europe.’

‘Tell Mercedes I have ideas for follow-up sketches, but I want the twins in it. Next advert, I tell the twins quality not quantity, get in the car, screech off and cover them in mud.’

She laughed.

‘Follow up to the follow up, the twins follow Jacqueline into the toilet and cover her in talc, I walk her out with her head held high – covered in talc. Type it up and send it.

‘Be done today,’ she threatened. ‘Did you hit some man?’

‘No, just put my nose up against his.’

‘They’re running the story in German, woman’s choice - and no means no.’

‘Yeah, well … I have no idea how that makes us any money, but I want to get into politics anyhow.’

‘Mercedes love it, makes you popular with women in Europe.’

‘Nothing in the British press?’

‘I got a warning, they have to do that, Sunday supplement will have the snaps, bought from the German paper.’

‘They should pay me more, and then I can give you some.’

‘You’re already making me money, and lots more to come.’

After breakfast I found the paparazzi guy. ‘You! Your paper is selling the story all across Europe!’

He held up his hands in defence. ‘I know, I heard, we get you more money, I promise – no legal action.’

‘Send it to Jacqueline’s agent. And who said I hit that man, I could be arrested for that?’

‘Not me, but maybe they alter the story. And no one makes a police complaint here, and we have witnesses.’

‘I hope so, not arrested off the plane when I get back. Are you popular with your boss?’

He grinned. ‘Very.’

‘We’re talking to Mercedes about two additional adverts, but now with the twins. They haven’t responded yet. You want more shots today?’

‘If you go someplace interesting maybe or the paper asks for something.’

I found Jacqueline and the gang around the pool. I told Jacqueline, ‘More money will be sent to your agent, the little German rascals sold the story all around Europe.’

‘That’s normal, yes, they sell to each other.’

‘And my agent will pitch new advert ideas, but with the twins.’

Rolf eased up. ‘They will be seen … all around Europe?’

‘Are you playing the concerned father here? Or do you want a career for the twins?’ I rudely asked.

‘A bit of both I think, it …is a shock.’

‘Discuss it as a family, let me know soon, I don’t want the twins exposed to the lime light and then have you worried about photographers in the bushes.’

Jacqueline faced Rolf. ‘This is the best chance they’ll get, and six years from now no one will be interested in them, they’ll be forgotten. Trust me, I know.’

‘Family meeting later,’ I told Rolf. ‘I’m an outsider. But the question is … will the twins ever forgive you?’

I left Rolf and Ingrid exchanging worried looks and I joined the twins in the pool. ‘I told Mercedes about you, now we wait and see. But discuss it with your parents, because after this you may be recognised when out shopping, and pestered.

‘But as Jacqueline says, you have a few years then no one will be interested in you, same for me. Make the money while you can, and then end up like that old James Bond bad guy, washed up with no money.’

‘What do you think?’ they asked me as we bobbed up and down in the water.

‘I’d say do it for the fun, not just the money. Money is a bonus. And the exposure from this means that your agent gets you more local work. It needs to be fun, not something to get all uptight about.’

Sat sunbathing later, they applied cream to me, they even fetched me a cold beer.

Jacqueline took a call on her clever mobile phone late in the afternoon, and Mercedes were interested in the follow-up adverts, her agent now chatting to Trish Markham.

Rolf had organised a family meeting, and they had sat around a table chatting, the final outcome being that the twins would follow my advice and that the over-protective parents would try not to be over-protective.

Jacqueline took another call, and told me, ‘I’m heading back, I have an interview in France and one in Germany, might get some movie work out of it.’

‘All this way just to stage a publicity stunt.’ I shook my head at her in mock disapproval.

‘You’re a world-class sneaky shit, and great at this business, you’ll go far, my lovely boy.’

‘See you on the set, I guess…’

‘Yes, but maybe they want to film in Germany, but it’s much cheaper to film in the UK for them.’

She was soon packed, and we all stood at the curb as she got into the taxi, soon waving her off. But our snapper had got us hugging a goodbye, and I asked for him to go to the airport with her, for protection, and for a few extra snaps.

‘What comes next?’ Rolf asked.

‘We have a pigging holiday, and we rest.’

‘Sounds good.’

I led the girls to my room, because it was not rest time yet, and we went for the modified triangle again, soon cuddling. ‘I like the cuddles. You’re very cuddly-able.’

‘Is that a real word?’

‘Doubt it. Did I make your father feel bad, for holding you back?’

‘Yes, he was sorry for not supporting us more, but … we wait on the local agent anyhow, who’s not very good. You do more in two days that she does in a year. You are very cheeky.’

‘Who me?’

‘You go tell that casino man: I bring models, you pay.’

‘He benefits from the publicity, so don’t worry about him.’

‘How did you become so mature?’

‘As the football captain I saw patterns of behaviour, and I knew when someone was bluffing me or lying, and I got used to asking adults to support us, use their pitch, and as school president I stood up in front of everyone – and took the piss out of the teachers.

‘Selling glass for my uncle came naturally, talking to people. It’s easy, just stick to the truth, and keep going back to the truth, everything else falls into place. Life is complicated when you move away from the truth and lie to yourself and to others.

‘But society teaches us to lie, so that we don’t hurt anyone’s feelings. Like this dress? No, what a bad man you are for telling the truth. Society wants us to lie, to be polite, and being polite is just lying. Nice garden, Mister? No, it’s shite.

‘But we’re raised to tell that man that his garden is nice, that a woman looks nice when she doesn’t, that we like mum’s food when we don’t.’

‘And how do you see us?’

‘I see the tops of your heads.’

They lifted up and scowled at me.

‘I see you as … beautiful twins with good hearts, full of the damage that your parents’ love did to you. You need fixing.’

‘Can you … fix us?’

‘Yes, and I’ve already started. And you need to be truthful with your parents, about what you want, how you feel. You need to say: we’re twins, joined at the hip and a bit fucked up emotionally, but we’re happy as twins and want to stay like that.’

They exchanged a look and put their heads down, nothing more said.

The next day, and we had a delivery courtesy of the hotel manager, the German newspapers yet a day old. I scanned them with Rolf, the twins looking great, my staged images with Jacqueline looking genuine and not staged.

The following day, as we lounged around the pool, we were delivered a copy of the glossy magazine, the girls now very interested since they had a two page spread: Roskov and his ladies.

I laughed. ‘You’re my Bond girls now.’

The magazine had us in the casino, in the bar, around the pool, so the owners of each facility would be happy. And Mercedes got a mention to keep it all in context, just who we were.

After lunch, reception had a phone message for me, so I called Trish.

‘Ricky, the News of the World, their glossy Sunday magazine, it has you in it, a four page spread!’

‘I better call my parents. But how does it look?’

‘You look great, and these twins, and Jacqueline. Mostly just photos, not much text.’

In my room I called home, my father answering. ‘It’s me. You seen the papers?’

‘Yes, and had a hundred calls,’ he complained.

‘Don’t repeat this but it was staged, to promote Mercedes.’

‘Ah, I had to wonder how it all happened like that, and so fast.’

‘I get an extra ten grand or so, and more adverts with Mercedes.’

‘And these twin girls?’

‘I met them here, roped them in, and now we’re dating.’

‘Which one?’

‘Well … both of them.’

‘I’ll … let you explain that to your mother.’

I smiled widely. ‘Could be a difficult chat, yes.’

‘And your relationship with Miss Dupont?’ came a parental question.

‘There isn’t one, we staged it for the papers – but don’t say a word.’

‘I won’t, no, would be hard to explain. But she does look great for her age, she was popular years back, I went to see her in the cinema with your mother. Listen, your uncle -’

‘I’ll be back at work next week, so tell him that.’

‘Tell him to give you a damn pay rise.’

‘I make good commissions, and when I get back I think my sales technique will improve some.’

‘Christ, yes, I hadn’t thought of that. You just need to turn up and hand in a brochure. Definitely ask for a pay rise.’

I laughed. ‘I’ll tell him you said that. Listen, tell mum not to fret-’

‘She’s never been more popular with her lady friends,’ he complained, making me laugh.

‘If you need me, my hotel details are in my room on the dresser, the phone number, room 305.’

‘OK, have some fun and … I was about to say stay out of trouble.’

‘Always, dad, you know me.’

‘You once punched sixty-five players in one season!’

‘Ah … that was a good season,’ I recalled. ‘Chat soon, dad.’

‘Safe flight back.’

Agosto and the Slovenian models had gone, but I had their contact details, the hotel bar a little quieter of an evening, and we managed to have a few relaxing evenings away from the hotel and we enjoyed a few meals in local Spanish restaurants.

A trip up the mountain, the huge dormant volcano, and we stood in a cold wind staring down at the coast below us from 12,000ft.

Above us, paragliders were floating effortlessly on the breeze, and chatting to a man with a radio he informed us that a person could soar for eight hours if they wanted to; it was a long way down, and there were thermals.

A trip up to the capital, and we took in the old buildings, tales told of Christopher Columbus setting sail from these islands.

With just one day left until the twins departed, till the Rasmussen family departed, we sat on the beach near the hotel and chilled out, swimming in the ocean, all of us tanned now.

‘So what comes next?’ Rolf asked as we lay there.

‘When I get back I’ll chat to the agent about the next shoot, then I’ll let you know. You’ll come and watch?’

‘Can we?’

‘Girls are seventeen, you need to be there, forms to sign.’

‘Then yes. When do you think it will be?’

‘My agent said that they’ll run the ad for just a few weeks and swap, so they’ll need to film new ads soon. They can’t keep showing it, but they will show it again three months from now they said.’

‘Yes, rotation, and audience fatigue.’

‘I have to learn all the buzz words.’

‘And which agent do we use?’

‘You can use yours through mine, or just mine. Do you have an exclusive deal?’

‘No, I made sure it was not exclusive.’

‘Then use mine, negotiated one-off payment and residuals. Don’t share the profits too much. And I have some money from Jacqueline for the girls.’

‘How much?’

‘Another four thousand.’

‘Good, for seventeen years old.’

‘When are they eighteen?’

‘March.’

‘Remind me, or they’ll be mad at me.’

‘They will, yes,’ he agreed.

One last meal, and the family would be up early, but I indicated that I would travel to the airport with them, and then insisted I would. I had one more day, plus a few hours, to waste.

That night we used the girls’ room, and I made sure that Rita did not suck my end as I licked Frieda, and when Frieda loudly came I thrust into Rita and worked up a sweat, Rita moaning as Frieda watched.

Thinking as I thrust into Rita, this felt right, we seemed to be a good fit, and not just the sex. But right now, thrusting into Rita and kissing her, this felt good, and way better than the same action with Julie.

I came inside, a slight worry, but they had shown me the pills that had been taking. After a cup of tea, and some cuddle time, I shagged Frieda with a purpose, taking longer and making her cry out. So at least they would not forget me too soon.

I slept in my own bed, my girls already packed, and very organised with it.

The hotel phone woke me at 5am, and I was soon showered and dressed – a cup of tea needed, helping the girls lug their cases down the steps, Rolf and Ingrid behind us.

Minibus boarded, and we set off along quiet roads, not that far to the airport, less than half an hour. They queued to check in and I stood with them, many of the sleepy passengers glancing my way.

At Security I said goodbye to Rolf with a handshake, a hug for Ingrid, then a hug for the twins. And as I walked to the taxi rank I felt empty inside, an odd feeling, a new feeling, and one I did not want to be feeling.

During the expensive taxi ride back I was missing my girls, and my new family, that’s how they now felt. My own parents had always been there for me, but they were somehow absent when sat in the same room. Rolf and Ingrid were the kind of parents I had wanted, people that I could talk to.

Back at the hotel, I went back to bed for a few hours, soon heading down for a late breakfast after a few press-ups, eating alone and being stared at by a few couples.

Sat by the pool, the same pair of skinny gays walked past. They halted. ‘Sorry for the bad introduction, we didn’t mean to offend you.’

‘Forget about it.’

‘Saw your spread in the papers, you got good inches.’

‘You sound like you’re in the industry…’

‘Yes, catalogue agents.’

‘Sit.’

They sat near me.

‘What types of catalogues?’

‘Stuff like Gratton, lousy rates for the models, but we also do the select clients, small periodicals and Christmas stuff, summer specials in swimwear.’

‘What work could you get my twins?’

‘Swimwear for definite, exotic locations, stuff like that. And we handle male models as well, lead up to Christmas is always good.’

‘Give me your company details, today, I fly tomorrow.’

They rooted through a bag and handed over a crumpled flyer.

‘I’ll do more Mercedes ads soon, more exposure around Europe.’

‘We have two Europe-wide publications if you’re interested.’

‘Me and the girls?’

‘Definitely, but are you under contract?’

‘Fuck no, I’d never trust the snakes.’

‘Best way, yeah, the residuals are always fucked up and late.’

‘I can do a one-off non-union show and pay through my UK agent?’

‘Best way, the usage is always a scam - for their benefit. Never trust the little buggers.’

‘You’re in London I see; I go to Watford a great deal.’

‘Get the train down,’ they suggested. ‘Boss will love you she will, forty and fat.’

I smiled. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I’ll email you, you email me details about the European stuff, days worked and rate offered, separate example of modelling for the girls.’

‘Boss will never believe us,’ they said as they stood.

‘You pitched yourselves, so you get the credit. Now get out of my sun.’

At 6pm I was sat in my room, and the phone trilled as expected.

‘Bond here, James Bond.’

‘Blonde playmates here, very blonde.’

‘How was the flight?’ I asked with a smile.

‘OK, five hours, some food. Now we’re home, and it’s cold and wet.’

‘I … missed you after you went. It’s a bit quiet here, just had some gays come and talk to me.’

‘Don’t punch them.’

‘They work at an agency, so I have some catalogue work for you in the UK, some in the Caribbean.’

‘Really?’

‘Think so, I’ll meet them next week in London. Good chance meeting.’

‘You are good at this, you talk to people not wait for the work.’

‘Which one are you?’

‘Can’t you tell?’

‘Nope. Moan like we’re having sex.’

‘Shhhh! Don’t say that. I’m Rita.’

‘Then say that when you call. Frieda listening in?’

‘I’m here.’

‘Find out if they’re running my Mercedes ad in Sweden.’

‘They are, our neighbours said so.’

‘I need to make sure I’m getting paid for all this. Then I can afford to keep you two.’

‘We have money, father is rich.’

‘I have some more money for you, I’ll wire it next week. Buy some shoes, one or two inch only.’

‘We can fly to England easily, one hour flight,’ she floated.

‘Yes, visit, but first we do the Mercedes adverts, maybe in Germany, then you have some money for the flights.’

‘When will they shoot?’

‘Soon I think, so that they can run the ads as a group, a short story. I’ll chat to my agent when I get back. I didn’t tell you what you have to do in the adverts, did I.’

‘No..?’

‘Best it’s a surprise.’

‘What do we have to do?’

‘You’ll see, just wait.’

An hour later the phone trilled; Jacqueline. ‘Ricky, my darling boy, I did two interviews, paid interviews, and now a sniff of a movie script.’

‘And they say that it’s not easy to satisfy a lady over forty.’

She laughed. ‘Behave. How are the girls?’

‘Just spoke to them, they’re back in Sweden, all cold and wet.’              ‘Here too. When do you fly?’

‘Tomorrow lunchtime.’

‘I’m in the UK soon, family thing.’

‘We could get a London hotel, and create some gossip.’

‘Counting on it, my lovely.’

‘I have a lady customer with a chain of jewellery shops in London…’

‘Christ, let’s crash her place and get some business from her.’

‘Counting on it, my lovely.’

Local hero

I was soon queuing up to check-in, baseball cap on my head and sunglasses on, no one bothering me, but I still had that empty feeling in my chest. I was missing the girls, and it was an odd new feeling; I had never missed a girlfriend before.

Sat in the plane, hat off, sunglasses off, and the airhostesses clocked me, smiles issued. The old man sat next to me never clocked me, or would have given a shit, so that was great; he was snoring before we had even taken off, a sigh issued by me.

Back in the cold wet land, I was deflated as I got the train to Leicester, baseball cap on, sunglasses on and looking silly in Coach Class as I studied the rain hitting the windows.

Back home after dark, 7pm, and my parents were pleased to see me, yet acting oddly.

‘OK, you’re both acting oddly, so get it off your chests.’

‘You … never slept with Jacqueline Dupont,’ my mother broached.

‘No, it was staged, for a German publisher.’

‘And these twin beauties?’

‘Are now my official girlfriends; they’ll come visit, I’ll visit them.’

‘What … both of them?’ my mother puzzled.

‘Yes, mum, both of them.’

‘How do you…’

‘I could show you a video if you like.’

She slapped my arm. ‘No. I just mean…’

‘I know what you mean, and … don’t ask. And yes, Jacqueline Dupont might want to come and stay in the spare room.’

My mother almost fainted. ‘Stay here?’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, she’s rich, she should be in a posh hotel.’

‘We’ll see. Got the kettle on? I’ve been stood here an hour already being grilled.’

With cuppas made we sat and chatted, my parents shocked at the amounts of money involved.

‘You’ll stay with your uncle?’ my mum finally asked.

‘Yes, because the modelling work can dry up very fast.’

My dad put in, ‘You were in the local paper, local boy makes good. They had photos of you playing for the town and school, talk of you being school president. I had a call, but I wouldn’t talk to them.’

‘I will, leave it to me.’

‘And university?’ my father nudged.

‘Well, I had a chat when I was away, about how much more money I might make with a degree.’

‘No more, often less,’ my dad scoffed. ‘It’s the smarts that makes the money, not qualifications, that’s for sure.’

‘That’s what I’m realising. I still want to do something in politics, just not sure what.’

‘You have time, and if you have money from this modelling lark you can pick and choose.’

‘I’ll stay at the glass factory for now, and … if I get more famous then I’ll sell more glass.’

‘Paper had you working there, so that’s a boost for them already,’ my father complained.

Checking my pockets, I handed my father a thousand Euro. ‘Change it in a bank, get a good rate. And stop worrying, I could be doing drugs and alcohol, or I could get a local girl pregnant.’

That evening I ironed a shirt, and the next day I walked to work, still no car. In the office, Julie was glaring, no one else around yet.

I sat on the edge of her desk. ‘No, I never slept with Jacqueline Dupont, story was bollocks, and yes – I met a pair of nice twin blondes. Jealous?’

‘They looked good enough to eat, I wanted a session with them, a foursome.’

‘Foursome, eh? I don’t think they’re the type, not lesbian at all.’

I handed her five hundred Euros. ‘Change them in a bank, get a better rate. That’s your gift, no stuffed toy.’

‘You’re famous now, so being seen with you would be a problem.’

‘Don’t be seen with me then, because I plan on staying here, and they’ll take the piss no end this week. I don’t need another headache, neither do you.’

My uncle walked in. ‘Ah, you’re back, I had to wonder.’

‘What’s that, boss?’

‘If you’d come back.’

‘I’d never leave without telling you, you’re family. And this modelling work might last a few weeks, then … then what?’

‘So you’ve no plans to go full time?’

‘Thing is … it’s never full time, modelling or acting, so I’d always have a few months quiet. May as well be here making some money. And if I’m famous then I’d sell more glass – yes?’

‘Well … yes.’

‘So how much do I get for your mention in the local papers?’

‘What? Oh, not sure.’

‘Think up a number, like fifty quid. And then find some lady managers for me to go sell to. I’ll take some time off for more driving lessons, then I can travel out.’

‘Yes, we can get you a car.’

‘A Mercedes. Quality, not quantity.’

He rolled his eyes and stepped into his office.

‘Could have got more than fifty quid,’ Julie quietly complained, at glance at my uncle through the glass from under her eyebrows.

Sat down, I scanned my emails, all six hundred of them listed there and waiting for me, a coffee made. Creating a generic response, I sent the customers all the same email, yet each sounded personal.

A few of my old customers wanted new quotes, so I printed out the emails and made a start, a few of the complicated quotes handed to my uncle to check.

As the male staff came in they all took the piss, then asked questions, then got shouted at by Julie to get back to work.

Midday, and my uncle stepped out to me. ‘Local paper wants to come around.’

‘Sure. And it’s now a hundred quid.’ I held out my hand as Julie laughed at him.

He sighed, shook his head and paid up.

The local hack appeared an hour later, a young-ish lady, and she wanted shots of me sat working, and with a few glass panes.

At my desk, she asked, ‘How old are you now?’

‘Eighteen, nineteen in … three weeks just about.’

‘Leicester High School?’

‘Yes.’

‘Live with your parents?’

‘Yes, and no – you don’t print their address or street.’

‘Do they approve of the modelling work?’

‘Well there’s a deep question, and a rude one. They support me in most of what I do, I was never in any trouble, I spent my evenings and weekends playing football not hanging about on street corners.’

‘How did you get into modelling?’

‘Julie here mentioned my uncle’s desire to save some money, so I posed for the company brochure. That led to the lady that produced the brochure introducing me to an agent, and that agent found me stills work for a jewellery chain in London.

‘The customers wanted video, we went to video, and that led to a try-out for Mercedes, and they liked me. I suggested to Mercedes an advert sketch, and they liked it.’

‘You … suggested it?’

‘Yes, and I suggested that Jacqueline Dupont play opposite me, so they asked her and she said yes. We shot the samples, they liked it, so we shot the advert, now shown in just about all European countries.

‘I’ve created two additional sketches, which Mercedes have accepted, and we shoot soon -’

‘Two more?’

‘Yes, so the three adverts will work like a small ongoing story.’

‘And the suggestion that you’re in a relationship with Miss Dupont?’

I smiled. ‘I’m not, but it amuses me greatly.’

‘And the twin models?’

‘I am in a relationship with them, yes.’

‘Which one?’

‘Both.’

‘Both?’

‘Yes, both.’

‘Oh. How does that work?’

I shrugged. ‘I could make a video and show you if you like.’

‘Not that,’ she hissed, composing herself.

‘We’re a threesome, and the twins will be in the next Mercedes advert.’

‘You holidayed with Miss Dupont…’

‘It was a meeting, a planning session, and she had old friends in Tenerife to visit anyhow so we met there. All quite innocent, but for the sake of good publicity … you can gossip and speculate. No one wants to hear about a boring meeting.’

‘You don’t sound eighteen, but my grandmother knows you from school, you sat with her when houses were being broken into.’

‘How is she? I must visit.’

‘She’d love that. Anyway … what comes next for you?’

‘I’ll stay working here, because modelling work and acting is hit and miss, I could make good money this year and zero next year. All the models I meet complain about the sketchy nature of the work.’

‘I knew one, and she hated it.’

‘They’re not treated well, no,’ I agreed.

She had enough material and headed off happy, and I told her to come around for a story anytime I did something interesting.

The next day I was in the local paper, half the front page and all of the inside page, a section on how models are treated badly.

Thinking, I grabbed a driver and headed to Leicester Mercedes, the staff shocked to see me walk in. ‘Boss around?’

They fetched the Sales Manager and the General Manager, hands shaken.

I asked, ‘Are you allowed a budget for local advertising?’

‘Shit, yes.’

‘Then I’m available, and I can bring my twins.’

‘These supermodel twins…’

‘Yes…’

‘You’re doing both of them?’

‘I am.’

The Manager turned to the Sales Manager. ‘I hate him.’

‘Me too.’

I smiled. ‘Terrible thing, to be jealous.’

‘Terrible thing is to be married twenty years!’

‘Call me at the glass factory.’

‘Do you drive?’

‘I’m having lessons,’ I told them, turning to greet an old guy looking at a new car. That old guy wanted all the gossip about Jacqueline, so I stood chatting for ten minutes.

That evening Bonza came over with mates, so I took them to the curry house, to waste some money on them – and to give them all the details, but a sanitised version. It was feeding time at the zoo.

In the morning, Mercedes Leicester rang, so I headed there with a driver, soon stood posing for the camera with a nice new Mercedes, Trish Markham updated, and she would bill them. They had the right to use the catch phrase; they were Mercedes.

It was a small job, but it all counted, and it helped my glass sales, those glass sales boosted when I headed to Watford the next day. My two best customers treated me like royalty and wanted all the gossip, but they also wanted some glass from me, quotes to be done.

One of their staff, a disgruntled ex-employee, had taken to a new site with a digger, and had smashed walls and the glass. The man was in a police cell, insurance would pay, but they needed the glass sharpish.

I called my uncle, he had the exact details on file still, and he would dispatch it today. Time for some lunch, and they took me to meet their wives in a restaurant, questions asked of Jacqueline and the twins.

After lunch I got train down to London with a bag, my driver sent home to Leicester, and I met Trish outside the offices of the jewellers. Inside, the ladies all stopped dead and smiled, and I greeted the owner like a friend, a big hug, her arse groped again.

Tea made, we sat.

‘Listen, Jacqueline and my twins will be in London soon, if you want some stills in a shop, good rate. We could redo the shoot, but now with the twins, and I tell the shop assistant I’m on a budget – and need two sets.’

She laughed. ‘Sounds great, we’ll sort something when they’re here.’

‘Mercedes ads will keep us busy for a while.’

Trish told me, ‘Provisional date of this following weekend, here in London, weather permitting.’

‘And you and Jacqueline?’ the owner asked me.

‘Just friends, the gossip is wrong but the publicity is great.’

‘All publicity is good.’

An hour later – and after posing for snaps - we got a taxi, an expensive taxi, a few tanned gays to see. In the office, the gays I had met around the pool in Tenerife had not told the boss, they wanted to shock her, and shocked she was.

‘I met your two lads in Tenerife, and they said you may have some work for me and the twins.’

‘We … we do, yes.’

‘Don’t forget to reward the lads, they pitched me.’

A cup of tea was needed, to settle her, and she showed us the seasonal catalogues, then the swimwear catalogues.

She explained, ‘The girls would model up to thirty outfits a day, mostly swimwear, long tiring days in the heat.’

‘And the pay and travel?’

‘Flights are included obviously, basic hotel, day rate could be up to eight hundred, ten days of work plus re-shoots.’

‘The day rate would be negotiated after the new Mercedes ads, when everyone in Europe knows the twins.’ I held my stare on her.

‘We could ask for more, sure, see what the client says.’

‘Before and after the shoot we would holiday there, no rushing about. And I would be around if they needed a male model.’

It was a done deal, hands shaken, hugs given to a shocked lady boss, and I thanked the gays, telling their boss to reward them.

I stayed the night in a cheap hotel, locked away in my room, then got the tube and train across to Essex, and to a new erection, that erection just cold wet holes and concrete at the moment.

The staff were all men, but out stepped a fat middle-aged lady from a portable cabin, the wife of the boss, and she did the computer system and the costings.

I shook her hand. ‘Valery, yes?’

‘Yes, and right now we could not so much as offer you a cup of tea.’

‘Local hotel bar?’

‘Definitely.’

We jumped into her car and sped off, down a lane and to a country hotel, warm inside, a real fire, a table for lunch grabbed.

The young waitress approached. ‘Bloody hell. Sorry, err … your drinks orders please.’

I smiled up at her. ‘Pot of tea, love. Toasted cheese sandwich.’

My robust lady customer ordered a sandwich and tea, the waitress withdrawing. ‘You could have your pick,’ she whispered.

‘Yes, but I like my twins.’

‘You … do both of them?’

I nodded. ‘In turn or together.’

‘I led a sheltered life, married young. And Jacqueline Dupont still looks good for her age.’

‘She does, that’s why I picked her, I needed someone older but elegant.’

‘And you’ll stay selling glass?’

‘Trust me, modelling work is high paid bollocks, all or nothing, shit hours and travel.’

‘I had a cousin do it, she tried to kill herself.’

‘So there you have it, a shit industry for some. I’m new, but I tell the agents and customers to fuck off and I do my own thing, I’m not playing their game.

‘And when I don’t have modelling work I work in my uncle’s factory, steady cash, something to do.’

‘When we finish that site, we … can have you photographed in it?’

‘Depends on how much glass you buy. Buy enough and I’ll meet your friends and impress them.’

She smiled widely. ‘You’ll go far. And we have six sites, so you can do it all, your prices are the same as the others.’

‘Then you get a home visit from me, a celeb on my arm. Deal?’

‘Deal.’

After lunch she showed me the cold muddy site, some of the builders rudely asking after the twins, and she finally drove me to the train station, a few hours to get back to Leicester.

Arriving back at 5.30pm, I had the planned erection details in hand, and my uncle was shocked; it was a lot of glass potentially.

‘I’m going to take the rest of the day off,’ I told him.

He glanced at the clock on the wall and puzzled that before I headed out.

At 7pm I used my house phone to call the twins, and to catch-up on what mischief they had been up to, which was no mischief at all really.

The next day Trish called, we had firm dates and firm offers from Mercedes, and I would be making more than twenty thousand pounds for the new adverts, the twins to get six thousand each.

My head was still having a hard time with these figures, not least because Jacqueline’s agent had sent Trish eight thousand Euro as agreed.

Trish would send money to the twins’ agent, the same for the Mercedes adverts. I did check, and the Swedish agent would only receive a 15% commission.

But I was being naïve about my new lifestyle, and that evening Bonza called. ‘There’s some journalist guy in the pub, asking people about you, about any crimes you might have committed, ex-girlfriends mad at you.’

I sighed loudly. ‘I had to expect this at some point, the good old British tabloid press.’

‘I can give the guy a good kicking…’

‘No, not you, you link to me and I’ll be arrested. Is that nut job Micky Whittaker still around?’

‘Yeah, lives just up the road.’

‘Offer him two hundred quid, make sure you don’t mention my name.’

‘Mickey would never talk, even if they cut off his finger nails.’

‘Well I don’t think Leicester police are still allowed to do that, so … go have a chat.’

At 11pm Bonza was back on. ‘Police were at the pub, that guy done over outside, no witnesses, his wallet and camera missing.’

‘I’ll pop in and see you soon, but lay low, my parents would go mad.’

The next evening the police came to call, and I recognised one from football. I let them in, my parents horrified at seeing police officers in the house.

The officer I knew began, ‘Last night a reporter was done over, local pub. He … was trying to get dirt on you.’

‘Dirt? What … does that mean?’

‘He was asking if anyone knew of any crimes you committed, but there aren’t any – we’d know.’

‘Can they do that?’ I asked, a look exchanged with my parents.

‘Tabloids, yeah, they’re very cheeky, bribes offered.’

‘Oh.’

‘We need to ask where you were.’

‘Me? I was here all night.’

‘He was,’ my father put in.

My mum asked, ‘Did someone accuse Ricky?’

‘No, just that we have to check, and a few men from the pub suggested that they’d give the guy a good kicking if he came back, they like Ricky, he’s well known, and it was a bad idea for that guy to ask for dirt on your son.’

I asked, ‘Is the local paper going to accuse me of something?’

‘If they do you can take legal action.’

I again exchanged a worried look with my parents. ‘So what do I do now?’

‘Nothing, just carry on as normal.’

‘And if one of the lads boasts to me that he did it?’

‘Then you forget it and move on, we’d not expect you to shop a mate.’

‘Was that man hurt badly?’ my mother asked.

‘He’ll recover, a bloody nose. And he learnt his lesson.’

With the police thanked and gone, we sat, a little stunned.

‘Little bastards,’ my father finally let out. ‘Don’t want a happy story, they want dirt.’

‘There is none, I never broke the laws,’ I assured them. ‘Don’t know what they could find.’

‘They could find you hitting people on a football pitch…’ my father floated.

‘I don’t think any teenagers have ever been prosecuted for that. And it’s been a year or two at least. No one made a complaint, and they were always in the wrong; I hit people after they hit someone else!

‘So unless they can prove that I once handed in my homework late … they have nothing to print. I’m still eighteen, fresh from school, I haven’t had time to do anything yet.’

‘Rudy cheek,’ my mother let out. ‘We should complain to someone.’

‘Who?’ I asked my father.

‘There is no one, tabloids get away with murder.’

‘Well … then let’s try and not be worried by it and see what happens,’ I told them. ‘We are ex-directory?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ my father answered.

‘Electoral Roll?’

‘I ticked the box to be left off it.’

‘Chain on the door, so … what else?’

He faced my mother. ‘No private papers in the bin, I burn them all.’

She nodded.

‘And we all watch out for strangers,’ dad suggested.

‘All those spy novels you read will come in handy,’ I told him.

My father smiled, which was rare, and I called Sweden, getting Rolf.

‘It was you I wanted to talk to,’ I told him.

‘Oh?’

‘I … had a London tabloid journalist come looking for me, offering cash in the local bar to make-up stories about me. He got beaten up.’

‘You were arrested?’

‘No, I was sat at home, but the local men like me, I know them all, so they hit him.’

‘Good guard dogs,’ he commended.

‘Look, Ingrid is not very strong for this, nor the girls, so take steps and be careful, you may have a reporter come sniffing around, especially after the next set of adverts. Have a family meeting please, and tonight, and be ready for this.’

‘We will, yes, and … if the exposure is good for making money then it’s also good for these tabloid men, we cannot have it both ways.’

‘No, but I don’t want the girls worried till they toughen up some.’

‘Yes, me too.’

‘Your house is secure?’

‘Very secure, isolated, good neighbours with hunting rifles.’

‘Where is it, exactly?’

‘Look at a map of Stockholm, just north is Hagaparken, we are on the lake.’

‘I’ll visit when it’s warm.’

‘We’ll see you next week, I have the forms to sign already.’

‘Friday, we can meet in a hotel.’

‘They are shooting in the same hotel, then a street someplace.’

‘I stayed at the Edinburgh Hotel last time, just around the corner; they were shooting at 4am. Try for that.’

‘I check now, I get a suite, I claim from my company.’

‘Friday, 2pm, I’ll meet you there.’

‘The girls bring clothes?’

‘The client supplies clothes, but have them take the same white dresses as Tenerife.’

‘I’ll tell them now.’

‘Have that meeting, and get a wolf to guard the door.’

‘We have a part-time huskie.’

‘Part-time?’

‘He comes and goes as he pleases, he takes after my daughters.’

At work the next day the lady journalist from the local paper called me, and I agreed an interview. She had a tape recorder this time and a colleague, and we sat in a side room.

‘Mister Roskov,’ she formally began. ‘Have you heard about the incident at the Royal Cross Pub?’

‘I did, when the police came to see me and my parents. A London tabloid reporter was done over and robbed, they said.’

‘Why did the police come to you?’

‘Just to ask where I was, and to warn me that people like you might come calling and asking questions. I was home with my parents, I don’t drink much nor go out much, haven’t been in the Cross for years, then drinking lemonade. I kept fit for football.

‘And I don’t know what the man thought he would find out about me, I’m eighteen and I just left school last summer, so … I haven’t done much yet.

‘I did hand in my homework late one time, so I guess he might have discovered that, but apart from that I’ve not done anything with my life yet, been modelling just a few months, one trip abroad.

‘So my life so far has been school, exams, work in my uncle’s glass factory, and the recent modelling work. I haven’t had a drunken fight yet, nor done drugs or anything. Give me a few years, eh.’

‘Do you condone the violence?’

‘Was it a robbery, a disagreement, or was it done for my benefit?’

‘We don’t know, it looks like a robbery.’

‘So why ask me if I condone a robbery?’

She knew that she looked like an idiot right now. ‘Well, we think it might have been done to help you, from your friends in the pub.’

‘Oh. Well if it was … then I suppose that it’s nice to be liked, but I hereby ask that no one tries to use violence to defend me like that, because the reporter would have found no dirt and have nothing to print anyhow.

‘I just left school, I live with my parents, I don’t drink, so … they’d have to invent some dirt – which I was told was the case; the man was offering cash for any old story apparently.’

‘Had you met him or seen him?’

‘No, you’re the only journalist that I talk to, but if he was following me down the street then I wouldn’t know, I’m not spy trained or anything.’

‘No calls from the tabloids?’

‘None yet, just you.’

‘Would you chat to them?’

‘Of course, why not?’

The man put in, ‘Late homework? What the fuck was this hack after, from a fucking school leaver?’ He shook his head.

We were done, and they thanked me and headed off, my uncle concerned.

‘Look, if a reporter comes sniffing around here we set Julie on him.’

‘I heard that! And I’ll punch their bollocks in!’

‘See, we have a guard dog.’

‘Hey you, less of the dog.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I told my uncle. I left him looking worried.

I made sure that Bonza got the money for the violent nut job, and that he didn’t mention me, and the next day my mother was reading a half-page story about the incident, and my words about it.

They had me down as urging restraint from locals, and not to break the law, and then joked that the tabloid idiots had discovered that I once handed in my homework late.

They went on to ridicule the tabloids for trying to get dirt on an eighteen year old, and they quoted several men from the pub - who threatened to kill any London reporter sniffing around.

The next Friday night, and I ventured with Bonza to the pub, a raucous welcome issued to me.

‘Ricky, make sure your homework ain’t late again!’ someone shouted.

I bought drinks for many, the rough old barmaid wanting a shag, which was scary. Stood with a lively group and joking about beating up reporters, Bonza’s giant of a brother closed in.

‘You see a reporter, call me, I’ll kill the fucker.’

‘I see a reporter, I call that barmaid.’ They laughed hysterically. I told Bonza’s big brother, ‘She’d take you down.’

‘She would,’ he agreed. ‘Nasty she is, went after her cheating ex with a knife, told the cops she wanted to cut his cock off.’

Faces soured, pained expressions adopted.

‘These twins, you’re doing both?’

‘I am, yes.’

‘One at a time or what?’ he puzzled.

‘Sometimes one at a time, yes, sometimes together.’

‘How does that work? You have just the one cock!’

‘I’ll draw you some pictures. Now fuck off and stop asking.’

‘You’ll do more of them adverts?’

‘Yes, next weekend, I get twenty grand.’

‘Twenty grand, for a weekend?’

‘And two grand a month as long as they show it.’

‘Shit, I’m in the wrong job.’

‘Have you … considered modelling?’ I teased, hysterical laughter aimed at the huge lump stood next to me.

A former black football player from school, Jonesy, closed in. ‘You not playing in the Sunday league?’ he asked me.

‘I can’t commit to it, these modelling jobs come up on weekends, and they pay well.’

‘They get some nice chicks as well…’

‘They do, yeah, so why would I want to play football with you ugly bastards.’

He laughed. ‘Us peasants ain’t got nothing else to do on a Sunday. What about Watford Town?’

‘I … kind of wanted a clean break, from football, was playing all my life, wanted to get the work in and some money made, then university, then something else, a sensible job.

‘As a full time footballer you could break an ankle and then you’re fucked, career over.’

‘I hear ya, yeah, got a mate doing oil rigs, fantastic money but nothing to do in the evenings, just reading.’

‘My kind of job,’ I enthused. ‘What you doing now?’

‘Plumbing, I’m learning all the stuff, brother is in it.’

‘That white step-brother guy, tall?’

‘Yeah, he’s been at it three years now, good money. Someday it will be me and him, our own van. How’s that glass selling stuff?’

‘My boss sends me to just the lady customers.’

He threw his head back and laughed. ‘You had every girl in school after you, even us black kids couldn’t get a look in.’

‘I never touched any of the girls, no shagging till after I left school, I was a football virgin for sure.’

‘You making up for it now or what?’

‘I think I might be, yes.’

Using plenty of cash, I bought everyone drinks and chatted with many, but I left early, soon home and ironing a shirt for Monday.

In work on Monday I booked the Friday off, and the Monday.

‘You just had a holiday,’ my uncle pointed out.

‘When they run the new Mercedes ads you get ten times more exposure, Mister Grumpy.’

‘OK, OK, I’m only kidding.’

‘Sorted Watford?’

‘Delivered, fitted, and when that guy got out from the police he went back and broke two more panes.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ I wagged a finger at my uncle and squinted at him. ‘Did you … pay that guy?’

He shot me a peeved look as Julie laughed at him.

Calls came from Essex, quotes were done, altered and re-done, and my uncle was looking at deliveries of a shit load of glass with frames, so he was happy enough. My commissions were looking good as well, very good.

After lunch, I called the twins for a chat. They asked about their weight, I suggested a few extra pounds would look better on them so long as they exercised, and that they did some sit-ups.

‘Are you … nervous about Mercedes?’ I finally asked.

‘No, you said it should be fun, so we think like that. And father had tightened up the security here, we have two cameras and a machine that makes noise if someone walks in at night.’

‘The reporters won’t break in, they’ll try and photograph you naked and then chat to your school friends.’

‘Here in Sweden we have privacy laws -’

‘British tabloids don’t give a fuck, they’re not Swedish.’

‘Any more problems?’

‘No, I’m busy selling glass to middle-aged ladies.’ The laughter was in stereo. ‘I see you at the hotel on Friday lunchtime.’

‘We land at 10am I think.’

‘Don’t dress sexy when travelling, no heels, blend in.’

‘We do, yes, had some friends from school asking about Tenerife. And about you; they were jealous.’

‘One of my friends asked how I could have sex with two girls, I only have the one cock.’

The laughed loudly. ‘This man is a bit stupid, yes.’

‘Local men, yes. Be a shock for you to meet my old friends from school. Oh, I emailed Jacqueline to suggest the Edinburgh Hotel, but I know she has friends here, in London.’

‘Father has friends there, nice houses, and maybe next time an apartment we can use, Regent’s Park.’

‘Regent’s Park? My god, that would be an expensive apartment!’

‘Yes, worth millions.’

‘I’m looking forwards to Friday, I miss my evil twins.’

‘We miss you too.’

‘No pink hair on Friday.’

‘No, but what about length?’

‘I think it would look better a little longer, so just let it grow some.’

‘OK.’

Quality, not quantity.

During the week I practised my driving of a lunchtime, being pulled over by a patrol car with flashing lights just for fun.

‘Ricky, you stud muffin!’ they had shouted before driving off, my instructor relieved, and cursing the police as I laughed at him.

Thursday, I packed a bag and cleaned my suit jacket, not nervous just wanting the fun and games to begin, my mother worried about tabloid reporters but also angry at them, my father reading “Spycraft” books, which made me smile for a whole hour.

Friday morning I set off early, and not in disguise, my trademark dark grey suit on, and I deliberately sat in the middle of the cheap seats, soon recognised by a solicitor and picking his brains on legal aspects, and for free.

A man joined in, a Leicester company director, a large factory that made soft furnishings. He finally asked, ‘Are you … a free agent, for ad campaigns?’

‘Yes, no fixed contracts. You need some stills, or video?’

‘Depends on the price.’

‘I work cheap for local Leicester companies, day rate, just that the adverts that go all around Europe pay me a few grand per country, so it adds up.’ I gave him Trish Markham’s name and number.

‘Dumb idea, that tabloid reporter asking around for dirt on you, my factory staff wanted to kill the man.’

‘I grew up in Leicester, played for the junior town team, I know a great many people.’

‘Including my sister’s mother, you sat in her house to stop burglars.’

‘Student power, I was student president.’

The journey time passed quickly, the people sat around me keen for details about the Mercedes advert. They wished me well as I boarded the tube, and as I got a loud, ‘Oh … my … god!’ from a group of teenage girls. I gave them an embarrassed nod.

At the Edinburgh Hotel the staff were happy to see me - yet in a detached and professional way, my room ready, and I dumped my bags. The girls were on the top floor, a suite, and I knocked ten minutes later. ‘Room service, does someone need servicing?’

Rolf answered the door. And just stared at me. ‘My knees need oiling, they creak.’

With a cheeky grin I pushed past him and hugged the girls, a hug for Ingrid, a yelp issued as I lifted her up. ‘Got the kettle on, love?’ I asked, smacking her arse to another yelp.

‘Leave my wife alone, please, you’re way younger than I am.’

I told him, ‘On the way here, on the train, I sold some ads to a man running a factory in my home town, video as well maybe.’

‘How?’

‘Just started chatting.’

He shook his head. ‘You do sales better than modelling, and you do the modelling well.’

‘Rolf, when you sit in a plane, chat to the man next to you, he could be an ad exec for all you know.’

He nodded. ‘I will keep my salesman’s hat on, yes. Your room is through that door.’

‘I have a room downstairs as well,’ I told them as I checked the next room. There was a huge double bed, just the one.

Back in the main room, I told Rolf, ‘It’s nice, but me and the girls are hiding our sexual activities from the grumpy old man.’

The girls looked shocked, but grinned and turned away.

‘We have no secrets,’ Rolf told me. ‘As that Roskov man told the girls, stick to the truth.’

Sat with cups of tea, they showed me the shooting schedule.

‘I never got one of these,’ I complained.

‘It was faxed to us by your agent,’ they explained.

‘I don’t have a fax machine, so maybe she posted it.’ I had a quick look. ‘Tomorrow starts at 10am, Sunday starts at 7am in some street.’

Rita put in, ‘The hotel is very pleased to host the advert, they said, and has closed the bar for us.’

‘Well, yes, they get some free publicity.’

A knock on the door, and Ingrid let in Jacqueline, big hugs for everyone, soon sat again with a coffee for Jacqueline.

‘10am start,’ I told her.

‘They want to try and get both new ads done, plus the reshoot of the original. I think we have time, it’s a simple format and very few words, just the languages as before.’ She handed me the phrase in Norwegian and Swedish.

I tried the Swedish, the girls laughing. Rolf corrected me, and I soon had it down.

I told him, ‘This will show in Sweden, so then the cat’s out the bag and your daughters are famous. And then you get invites to all the good parties.’

Ingrid put in, ‘My brother, Freddy, is a politician, maybe someday the Prime Minister. He will love it.’

Rolf added, ‘My brother is the Transport Minister in Copenhagen, which is a lot less grand than it sounds.’

I faced Jacqueline. ‘Did you get a script and an offer?’

‘And provisionally accepted. I play a madam.’

‘You old slut you,’ I told her, making her laugh.

‘Slut?’ Rolf queried.

‘She plays the boss of a whore house.’

‘Ah.’

‘Well paid?’ I rudely asked Jacqueline.

‘Almost a million, three months shoot in Italy, so well worth it. I owe you – these adverts got me the lime light, and the tabloid interest sealed it, the director saw me and wanted me for the part.’

‘You owe me a slow dance, that bar was too crowded.’

‘Next week I have another interview, and everyone is interested in the new adverts. And it’s coming up to Christmas, so Mercedes will hammer the adverts.’

‘Cars are not toys,’ I puzzled.

‘No, but January is car month.’

‘Ah, yes. I’m not a driver yet, don’t know things like that.’ I faced Rolf. ‘You would car shop in January?’

‘Many do, new plates, and sometimes a good bargain.’

I faced Ingrid. ‘You drive?’

‘I learn when pregnant.’

‘When … pregnant?’ I puzzled.

‘I knew I would go back and forth to the hospital, and Rolf was working in Brussels.’

‘No time off for fathers?’

‘Yes,’ Rolf told me. ‘But after not before.’

‘So you were in Brussels?’ I asked Ingrid.

‘No, Copenhagen with my family. Rolf and I, we had a house, but I stayed with them, Rolf in Brussels.’

‘Did you want him working closer to home?’

‘No, you see, we met in Brussels, and when pregnant he wanted me there, I wanted to be in Copenhagen towards the end, and Rolf came three days a week by train.’

‘Train?’

‘Just four hours,’ he told me. ‘Fast train.’

I asked Ingrid, ‘With twins, were you huge?’

‘Not so huge, they were small at birth, three weeks early.’

‘Was that the only time that they were early for something?’

The girls laughed loudly.

‘Yes, never early again after that,’ Ingrid scolded her daughters.

I faced Jacqueline. ‘In my home town last week, a tabloid reporter came looking for dirt, offering money. The locals beat him up.’

‘To be expected, yes, they’re terrible. Are you in trouble?’

‘No, I had nothing to do with it, but this reporter … he walks up to an old school friend of mine and offers cash to make-up dirt about me, and gets hit.’

‘Serves him right. I punched one, found him in my hotel bathroom.’

‘People in my home town like me, they look out for me. And what dirt can they find, I just left school? The local paper joked about finding some dirt on me, and that I once handed in my homework late.’

They laughed.

I faced the girls. ‘The exotic photoshoots … I think they may be a bit much for you.’

‘Why?’ they puzzled.

‘Ten days, eight hour days, thirty outfits a day at least, hot weather, bad food…’

Rolf exchanged a slow look with them. ‘Not fun, but work.’

‘We hear about such things, yes,’ the twins put in.

I told them, ‘If we do it, then we fly two days before the shoot, and you get two days rest in the middle, or they can fuck off. They only offer eight hundred Euro a day, and no time off to see the islands.’

Jacqueline told me, ‘Shout at the agents, they’ll cave if you’re wanted by the client.’

Ingrid asked, ‘Ten days, no rest?’

‘No rest.’

‘Hard work, yes, and in a hot country.’

I began, ‘The point is … if the girls do it and don’t like … it affects the rest of their careers, their attitude to the job. Do it and get paid, or do it and enjoy it? If they don’t enjoy it then they won’t sparkle for the camera.’

‘Correct,’ Jacqueline put in.

‘Stand please,’ I told her. She stood. ‘Twins, stand, face us, back-up a bit.’

I held Jacqueline’s arm. ‘OK, twins, I chose Jacqueline over you, and you think you’re fantastic. Stand on one hip, fold your arms, tap a foot and look mad at us.’

‘So we just look like mum,’ they said, Rolf laughing loudly, Ingrid squinting at her daughters as Jacqueline laughed.

They stared at us, tapping a foot.

‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘Ingrid, you trained them well.’

We sat.

‘She does that to father, yes,’ the twins told me.

‘Well the first time you do that to me for real you’ll just look sexy and cute.’

‘Watch,’ the twins told me. Hard stares adopted, they cracked their knuckles.

I screwed-up my face. ‘Please don’t do that,’ I requested. ‘That’s a horrible sound.’

‘Very horrible,’ Rolf scolded his daughters.

‘We did that in school.’

‘I’m going to get an hour’s sleep,’ Jacqueline told us, and we stood. ‘Food in the hotel restaurant later, it’s select, but hopefully some paparazzi – all the publicity helps.’

‘Should we tip them off?’ I asked.

‘Already, my lovely boy, already, I’m an old pro.’

‘And being type cast, yes.’ I smacked her arse at the door.

Back inside, I told the girls, ‘Massage time. Me not you. Ingrid, I’m borrowing your evil twins for a few hours.’

‘We’ll sell them for the right price,’ Ingrid told me, the twins squinting at her.

I led the girls down, and to my room, the shower soon tested, elbows hitting the walls; it was not designed for three. On the bed, they massaged me as we chatted quietly.

An hour later I massaged Rita, but I also tried what I had learnt from Julie and Susan – the vagina massage. Rita was surprised, then happy, then gasping, then moaning, a lick of the clit to finish but she yelped and got a hand down to stop me.

Nudging Frieda onto her back, we kissed and I playfully bit her neck before I thrust away, slowly working up a sweat, practising what Julie had taught me; close to finishing and slow down, but not so much as to lose the erection, speed up again.

I made Frieda cry out, so that was good, and I finished a few seconds later. Rolling over, we cuddled, the sheet and blankets pulled up; this was not warm Tenerife, this was a cold British hotel room.

‘You think ten days is too bad for us?’ one finally asked.

‘Only way to know is to try it, but if you’re sick or tired you still have to work. It sucks. If it was a three day shoot, fine.’

‘You can decide, or just shout at them.’

I fondled their cold arses. ‘I missed your arses.’

‘Just that?’

‘Yes, your best feature.’ I got a dig in the ribs. ‘No, seriously, great arses.’

The girls dressed up in the same white dresses as in Tenerife, but now they added beige belts above the hips, beige handbags, and they looked good enough to eat.

I had on my usual dark grey suit, which the girls liked, and we headed down. Out the lift, and I spotted the snapper in a suit. He started forwards.

‘Girls, on my arms, don’t smile like a school photo, look like you want to have sex with the cameraman, with a crooked smile, one leg out, weight on one hip, shoulders back.

They posed, I put a hand around each waist and posed, and we were snapped as Rolf and Rita hid away. The man closed in, knelt and snapped away, people in the bar now recognising us.

I finally stepped to him. ‘If you cooperate you get all the good shots, some staged shots.’

‘Sure.’

‘We’ll eat here in the hotel with Jacqueline Dupont. You want some staged sexual tension shots?’

‘Shit yes.’

‘Follow us then, and leave out the parents. Got a card?’

He handed me a card as we walked.

‘Syndicated freelancer?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, most of us are.’

‘Do a good job and I’ll get you on some foreign shoots.’

‘Definitely, mate.’

‘Call me Ricky.’

‘How old are you?’ he queried.

‘Eighteen.’

‘Shit, old head for eighteen.’

‘I get that a lot.’

I sat with the twins, Jacqueline soon joining us, and as she walked in I nodded at the snapper and he got ready - she avoided looking at him even though he was obvious, and I greeted her with a hug.

‘Snapper found us then,’ she whispered.

‘On the Roskov payroll.’

I pulled out the chair for her and she sat, menus handed to us.

Jacqueline told me, ‘Trick is to not eat too much, not drink much, or they pick up on it.’

Menus studied, and we ordered, the high-class clientele glancing our way, and I soon sipped a beer, sat now between Jacqueline and the twins, and I was soon chatting to the twins about travel costs and expenses as Jacqueline spoke to Ingrid or Rolf, one spare seat on the far side.

‘We play,’ Rita told me, a nod at the piano.

‘You play well?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have ten to fifteen minutes before the food arrives…’

They eased out, Rolf and Ingrid puzzled, and I moved towards the snapper, a nod and he got ready. The twins sat, adjusted the seat – half each, and they started to play, the piano louder than I would have thought, and we soon had a semi-classical piece in stereo – so it sounded like.

The snapper moved in and took a few shots. Back with me, he noted, ‘They play well.’

‘Classically trained, and they speak six languages.’

‘Smart girls. You thought about a Bond movie?’

‘I’m … not an actor, and I’m eighteen,’ I puzzled.

‘You look more like Bond than he does, and you have the girls.’

‘Well, five or ten years from now maybe I could do some acting.’

The girls finished the piece, getting a sedate applause, soon onto a classical piece I recognised as the hotel manager appeared behind me.

‘I hope they don’t expect to be paid, we have our own pianist,’ he quipped.

I smiled. ‘No, they wanted to show me what they can do.’

He rudely looked our snapper up and down. ‘And this gentlemen is…’

‘Getting you a shit load of free publicity.’

‘Haze Hall is here, alone.’

‘The model?’

‘The aging former model, yes.’

‘Invite her, we have a spare seat.’

He headed off.

My snapper noted, ‘Haze was hot when she was young, Pan’s People dancer, and Benny Hill.’

‘I remember, yes. At least, as a kid I saw the re-runs.’

The lady appeared, smiled, and she was dated yet still curvy. I shook her hand. ‘Ricky Roskov. Come, we have a seat.’

I led her around as the girls played, Jacqueline recognising her and saying hello.

When the girls finished playing, I waved them back without anyone seeing, and they received a louder applause this time. Sat, I introduced Haze and explained to everyone that she had been a model, the twins soon chatting quietly but rapidly, lots of questions about the industry, our snapper getting the scene.

Food was delivered, and I tucked in, starving hungry.

‘God, Ricky, do they not feed you?’ Jacqueline asked.

‘I missed lunch. And I could eat three of these, trust me. Oh, I had an idea for advert number four, very quick to shoot it.’

‘Pitch it, my lovely, while we’re hot news.’

My snapper moved in. ‘I’m off to make a deadline,’ he whispered.

‘I have your number,’ I whispered back, conspiratorial nods exchanged.

With the food consumed, wine sipped, we finally headed to the hotel bar as the real pianist played, and we stood as a group. I made a point of asking Haze about the industry, and she shocked me with a few details.

Stood with Jacqueline later, I asked, ‘You visiting family this trip?’

‘I visited a few this week, more after the shoot, I have cousins. Parents are all dead, but there are eight cousins about the same age, and they all have at least two kids.’

‘Must be an expensive Christmas.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘They’re so hard to buy for.’

‘I approached Mercedes in my home town, six hundred quid deal, just an hour.’

She smiled widely. ‘Come be my agent.’

‘I’ll send work your way, when they need someone that looks like an old hooker.’

‘I love roles like that - I can be bad, and mean to people.’

‘Snapper thought I would make a good James Bond.’

‘Definitely, in a few years.’

‘Not sure that I can act.’

‘Everyone can act, we learn it as kids,’ she insisted.

A grey-haired man stopped to puzzle us, then smiled at Rolf. A huge hugging reunion followed, with a former Swedish ambassador to Britain.

The girls rushed in to hug him, so I turned to Ingrid. She explained, ‘He was a mentor to Rolf, and he was at the house when the girls were young, then EU, then ambassador, retired now.’

The former ambassador squared up to Jacqueline. ‘I confess to having a second love to my wife, your screen image.’

Jacqueline actually blushed. ‘Where is your wife?’

‘Ah, she passed ten years ago, so now I am a carefree bachelor of sorts. A young seventy-two.’

‘You look good for your age, yes,’ she agreed.

He faced me. ‘And you I read about, and see in the adverts. You are really eighteen years old?’

‘Yes.’

‘Please take care of my favourite twins.’

‘I rule them with a rod of iron, which they tolerate for some reason.’

‘Some women respect that, yes. I know Rolf failed with the rod of iron.’

‘Parental love gets in the way, when it comes to sparing the rod.’

‘You are well read.’

‘Drink?’

‘Why not, I am retired.’

I introduced Haze, and explained the dancing. He had loved Pan’s People.

Rita explained, ‘He is like an uncle to us, and he took us fishing sometimes. His wife used to cook for us and spoil us. He was with mum when we were born, father was an hour late.’

Drink in hand, I explained the new Mercedes adverts to our retired ambassador with Jacqueline. He had a house in the south of France and so got into it deep with Jacqueline.

I turned to Rolf and Ingrid. ‘Late? For the birth of the twins?’

Rolf explained, ‘I should have been an hour early, but the train hit a cow – that happens sometimes in Denmark.’

‘Ingrid, could you not hold them in for an hour!’ I mock complained.

‘Hell no, I wanted them out.’

‘Two minutes apart?’

‘Yes, and they settled quickly and fed. And we bought two of everything, but they slept much better when in the same cot, then the same bed.’

‘That saves money,’ I said with a grin.

‘It did,’ Rolf agreed. ‘One bed till they were eight years old. Then Rita started to rebel, which we wanted, but then they grew back towards each other. When we went on holiday, two double beds was OK.’

Ingrid asked, ‘You arrange this photographer man?’

‘No, Jacqueline did, but I adopted him. He’ll cooperate, and that’s good because I don’t want the girls stalked.’

They nodded.

An hour later we led the entire gang up to the suite, tea made, Haze heading off after half an hour, the former diplomat, Thomas, telling me tales of the terrible twins – which the twins loved.

Jacqueline headed off to bed after a hug from all of us, to be on set for 9.30am.

I left them at 11.30pm, and firmly told the girls to sleep. In my room, which was cold, I adjusted the dated radiators and got to bed after putting the chain on the door, the hotel staff being asked to wake me at 8.30am.

In the morning I sat with a lonely cup of tea after my hot shower, then headed up. The girls were ready, but nervous.

‘Stand there. OK, I walk in, you want to eat me, but I don’t stop to talk to you.’

I practised walking in and I got coy smiles from the twins. ‘Good. Now you see me with Jacqueline, you are surprised and pissed off, hurt and offended, shoulders down. I walk up and stop, you do the look. Quality, not quantity, and you’re shocked, mouths opening, a little anger, eyes wide. That’s it, simple.

‘But the director will have his own ideas as well, just follow his lead and be professional, even if he is a dick. Simple. Ready?’

I led them out a few minutes later, and with jackets and coats on we walked down the street, no snappers evident, and around the corner.

Security recognised me, and I led the girls and their parents in, finding Jacqueline sat in make-up. ‘Get your lines right this time, or I’ll take you to my hotel room and ravish you.’

‘I’ve heard that before,’ she said with a grin.

The girls were directed to make-up, but the lady in charge of make-up had little to do as Rolf and Ingrid sat to one side, roped in as extras in the background shots as I spoke to the Mercedes marketing lady and Trish Markham.

‘You’re in the morning papers,’ Trish told me.

‘Oh dear, did the snapper I bribed do a good job?’

They laughed.

‘He did,’ the Mercedes lady approved. She pointed. ‘My boss, and his boss.’

The two men in suits walked up to me and shook. One began, heavily accented, ‘We are loving each step you take.’

‘I did a static advert for my local Mercedes dealership.’

‘We know, they sent it, so we do one for all of them.’

‘And I make … how much?’

They laughed. ‘You make some money, yes.’

The second man began, ‘Tell me, this reporter beaten up?’

‘Nothing to do with me, but the people in my home town love me. This reporter walked into a bar in a bad area, and offered money to anyone that would make-up a story about me.’

They exchanged a look.

‘We get some shits like this, yes, you must expect it.’

‘Few people in my home town will talk badly of me, and I have no dirt, just one time I handed in my homework late.’

They laughed. ‘You are eighteen, so what dirt, eh?’

‘Give me ten years, then some sex and drugs and rock and roll.’

They again laughed.

‘Oh, I have an idea for fourth advert, quick to shoot, an hour.’

‘Good, yes, we liked the story line.’

‘Not too sexy for you?’

‘No, not at all, and in Germany it is now a catch phrase. It is in the Bible, no copyright.’

Ready and called, twins ready and being reassured by me, I took my mark, waited, and I walked in on queue and exchanged a steamy look with the twins, three takes only.

Next, the twins followed me with their eyes as I progressed down the bar, nailed in two takes. I collected Jacqueline, three takes, and we walked down the bar with heads held high, four takes. Side models, six takes plus five extra takes.

I approached the twins, who were looking peeved, three takes, said my lines in various languages, twenty-six takes, and the twins watched me as I led Jacqueline off, four takes. Break called.

I told the twins, ‘We do the outside scenes for you tomorrow.’

Ready ten minutes later, I was filmed walking in with Jacqueline, heads held high, and she heads to the toilet. The twins, in black wigs, ditch the wigs and follow her in. A scream is heard.

Jacqueline walks out covered in talc, trailing toilet paper, the twins emerge and fold their arms. Stunned guests stare at Jacqueline, a right old mess. She says nothing, just raises her forearm, I hold it, a glance at the twins, at the mess, I say nothing, and I lead a proud Jacqueline out.

The twins are shot five times, arms folded and looking smug.

Cut! Break!

I told Rolf and Ingrid, ‘That’s much of it nailed. But there will be a few slight adjustments. And the outside scenes are tricky.’

An hour later, and the girls had to pose - and fold their arms and look smug again, adjustments called by the director, lighting adjusted, a few shots from the back taken.

The weather was OK, so they would try a few car shots today to save time, so they informed us. Time was money!

Shot One, I click my belt on in a car with a green screen behind, and Jacqueline points ahead, the twins stood next to a deep puddle. I glance at her, at the twins, and start the car, the camera on the bonnet, the windscreen missing.

Five takes, and the director is happy. And I laughed as Jacqueline was made up, and covered in talc and shaving foam, and sneezing some.

Ready!

Shot Two, I adjust a plastic seat cover, and Jacqueline eases in and sits on it. My eyes go sideways to her, I look ahead and hide a grin, the engine started. Six takes, and we’re there, and I never once wanted to hit the director.

Finished at 5pm, they let us go, car shots to set-up, some of which had stunt drivers and models in, not us.

At the hotel I enjoyed a shower with the girls, or tried to, the twins chatty-excited and telling me all about it, even though I had been there.

On the bed I hit a damp pussy, not sure whose it was - or caring whose it was, and I found it to be Rita, who moaned quietly, so I was soon thrusting into Frieda, who finished quickly and loudly.

We finally cuddled. ‘Hungry?’

‘Starving,’ they agreed.

Jumping up, we dressed quickly and ordered room service, but we left Rolf and Ingrid alone in case they were resting. Food delivered twenty minutes later, and we tucked in as if we had not eaten in days, the girls still chatty-excited.

Finally stuffed, we lay on the bed and relaxed, the TV turned on. I had an idea, and went downstairs, soon back up with the papers, and we found the photos of us as we sat on the bed.

‘We don’t speak six languages, it’s five,’ Rita pointed out.

‘Who cares?’ I responded. ‘They won’t test you. You look nice at the piano, and the staged shot is good. Have to wait for the colour supplemental tomorrow, better quality.’

In the morning we had adjustments to make, eyes seen in car mirrors, belts clicked, engines started, an hour used up. It was time.

The girls stood wrapped in heavy coats, trying to stay warm on the pavement. A shout, they handed over the coats, and people took their places under a leaden grey sky brightened by tall lights.

The stunt driver got ready, they poured warm water and mud into the puddle, we were almost set, angle checked, no less than six cameras on the girls as Rolf and Ingrid watched from across the street.

‘OK, twins waiting for taxi! Action!’

The Mercedes crept forwards, suddenly accelerating, a handbrake turn in the puddle, the girls soaked, the car coming back this way slowly. People ran in, mud sprayed onto the girls, and ran back out.

‘Hold … look down, arms wide, good … look towards the car, scream in frustration. One more time.’

Three takes, and the muddy wet girls ran inside for a quick change, and because it was cold out here.

Warm drinks for the girls, thick coats on, and we had to wait. The car had to go again, twice, then they were happy.

The director walked to me. ‘You had a third sketch?’

I detailed it, it was simple, and they smiled.

Shot Three. Cameras set up, Jacqueline peered around a door at the twins down the bar. A nod at me, and I walk in exchanging sexy looks with the various groups of girls in the bar. At the bar I notice the twins, so I close in.

They look cautious, but also like they want to eat me. I circle them whilst rubbing them, a hand on each arse, they smile, I rub past them and to the bar, hurriedly washing my hands in an ice bucket and wiping them with a barmaid’s dishcloth.

The twins puzzle that, and I rush out.

The twins exchange looks, check each other, and they now have black hand-prints on their arses - in expensive white dresses. A shriek, and they walk out of the bar.

I belt up in the car with Jacqueline, and we wait, the girls emerging and rushing off down the street, a hint of a smile from Jacqueline. Car started, we drive off.

7pm, the re-takes done, and we’re done, a simple advert with no one speaking.

We would hang around tomorrow in case of re-takes, and we headed back around to our own hotel for a hot shower, the girls giggly happy and looking good enough to eat, Rolf and Ingrid having filmed and photographed the girls getting covered in mud.

In the shower we washed, the girls kneeling to give me a blowjob and just about fighting over my cock.

‘Hey, careful,’ I urged, but I did so with a contented smirk.

I finally came in two mouths just about. Having washed my cock in the shower flow, we exited the shower, in a hurry to meet the others down in the restaurant.

The girls took ages to get ready, I took three minutes and so sat flicking channels on the TV. Finally ready, they had on the same style of dresses only now bright red, white belts and bags.

‘You’ve been spending that money you made.’

‘Of course, models need clothes.’

Down in the lift, and the snapper was waiting. I led the girls to him, and we posed, he knelt and took snaps, finally thanked as we headed to the restaurant.

Table grabbed, menus issued, and Ingrid and Rolf joined us five minutes later, Jacqueline ten minutes after that, Trish and the Mercedes lady behind them.

I asked the Mercedes lady, ‘Did they get all they wanted?’

‘We have to wait on the video editors, but we like the idea of silent movies in the future, simple format.’

‘I can create more, yes.’

‘The last one we liked, the chemistry with you and the girls, and you don’t even have to act. The shots looked great, the way the girls look at you.’

‘All staged, trust me.’

The girls shot me looks, sexy complaining looks.

I faced Jacqueline. ‘Cleaned up now, you dirty woman?’

‘Took bloody ages to get that crap off me, was baking soda and shaving foam, and they said that a water shower will dissolve it all - but it took ages.’

I faced the girls. ‘Were you cold?’

‘No, we’re from Sweden, we swim in a cold lake.’

‘Happy with your first assignment?’ I asked.

‘Yes, it was great fun, not hard work. Now we want to see it.’

I faced Jacqueline. ‘Do you watch your own movies?’

‘Hell no, I hate that, I avoid premieres, I just do the red carpet and sneak out the back! When I see myself I cringe.’

‘When I see myself … it’s a stranger, I can’t see that it’s me.’

‘You’ll get used to it,’ she told me as we ordered food and drinks.

Rolf put in, ‘I see them as five years old and I check the time for bed, then I have to remind myself that they’re all grown up. It went fast. Babies one day, acting the next day.’

‘Where did they grow up?’ I asked.

‘Many places. My home in Copenhagen, which is still our home, Brussels for a few years, Stockholm on and off, then from age eleven in school we settled them but I still travelled.’

I faced Ingrid. ‘You coped alone?’

‘My sister lived with us, big house, and my niece was studying in University Stockholm so she stayed there, I was never alone. Rolf was with us most weekends, and sometimes a week - these EU men have plenty of time off.’

Rolf put in, ‘We always had three months off in the summer as well.’

I faced the Mercedes lady. ‘Belgian, yes?’

‘Yes, not far from Brussels.’

Rolf told her where he had lived, and she knew the street, she had been in college not far away.

Jacqueline put in, ‘My cousin married an MEP, she has a house in Brussels, some place called Spon.’

‘South side, like a village,’ the Mercedes lady responded. ‘Very pretty in summer. In the last war it was the German headquarters.’

‘I liked the canals, and we had a boat trip,’ Jacqueline added.

‘Is Brussels all canals?’ I asked.

‘A big central canal, yes,’ Rolf told me. ‘Was a big ship canal, still in use. Now, a good high-speed rail link to Strasburg of course, and from Brussels we would go by train to Paris, south on the fast train and to Nice.’

‘I do that trip regular,’ Jacqueline put in. ‘And Nice to Brindisi, a real scenic ride.’

Food was delivered, and I tucked in, starved. I would need pudding.

Addressing the Mercedes lady, I asked, ‘You’ll do static images for the UK?’

‘Europe wide, all dealerships, while the adverts are running.’

I pointed at Trish. ‘Get that in writing.’

They laughed.

‘We have a contract for usage,’ she assured me.

I pointed a fork at Jacqueline. ‘Next sketch, and the twins pull your dress off.’

‘Ha!’

Rita leant in. ‘Stay away from our man, or else!’

Jacqueline also leant in. ‘I’m older and wiser, trollop.’

Those at the table laughed.

‘Trollop?’ Rita queried, Rolf explaining. She faced Jacqueline. ‘How fast can you cover a hundred metres, old sofa?’

Jacqueline mock gasped. ‘Old sofa?’

‘We run you down and bitch slap you.’

‘I’ll run you over in my car, my nice Mercedes.’

I faced the Mercedes lady. ‘I see a fifth advert coming.’

She smiled widely and nodded, Ingrid and Rolf laughing.

An hour later we stood at the bar, a few guests saying hello, and we responded politely, not telling anyone to get lost.

Jacqueline was tired, and had been at the wine, so I escorted her to her room, a hug and a squeeze of her arse. In the suite we sat, tea made, the girls looking great in red.

Rolf began, ‘I had worried for the girls, but it is fun, and you were right – if it’s not fun then why do it, and why want to do more? This has been a good trip, and Tenerife was a good holiday as well.’

‘The stills usage could make us fifty thousand Euro according to my agent, they’ll be used in thousands of showrooms. My residuals are set to be five thousand a month, which … is just a number, I can’t relate to it.’

‘A lot of money for a young man,’ Ingrid noted. ‘But it’s so hard to think of you as eighteen.’

‘Nineteen next week. Wednesday.’

‘We can hang around, it’s just two more days,’ Rolf suggested. ‘And I have friends here to go see. I own half an apartment in Regent’s Park, often rented to rich Arabs visiting London.’

Rolf took a call on his clever mobile phone, but it was not an Ericsson like Jacqueline’s. Back with us, he told me, ‘Swedish TV wants to interview the girls.’

The girls and Ingrid were listening in.

‘No, they’re not ready,’ I told him, and he seemed to be asking my permission anyhow. ‘They could be tripped up. Wait till the ads are running, I’ll sort the Q&A with the girls, then we do it, not make a mistake.

‘If the girls go on live show and stumble then they lose all the modelling work, it has to be right. Do you know the interviewer?’

‘He’s a sort of comedian.’

‘Smutty?’

‘No, not really, he would never be allowed to ask the girls about sex, not in Sweden.’

‘Pre-planned questions or live?’

He made a call. ‘They would stage it, questions ready, or the show could flop live on air.’

‘That’s better, I’ll create some answers and the girls can practice it.’

‘What is Q and A?’ Rita asked.

‘Questions and answers, you practise in a video camera.’ I faced Rolf. ‘Tell them yes, two weeks or so from now, when the new adverts hit Sweden.’

He made a call as Ingrid asked, ‘When will the new adverts be shown?’

‘One a week up to Christmas someone told me. There are four ads, and it’s just six weeks to Christmas.’

Rolf returned. ‘The agent will sort it, provisional dates.’

‘I’ll work out some questions and jokes, we have to get it right, the girls classy and elegant – but with humour. One wrong interview and it’s all over.’

I faced the twins. ‘Imagine it’s live TV, and they ask you if your father treated you well as kids. You say yes but hesitate, and every sees that.’

‘He did treat us well,’ Rita insisted.

‘Yes, compared to most parents around the world, but you still had issues as twins. You could say the wrong thing if they ask: are you parents happy for you to dress identical?’

They exchanged concerned looks.

I added, ‘You have to be happy being twins, your parents have to be happy with it, or the camera picks it up.’

‘We’re happy being identical, a pair,’ Rita insisted.

I faced Rolf. And waited.

‘I … was not happy, I … was worried that they may not lead normal lives, but now … I see them act and model together and … if they are happy like that then I’m happy for them.

‘They make a good team, a pair as they say, and it works for the acting, they can make money from it and grow and develop, and the acting will make them more sure about themselves.

‘What I want for them … is for them to be strong, in a world of idiots and bad men, and not to worry as a father does. And what you said in that bar in Tenerife was the wake-up call, they need to fight back and shout at men.’

‘That we can work on,’ I assured him. ‘And we’ll get the Q&A right, and the interview, and afterwards … they’ll be more confident. And pestered when they go shopping.’

Ingrid put in, ‘Sweden has TV stars, I pass one regular, we never bother them. Sweden is not like England.’

Finally in my room, the heating finally working, they slipped off the red dresses and nudged me into the shower. Back out, dry-ish and on the bed, I went for a double pussy massage whilst figuring that it may not work.

I knelt, they lay either side of me, and I practised what Julie and Susan had taught me for ten minutes. It seemed to be working.

‘Turn over, kneel, arse up and head down.’

They did as asked, and now I had two thumbs in and pressing down and out near the “G” Spot, forefinger hitting the clit, other fingers massaging the front vagina wall, the girls moaning in approval.

‘Correct me if you need to.’

‘No, that’s it,’ came in ragged breaths.

They came to loud moans, and almost in time with each other, soon flopping down.

‘Good?’

‘Good,’ they agreed, my stiff cocked aimed into one, no idea which one, and I thrust away for my pleasure after kissing, all my own pleasure now, no need to worry about satisfying them.

It was Frieda, and she was loud as she came again. I had not finished, so I moved over to Rita, soon thrusting away.

She gasped, ‘Pussy still tingle from before.’

I slowed down, waited, eased up, and she came, a surprise for me. Still going, I enjoyed myself, finishing loudly and enjoying the finish more than usual. A roll over, and we cuddled.

‘So the pussy massage … makes the shagging better, yeah?’ I breathed out.

‘Much better.’

‘Always tell me what you want, and how, and that way I can improve.’

In the morning, I ventured out of the hotel and on to cold and blowy London streets, and I bought the glossy pull-out magazine. Back in the room, we studied it, the girls looking great in their red dresses. The caption read, “The next James Bond?”

After breakfast we sat around waiting, a call in to Trish but she had not heard anything yet. Rolf had his mobile, Trish had the number to reach us, so we got a taxi to Regent’s Park and to the apartment block.

A concierge stood at the door. Rolf told him, ‘Swedish, Apartment 23.’

He opened the door and Rolf led Ingrid in. The man squinted at me.

‘British, egg and chips for lunch,’ I told the man.

‘You’re in that advert.’

‘Yep.’

‘Moving in?’

‘No, the Swedes own it. Besides, I couldn’t pigging afford this place.’

Up in the dated lift, we arrived at the dimly lit fourth floor and walked to the end. Number entered to a clever key pad, and the door clicked open. Inside, I found a huge curved apartment, a view on three sides, the noise of the traffic just about registering.

It was mostly dark wood, but the kitchen was very modern, metal and plastics, and I peered down at the traffic, a view of the trees in the park.

‘What’s this worth?’ I asked Rolf.

‘My part is worth three million, I paid one million many years ago.’

‘And rental income?’

‘Can be as high as half a million a year, very rich men bringing families and also business executive groups here. They can sleep six or eight.’

‘Good investment then.’

‘It has been, yes. Property prices here keep increasing.’

I had a nose into the bedrooms, each with huge beds and dark wood cabinets, before we sat with cups of tea; the next listed apartment booking was a week away, a posh London company being responsible for rentals and upkeep.

At 5pm, back at the hotel suite, there was still no news, so we assumed that there were no re-takes and we all relaxed. No news was good news.

Trish reported that the cars had been filmed again, a few new angles, but that was it.

At 7pm we got the message, that they were happy and we could go, but that we might be called back for a few hours work someday soon. Jacqueline had called, off to see family. But first I asked her to come to the room.

Sat with Rolf at a table we scanned the schedule that Trish had given me, the countries listed, the original ad and the four new ads, the residuals calculations as far as we knew it.

We had a table of figures, and I would be making a great deal of money. It was way less than Jacqueline, more than the girls, but still a great deal of money to me.

With Jacqueline thanked and gone, I asked Rolf and Ingrid, ‘Do you want to meet my parents?’

‘Sure,’ Rolf answered, a glance at his wife.

I told them, ‘Not many nice hotels in Leicester, and my parents live in a small house. We could go in the morning, train, see my uncle and the factory and then my parents later, my father will be in work till 5.30pm.’

Rolf called down to reception and asked that they find a nice hotel               in Leicester. I had told him: south side.

He mentioned a name, and I nodded; the place was like an old castle in nice grounds, and on a river outside the main town. Number dictated to him by reception, and he called, two superior rooms booked.

I called my parents to warn them; no Jacqueline, just my twins and their parents.

In the morning we set off at 10am, tube and train, and the girls were in disguise and dressed down, bags carried. The train was quiet, no one bothering us, and at Leicester Station we grabbed a minibus-style taxi south to the old stone hotel.

The girl on reception did a double take, and then smiled, welcoming us to the hotel.

I told her, ‘It’s a secret visit, so please don’t tell anyone till after tomorrow.’

She nodded politely, and I had to wonder if the news would get out - or if anyone would come to the hotel with a camera, as we dumped luggage in rooms.

I had not warned my uncle, and we arrived in a large taxi, the girls dressed sexy-smart but in suitable clothes for a cold climate. Julie was shocked, angered, surprised and exited all at the same time, my uncle stepping out from his office.

‘These are the twins and their parents, and you’ll see them in the new Mercedes advert coming up to Christmas,’ I told my uncle. ‘The twins not the parents.’

He shook their hands and welcomed them just as my lady reporter turned up with a cameraman, the local paper about to get an exclusive here – as I had arranged.

The girls posed with me in the office, with my uncle after he put his jacket on, then on the factory floor, and finally outside and stood next to a glass-handling stillage.

Back inside, the lady reporter asked the twins questions of the new adverts, the twins detailing the hours, the make-up and the test shots, and being covered in mud. Rolf answered questions of the twins’ early modelling career, which was just a year ago, and of parental concerns.

With the snapper and scribbler rushing back to the newspaper, we sat with my uncle for a chat, and he had expected me to work today – a subtle complaint.

‘I am working today, you just got a scoop,’ I rudely told him.

‘Emails waiting for you.’

‘Tomorrow. Today I’m getting you some publicity.’

‘Watford called.’

I left the Swedes with my uncle and called back our largest customers, and they had a new project, a refit of an office block into an immigration centre, safety glass needed, lots of it.

I worked out the quote, printed it as Julie glared at me, and handed it to him, pleasing him.

Leaving my uncle to check some figures and to sell some glass, we called back the same taxi and ventured to my old school, a game now in progress on the pitch. We rudely parked on the school grounds, and it was odd to be back, and not to be in uniform.

I pointed out things of interest to the girls then cheekily led them inside, my former headmaster surprised at the visit of his most famous pupil.

‘We never had any trouble with Ricky,’ he told Rolf. ‘He was student president as well as captain of the football team for … well, since he was born I think.’

He led us down the corridor and showed everyone my old school photos, as well as the football team photos, me holding up the cup.

‘You look young there,’ Rita noted, the twins giggling about my knees.

A teacher walked past, and greeted me like a long lost brother, the man having tried to teach me geography. ‘The young Roskov loved history, he loved geography less, way less.’

Outside, we closed in on the game in progress, the PE teachers all rushing to me and ignoring the game, hands shaken – and would I come back and work part-time?

‘I have a well-paying job now,’ I told them. ‘Why would I want to work with you old reprobates?’

They laughed. ‘We’d like the well-paying jobs as well, and models on our arms.’

‘A bit old and gnarly for that, you lot,’ I told them. ‘Who’s captain?’

‘Your protégé, Spiller.’

‘He’ll do well,’ I agreed. ‘He has the height and the speed.’

Ten minutes later we re-joined the taxi, a call to make and to meet the reporter again. We arrived first, a knock on the door of a terraced house as the taxi waited.

The door was unlocked and it creaked open. ‘Ricky?’

‘Got the kettle on, Gladys?’

‘Come on in.’

I led the gang inside, and we sat in the lounge, just about enough room if I stood.

Kettle on, and Gladys sat slowly.

‘Christ, Gladys, you’re moving slowly these days.’

‘Eighty-one now, and feeling it.’

I faced Rolf. ‘I used to come sit here at night, or sleep here, because the local burglars were targeting the old ladies. We caught the burglars and beat the crap out of them.’

Gladys put in, ‘Many a cold night it was me and Ricky here, spying we were, for them horrid thugs.’

A knock at the door, and the reporter come granddaughter arrived with her cameraman, and he squeezed in as Rolf and Ingrid squeezed out and to the back room. I sat next to Gladys with the twins stood behind me, several shots taken before the reporters rushed off.

Back as we were, I made the tea with Ingrid as Gladys chatted to Rolf and the twins about her early life. Drinks handed out, although I was not sure who had sugar or not, we sat chatting about pensioner issues, as compared to Sweden – where pensioners received a far better deal it seemed.

Finally back in the taxi after a big hug for Gladys, we headed to the hotel, to meet my parents later. It was time for a rest and a wash, some food maybe.

Rolf noted, ‘You were a popular teenager, yet to sit and protect old ladies…’

‘Seemed like the right thing to do.’

‘For you, and you alone, not the other teenagers in this world, not even in Sweden.’

My parents arrived at 7pm, and we met them in the restaurant, a large table for us, everyone introduced, and we sat eating and chatting for two hours.

That was enough small talk for my father, and they made their excuses; I would see them tomorrow night, when I would leave the world of showbiz and return to being a young man working in a glass factory.

In our room, at 10pm, we figured that there was no way we would fit in the shower, so we had individual showers, soon in the bed not on it, the room too damn cold - the heating was crap.

Under the sheets, I gave my best attempt at a double pussy massage as we lay on our backs, and after the girls had cum I shagged Rita, enjoying it and finishing relatively quickly.

I was also enjoying kissing her, whereas with Julie and Susan we never kissed, we just had sex.

Cock cleaned up, lady parts cleaned, and we rushed back into the warm bed, cuddling and chatting about contract stuff.

In the morning I said goodbye, and they would get the train back to London, a day seeing friends before flying back to Stockholm.

Rolf had suggested another holiday, somewhere warm.

‘Fuerteventura?’ I suggested. ‘A villa rental, nice and quiet.’

They would discuss it and let me know. Egypt was an idea.

Arriving at work at 9.30am, Julie checked her watch. ‘Welcome back, part-time worker.’

‘It’s about the money, not the hours, wench.’

‘Don’t you wench me, Mister.’ She was trying to be angry but just looked sexy.

‘What’s in the papers?’

She handed me the papers as my uncle stepped out.

‘A good spread for us,’ he enthused, which was not very enthusiastic at all. ‘Got local people now wanting small windows replaced and calling in.’

‘Pass those over to your friend.’

‘Yes, he takes them, but there’s little money in them,’ he complained.

‘And the latest Watford job?’ I nudged.

‘A big deal, very big, good margin.’

‘I’ll chat to them today, pop in and see them with Jacqueline at some point.’

Back at my desk, computer on, and I made a start, but this felt odd now; which was the real world?

A cold day in hell

The following Monday afternoon, and the lady reporter popped in, in tears. ‘Gladys is dead. Murdered.’

Julie, myself, and my uncle stood shocked.

She added, her voice going, ‘They robbed her.’

I glanced at my uncle. ‘What the fuck happened to this town?’ I quietly snarled. Facing the reporter, I told her, ‘I’d like to be at the funeral.’

She nodded, and she said nothing more as she walked out.

I slumped, and blew out. ‘I should have got a few pupils in with her.’

‘Not your fault,’ Julie angrily pointed out. ‘Fucking police should do something, make the streets safe!’

‘Be a cold day in hell before that happens.’

That night my parents were shocked, and afraid - we lived just three streets away, and at 9pm a knock came at the door; the police.

I let them in. The same tall officer as before began, ‘I know you were close to Gladys, and we all saw it in the papers, but … just to say we got DNA and prints, and we have the little bastard, drug addict.’

I nodded, a look exchanged with my father. ‘Always. House burglars need money for a fix.’

The officer added, ‘He … smashed her up pretty badly, when he could have just robbed her. Some anger there, the drugs maybe.’

‘Will the body be held?’

‘Yes, the funeral will be delayed a week or two, it’s a serious murder charge. Same man robbed two other houses, we have the prints.’

Thanking them, I led them out, a chat on the pavement as Bonza walked up.

With the police in their car he asked, ‘Trouble?’

‘Gladys.’

‘I visited her a few times,’ he angrily stated, wanting to kill someone with his bare hands. ‘Had a cup of tea now and then, and my mum got to know her.’

‘They got the guy, druggy.’

‘Fucking druggies,’ he spat out as I led him inside. He could see the look on my parents’ faces. ‘I wanna kill someone!’

‘You and me both,’ my father responded. ‘When I was a kid, this street was safe, we left our doors open.’

My mother wiped a tear with the back of her hand. ‘We’ll retire someplace away from here.’

‘I’ll have the money by then, I can help you buy a nice place. So … start looking. You liked the village, Crockton.’

My father put in, ‘Hundred and twenty thousand, three bedrooms, nice big gardens.’

‘I can help with that, I have a shit load of money on the way. What’s this worth?’

‘Sixty thousand at best.’

Bonza faced me, ‘Next weekend, Labour Party meeting.’

‘I’ll be there. Remind me.’

Head low, he headed out, and I had a call to make to Stockholm. Rolf answered. I began, ‘It’s me and … I have some bad news, but … I need to tell you because it may be in the newspapers here.’

‘What happened?’ came a worried man.

‘The old lady you visited with me … a burglar, a drug addict, he … beat her to death.’

‘Oh dear god.’

‘Let the girls know, because they may see it in the news here.’

‘I … I will yes. What the hell is wrong with these people?’

‘Drugs. Drugs is what’s wrong with these people, some bad housing, some unemployment mixed in, some social deficiencies.’

‘This I see around Europe, yes, a never ending story.’

Call ended, and it was time for me to send a message, a loud message.

Ten days later, the body released, myself and the lady reporter paying for the funeral extras, and three thousand students lined the streets as the funeral car slowly followed a police car, six hundred people stood on a grassy verge and road above the grave in a cold wind, my parents in the crowd with Bonza and his family.

The local Chief Constable was here with twenty officers, the Mayor, several priests in attendance, TV cameras on the far side.

Coffin lowered, a look my way from the priest, and I stepped forwards to the microphone. ‘Thank you all for attending here today, and today … is a reminder that drugs kill. Drugs don’t just kill the drug addict, drugs kill ordinary people, and the police statistics show that drugs are at the heart of almost half of all crimes committed.

‘And who is to blame? Society and the government are to blame, for poor housing, a lack of social support, a lack of a safety net for those that might fall through the cracks and take-up a drug habit.

‘It starts with weed, then a pill or two, some cocaine, soon onto heroin, and then … then there’s no road back, and a desperate drug addict will steal to get cash to get his next fix. And he’ll kill anyone in his way.

‘Someone here today … will be in the way in the weeks and months ahead, that’s for sure, just going about your lives, or trying to sleep at night. The local police are not at fault, they have a budget set by the government, and they do what they can.

‘And in our society of laws and rules … we can’t just grab a drug addict and lock him up and try and cure him or her, no, we wait till they kill someone before we try and squeeze the drugs out of their veins.

‘So this time next month, or next year, we will be here again at the graveside, and nothing will have changed. But maybe the local students will, once more, lend a hand and adopt an old lady, as I did at fifteen years old.

‘If one had been with Gladys that night he may have scared off the burglar, or he may have been hurt – a concern for the teachers and parents when we consider again what I did at fifteen years old.

‘We can hope for a change in society, and in the safety net, but … it will be a cold day in hell before we see some leadership from the government and a hope for people like Gladys. And putting the offender in prison is not the answer, we want Gladys alive, so prevention is sought, not the punishment. Thank you.’

The priest did his bit, the Chief Constable spoke, and cold people started to walk off as I found my parents.

‘You OK?’ I asked my mum as Bonza blocked the cold wind with his huge body.

My mother nodded, but said nothing, and I knew how to read her. It would take time.

As we walked I shook hands with what seemed to be a hundred familiar faces, a few hugs exchanged, a few girls from school greeted.

The twins called me that night. ‘How did it go?’ they asked.

‘Cold and damp, and I don’t know why anyone would want to be buried in cold wet ground. Any news your end?’

‘Our agent was approached by the people for Smirnoff.’

‘They’re … owned by an American company I think, a dispute with the original Russians, so it’s odd that they approached you in Sweden.’

‘They mentioned three of us, so maybe they did not know about Trish.’

‘Could be. But we need to be careful, because any advert with us three might upset Mercedes, and they owe us a lot of money, and the residuals could take three months, so we don’t want to upset them. We couldn’t make a video that’s in a hotel bar, not like the existing ads. It depends on what they want.’

‘We can ask what they want.’

‘Do so quickly, because I … have half an idea. We could combine the two, Smirnoff at the bar, Mercedes outside.’

‘Ah, yes, you are a clever man.’

‘Indeed, so ask them, and give their head of marketing my number in the glass factory.’

‘OK, we email the agent.’

‘You have a computer at home?’ I asked.

‘Father has, yes.’

‘I must get one, to check my emails at home.’

The next evening was our annual local Labour Party event, where candidates for local and national elections would speak, and sound as boring as hell.

Entering the warm hall with my father, Bonza, his brother and his father – all staunch Labour Party men, we greeted many familiar faces, soon getting a drink at the bar. My father was not much of a drinker, or talker, but politics brought him out of his shell. He loved to complain about things.

Many familiar faces greeted me, questions of the girls and of Jacqueline - few questions of a political nature.

Our local MP was in attendance as usual, the man very boring and reliable, reliably boring, but he had with him a heavyweight, the Shadow Housing Minister.

‘Ah, Mister Roskov,’ he began when we met.

‘No I won’t meet your wife.’

He laughed. ‘She is a fan, yes.’

‘More adverts out soon, different ones.’

‘And maybe someday … an advert for us? Party conference time perhaps?’

‘I’m not sure that good looking young men and women are synonymous with you boring old men.’

He forced a smile. ‘Not usually, no, but we like the celebrity endorsements.’

‘I’m not a celeb yet, give me a year or two, eh.’

‘You’re all over the glossy magazines, so in my book that makes you a celeb.’

‘I’d be happy to assist the Labour Party, that’s why I’m here after all.’

‘Good, good, so we … could send you a request?’

‘You could, yes, or my father would give me grief, he’s been in these meetings since he was twelve.’

‘A true Labour man,’ the minister approved.

The speeches started, mention of old members that had passed away, mention of donors and thanks issues to those donors. I had donated five hundred pounds, but I received no mention. Maybe the donated amounts had to be larger.

They mentioned Gladys, who had been a life-long Labour supporter, and that the European elections would be in March. Our existing MP stood up, a boring speech about planned policy for the next election, but that our hopes might again be dashed by the looney left wing and their radical policies.

The Shadow Housing Minister spoke, again about policy for the next election, 1997 maybe, and again he took a swipe at the looney left wing fringe idiots.

At work on Monday I took a call, from a British man that ran the marketing for Smirnov in Europe. ‘Ricky Roskov?’

‘The one and only, sat doing my day job in a factory.’

‘You must be making good money from Mercedes…’

‘Yes, but when I don’t have any modelling work to do then I sell glass and make good money from it. So, you want to use the twins in an advert?’

‘We did, but they told us firmly that you’re the boss.’

I smiled unseen. ‘That I am, so what are you after?’

‘Bar scene, Smirnov ordered, pretty people seen.’

‘Mercedes would not like that, it’s a bit close to the new adverts we shot that you haven’t seen yet. But … but there may be a way for us to all work together here.

‘How about the characters in the next Mercedes advert all drink Smirnov before I get into a Mercedes and drive off – I would drink water. I can create a sketch, I did all the others.’

‘You … created the sketches?’

‘Yes, five of them.’

‘Would Mercedes cooperate?’

‘You save money on production, so do they. What’s not to like about it? Tell them you spoke to me, and that I would not do a stand-alone bar scene with you without their say-so, but that I had an idea for a combined sketch.’

‘I know who to talk to, I’ll call them now.’

He called back an hour later. ‘The Mercedes marketing bosses liked the idea, and they’ll wait a sketch from you.’

‘Think up a strange new Smirnov blend and let me know.’

‘We’re producing soft blends with things like Cherryade, carbonated sugar drinks, aimed at women.’

‘Cherryade? OK, I’ll … think up a sketch, we have a few nice women to play with. What’s your email?’ I wrote it down.

Whilst not doing any glass sales, I thought about a new sketch, and then called Jacqueline. She warned me that she would be available for a few weeks more only, filming starting in January.

Opening Microsoft Word, and with Julie giving me lessons, I typed up a sketch, then re-hashed it.

At 7pm, back at home, I called the girls. ‘OK, this is the new sketch. I go to the bar, you appear next to me and order first when I let you, Smirnov and ice.

‘I order a Smirnov with Cheeryade for Jacqueline, but I flirt with the barmaid, telling her to stir it with a finger and warm it with her heart. She does stir it with a finger and then licks it.

‘You grab my drink and try it, and finish it before walking off, I order another. Jacqueline tries my drink, we walk out, a press a remote control as you enter the toilets, rats released, you scream.’

‘Real rats?’

‘You won’t be there for the real rats, don’t worry. I wait in the Mercedes with Jacqueline, you rush out with others.’

‘So long as we’re not near the rats!’

‘Relax, eh, and they just cute little rats.’

‘Ewwww!’

‘We need a barmaid, a sexy one, so I’ll ask Trish, but … we need someone special.’

‘You can look at the catalogue photos and choose someone. You have good taste in women.’

I smiled widely. ‘I’ll check the catalogue soon.’

The next day I refined the sketch, labelled it up as an idea, and I sent it to Trish to send on.

At 4pm the Mercedes marketing lady called me on my chunky Motorolla 9600; I had given the number to Trish. ‘You want a long dialogue in the next sketch?’

‘For you, no, for Smirnov – yes. Can’t order a Smirnov without speaking.’

‘No, it would seem odd, that the barmaid knows what you want. Smirnov and Cherryade?’

‘Smirnov want more young girls getting drunk and puking, hence the new flavours; easy to swallow vodka.’

‘I’ll chat to my boss, but we do save money from it, and it’s not like we’re competing. But you can’t drink and then drive, they’d be very strict about that.’

‘So we arrive in the Mercedes, walk into the bar. Or I order a drink for Jacqueline and I drink water.’

‘That could work.’

‘I don’t mind which way we do it, it’s your advert, but if Smirnov halve the production costs for a few ads then you all benefit.’

‘Yes. I’ll let you know. Oh, first ad is tonight, second next week and so on in to Christmas.’

‘What time tonight?’

‘8pm and after.’

At 8pm I was sat with my parents, ITV tuned in, and the ad popped up, the first new add with the twins; quality not quantity.

‘Girls look nice,’ my mum noted. ‘But it’s just like the other advert.’

‘Only difference is the twins.’

The phone went a few minutes later, Bonza having seen the advert, and … could I get him some twins like that?

‘You’re going steady,’ I reminded him.

‘She dumped me.’

‘Flatulence?’ I teased.

‘And other things. I’m free and easy now.’

‘And you fart a lot…’

He laughed. ‘I need to avoid Indian food on dates, I made that mistake.’

At 10pm, just as we were all thinking about an early night, the ITV news mentioned the new advert, so Mercedes were getting a plug for free.

They showed the eye contact and chemistry, and mentioned that the women of Britain liked it, the sexual tension, the twins a hit it seemed, mention of them being from Sweden.

I called the twins. ‘The British TV news just ran a story on the new Mercedes advert -’

‘We saw the new advert here, yes.’

‘Well the TV news likes you, mentioned that you were from Sweden, and Mercedes will be happy with the free publicity.’

As I ended the call my Motorolla trilled. I figured it was the Watford customers, but it was the Mercedes marketing lady. ‘My bosses saw the TV news in England, now they are happy, and the next advert will come forwards. They will run the four adverts in sequence on weekends.’

‘Sounds like I get more usage…’

‘You do, yes. Maybe to by a Mercedes car,’ she joked.

‘I have to pass my test first, but I will do soon.’ I called back the girls. ‘You still awake?’

‘Yes, we don’t go to bed so early.’

‘Mercedes will bring forwards the adverts, and run all four on the weekends, so we get more residuals. Now that the TV news likes the adverts they’ll push it, maybe more adverts, like Smirnov.’

The next day and Trish was on, excited, all of her friends talking about it. Apparently I was a big hit with the women of Britain, especially the middle-aged women, the twins now hot property.

Sat with a cup of tea, I called my usual customers, all of whom had seen the advert. The men from Watford were jealous as hell that I was dating the twins, but at least they had a few small orders for glass to give me.

That evening, as I sat with my parents, a chat show was discussing the adverts.

‘…you know it’s coming up to Christmas when the adverts get to be better that the programmes…’

I smiled, but he was right, the adverts were often small stories in themselves. Then the second advert suddenly appeared, the girls covered in mud.

‘Oh my god,’ my mum let out, as if the girls had been harmed.

‘Relax, it’s just acting,’ I laughed out.

My Motorolla went, the twins. ‘We saw the second advert,’ Rita gushed.

‘Us too, just now. My mother was very worried for you, being covered in mud.’

They laughed. ‘Tell her it was not so real.’

‘Are you popular in Sweden now?’

‘Our uncle, he is politician, and they interview him.’

‘Then ask him for some money, eh.’

They laughed. ‘Our friends like it, and we play tennis and badminton with them indoors. They want to meet you. And father, his consultancy clients talk about it, so I think he gets more work.’

‘Ask him for more money as well!’

It’s only a chat show

That weekend, as I discussed holidays with the twins, all four adverts ran in sequence during the day and night, and the British public got to see the twins take their revenge, then for me to take revenge on them a second time.

Saturday night, and a TV chat show host told his audience that he was waiting for the twins and Jacqueline to tear the clothes off each other.

Jacqueline called on the Sunday, a chance at a British chat show the following Wednesday, and could I attend.

‘Of course I can.’ But then I suddenly felt nervous. ‘Is it … live or staged?’

‘It will be taped, and we don’t get to know the questions – they want spontaneous answers.’

‘I’ll be there,’ I promised. ‘I’ll chat to Trish. Oh, can we bring guests for the audience?’

‘Usually, yes, but they put the good-looking couples at the front.’

‘I have a few glass-buying customers I can invite up, to be sat at the back.’

‘Always on the make, my darling boy, you’ll go far.’

Monday morning, and Trish called, now in touch with the studio. I told her to ask for twenty guest places, and she did, but I was later told that I had to supply the names.

I called Watford first, a shock for them but they would definitely attend, then Essex, a bigger shock but they would most definitely attend. They both emailed me names and addresses. I invited the boss of the gold chain shops in London, and the two gays from Tenerife with their lady boss.

My uncle was curious about the adverts, so I told him about his customers attending my chat show interview. He was pleased, but … would I need time off?

I shook my head at him. ‘I just got all your best customers on a fucking chat show!’

‘And … well done, yes. Good, good.’ He walked off as Julie scowled at him.

Julie was jealous, jealous of the advert, jealous the twins, and now jealous of the chat show, making me want a job someplace else.

Trish called back at 4pm, the hotel we normally shot the adverts at wanting us to “hang out” there for a price.

‘How much of a price?’

‘They offered two grand all in.’

‘Wednesday, we finish the taped interview by 5pm, we can go to the hotel, a few drinks, get paid and leave.’

‘And the twins?’

‘It’s a long way to come for a few hours work. I’ll mention it to them; they may want a holiday here or something.’

At 7pm, at home, I called the twins. ‘I have a TV chat show on Wednesday, and that hotel we film at wants us there to be seen, but just two thousand pounds. It’s a long way for you to fly just for a quick visit.’

‘One hour flight only, cheap,’ they told me. ‘We can do the interview as well, we’ve been practising.’

‘Practising?’

‘Father got a professional, and we had the Q&A, many hours, we know how to sit, how to talk, and we have answers for many questions memorised.’

‘Then you’re better prepared than me.’

‘You are never nervous.’

‘I’ll mention you to the chat show host, they’ll want you as well.’ Call ended, and I was nervous, but not sure why.

Wednesday afternoon, a day taken off work, and I met Jacqueline at the Edinburgh Hotel, the twins turning up in disguise having taken the tube from Heathrow.

Ready, we jumped into a taxi and headed to the East End of London and to the studios, which from the outside looked a bit run down.

In the lobby, I ran into my Essex customers and their families, all greeted as they warmly greeted me, and in the Welcome Room I met my Watford customers and their families, the other waiting guests all pleased to see me.

In make-up, Jacqueline and the girls got ready, and I was now worried for the girls, not quite so nervous now myself. Besides, this would be taped and they could edit it – so I reassured myself. The girls had the same red dresses, and this was supposed to look like an evening interview anyhow.

A professional look-over, and I did not need much make-up, but they did me anyhow, stating that the lights would make me warm but that cold air was blown.

Finally called, and the four of us walked out and waited off-stage, my heart fluttering a little, the audience being told jokes by someone I didn’t recognise, the host checking his question cards.

‘Standby … audience ready …’

Looks exchanged, and we were finally waved forwards as our host, comedian Dave Best, stood waiting.

With the roar of the audience clapping, and some cheers, I shook hands with our host and sat, Jacqueline greeted by our host with a kiss on the cheek, the same for the twins.

The host sat, the audience waved down by people off camera, and now I realised just how bright the damn lights were; I could hardly see the faces of the audience. And I was distracted by the staff behind the cameras moving around.

What I did notice was all the equipment and crap hanging off the ceiling, and it was distracting.

Concentrate, I told myself. Relax, breathe, stay focused.

Dave began, ‘With us tonight we have the cast of the new Mercedes Christmas adverts, and you know it’s coming up to Christmas when the adverts get to be better than the programmes.’

The audience laughed.

‘Like many, I was waiting to see what happened next, and … it was messy, cruel but funny. Now we have with us Ricky Roskov, British model and actor from Leicester, and … the bit that makes me jealous … he’s only nineteen years old.

‘I would have said thirty, and this is not someone who would be asked to show his ID in a bar. Ricky, how did you end up making the adverts?’

Relax, deep breath, sound mature and try and look confident.

‘After I left school, last summer, I went to work in my uncle’s glass factory in Leicester, to make some money before I go to university next year. But I’ve done very well at the glass sales, not least because my uncle only sends me to the female clients.’

The audience laughed.

‘He sent you to lady business owners?’

‘He did, yes, no idea why.’ The audience laughed. ‘And my sales figures have been good. But one day he asked if I could model for the company brochure, to save him some money, and I did.

‘The photographer then introduced me to an agent, and I came down to London to shoot for a jewellery shop, just still photographs. After that it was blind luck that I had a try-out for Mercedes, and they liked me.

‘We had an older lady model lined up, but I asked if they could get Jacqueline, who I remembered from watching movies as a kid-’

‘And you scripted it all…’

‘I scripted all the adverts, yes, and the jewellery adverts.’

‘Jacqueline, you had a string of hit movies in the seventies, which includes all of my favourite action films. Did you retire?’

‘No, I still work, I still look for movies and I’ve just landed a role, lead actress - we start filming in January in Italy, but I am getting on a bit for the sexy-girl action roles.’

‘The on-screen chemistry is great, but what’s it like with Ricky off-screen?’

‘He’s a natural charmer, no ego, always polite, but he knows what he wants and he’s not afraid to talk to people about work, or to shout. In Tenerife he was working advertising deals with people we met around the pool.’

‘And in Tenerife, Ricky was with the twins, and you were there, the tabloids hinting at an off-screen romance…’

‘I would be honoured, and very lucky, but no – he only has eyes for the beautiful twins.’

‘Ricky, you’re dating both twins, yes?’

‘They’re twins, they come as a package deal, so … Christmas and birthdays are twice the cost for me,’ I quipped, the audience laughing. ‘But they’re way smarter than me, they play classical music on the piano and they speak five or six languages. I’m a rough Leicester boy.’

‘You don’t sound like a rough Leicester boy, have you had coaching?’

‘No, this is how I’ve always sounded.’

‘And you could have been a professional footballer…’

‘Yes, I played for my school and town as a junior, and I was offered a signing to Leicester City and a try-out for Watford and Man Utd.’

‘So why not go that route?’

‘I wanted to go to university and then work in politics-’

‘You were the student president in your school.’

‘Yes, the final three years. That gave me a chance to practice some public speaking.’

He leant in closer. ‘Can you tell them apart?’

I shook my head. ‘No.’

‘Do they get annoyed about that?’

‘No, they like being identical twins and they deliberately dress alike, but in school they had name tags.’ I shrugged. ‘I just call them Babes.’

‘Which is Rita?’

Rita raised a hand.

‘From here … I can’t see any differences.’

‘None close-up either,’ I told him.

‘Rita, you started modelling a year ago..?’

‘Yes, after a few people in Sweden suggested it. In fact, people suggested it when we were much younger, and some advertisers want twins. At six years old we modelled for a company that made child prams, twin-seat prams.’

‘And you’re both now just seventeen years old.’

‘Yes.’

‘You look older, so does Ricky, and I must say that you look great covered in mud.’ The audience laughed, but so did we. ‘Did you like taking your revenge on Jacqueline?’

‘No, in real life she’s like a favourite grandmother to us,’ Rita said with a grin.

‘Grandmother?’ Jacqueline protested, a knee squeezed as the audience laughed.

‘Jacqueline, are you jealous of hot young models?’

‘Of course I am, they look fabulous, so I’d swap places.’

‘No off-screen rivalry?’

‘No, we’re like family, and Ricky is the boss of us all, which is odd given how young he is.’

‘Twins, you don’t try and boss Ricky about?’

‘No, he bosses us about, but we like it, and he always worries about our safety. Ricky is good with people, and good with our parents.

‘Our father is successful and rich, he was in the European Union, and Ricky - when he meets father - tells him to sit down, shut up and listen, and no one had ever spoken to father like that before.’

Dave faced me. ‘You get on well with the parents?’

‘Yes, they’re lovely people, but we had words about the girls’ safety. The twins are very polite and reserved, a good upbringing, but when they’re stood in a bar and a man is abusing them they don’t react, they just get sad.

‘I’m trying to teach them to shout, scream, to throw things and to punch men in the face. In Tenerife, what the papers reported was a little inaccurate, I never punched the guy, but he was stood in front of the girls and telling them that he was going to have sex with them … whether they liked it or not.

‘To my mind … that’s a threat of rape, and I wanted the girls to whack him, but they’re Swedish and way too polite, so I had sharp words with the man.’

‘We now have self-defence classes,’ Frieda put in. ‘Our uncle is a politician, and he arranged a policeman to teach us.’

I put in, ‘It would be nice to live in a world where that was not necessary, where no means no and women are not bothered like that.’

The audience clapped.

‘Jacqueline, did you have problems in your early days?’

‘All the time, and it was hell, I felt like quitting all the time. If all that happened was a man grabbing my arse then that was a quiet night. I had men break into my hotel rooms, into my houses, hide under the bed - I was permanently alert and afraid.

‘And as for the famous casting couch, I broke my hand punching a director and then kicking him, and I escaped out the window.

‘Today it’s better, but in the sixties - if a man forced himself on a woman - it was called seducing her, and he was a stud and popular down the pub. Now we call it rape and sexual assault.

‘I was in that bar in Tenerife, and I wanted to go after the guy and smash his face in. I’m not tall or strong, but I’d never back down, and in France I set my dogs on a man one time. If people had not turned up I would have let them eat him.’

‘And Ricky, do you get a lady or two cornering you?’

‘One or two, yes, and I get my arse grabbed in pubs, so I know what the pretty girls have to put up with. But I don’t drink much or go out much, of an evening I’m in with my parents.’

‘Not a party animal?’

‘No, I’m dull and boring off-screen.’

‘Apart from the super-model twins…’

‘Well, apart from that yes,’ I said with a smile towards the twins.

‘And if you were single, would Jacqueline get dinner?’

I held Jacqueline’s hand. ‘Definitely. Quality not quantity.’ The audience laughed. ‘She still looks great, but I did notice how she avoids letting any of us see her first thing in the morning.’

Jacqueline slapped my leg as they laughed.

Dave put in, ‘Me as well, I hide away.’

I added, ‘The twins don’t wear make-up, or they wear very little, so if they come out of the swimming pool they look just the same. I don’t like a lot of make-up on a lady, nor tattoos, no plastic boobs. Natural is good for me, as God intended woman to look.’

‘What do you say … to those who argue that the model industry and make-up industry is belittling for women?’

‘Well let’s get this straight: women model for other women, not for men. Men don’t stare at models in magazines wearing the latest earrings.

‘All of the model agency bosses are ladies, and they use ladies to sell to ladies. If anyone suggests that the models are being exploited, then they’re not being exploited by men. Glamour models maybe, but the rest of the industry is run by women or gay men, not by lecherous old straight men.

‘And for those teenage girls that might think it’s glamorous and a great lifestyle, it isn’t. For example, the twins have a chance at some bikini work in the Caribbean.

‘That means a long flight and a day travelling, up at 5am the next morning, eight or ten hours work each day, ten days in a row, a long flight back, not so much as ten minutes relaxing on the beach, not so much as a cold beer to enjoy.

‘Time is money, and models are commodities, and some of them are treated poorly, always in a rush, never enough sleep, and after a few years they’re dumped by the industry. If the twins survive five years then they’ll be doing very well.

‘But with the Mercedes adverts we have fun, the Mercedes people are great, the director doesn’t shout, and I told the girls – if it’s not fun then don’t do it. We do have fun playing the roles, and I had a great deal of input into the adverts.’

‘Jacqueline, was your early career filming hard?’

‘It was hell, but you think about the money and your career. You get by on chocolate and coffee, and four hours of sleep a night, and when you finish shooting you sleep for a week, you’re like a zombie.’

I put in, ‘I tell the twins, to bed early, never a late night if they’re working. Bed means 10pm often. And for Jacqueline that’s 8pm.’

She slapped my leg as they laughed.

‘Frieda, what’s life like in Sweden?’

‘It’s quiet compared to London, Stockholm is not so busy, not manic, it’s slower in all aspects of life, and people work less, we do more sports indoor and we care about the environment more. My family, we stay fit as we play tennis and badminton together, we swim, we canoe in the summer.

‘This current year, Rita and I, we’ve taken a year out from Upper School and plan to go back, a diploma maybe, but at the moment the modelling work is making good money, but we know it may not last. A model’s career is always short.’

‘Acting?’

‘If we find the right role, and if we’re any good at it.’

‘You’re good in the adverts, you can speak with a look.’ He nodded. ‘My wife can also speak with a look.’ They laughed.

‘The girls can speak with a special look.’ I stood, telling our host, ‘Stand up please, come around the desk. Girls?’

I positioned the twins facing our host. ‘We need a safe distance.’

‘Safe … distance?’ he worried, a glance at the camera.

‘OK, stand still, don’t be afraid. Twins, give him your mother’s angry look.’ I stepped back.

They folded arms, weight on one hip, foot tapped, the look adopted.

Dave backed up as the audience laughed. ‘I get that at home.’

The twins and Dave sat as the audience laughed.

I began, ‘Men in the audience, raise your hand if you get that look. Well … that’s … all of them I think.’ The audience laughed. I faced Dave and raised a finger. ‘For the twins’ father, that look means: you were right this time, but you are so going to pay for it later.’

The audience laughed, the twins as well.

‘Jacqueline, do you have a look?’

‘I have a few hand and finger gestures actually, I’m less subtle about it. And I can swear in Italian, enough to send a man running.’

They laughed.

‘Ricky, will we see more in the storyline?’

‘I have suggested another sketch to Mercedes, yes, the twins burst into Jacqueline’s room at 8am and photograph her.’ Jacqueline gave me the sideways look as the twins bent over laughing. ‘And I admit to being amused when Jacqueline was covered in white powder.’

‘Do you get dirty in the next sketch?’

‘Hell no, I’m Mister Cool. But I might get my shirt off.’

‘Jacqueline, does he look good with his shirt off?’

‘Like a Greek god, yes.’

‘Ricky, do you work out?’

‘Not really, no, it’s just the years of playing football I think. The twins swim a great deal, and that helps to define shoulders – a good feature on a model.’ I eased forwards and whispered to the twins past Jacqueline. ‘I have that poster of Jacqueline at home, 1977, the wet t-shirt one.’

With the audience laughing, Dave put in. ‘Me too. Was she your hot crush as a kid?’

‘She was, yes. If I had a time machine I’d be approaching her in a bar, 1976.’ I turned my head to Jacqueline. ‘Would I … be in with a chance?’

‘You wouldn’t need to ask twice, my darling boy.’

I faced Dave. ‘When I left school, I met a lady a few years older than myself, and I asked: what should I do to make a girl happy? She told me: just turn up.’

The audience laughed loudly.

‘So what comes next for you, Ricky?’

‘I hope to pass my driving test soon, maybe to buy an old second-hand car; I want to practise on an older model first.’

The audience laughed loudly as Jacqueline shot me a look.

‘Twins, do you drive?’

‘Not yet, no.’

‘Does your father have a Mercedes?’

‘He has a vintage Mercedes, and about seven cars.’

‘Jacqueline, do you like driving?’

‘I have access to a race track where I live in the south of France, and I sometimes tear around in a Mustang I borrow. I drive a vintage British mini, it was a gift, but it’s so cute I love it. And if the French police pull me over I smile nicely and they let me off.’

‘Don’t try that here,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Jacqueline Dupont and the Roskov gang.’

They clapped and we were done, our host thanked, hands shaken, and we all filed out. I found the Watford gang and the Essex gang outside, and they had the address of the hotel already. We would meet them there.

Jacqueline and the girls got into a taxi with me, back to the hotel for a wash and brush up, and we walked around to the venue hotel half an hour later, my customers already waiting inside.

Others in the large bar were surprised to see us, they had not been warned by the hotel staff, and I asked for four Smirnovs with Cherryade. I had to clarify it, twice.

I handed one to Jacqueline. ‘Try that, that’s what we’re pushing next, for Smirnov.’

She sipped as I handed drinks to the girls. ‘Oh, that’s lovely, you don’t taste the vodka.’

‘Smirnov want to get young women drinking their stuff.’

The girls liked the drink, so I paid for many drinks to be set-up, handing them to my customers to try – the lady customers, explaining the new campaign as the hotel manager brought in his own photographer to snap us.

To Jacqueline, I later asked, ‘How did you think it went?’

‘Great, no issues at all, he kept asking each one of us questions - not just you or me, and you had the humour.’

‘Be odd to see it later, my parents watching. Oh, we get two grand for this hotel gig, you can have it, you skipped the payment in Tenerife.’

‘Forget it, my lovely boy, you’ve made me a fortune, they’re running the ads ten times a day all across Europe. I can retire now.’

‘You’re already a woman of leisure!’

‘Truth is, I’d rather be working.’

I could see the sadness behind the eyes. ‘Smirnov could keep us busy, a few adverts a year.’

Working the room, I introduced Jacqueline and the twins to my Watford customers, then the Essex mob, and we worked most of the room as I tried the Smirnov-Cherryade mix on women in the room.

An hour and a half later, my customers thanked and heading home, and we walked around to our hotel. Jacqueline was set to be picked up, off to see her cousins and their kids, and that left myself and the twins in the room, the TV turned on.

But then the twins decided that they didn’t want to see it, so I switched off the TV.

I told them, ‘I don’t want to see it either. Jacqueline cringes when she sees herself, and I understand why now.’

‘We worry about making mistakes,’ they admitted.

‘Yeah, me too. But remember what I said, if it’s not fun then don’t do it. And you sounded well educated. Did you practise those answers?’

‘We did, yes,’ they admitted.

After a room service meal, and after the programme had aired, I called my parents. ‘What did you think of the interview?’

‘It went well, the audience loved you,’ my dad told me.

‘Was mum nervous?’

‘Yes, but pleased, you came across as very mature, so that made her cry.’

‘She hasn’t lost me just yet.’

I called Trish on her mobile, and she was very happy with the show. I finally called Rolf as the girls listened in. ‘Did you see it?’

‘Yes, it went well, no problems, and the twins looked great; they sounded educated and mature. And I laughed at my wife’s angry look, Ingrid not happy that people were making fun of her angry look.’

‘Do you still get that look?’

‘Once or twice a month,’ he laughed out. ‘It usually means I’ve forgotten something. Oh, they showed it here, I was not watching British TV.’

‘Really? That’s … odd.’

‘It was listed as the twins’ interview, they named us.’

‘They named you? Wow, but I guess that the twins might get some work in Sweden now. Talk later.’ I told the twins, ‘The show was seen on Swedish TV, listed as the Rasmussen Twins Interview.’

They were a little shocked, and called home. The call ended with hysterical laughter at their mother’s complaints.

Call ended, I could wait no longer, and kissed Rita as I fondled Frieda, and I was soon getting a tongue into a little pink pussy with some pent-up frustration.

Back to work…

In the morning the twins flew back to Stockholm, possibly to be recognised more now, and they would now attend a Swedish TV interview as planned.

I headed back to Leicester, the train quiet enough, and I headed straight to the glass factory.

Julie began, ‘Had a national newspaper call for you, details on your desk, and your dick of an uncle is asking if we’re your secretaries now.’

I heaved a sigh. ‘I doubled his fucking turnover, so what more does he want?’

‘He wants you working 9 to 5 with your shoes shined, a broom up your arse.’

‘I can do that when the modelling work dries up, but by then I would have trebled his turnover.’

‘Someone called, a factory.’

I found the piece of paper on my desk and called it, asking for the man listed.  ‘It’s Ricky Roskov, you called.’

‘Yes, thanks for calling back. We’re in Coventry, car dealership, and we need all the showrooms replaced. I knew you worked in glass, and … my wife threatened to kill me if I didn’t call you.’

I laughed. ‘I can help, and meet your wife and get her off your back. Today is good, I want to get out the office.’

He gave me the address, and I told Julie I was off to see the new client. I avoided my uncle as I left the office, now considering my future.

A short train ride, a few people recognising me, and I got a taxi to the dealership, a vast expanse of shiny cars seen sat in the carpark.

The new client, short and fat, greeted me, his staff introduced, the girls all blushing, and I soon stood and posed for photographs. The new client was soon showing me both the old showrooms and the plans for the new showrooms.

I took details of the measurements from his blueprints, thirty-six large panes to be installed, some to be safety glass - where customers might nudge them. But they would install bollards as well.

His wife drove into the dealership with their two teenage daughters, and I posed for photographs since this was part of the sales process anyhow. The local Coventry rag newspaper had turned up, and they snapped me as well, some publicity for the dealership – and before the little shits had spent any money with me.

My salesman work done, they kindly allocated me a driver and we set off on the short journey back to Leicester. The driver played Sunday league football and we got chatting, kindred spirits.

Back at the office at 5.00pm, Julie made the driver a cup of tea as I typed up the quote, soon handing it to my uncle whilst trying not to shout at him. He was a little stunned since it would – potentially - be our biggest order to date.

I thanked my driver and waved him off, and I walked home, wondering if I would stay selling glass.

The twins called that evening. ‘A company wanted to sell posters of us, but father said why not do that ourselves.’

‘He’s right, we can do that and take the money, sell mail order all around Sweden and Europe.’

‘Father knows a man with a business, printing, they can print for us.’

‘You need to get a cardboard tube for the posters, light, plastic to go over it, so maybe the printer can do it, it’s call fulfilment. You send them an address by email, they print a label, put the poster in the tube and send it, for an agreed fee.

‘When I was younger I bought a poster of Jacqueline like that, and maybe this company you know can do it all. But to make any money they’ll need us to sell maybe five hundred posters a month, not just twenty posters.

‘So tell your father that we’ll make posters of you and me, some in a beach resort, then we start to sell when people may buy a few posters each. We can do that quickly. Buy a good digital camera -’

‘Father bought one already.’

‘Then have him take photographs of you in the white dresses and the red, but the teenage boys will want you in bikinis on a sandy beach. We need ten or twenty posters, not just two or three, and we need to market it in many countries at the same time. Does this printing company do foreign work?’

‘They have a business directory for the EU, so they print in all languages.’

‘Do they print in Sweden and ship them, or print in many countries?’

‘We can find out.’

‘Rolf has to do the maths, to work out the production cost, and then the profit for you.’

‘He says we can create a small company and register it, and all the modelling work goes into it, so we pay less tax like you.’

‘Yes, great idea. I paid eleven quid for the poster and packing, for a poster of Jacqueline. Question is, how much profit is there after production? Rolf can work it out.’

Rolf called me back later. ‘I just spoke to my friend with the printing business, and they can do the fulfilment, as you said, and for six Euro if the volume is over five hundred a month. Postage in Sweden is around three Euro. If we sell for fifteen Euro then the girls get six Euro per poster, which would be good on volume.’

‘Have a look what the pop stars sell their posters for, a comparison, you don’t want to be expensive.’

‘I will do, yes, some research. But we thought that if we create a new business that you have shares, since we will sell your posters as well and … Ingrid thinks we’d sell more of your posters.’

I laughed. ‘To the middle-aged ladies of Europe!’

‘Of course, and why not. So we give you thirty percent.’

‘Can this company become a model agency some day, a small one?’

‘Yes.’

‘If I stay in this industry then that’s the way to go, to do it for ourselves, and not send the girls to the Caribbean, we do it ourselves, our own photographer.’

‘Of course.’

‘So we take a holiday soon, someplace that has … a beach, trees, a waterfall, but also a mountain.’

‘Jamaica.’

‘Ah, those waterfalls from the Bond movies.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then let’s do that soon, some photographs to take, and you create the company and chat to your friend about fulfilment. The problem will be pre-packaging. Someone may want one poster, or two or three, so we can’t pre-package.’

‘I talk to them, make a spreadsheet of costs.’

‘I’ll have some photos done here, for the middle-aged ladies of Europe.’

The next day in work I had Julie contact the fat frump, some photos to pay for.

The frump turned up at 5pm, and she drove me off, keen to chat, and in her small studio I stood and posed after we had agreed a deal and a price. She had pulldown backdrops, and she had one of a Caribbean beach.

I had brought swimming trunks ready, small tight ones, and when stripped down I posed side on at 45degrees, a variety of shots taken.

She would develop the film and choose the best ones.

I told her, ‘Get a group of ladies together, all over thirty, and ask which photos of me are best. Then I want the negatives.’ I handed over five hundred quid in cash.

The following lunchtime she met me at the local Mercedes dealership, where I borrowed a very expensive car for half an hour, shots taken of me stood outside or sat inside.

Meeting my mother and my aunt for lunch in a local pub, the locals staring my way, a waitress brought us food and smiled, shocking me. She appeared similar to the twins, blonde and slim but with beautiful blue eyes.

As she walked off I checked the arse and legs, and she again appeared similar to the twins.

When the waitress returned I stood. ‘Have you ever done any modelling work?’

She puzzled that. ‘Some, yes,’ she said, accented.

‘Where are you from?’

‘We were from Russia, then we escape to Finland when I was young, then Sweden. I come here study.’

‘My girlfriends are from Sweden.’

‘You … have more than one?’ she puzzled.

‘They’re twins. And you … you don’t recognise me, do you?’

‘No, sorry.’

‘I’m a model and actor, and I think we could have some work for you part time. Ask your English friends here about me, then call this number and we can talk, you can meet my Swedish twins.’ I handed her my mobile number.

Sat again, my mother was curious.

‘I think she would look good in the next Mercedes advert, as a barmaid.’

The Russian/Finnish/Swede waitress, now studying here in England, pointed me out to a friend, who seemed to be explaining me with fervour – and some jealousy.

The Mercedes adverts were now running all across Europe, my tax-avoiding limited company now holding more than thirty thousand pounds, that figure to be increased by anything up to sixty grand in residuals.

My private bank account was also now looking very healthy, so healthy that my accountant suggested I get paid by my uncle into the limited company.

That would mean that I invoice my uncle at the end of the month, and maybe register for VAT. I was not keen, so I would work a year first and then see, see if I could put up with my uncle after that.

With dates in mind for Jamaica, to be home for Christmas, I needed to confront my uncle, and to try and keep my temper. I entered his office and waited for him to finish his call.

‘I need a week off, a holiday. I know you have this fourteen days a year bollocks, but I don’t care, I’m going to treble your turnover. So you can appreciate what I do for you, even if I don’t work 9 to 5 and shine my shoes, or we part company.’ I waited.

‘Well … it’s … the bottom line that matters, not the hours worked, and the other sales lads could never compete with you. And … what of the future, if you get a big break in showbiz?’

‘Then I pop back here with a few celebs and be seen and be photographed, you get the publicity, and when modelling work is quiet I can sell glass. What do you think will happen when some secretary says there’s a Ricky Roskov on the phone?’

‘Well … they’d take the call, yes, bound to.’

‘Exactly, so you’ll always benefit. But if you think I’ll work 9 to 5 when I make a hundred grand a year from modelling then you’re a bit mad.’

‘Yes, would seem odd, and we feared losing you before now.’

‘Fear less, and cover my customers when I’m away.’

‘Watford have more orders, so too Essex.’

‘There you go, reason enough to tolerate me and my tardiness.’

That evening at 6pm my new potential model sign-up called. ‘It is Olesya, you asked me call you - with modelling work,’ came accented.

‘Write down this number.’ I gave her the twins’ phone number in Sweden. ‘Call that number in Sweden, ask for Rita or Frieda, talk about modelling, I pay the cost of the call for you. Tell them that Ricky Roskov ask that you call.’

‘Oh, OK.’

The twins called me half an hour later. ‘We talk to this girl, Olesya, she speaks Swedish and Russian. She is beautiful?’

‘She looks like you, but has fantastic blue eyes. I think she can be a barmaid in the next Mercedes advert.’

‘And if she is good, we work with her in the future?’

‘Yes.’

‘We like her already.’

‘I have her phone number.’

‘She gives us two numbers, a friend’s home where she stays in England.’

About to book the trip to Jamaica, and Trish called; Mercedes wanted to get the Smirnov advert done and then test the response, Jacqueline was available. Could we do this weekend?

I called the twins, they had not booked the holiday yet, and they would discuss it with their parents. Rolf called back, work came first, so the holiday could wait. I called Trish and gave her the go- ahead; we would be in the same hotel on Friday.

A call back to the twins, and they would meet me on the Friday lunchtime as before. I called the hotel and booked, my credit was good. The twins were still under eighteen, so Rolf would need to sign the forms again.

Next, I called Trish back. ‘I found a model, and I want her as the barmaid in the next advert. Can we sign her up and do that?’

‘Mercedes will bend over backwards for you, so don’t worry.’

‘You won’t get time to meet her, and she may be nervous, but it’s just a ten second scene.’

‘It’s a simple format for the barmaid role, yes, but critical – she’ll need the facial expressions right.’

I called Olesya. ‘It’s Ricky.’

‘Ah, I talk to the twins, and now I can trust you more.’

I laughed. ‘I have a letter from my mother that says I’m nice.’

‘Most men can get letter from mother, no.’

‘What did your friends say about me?’

‘They all like you, yes, you are famous here.’

‘Friday, can you get away?’

‘I am paid for shift, no salary, but … how much do I get for work with you?’

‘Day rate would be around eight hundred pounds, and I’ll pay your hotel and travel. This is a test, to see if you work well with us, and if you like it.

‘This weekend is not about making money, this is about meeting you and talking, and to see what we can do in the future. We’ll take photos of you and my agent can try and find you work. ’

‘OK. So … what do I do?’

‘Friday, meet me at the train station, bag and clothes, but you will be given a barmaid outfit to wear, for the hotel we film in.’

‘Film?’

‘You’ll be in a TV advert, everyone in Britain will see you.’

‘Oh my god. You are serious?’

‘Yes, but the customer might not use you for the part, we see on Saturday. You still get paid. You do have a visa to work here, right?’

‘Yes, but only so many hours, it is study visa.’

‘The hours are small, and we’ll check the visa. What’s the reference number on the visa?’ I wrote it down and called Trish. ‘My new casting, she’s on a study visa and can only work so many hours. Can you check?’ I gave her the code.

‘It’s usually twenty hours a week maximum, but they can work more in the summer holidays depending on the type of visa.’

‘She has a part-time study visa and limited work hours.’

‘Probably twenty hours a week, yes.’

‘She can take next week off,’ I quipped.

‘How much do we pay her?’

‘Eight hundred quid one-off, no residuals. If it goes well you can get her some work. How does it work with the twins?’

‘Sweden joined the full EU this year, so the twins have the right to work unlimited.’

‘My new girl, she’s registered in Sweden, was registered Finland.’

‘Then … I don’t know why she has a visa at all.’

I called back Oleysa. ‘Why do you have a visa, if you are resident in Sweden?’

‘We were not registered in Finland, eight years, then we apply in Sweden and we are not citizens but we have a stay permit.’

‘Your passport?’

‘From Sweden, but it is not permanent.’

‘You will only work a few hours Saturday. And my twins, their uncle is in the Swedish Government, he can help. We can see after this weekend.’

‘My god. Thank you, if you can help.’

Smirnov and Cherryade

Friday morning, I met Olesya at the train station, and she was blushing now.

‘You look beautiful,’ I told her, and now she really was blushing. I handed her train tickets, and five hundred quid in cash, a shock for her.

Sat on the train, it was quiet enough heading down to London, not a long trip, and I got to know her some, and the tale of her family’s dramatic escape from Russia in 1987.

At the hotel I checked in, a separate room for Olesya, and after dumping bags I led her up to a similar suite, Rolf and Ingrid welcoming Olesya, the twins hugging their newly adopted sister and exchanging fifty words a second.

Lunch ordered, and I asked the twins to dress Olesya in one of their white dresses. They came out the bathroom just as Trish popped in with the Mercedes marketing lady, all of us most impressed with Olesya.

‘Just the barmaid role?’ the marketing lady asked. ‘She’s almost a third twin.’

‘For now,’ I responded.

Rolf had his expensive digital camera, and he snapped Olesya stood next to the door, a few poses as we all observed.

Out from the nice white dress, we all sat and chatted about the new advert, the rats to be supplied by an expert, the toilets sealed off at the time; the girls would never get to see the rats.

But the director had asked: could a twin rush out with her dress up, pants shown? The twins had no objection, they had great legs and great arses.

After lunch we walked around to the hotel come studio, introducing Oleysa to the director, now back in a borrowed white dress.

‘My god, where did you find her?’ the director asked.

‘In a local pub, as I had lunch with my mother. She’s part Russian, part Finnish, part Swedish.’

‘Fantastic eyes, and we need the close-up.’

Back at the hotel, we found Jacqueline arriving, and she stopped to stare at Oleysa. ‘My god, she’s beautiful.’

Olesya blushed, she had seen some of Jacqueline’s old films, and we were soon back in the suite, drinks made. I detailed Olesya’s visa issues and Swedish residency applications, Ingrid on the phone to her brother to see what he could do.

At 7pm, Olesya with Rolf and Ingrid, and now adopted it seemed, I led the twins to my room on the pretext of “practising our lines”, and we were soon in the small shower.

‘You don’t think to have sex with Olesya?’ Rita casually asked as she washed me.

‘Why, when I have the world’s best looking twins here? Besides, I like you and plan to stay with you - if you let me.’

‘And when we are old..?’

‘Then we direct adverts. Would you … sleep with a sexy man in Sweden?’

‘No, we are not interested, you are very good for us, and the most sought man in Europe. Our friends are very jealous.’

‘My friends are jealous as well. And in school I never had sex, not fucking, and after school I was not interested in night clubs and girls. And if I have sex with Olesya I think you will kill me.’

‘No, it’s OK, and if she works with us and makes money, then good,’ they said as they washed my cock.

‘Oh. Well I have no plans to have sex with her, it will be about work only.’

‘How did you find a Swedish girl?’ they puzzled. ‘You have all of England, and you find a girl from Stockholm.’

‘Just a chance meeting, but she looked like you so I spoke to her. British girls don’t have blue eyes and blonde hair.’

On the bed, I went for the double pussy massage, getting better at it now, turning them over after ten minutes, thumb in and fingers worked, finally loud moans.

Rita first, and I thrust in after kissing her, making her gasp. I kept going until she came again, I had timed it right, and I moved over to Frieda, dick wiped first for more friction.

Frieda had been gently rubbing her clit as she observed us, and now she moaned loudly as I thrust away. I managed to hang on until she came, soon releasing and slowing right down, kissing as we gasped for breath.

It was cuddle time, the sheet over us, the room heating set right up to maximum.

‘Next week we do a Swedish interview,’ they told me. ‘We do more Q&A, but in Sweden they don’t ask bad questions.’

‘You should be OK, yes. And I’ve been thinking about my glass sales this week, because my uncle … is a bit of an idiot. I make him good money, but … he wants me working 9 to 5 with shoes shined.

‘His factory has made three times the normal since I started work there, and he still complains. So I don’t know if I’ll stay there.’

‘And if the model work is quiet?’

‘I might study, or I stay with him a little longer. If we can sell posters and do other work, and make steady money, then I only need a thousand month.’

‘Easy to do. This TV interview will make us five thousand each.’

‘Oh. And how much do I get, I discovered you washing dishes in a café!’

They squeezed my balls and I issued a yelp.

‘We put the money in the new company,’ they explained.

‘I will as well, yes, the posters and other work.’

‘We should fly next weekend, Friday.’

‘I could do with a nice beach, yes.’

‘We take Olesya?’

‘Well … if she gets a good response from the new Mercedes advert, then she could sell posters, yes. First she needs the fame.’

‘She has a good body, men will want to buy,’ Rita firmly stated.

‘Many women have good bodies, but they don’t sell posters. You’re hot property now, but we still don’t know how many posters we’ll sell.’

At 8pm I briefed Olesya on how to pose after she borrowed the white dress, and we soon headed down as a group.

In the foyer we found the same snapper, I had tipped him off, and now I posed with three girls, surprising him, soon posing with Jacqueline.

Sat down around a large round table, he snapped us as menus were issued, Olesya nervous but chatting away in Swedish or Russian to the twins. Trish turned up and joined us, soon a three-way chat about future Mercedes adverts with Smirnov.

She put in, ‘The advert will make clear that you, Ricky, are not drinking and driving, you get a drink for Jacqueline.’

I nodded. ‘Exactly the same format, for me and for her.’ I faced Jacqueline. ‘When do you start filming?’

‘First week in January they said, but there are always technical delays. And they have to paint the set.’

‘Where is it?’

‘A big old monastery in the south, in the hills.’

‘Monastery? It’s a brothel for priests?’

‘No, they’ll make it look like a small village from different angles, all enclosed, very little in the way of outside shots.’

Rolf put in, ‘Star Wars, it was here in London, all done in a studio inside.’

I nodded. ‘Best technical crews in the world they say, Americans wanting to film here.’

Jacqueline put in, ‘Americans have “A” crews and “B” crews, and you get what you pay for. They have good teams, and some cheap crap ones.’

‘Ingrid was unhappy about her angry look being portrayed to the world.’ Most of those at the table laughed.

Ingrid began, ‘A TV comedian makes fun of it, and a news caster.’

Rolf began, ‘I think all mothers teach their daughters that look, around thirteen years old. It is a rite of passage, handed down to each new generation.’

Grinning, I told Ingrid, ‘At least it’s free publicity for the twins.’

‘They are famous now, everyone knows them, my friends all ask me what they are up to – the evil twins.’

The twins laughed loudly, Olesya not understanding.

I asked Olesya about her family’s escape from Russia, and she detailed the story for us over forty minutes, as the food was served. It was movie material.

To Jacqueline I asked, ‘What happens to your dogs next month?’

‘They go to the estate, which they love, lots of interesting people all the time, and they interact with horses and other animals. Trust me, they won’t miss me.’

‘We can come visit you in Italy?’

‘I’ll be staying in a small hotel with the cast, very little time off, and then I’ll be sleeping!’

The girls noticed the piano free again and so walked over, three numbers played to a modest applause. Then Olesya surprised us with a classical piece, again a modest applause. She had learnt to play as a kid in Russia.

‘All these talented people,’ I complained. ‘I don’t play anything.’

‘Your talents lie in other areas,’ Jacqueline quipped. ‘The twins told me.’

The twins laughed as I wondered if they had said anything, sure that they hadn’t. ‘I have no idea what you mean.’

Stood at the bar, the snapper snapped away, a few people walking past and saying hello, questions of the next advert, Olesya stood looking as lovely as the twins.

The manager walked past, happy that we were staying regular and admitting that they liked the publicity.

Jacqueline headed up to bed at 10pm, and I told the three girls to sleep, so we all headed up. A cup of tea and a chat in the suite, and we set off to different rooms, to be fresh in the morning.

At the venue, the costume ladies found a barmaid’s outfit for Olesya, and our new sign-up was soon in make-up with the twins, and since the three were giggling in Russian I figured that they were not nervous.

I greeted the Smirnov guy I had spoken to on the phone, a face added to a name, and pointed out Olesya.

‘How the hell do you do it?’ he complained.

‘Found her in a local bar when I had lunch with my mum.’

‘And … she just did what you asked?’

‘Yes.’

He shook his head. ‘I hate you.’

Finally ready, camera ready, and I walked into the bar with Jacqueline. She asks me for a vodka and then heads to a seat. I head to the bar, only to find the twins pushing in. They shoot me threatening looks but sexy looks as Jacqueline looks on, annoyed.

Rita bluntly states, ‘Smirnov. Ice. Two.’

I turn to Olesya and hold up three fingers. ‘Three parts Smirnov.’ Two fingers. ‘Two parts Cherryade.’ One finger. ‘One ice cube.’ I lean in. ‘Stir it with your finger … and warm it with your heart.’

She cocks an eyebrow at me, the twins disgruntled and taking their drinks away.

The red drink placed down, she stirs it with a finger and then licks the finger seductively.

Three takes and we’ve nailed it.

I take the drink to Jacqueline, and she puzzles the red drink. ‘Smirnov Cherryade.’

She tries it, and smiles. ‘Oh that’s lovely.’

Three takes, and the director is happy.

The twins walk into the toilets, Jacqueline glances that way, a nod at me and we leave, Jacqueline finishing the red drink with a gulp. As we leave I press an electric remote in my hand.

Four takes, and it’s done.

The twins get ready, stand-in actresses scream for them, people turn towards the toilets, the twins run out, Rita with her dress up, knickers showing.

Three takes from the front, four from behind – literally the behind, and it’s done.

Break, everyone!

An hour later, the video editors happy, and I wait in a Mercedes with Jacqueline, the twins running out, some arse seen. Jacqueline grins smugly, and we drive off. Actually, we go two feet and stop, but I had lessons in a Mercedes SL and could have done it if needed.

Back at the hotel at 5pm, and after showering and changing, we sat in the suite and waited like the old pros we were becoming. A call came, no re-shoots today but to please hang around.

And the rat scene, the rats leaving an electrically opened box, that had already been shot, and there were no complicated car scenes to film.

At 8pm we ventured down to the smart restaurant, the girls in different dresses to yesterday, the snapper not around, but the Smirnov guy came in with Trish and they sat.

He began, ‘I saw the completed thing, a few seconds to cut out of it – they always do that to save money, but it looks great, we’re happy with it. And I think that your slogan will be parodied, we already want to use it.’

‘Here’s an idea. I know an Italian male model, a bit of an idiot with muscles. He does the slogan to a fat British barmaid, is punched and security take him out.’

Those sat at the table laughed.

I put on a silly Italian accent, ‘Hello sexy lady, I want three part Smirnov. And warm it with your big heart, yes.’

‘What would he cost?’

‘Flight and hotel, and fifty quid,’ I suggested. ‘But give him some residuals. Who owns the copyright?’

‘It’s joint with Mercedes, but they should let us use it, people will think of them anyhow.’

‘Then shoot it ready, wait till after the latest advert comes out and is well known. Just tell me and I’ll call him.’

A commotion, I and looked.

A scream, and I jumped up.

A woman running, and a man appeared with a knife, his eyes fixed on my table from ten yards away.

I closed the gap quickly, and this was 1993, when a kid came at me with a knife after a game.

He closed in, I closed in, and I kicked, the knife sent flying. Spin around, side kicked to the chest, and he went flying as the doorman came running.

I walked back and sat, everyone at the table horrified and afraid. ‘OK, sit down, show’s over.’

‘My God, Ricky,’ Ingrid let out.

‘When you play football for years you know how to kick a hand. Don’t worry.’

The manager rushed to us, flashing blue lights seen outside.

‘We’re fine,’ I told him.

A guest, a police inspector, closed in. ‘I saw everything, if you need a statement.’

The manager thanked him.

The policeman glanced down. ‘The next James Bond, eh?’

‘I’m way too young.’

The manager led him away as I asked the girls to play something. They walked to the piano as the man was bundled away, and they started to play.

‘You’re cool under pressure,’ the Smirnov guy noted.

‘I’ve played football since age two, I’ve seen it all before.’

The manager appeared fifteen minutes later. ‘We have the CCTV, but … can we use it?’

‘For some free publicity?’ I teased.

‘It’s not a good thing, a man with a knife, but all publicity is good publicity.’

‘This meal, do we … need to pay for it?’

He shot me a look. ‘No. Enjoy.’

Jacqueline shook her head at me. ‘How did you get to be so cheeky?’

The police stepped in, and they took my name and address as I stood. The lead officer told me, ‘It’s black and white, and we have the witnesses – including an inspector and his wife – and the man will be charged. But if he contests it we may need you in court.’

‘I’ll do my civic duty, officer,’ I assured him. ‘But be a love and find out what his gripe was.’

‘Said he hates posh twats, meaning you.’

‘I’m from Leicester, the bad part of town.’

‘He don’t know that, just your TV image.’

Police gone, and Ingrid was concerned, not least for the twins.

‘Can you put your twins in a cage for the rest of their lives?’ I cheekily asked her. ‘Relax, we’re OK, and that guy was not a threat to me.’

Rolf faced Ingrid. ‘A woman was killed in Stockholm last week, nowhere is 100% safe, but we do what we can to limit the risks.’

‘I feel safe in France, my area,’ Jacqueline put in. ‘But not in Paris. I had a man with a gun there.’

‘I better call my parents.’ I borrowed Jacqueline’s smart mobile and made a quick call, my parents horrified, my mum traumatised.

In the morning I was on the BBC News, labelled as “the Mercedes advert actor”, stills shown of me with the twins, then the CCTV as I kicked the knife away. But they showed the follow up, as I sat back down and sipped my drink.

That made me laugh, the twins still nervous.

‘We just got ten times more publicity,’ I told them. ‘Pity we’re not selling those posters yet.’

As a group, we wrapped up warm before we walked around to the set, the director and crew amazed at the news, the Mercedes team loving the publicity. They would rush the advert out.

Tea and coffee made for us, we sat around, the video crews working at a studio offices somewhere, and after two hours we were let go.

Jacqueline got a hug from all of us and headed off, I said goodbye to the family until Friday – and Jamaica – and I escorted Olesya back on the train, but in disguise. She had glasses that she sometimes wore for reading, but with the glasses on she looked even sexier.

Back at home, Olesya in a taxi paid for by me, and my parents were obviously concerned at someone trying to kill me.

‘Don’t know if he wanted to kill me, he may have just wanted to
scare me. So relax, eh.’

‘Was it you he was interested in?’ my father pressed.

‘Yes, according to the police, no, I’m not changing my life, but when I have the money let’s move to Crockton.’

My father exchanged a look with my mother. ‘We have sixty grand in savings, and we can get a mortgage, and your uncle will loan us money. We could make the move easily enough.’

‘Then do so, and sleep well at night,’ I urged. ‘I’ll loan you twenty grand, no interest.’

Sat with a cup of tea, we made plans, and I had always been able to chat to my parents when needs required it; we made for a good team.

An hour later, and we had a plan, and we’d be moving, but we’d buy the new place with my uncle’s help and sell this place afterwards.

Bonza came around, worried for me, and that I should take him along in future, especially if there were any dangerous sexy models involved.

On Monday in work, Julie informed me that my assailant had been charged with attempted murder. He was pleading not guilty, so there would be a trial, but the man had told the police in interview that he wanted me dead. It was black and white, if disputed some in his odd non-guilty plea.

Several newspapers had called, but I was not about to call them back; what was there to say?

I called my customers in Watford, all concerned for me, then the Essex customers, again all concerned for me, even the car dealership people in Coventry were concerned.

Political power

After a quiet cup of tea and a chat to some of the window installers, the roof fell in, Olesya about to be deported after a tearful phone call to me. They were deporting her back to Sweden, in breach of her study visa, which stated that she could work twenty hours a week, eighty hours a month.

What she had not told me was that she could only make a maximum of a thousand pounds a month. Someone had reported her, they even reported the hotel stay as a gift in kind.

I was mad as hell, and trying to think who it could have been. Few knew about Olesya, and not Julie – my first suspect.

It came down to the film crew. I called the twins, they were horrified, but they would meet her off the plane in Stockholm and they would urgently call their uncle.

And it was not like Olesya was going home to Africa or Russia, it was peaceful beautiful Stockholm. Thinking, I asked the twins for the phone number of the largest newspaper in Sweden, but it seemed as if each city had its own.

I called the one in Stockholm. ‘You speak English?’

‘Yes,’ a lady answered

‘It’s Ricky Roskov.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, and I want to give you a story.’

‘Wait, I get reporter.’

‘Hello,’ came in a refined English accent.

‘You sound English?’

‘I am, Swedish wife. And we play badminton with Rolf and Ingrid.’

‘You do? So how come you don’t pester them for a story?’

‘This is Sweden, old chap, we don’t do the pestering.’

‘Got a paper and pen?’

‘Fire away.’

I detailed the story of Olesya. ‘Can you help her?’

‘Locals will love the story, seeing as she escaped Russia, and now linked to the Mercedes adverts.’

‘Rolf has photos of her.’

‘I can go see him and get them today.’

‘Put the blame on me, I should have checked the visa conditions, but I just followed what she told me. They said eighty hours a month, and I told her to take the following week off. As for the hotel and the train fare, she could have never afforded them.’

‘Gift in kind is a bit of a grey area, and if she had been in a relationship with you they could not have used it. But it was for work, and the value could put her over the monthly limit. Still, we’ll give the British Government a tonne of shit, here they take their liberty very seriously.’

‘Anything you need, you call me.’

Sighing, I called the Mercedes marketing lady, who I figured would shout at me.

She listened, then began, ‘It will be shown around a few countries in Europe, and the people in those countries … they won’t see the British news, but in Sweden you’ve rallied the media already, and there could be a media storm, and that we love. And from what you say she’ll get Swedish citizenship in a year anyhow and be back.’

‘The twins’ uncle is a politician, high up, he can help as well.’

‘Even better, but the media shit storm helps her profile and that helps us. If we use her for work in Sweden she’ll be a household name already; you nudged her from unknown to famous in one accidental move.

‘Might have been the best thing for her, and we’ll show the advert in Sweden within days and utilise that fact.’

Next, I called the Smirnov guy and explained the story, and that Mercedes were delighted with it.

‘Hard to say if she was working here illegally or not, but I have to check with my bosses, we could be criticised here. We may need to pull the advert in the UK.’

‘Let me know, eh.’

Picking up the phone, I heaved a heavy sigh, wondering if I was doing the right thing as I called the BBC News, a story to detail. They called back half an hour later, but I refused an interview for now; I could not be seen to be endorsing illegal workers, however cute they were.

Whilst not selling any glass, I finally called Rolf and detailed what Mercedes had said.

Rolf noted, ‘She could make a fortune here, and … who cares about studying English in England, she can do that here.’

‘Make sure she’s OK -’

‘Girls will meet the plane, they got through to her.’

‘Be a love and have the TV news at the airport, eh, give the British Government some shit.’

‘I know just the man to call. Oh, we negotiated fulfilment prices, all looks OK, just need some publicity now.’

I laughed. ‘That could be hard, yes. Try and think up a few publicity stunts.’

Calling Trish next, she was worried, she could be arrested if they thought she had deliberately aided an illegal worker.

I stated, ‘She said she would be under the eighty hours, and she was, just that the hotel room pushed the limit. Her responsibility. Anyway, I spoke to the Swedish news and the BBC, some shit for the British Government.’

The 6pm news here was messy, messy for everyone because they could not quite decide who was at fault, but we did get a ten- minute segment, over-shadowing the Prime Minister.

The 7pm news in Sweden was messy, but for the British Government, Olesya seen tearful at the airport and protesting her innocence, the twins seen with her.

The presenter had a chart, and he detailed what was allowed under the visa rules, why Olesya had a work hours limit in the UK – and that Olesya was in Sweden on refugee a stay permit.

The presenter also detailed the Mercedes advert, and that it was taking part in the next advert that had caused this problem. Rolf had explained to me that it was fifty-fifty if she was guilty of anything, and that she had in fact under-worked in previous months.

On the 9pm Swedish news they detailed a British document that allowed aggregate monthly totals to a quarterly financial limit, and that Olesya was under – even with the hotel cost and train fare. The British Ambassador to Sweden had been summoned, and I laughed loudly, soon explaining it to my parents.

The 10pm BBC news came around as I sat ready with my parents since I had sneakily called the BBC, and now the BBC news detailed the reaction in Sweden, and that the girl was innocent, and that it was a British immigration cock-up.

The Mercedes marketing lady called me. ‘You are a lucky so-and-so, aren’t you?’

‘I’m starting to think I have a guardian angel.’

‘We got the publicity, and she can come back to the UK. We released the segment with her in, it will be seen on the Swedish news tomorrow.’

‘Remind me, which of us is the sneaky shit?’

‘All publicity is good publicity, most of the time. And now everyone’s waiting for the next advert, so it goes around the UK tomorrow night from 9pm – always late night for alcohol adverts.’

Call ended, I called back the BBC and tipped them off about the advert. Next I called the twins, and Olesya had seen her parents and was now back with the Rasmussen family. ‘How is she?’

‘She is happy, her face all over Sweden, and the people support her, so she feels liked, and father had sent the TV news images of Olesya in my dress and with us.’

‘The advert will show in Sweden soon, and tomorrow Mercedes will send the Swedish TV news just the part with Olesya in. The full advert will show soon.’

‘Our uncle will help her, and they complain to the British Ambassador here. But now the British, they say she broke no law.’

‘Looks that way, yes. But I feel guilty for involving her.’

‘Not your fault, and now she will make good money modelling.’

‘It was a twist of fate, and good luck for her to be deported – it made her career.’

The next day, and British daytime TV hosts were expecting the next instalment of the advert, Smirnov were now happy, and by lunchtime most of the bored housewives in Sweden had seen the advert segment with Olesya in.

Rolf had bought me the plane tickets for Jamaica, he had also booked the hotel in Jamaica, so we were set. I called my snapper and told him about it. He would never get a budget to fly, so I would send him digital images.

Trish called, and Smirnov wanted my stupid Italian model. I called Agosto.

‘Hello? This is a British number calling me…’

‘It’s Roskov, you dope.’

‘Ah, Roskov, you are becoming famous, no.’

‘I am, yes, and I need you on a plane to England, I have an advert for you to do, like Mercedes.’

‘Really?’

‘Are you busy?’

‘Not so busy.’

‘They will pay your ticket and hotel, I already agreed it. You don’t get much for the advert, but when they show it you get some money.’

‘I have a girl in London, I stay cheap and ask for the hotel money, no.’

I laughed. ‘Why not. Get here quick, I’ll give you their phone number and my agent, I fly away on Friday for a holiday with the twins.’

‘What do I do in the advert?’

‘You pretend to be me, but you upset a big fat British barmaid and she hits you. That’s it. Simple. And I’ll get you some cash as well. Oh, we created our own company, in Sweden, so I might have some work for you next year.’

‘Ah, good.’

The 6pm news that evening detailed the diplomatic spat, and that the British Government had cocked it up, the media reaction in Sweden detailed, so we were getting even more publicity.

9pm came, I had warned Bonza and he had told all of his friends, and I now sat with parents, ITV tuned in. After two dull adverts on insurance it appeared, and I saw myself walk in with Jacqueline.

I inched closer to the TV, and Olesya was suddenly full face.

‘She’s very pretty,’ my mother noted.

‘She is,’ I agreed, and she looked better on the TV than in real life.

Three parts Smirnov, two parts Cherryade, one ice cube only, stir it with your finger and warm it with your heart.

Olesya looked great, a gentle lifting of the eye and a sexy smirk, soon a finger licked as we locked eyes.

Rats release, and my father laughed, my mother horrified, Rita’s arse cheeks soon seen, my father clearing his throat.

The phone went five minutes later, Bonza. ‘I want one, can you get me one, a Swedish bird?’

‘Get your own, you lazy toad.’

‘You get loads of money now?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘Lucky fuck.’

‘Luck has nothing to do with, I was born pretty and smart. But I did have you there to get me out of many scrapes.’

‘So there you go, you owe me.’

‘I’ll try and find a big Swedish girl dumb enough to date you.’

‘Good man.’

I called the twins, but they had already seen the advert, and Olesya had watched it with them. They also detailed several new enquiries for modelling work, the enquiries now with their agent.

I joked, ‘I think Olesya will get some work as well.’

‘We’ll take her, Friday, for photo work.’

‘Just as well, get it done. Her passport OK for Jamaica?’

‘Uncle checked, and yes. And now we have two cameras, and one has a special modelling focal adjustment, soft backgrounds. It’s 120mm film, professional.’

‘Sounds like we’re building up that modelling business. Oh, I got some work for Agosto, he’ll play an idiot.’

They laughed. ‘He is an idiot, so it fits.’

‘I’m sat here missing my twins.’

‘Ah … we miss you too. Friday we see you.’

‘A long flight from Heathrow, ten hours.’

‘We sleep some of it.’

‘What time does it take off?’

‘5pm. We land at 8pm in Jamaica.’

‘Take many types of bikinis, many white ones, no black or dark colours.’

‘We can buy some tomorrow.’

‘Did you calculate what Mercedes will send you?’

‘One-off payments, total is eighteen thousand, residuals estimated at thirty thousand over three months. But that was before the problem with Olesya.’

‘We need those posters ready soon, while they’re running the ads.’

‘The printing company, they have Apple Computers and they can alter a photograph and size it.’

‘You met Olesya’s parents?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘The mother is OK, the father a bit sick in the face, he drinks too much.’

‘Did she come to England to get away from them?’

‘Some, yes.’

‘If she gets some work she can get an apartment. How old is she?’

‘Twenty, just gone.’

Sat with my parents, I told them, ‘Olesya’s father, he … drinks.’

They exchanged a look.

My mum began, ‘I never had to worry about your father. He worked hard and never wasted the money.’

‘You always made sure I had good football kit…’

‘We never struggled, and my part time job helped, and we wanted you to do well, not stand on street corners and get into trouble like the rest of the kids around here.’

‘That guy in London with the knife, don’t worry about it, he never knew anything about me, he just saw rich people in a posh hotel dressed smart. It was random.’

Wednesday, and the people in work were talking about the new advert. The men liked it, the women puzzling this odd new drink.

Lunchtime, and a daytime show was sampling the Smirnov Cheeryade, the ladies in the audience liking it.

My Smirnov guy called my Motorolla mobile soon afterwards. ‘Bosses are happy, we have people sampling our drinks on the TV, and we’ll run samplers in bars this weekend. That new girl looks hot, all the guys in the office were taken with her, so … keep finding girls in pubs.’

I smiled. ‘When I spot them I’ll let you know. I’m off to Jamaica Friday, a week away.’

‘Lucky bugger.’

All my usual customers called during the day, and all had seen the new advert. They thought I was lucky as well.

Getting home at 6pm, Trish called. ‘You’ll never believe it, but Mercedes are going to sample the adverts in America.’

‘Wow. And … we get paid for samplers, right?’

‘Some. But if they run the adverts you’ll get much more.’

It was heady stuff, and potentially a shit load of money, so all I had to do now was avoid getting stabbed to death - or arrested for assisting illegal aliens.

After a few minutes stood in our small garden and breathing the cold air, I went back inside and called the twins. ‘Some news, and you have to not get too excited or shocked, but -’

‘What is it?’ they worried.

‘Mercedes are going to run the adverts in America. Your lovely arse cheeks will be seen in Hollywood.’

‘Oh my god.’

‘Have a family meeting, and don’t go to Hollywood, you’d be dead inside of five years.’

‘I don’t think we like Hollywood, no.’

Rolf called me half an hour later. ‘Ingrid is crying, and that upset the girls. They have no plans to go to Hollywood, they’ll follow your advice, they know the risks.’

‘They’re growing up too fast, aren’t they?’

I heard the sigh. ‘Way too fast, yes.’

‘We have a nice holiday coming, then we can build a business and work for ourselves, no one else. I have no plans for Hollywood, no matter how much they offer.’

‘You wouldn’t go?’

‘I can’t see myself sucking up to studio bosses, people with guns trying to kill me.’

‘It is very different to Sweden,’ he pointed out.

‘Reassure your wife, none of us have any plans for America. And I turned down the chance to make a million playing football.’

After the 9pm news I called my own family meeting. ‘The … adverts for Mercedes may run in America, Hollywood may see them.’

My mother was shocked.

‘You’d go?’ my father asked.

‘No. As with the chance to make a million from football, it’s the kind of risks that I don’t want to take.’

‘You were never drawn in by the football scouts, you always did your own thing and made your own choices,’ my father noted. ‘You turned down a chance at a great deal of money.’

‘Hollywood would be too much stress, and I still want to do something in politics. I see a lot of problems around me each day, and I want to have a go at fixing some of them.

‘So if the adverts run Stateside, and you see silly stories in the papers, just ignore them, I have no plans for America.’

‘We may have an offer in on a house soon.’

‘Good, some place where the twins can come and stay. Does it have a high hedge?’

‘It does, and a good gate, posh road, no idiots walking about.’

Jamaica

Friday came around, and I was very keen to get to a beach hotel, and to see my girls, but I was not looking forwards to the long flight.

I bid my parents goodbye at 8am, and with a new suitcase I got a taxi to the train station, still not ready to sit my driving test – not that I would have wanted to leave a car in Heathrow Airport’s expensive car park.

The taxi driver wanted to know where I was off to. ‘London for a few days,’ I told him, not wanting him to call the Press.

At the train station I bought a one-way ticket and boarded the train, men in suits seen heading down to London. I stood with a cup of tea near the buffet car, a guy chatting to me about Leicester City Football Club much of the way down to London.

I was soon on the oddly-smelling Circle Line, and in disguise, around to the Piccadilly Line and down to Heathrow, getting there early as planned and sitting in a coffee shop to chill out.

Checking the flights from Stockholm, the family’s flight was on time, but the family would not transit, there had been no flight transit option available for them when they booked, they would exit and join me, and check-in again.

At 1pm they appeared at Arrivals, and they were also in disguise, but I recognised my tall twins, soon a big hug, then a hug for Olesya.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked her as I held her shoulders.

‘I get a full passport soon, the uncle helps. And offer of work,’ she told me with her cute accent. ‘And when I land here they recognise me and say sorry, and I say that I transit to Jamaica.’

I cupped a cheek, shocking her; my hand was like an electric shock to her. ‘Some things happen for a reason, and you’re now famous because of it, soon to be making good money.’

Finding space in a coffee shop, we sat drinking tea and chatting, and I reassured Ingrid that we would not be interested in Hollywood yet, if at all. ‘I turned down the chance to make millions playing football, I’m not rushing to America.’

Rolf handed me my ticket, and the hotel booking details.

I told him, ‘Someday soon, we put all these expenses through the new company.’

‘Yes, but this is a holiday as much.’

I faced Olesya. ‘What do your parents think?’

‘They were very shocked to see me in the news and then in the advert, but now they are happy that I can make some money.’

I turned my head a notch to Rolf. ‘You met them?’

‘Yes, we had lunch, but the twins have adopted Olesya, a third sister.’

Ingrid put in, ‘And Olesya cleans-up after herself better than the twins.’

I laughed loudly with Rolf as the twins squinted at Ingrid.

When the twins took Olesya shopping, I said, ‘Is it a good thing … that the girls have someone else to talk to?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Rolf agreed. ‘They don’t talk to each other much, they know what each other is thinking; Olesya is good for them. If we had a single child, then we would want a friend for her, and twins are just like a single child – so it works well.’

‘And that British journalist that you play badminton with?’

‘We had a drink and a chat, yes, we’ve known his family a long time.’

‘And he doesn’t pry?’

‘Not in Sweden they don’t, we have laws.’

I sighed and shook my head. ‘I should be based in Sweden maybe.’

Checked-in, we sat waiting, a face turning to me. The man eased up and walked over. ‘Roskov, yes?’

I stood, not wanting to make a scene and miss the flight. ‘Yes…’

‘Bob Turnball, I’m the CEO of CGM.’

It was the biggest ad agency in the UK. And he was the boss. I turned to Rolf and smiled. ‘He’s the CEO of the largest ad agency in Britain.’

Rolf stood and they shook hands. ‘Ricky is always meeting people in odd places, and selling his services.’

‘Well if you don’t sell you don’t produce, and if you don’t produce you don’t make money,’ the man agreed, and he sat near us and away from the girls. ‘Do you have a contract with Mercedes?’

‘No, it’s all very loose. My agent doesn’t even have a contract with me, I refused. We get paid job by job.’

‘And your plans for the future?’ he nudged.

‘A small agency based in Sweden, enough work to pay the bills, quality of life first.’

‘You could have been a pro footballer…’

‘Yes, but one broken ankle and it’s all gone. I want to go into politics some day.’

‘Parliament?’

‘Unlikely. Maybe an MEP, more likely a pressure group, something small and local to Leicester.’

‘Odd, to hear that from someone who’s nineteen years old, and you have all the women in Britain clambering over you.’

‘And I won’t touch any of them.’

‘You have that barmaid with you?’

‘Yes, Olesya from Sweden, we’ll take some snaps in Jamaica and sell them.’

‘I’d have some work for you when you get back…’

‘We’d pick and choose, and not conflict with Mercedes, so don’t offer us a BMW advert.’

‘Smart kid, keep your customers apart. I have some magazine work of course, clothing and jewellery, and national TV ads, but you don’t want to be over-exposed.’

‘No, and Mercedes may want a few extra adverts,’ I told him.

‘We have European public information films - your girls speak the languages, and we do cartoon adverts with voice-overs in many languages. But we have Diageo on board, and they want to buy Smirnov.’

‘They have a shit load of household brands, so I’d be interested.’

‘Then we can meet when you get back. How long you in Jamaica?’

‘Just a week.’

‘Ten days for my family.’

‘Meet us there and we can chat over a cold beer,’ I suggested. ‘We’re in the Moon Palace.’

‘We stayed there a few times, nice. I’ll find you there – if my wife lets me.’

‘Booked in under Rasmussen,’ I told him. ‘No Roskov fella.’

He returned to his family, we returned to ours.

I told Rolf, ‘Some work when we get back maybe.’

‘I’ve been involved with public information films before, for the EU, I may know some of the people setting them up.’

Boarded, we were sat near each other, the girls together in a row, myself, Rolf and Ingrid behind them.

I told Rolf, ‘I’ll wait till it’s 11pm British time, then sleep, or when I get there I’ll need a damn holiday to recover.’

‘You have flown much?’

‘No, but when I suffer any broken sleep I’m useless the next day. Once did a coach trip to Scotland overnight, same issue, no good to play football the next day.’

Before Rolf slept we chatted about EU politics, and he drew charts on a pad of paper he had, he also explained his consultancy business – reports and statistics on problem areas highlighted by MEPs.

He told me, ‘We are careful not to make a recommendation, we provide the information that leads to a conclusion. The MEPs and ministers make their own conclusions.’

A long ten hours later we landed in the dark, and I had slept for almost five hours, a smooth flight apart from our descent. Rolf and Ingrid had slept for seven hours at least.

Aircraft doors open, and I breathed in the warm and fragrant air, glad to be here. Through customs, luggage collected, we found a man with a sign, and he had a mini-bus for us, more than an hour’s drive to the hotel, the traffic not too bad at this time of night.

Driving, we never got to see much of the island, certainly no attractive scenery glimpsed given that it was now dark, but I did notice a shit load of run down shacks on the sides of the roads, poor half-naked kids playing with dogs, litter on the sides of the roads. This was no European resort, this was shanty town with a few nice hotels with nice high fences.

I was glad when we finally hit the spacious hotel room, finding that it had a double bed as well as a single, and through an adjoining door we found Olesya’s room – just a double bed, but somehow Rolf and Ingrid were in another block. I smiled when I considered that they did not want to hear us having sex. Or us them.

The room was a basic magnolia with watercolours of waterfalls and jungle, a few beach sunset scenes, the furniture a dark wood that appeared to have been made local.

‘Hungry?’ I asked the twins.

They were, Olesya as well, so I called Rolf’s room. They would order food to their room, us “kids” could do the same he suggested, and we’d meet tomorrow, midday.

A quick shower, no sex yet, and we dressed, Olesya walking around her room naked, the door open. I nudged it closed but not all the way, the twins puzzling that.

When Olesya was finally ready, and with the ladies dressed sexy in flimsy white outfits, we walked down and to the restaurant, which had just closed, but the bar had snacks – so they politely informed us.

I led the girls to the bar past fat old sunburnt westerners in white cotton shirts, and we grabbed a table and a bar snack menu, half the tables now in use, mostly middle-aged couples. The sides of the bar were open, a black night sky seen, bright lights inside attracting a few moths.

And no one seemed to recognise us, which was good.

The snacks seemed to be substantive, and we all ordered the club sandwich with French fries, a beer for me, white wine for the girls.

Beer sipped, and I relaxed. ‘Good to be away.’

‘You have a lot of stress this week,’ Rita noted.

‘I was worried about Olesya, on top of other things.’

‘I am OK, do not worry,’ Olesya assured me.

I told the twins, ‘I work in my uncle’s factory and … he likes that I sell his products, but … he doesn’t like me being famous and taking time off work, even when I make him more money that he ever had.’ I shrugged.

Rita suggested, ‘He is an idiot, you make him money and still he complains. It is the money made that is important not the hours you work.’

I nodded and sipped my beer. ‘I wonder how Agosto is getting on with the Mercedes director?’

The twins laughed, then explained it to Olesya.

A band started up, Reggae but gentle, and the food was served quickly enough. We all tucked in, all of us seemingly starved. But the girls complained when I picked all the green stuff out from my sandwich.

Finished eating, room key shown for a tab, and we stood around an old wooden bar top so that we could see the band a little better.

There was a piano, and when the band took a ten-minute break the twins moved in; I caught it from the corner of my eye as I grabbed more drinks. Sat at the piano, they started to play, the guests soon smiling.

The twins earned a sedate applause, soon a classical piece selected and played, a louder applause noted. It was Olesya’s turn, and she had chosen a classical piece, a much louder applause this time.

When she finally returned and stood back at the bar with me, an old guy asked Olesya where she had learnt to play.

‘Moscow,’ she replied.

The old guy almost fainted when Olesya named her teachers, and he walked off to tell his wife about it.

I asked her, ‘You never wanted to be a musician?’

‘No. I liked it sometimes, but they were very strict teaching me.’

The sedate Reggae band started up again, the twins swaying to the music, and this was all very relaxing. And after us four, the next youngest person was forty years old at least.

But trouble was never very far away from us it seemed. A man in his fifties wobbled in alone, drunk, and he stood at the bar, soon eyeing the girls in a way that made them feel uncomfortable.

‘What’s your name?’ he slurred a few minutes later.

Rita gave him a sentence in Swedish, which he puzzled with a deep frown before backing off. But he came back, focused on Olesya. ‘Right, babes?’

A look at the local barman, and the barman could see the issue so he came around, nudging the man away. The man was having none of it, the barman elbowed in the face, guests horrified.

Rita moved before I knew what was happening, a swift kick to the balls taking the man down. Drink in hand, I stood wide-eyed as she returned to us, the man bent-double as two security men rushed in, both seven feet tall it seemed.

I finally turned to Rita as the peace was reclaimed, the band still playing. ‘Your father does not need to know about that.’

‘We learn to kick balls on a dummy, we practise many times.’

My eyes widened. ‘Oh, right, well … please don’t do that to me if I upset you.’

‘I fight men like this,’ Olesya stated. ‘In England, I put hot coffee in a man’s face.’

‘Ouch.’

None of us were tired, so we remained until the music ended and people started to head off, the guests mostly old and definitely not party animals.

Exploring the hotel, we walked past the well-lit pool, a security man nodded at, and we found the second pool, closer to the ocean. We could hear the ocean but not see it.

‘We can swim naked,’ Rita suggested.

‘Sounds great, but at night the sharks and poisonous jellyfish come in. No swimming at night.’

They were suddenly keen to avoid the water, but we struggled across the sand to the water’s edge and peered out anyhow, twinkling lights seen along the coast, a few yachts moored offshore.

Back at the start of the hotel grounds I noticed the guard stood in the dark, and we headed slowly back to the room. Mini bar opened, we sipped soft drinks on the balcony.

A frog sounding out, and I soon had it in my hand, the girls not wanting to get too close to it as we were serenaded by many frogs and crickets.

‘This sound is all night?’ Olesya asked.

‘Yes, but you will sleep well, it is in all humans … to sleep well with that sound.’

‘Can you check my room?’

I eased up and checked the room, killing two small spiders and ejecting another cute green gecko. Windows secure, door chain on, and she was set. And she was soon walking around naked again.

I heaved a sigh, but she did have a fantastic figure, not an ounce of fat on her.

Rita could see my look. ‘We are Swedish, we have naked sauna and swimming, nudist beach, and we are naked as teenagers together, not like you English.’

‘I’m with you and Frieda -’

‘Yes, we know,’ she said with a nice kiss. ‘Don’t worry, relax, you are soon model company man, so you must see girls naked all the time.’

‘Well … yes, true.’

‘Be naked and be happy, as we say.’

Stripped off, I led the girls into the large wet-room shower, and we washed each other as we chatted. They used the toilet in front of me, a shock, and I would have to get used to all this.

Dry, and back in the room, Rita asked me to give Olesya a massage, as if making a cup of tea, Frieda nodding.

Sighing, and considering keeping Olesya on the team, I placed on my swimming trunks, grabbed the baby oil we had and stepped next door. Olesya looked up from what she was doing, naked, and smiled.

‘The twins don’t want you left out, so I … can give you a massage, help you after the long flight.’

‘Oh, good.’

I directed her to lay face down, the pussy slit staring up at me, the frogs serenading us from the trees outside. Starting at the ankles, I worked up one leg then the other, the backs of the knees, soon the inside of the thighs and getting a loud moan, the pussy brushed against as Julie had taught me.

Arse massaged as I had been taught, aiming for the large muscles hidden deep, and I worked up to the shoulders, a head and neck massage important for a lady.

Turning her over, I worked the ankles and legs again, the perfect small shaved pussy staring up at me, the perfect boobs flattening out.

But in this position her hip bones stuck out a little more than the twins, and way more than Julie and Susan, the veins in her inner thighs clearly visible. Up to the inside of the thighs, and she again moaned, arching her back some.

Side of the pussy massaged, squeezed, and she moaned louder as I gently massaged the clit, and I was soon practising what I had been taught and as I had practised with the twins; I was massaging the side walls of the pussy whilst maintaining a gentle pressure on the clit with a thumb.

A loud moan, and she sounded like she was about to faint. A gentle finish for her from my fingers, and I pulled a sheet over her as she curled up.

Back in our room the girls were stood naked, hand on hips, waiting. ‘What did you do?’

‘You … said to give her a massage,’ I puzzled.

‘A massage, yes, but you gave her a pussy massage as well!’ Rita loudly whispered.

My face fell. ‘That’s … what I thought you said.’

They laughed loudly. ‘No!’

Rushing into Olesya, they jabbered away in Russian before they knocked off her light and closed the door.

I had washed my hands, and now dried them off, shaking my heads at the twins. ‘You said a massage -’

‘Just a massage.’

‘When I give you a massage it’s never just a massage.’

They giggled. ‘She will sleep better now.’ They grabbed my arms and led me to the bed, soon adopting the double massage position, and I began on their legs.

‘Something else not to tell your father.’

They giggled, their stomach muscles twitching, and they both displayed great stomach muscles.

Working the vagina walls, thumb on the clit, they were happy-giggly, which was infectious, my cock about to burst. They moaned some, their eyes closed, a moth flittering about the bed lights.

Timing it carefully, I had them turn over, thumb in and “G” Spot pressed, and I worked my magic, getting better at it now. I wanted very much to please them more than they might please me, but I had to wonder why.

They came loudly, no care for a sleeping Olesya, but when I tip-toed quickly to the door and checked Olesya she was asleep.

Hands washed again, the air con whirring above us, and the girls sucked on my moist cock alternately, someone finally swallowing as I stifled my own moan. I was not sure who had swallowed, and they were soon asleep after the long flight – and after the wine they had drunk.

Not that sleepy, I stared at the grey shadows around the room and listened to the frogs, feeling contented, a hand on someone’s firm arse. And I would have to get used to naked girls if I was to be involved in modelling.

Waking early, the girls still out of it, I stood naked peering out of the window slats. Olesya’s door was now fully open for some reason. Shorts on, and I walked in, finding her coming out of the bathroom naked, a nice smile for me.

‘Sleep OK?’ I whispered.

She nodded, soon making me a cup of tea whilst still naked. Sat on her balcony, no one able to see us unless they climbed a tree, we sipped the tea and stared out at our limited view of trees and a slice of the ocean.

‘You give me good massage,’ she said with a twinkle in her eye.

I shot her a look. ‘I thought the girls said to do that.’

‘The girls get this massage every day?’

‘Most days, yes.’

‘Good for relaxing and sleeping,’ she commended. ‘I go to sleep very quick and very happy.’

‘Boyfriend in Sweden?’

She lost her smile and looked away as I took in her boobs. ‘Not for some time, no. In Finland, we are short of money, and … an old man offers me money.

‘I let him to lick my pussy a few days a week, that is all he wants as he uses his hand, and … I have money for food with mother, vodka for father.

‘When I first come to Sweden I am fifteen, and I have a nice boyfriend, but no sex, only touching. I take virgin with hair brush.’

She gave me a coy smile. ‘That hair brush was my lover, never a problem with it.’

‘If you make some money … will you get an apartment in Stockholm?’

‘Maybe no, I need look after mother, look after father when drinking.’

‘Oh.’

‘Your mother and father…’ she nudged.

‘They work hard, they don’t drink, they never shout, they always looked after me.’

She saddened as she stared into her drink. ‘You are lucky. Mother loves me, I think father, but we have many problems for many years.’

‘Now you’re here in luxury, and making money, so look forwards, not backwards.’

Rita appeared naked behind us, stretching and yawning, soon jabbering away in Russian.

I stood. ‘You want a cup of tea?’ She nodded, so I made two teas, Frieda appearing and stretching like a cat, drinks handed over, soon four of us sat on the balcony. And I was slowly getting used to the naked bodies.

Showered, and no one hungry after biscuits had been opened and consumed, we put on swimming costumes, grabbed bags and towels, plus the all-important sun cream. I lined them up as they stood in white bikinis with sarongs around them.

Finger wagging, I began, ‘We need a light tan on you, but no bikini lines, we’ll try different bikinis. Don’t … get a heavy tan, never a heavy tan for a model. On the balcony here you can sunbathe naked, yes, but just ten minutes and turn, never burn.

‘If some day you have modelling work, and you’re sun burnt, we lose the contract, same with bikini lines, so be careful, never a heavy tan on your faces, just a little tan.

‘Always know what the next modelling assignment will be, indoors or outdoors, bikini or nightwear, the client won’t use us if we’re tanned and it’s a winter shoot.’ I led them down.

Finding the main pool quiet, we grabbed sunbeds and shades, the twins soon completing lengths like Olympic swimmers as I explored the area and the beach, finding mostly old couples, no hot young models seen.

Joining the girls for a swim, Olesya not a great swimmer, I completed a few lengths of the big pool, soon sat back with Olesya, the sun out but the clouds threating a downpour south of us, towards the hills.

The twins finished their long swim, which was good for their muscles, and back with us they hid under the large green sun shades, sun cream applied after they had dried off.

The helpful waiter walked past, and I ordered four cappuccinos plus bottles of water. Coffee brought, I added the sugar and sipped, sat relaxed as red-skinned fat old couples started to claim sunbeds around the pool, the pool backed by lush green bushes.

And I sat relaxed for half an hour or more, just watching the guests.

I finally told Rita, ‘People in Europe and America think this is luxury, and it’s good to be away, but I would get bored sat here each day. I think that people just want to get away, from the weather in England.’

‘In summer we love Sweden, canoe on lake, so not so much the getting away. In winter we hate it sometimes, always inside the house. It is dark all day.’

I nodded as I considered that.

Rolf and Ingrid appeared, and spotted us, soon sat near us, no talk of Rita kicking men in the balls. As we stood chatting, Rolf told me, ‘There is a driver in reception, he can take us to a quiet beach he knows, and waterfalls here, but the waterfalls get busy.’

‘Could do the waterfalls at dawn,’ I suggested.

‘The tour groups all leave at 4pm, so then it is quiet for an hour or two before sundown.’

‘Best light is at 4pm, a softer light.’

He nodded. ‘I am reading about it.’

‘And your consultancy will suffer with you away..?’

‘This year we travel, after the twins leave school, and I promise them to work less, so I work less in the business.’

‘Did you have health problems?’ I nudged.

‘No, we had time problems. Not much time together, so … this year we fix that.’

‘My parents were always there, every evening, but … they’re not very interesting people, and my mother would hate the heat and bugs here. My father … he likes old buildings and history. You and Ingrid are the parents I wished for, but … if you were too busy then what would be the point?’

‘Well, yes, interesting people but always working, common in Sweden for executives. There is no point in being a good parent if you are not at home to be that good parent.’

‘Did the girls miss you?’

‘Of course, we always got on well as family, but I convinced myself that making money was the way to be a good father.’

‘All fathers do that at the start.’

‘At the start, yes, then … well, then you need to be a father as well as a provider.’

I shot him a look. ‘I think they wrote some big books on that conundrum.’

‘Very thick books, yes, the age old problem, never solved.’

I led him away. ‘I sometimes worry about myself, in that … I don’t have much of a sex drive for a young man. I’m with beautiful girls but thinking of the model agency work, not wanting to tear their clothes off.

‘In school I had every girl after me but I just played football, they called me the Soccer Virgin.’

‘What worries you about that?’

‘Well, men my age should be keen and excited and wanting to have sex, but … I’m just relaxed and don’t care.’

‘You have all the women of Europe clambering after you, and your mind knows that, the same in school,’ he pointed out. ‘But you are different because your heart does not rule your head.

‘As a teenager I was popular, but study always came first, no matter how beautiful the girl. And as a young man, work always came first, not the ladies. As with you, my head rules my heart, and my cock never ruled me.

‘That’s a good thing, but you compare yourself to the young idiots in England, who are all sex mad. They struggle to find girls, and maybe that’s why they are so keen, and I have seen men ruin careers and lose lives over a woman.

‘You are now as I was at your age, dedicated and not distracted, you are focused yet you still have time for fun; you are more Nordic than British in your outlook. Don’t worry, there is nothing wrong with you, and in Sweden you would be average in your thinking.’

‘I grew up with British television, perhaps not the best guide,’ I told him.

‘Definitely not. I sometimes watched this Eastenders show and … it portrays your people as always angry and fighting each other. I fail to see how that is entertaining.’

I smiled. ‘Me too.’

‘So, what is first?’

‘First we find a cheap shop, some white bikinis and some t-shirts, some props. Girls need a slight tan first, unless it’s evening wear.’

‘They will get a slight tan today, for sure, it is hot.’

Rolf and Ingrid swam together, I sat people-watching the guests, the twins chatting to Olesya. We had lunch together around a large round table, talk of clothes and props, and after lunch our new trusty driver took us out, and to a tacky tourist clothes store.

This was what I wanted anyhow, a variety of cheap t-shirts bought, and I told the girls to get some a few sizes too big. The shop had jeans shorts for girls, so we bought some, Ingrid to cut them so that arse cheeks showed.

With enough props for now we headed back, Ingrid soon hard at work cutting the shorts as I directed the girls to tear the t-shirts just under the boobs. Ready, they tried the t-shirts on, and from the front there was the hint of some boob but no nipple, and from the side there was some side-boob.

‘Target time is 4pm at the waterfall, just fifteen minutes to get there,’ I told them. Watches were checked, and we would go early and scout good locations.

Back in the minibus, bags with cameras in hand, Rolf would use the 120mm roll film camera, I would try the digital camera, and Ingrid had a standard camera, an OM10 that she said always produced nice pictures. Loaded inside it she had quality Kodak film.

At the waterfall carpark we found a dozen minibuses and taxies waiting and we parked with them, soon lugging the kit and props down a path covered in litter, the tourists here having little regard for the local environment.

As a group, we negotiated steep concrete steps with a rusted old handrail, soon on the sand, and we walked around to the falls as tourist groups walked the other way - past the sign about no littering.

At the falls we had a look, the tree canopy making it dark where we were, but further in the sunshine still penetrated. Shoes off, we walked up the sandy water slowly and clambered out onto flat rocks as tour guides called for their customers.

It grew quieter minute-by-minute, swimmers leaving the loud boiling pool, a few idiots jumping off the rocks into the pool.

I could see a good location on the west side of the falls, not too many trees, and we would have the sun behind us, so I nudged everyone that way. Stood on a well-worn dirt path, Rolf and I glanced up and around.

‘Enough light,’ I suggested.

Bags down, the last few remaining swimmers ignored, the girls changed into white bikinis, the twins already appearing to have a light tan, which was their old Tenerife tan topped up in reality. Olesya was non-pale, but pale compared to the twins.

‘This where they filmed James Bond?’ I asked Rolf.

‘No, that was the west side of the island, but it’s a three hour drive at least.’

‘We don’t have time,’ I sighed out as I checked the digital camera.

With the girls in bikinis, I asked for the twins. They got into position and posed.

‘I don’t like the bikini top, it pushes up your boobs and in, makes them look square. What else do we have?’

‘The cut t-shirts maybe,’ Rita suggested.

Bikini tops ditched, they grabbed the t-shirts and posed again.

‘Better,’ I commended. ‘Turn, face the falls, look down and in, bend the back, arse out, legs closer together, a little side on to each other, hold it.’ I took several snaps then allowed Rolf into position.

I liked the pose, the arse cheeks and legs looking great, a hint of side boob on both girls. ‘OK, walking up the path, you’re static but walking, hand on a shoulder. Twin on the right, point up.’

‘Frieda!’ she quietly complained.

‘Wear a fucking name tag!’ I retorted, Rolf laughing. ‘OK, Rita, lean in a little more, more side boob, good, hold it.’ I took several snaps, Rolf moving in again.

‘OK, facing us, go down the slope a little, you come up and freeze, t-shirts falling forwards, now look to the falls … and freeze … good, hold.’ I took several snaps, and I closed in for a few more, plenty of boob shape but never all of it.

‘OK, back up here, facing the pool, hands on hips, legs apart. OK, looking down at the pool … hold it … good. Same pose, t-shirts off.’

T-shirts off, grabbed by Olesya, and the twins had their backs to me, two male swimmers getting an eye-full. I moved until I had side boob and clicked away.

‘OK, t-shirts on please.’

Olesya helped, t-shirts back on.

‘OK, facing me. Rita, front, Frieda behind. Frieda, chin on Rita’s shoulder, hold her around the waist. Rita, grip her hands, legs apart a little, smile like you want to eat me but with mouth closed … hold it … good … different smile, moody.’

Rolf was clicking away. ‘This pose I like.’

‘OK, Olesya, other shoulder.’ Olesya stepped in and got ready. ‘Cute smiles for me, I’m about to give you a massage … hold it … good.’

‘Massage?’ Rolf repeated with a puzzled frown.

I waited for him to take his snaps. ‘OK, Olesya, back here, twins, tops off.’ The twins handed Olesya their tops. ‘Rita in front, hands on hips, look bold. Frieda, cover her boobs, look like you’re teasing a teenage boy … steady … hold … good, different smile, tip the head … hold … good. Rita, hands behind you and hold.’

Frieda yelped and they giggled.

‘That’s the position, yes. Smiles … look coy for me … hold … good … tilt of the head … different smile … great.’ I turned my head to Oleysa. ‘Swap with Rita please.’

Rita held the clothes, Olesya posed, boobs held, another yelp from Frieda, and I took five shots.

‘OK, three girls, tops off, facing the waterfall, side on, hands on hips, legs apart and straight, superman pose.’

They got ready, and I adjusted their positions, five shots taken.

‘OK, t-shirts on please. Chop, chop, time is money!’

Rolf and Ingrid laughed loudly as the girls muttered under their breath.

T-shirts on, I had them stand shoulder to shoulder, arms over each other’s shoulders, the t-shirts riding up as planned. I pulled one down to hide a nipple.

‘OK, smile like friends on holiday, happy and confident, that’s it … hold … good.’ I took three shots, Rolf took three, Ingrid taking a few for the family album. And I now considered that the slight camel toe evident was probably a good thing for the posters.

‘OK, Olesya, take this camera.’ I stripped down to my swimming trunks and stood in between the girls face on, a chin on either of my shoulders, arms held as if testing my muscles.

‘Smile,’ Rolf instructed. ‘Good pose, yes, for publicity.’

‘Olesya,’ I called. ‘Top off. Twins, stand back. Publicity pose it is.’

I stood behind Olesya, almost a head taller as she got down an inch or two, and I covered her boobs with my hands, my cheek against her head in a romantic pose. ‘Look sexy at the camera, not a smile but an invite to bed. Hands behind you.’

Now I yelped, the twins laughing.

Ready, Rolf snapped away, Rita using the digital camera.

‘OK, we need you down in the water.’ I had a look, no swimmers left, a man and woman stood smoking. ‘We’ll have to risk it.’

I led them down, and to a smooth rock that was an inch under water, Ingrid to hold the clothes and bags up the slope a few feet. Easing into the water, I found it up to my waist. ‘OK, twins on the rocks, but get wet first – but not your face and hair!’

They eased into the water and down, back up wet and onto the rock, the t-shirts now wet – as planned.

‘Sit next to each other, a knee up, one foot in the water, elbows locked behind you. Look down at the water like you’re bored. OK, hold that … good.’ I took several snaps after Olesya had handed me the digital camera, which Rolf said was moderately waterproof.

‘OK, look at me as if I invaded your space, curious but not annoyed … good … hold … coy smiles … good.’

Now that they were wet the camel toe was more defined, and I had to wonder about the legality of mail order posters.

‘Rolf, I think we need the ocean more than this water, dark in here.’

‘We try it, come back in the morning maybe.’

I led them into the water, cameras held high, and to the beach, a couple sat kissing. We emerged into direct sunlight, albeit from a low sun. I pointed at the horizon. ‘We have thirty minutes at most. OK, three girls to me.’

I led them to the water’s edge, a large shell found there. ‘Stand and look down at the shell, surround it a little.’ They posed, and from six feet back I had two side boobs and a great arse.

I knelt, three snaps taken, two standing, wondering how many I could take with this camera. ‘Rolf, how many photos can I take?’

‘It has extra thing inside, memory, they said about fifty.’

‘Less than that so far. Girls, tops off, get wet, then come back here and lay in the sand face down please. Run!’

Giggling, they whipped off the tops and ran screaming into the water, soon back and laying down. I lay down ahead of them with Rolf. ‘OK, boobs in the sand, the sand stuck on you. Lift up. OK … you’re covered, good. Elbows in the sand, hands under chin, make fists. OK, good.’

I eased down a little, a shot with no boobs just a hint of boob. ‘Ease up your shoulders a little, hold it … good, big breath in … hold it … good. Wait.’

I positioned myself so that I could snap three arses in a row. ‘Turn over, one knee up, elbows locked, stare at the ocean.’ I took several snaps from varying angles.

‘Rolf, what’s the law on boobs in posters?’

‘You can buy this Sam Fox in England, topless, so … I guess it’s OK.’

‘And if a ten year old buys that poster mail order?’

‘You see a small image before you buy it, so … he would have to explain it to his parents.’

I let him move in and take a few snaps.

‘The three together look good, I have seen this image before.’

‘OK, girls, wash off, clothes back on, that’s a wrap!’

They laughed. ‘That’s a wrap!’ they repeated, running to the water and splashing each other, a great sight to see.

I finally faced Rolf. ‘We can pick a good image or two and send it to my reporter friend.’

‘The one of you with Olesya will stir gossip, that will do.’

I smiled widely. ‘Sneaky shit.’

‘I’m learning from you,’ he mock protested.

Along the beach they had a tourist trap beach bar, so we sat and ordered cold drinks on rickety old wooden chairs. I was soon relaxing with a beer as the girls looked at the digital camera images.

Rolf suggested, ‘If they have a good camera shop, we could develop the film here and take the negative back.’

‘We’re away from the city, would need a trip there.’

‘Maybe something here for tourist images. In the hotel they promise to have your images back the next morning.’

‘What about the semi-topless shots?’

‘They are very mild.’

‘Law here says no topless, so … can we get into trouble?’

‘I’ll ask at the hotel. But I think they’re used to naked drunken tourists.’

Back at the hotel, I asked for the manager. ‘Is there a computer we could use, to send images to England? Digital camera images?’

‘My brother does this, he has an Apple computer and a modem.’

I exchanged a look with Rolf. ‘We would pay him of course.’

‘I can talk to him soon.’

‘And what about a photo attached to an email?’

‘It depends on the size he told me, but his Apple software compresses the image first, all very clever.’

‘We need to meet him, and soon, some money for him.’

‘He will be pleased, I call him, I have your room numbers.’

Walking off, I told Rolf and Ingrid. ‘We can download the digital images to the computer, we choose the best ones, delete the others, and I send maybe four to my reporter friends, you send some to Sweden. And if you send all the images back to Sweden we can’t lose them on the way back.’

‘Good idea,’ Ingrid agreed.

‘Could send them all to my friend at the printers,’ Rolf suggested. ‘He can make an assessment.’

‘Excellent idea,’ I commended. ‘Meet you at the restaurant at … 8pm?’

‘See you there.’

I led the girls to our block, and they were happy-excited and chatting away. In our room, I called, ‘Olesya, I held your boobs for the modelling work of course, not because I like to hold your boobs.’

She squinted at me because I was hiding a grin, and lifted her top to show her boobs, Rita squeezing a nipple to a yelp.

‘Get some rest before dinner,’ I told them all.

‘Check my room,’ Olesya pleaded. ‘No lizard.’

I sighed theatrically and checked the room, under the bed, the bathroom – where she came in naked, finally the curtains, a gecko caught and evicted to the balcony. ‘All checked, no snakes.’

She gave me a hug. ‘Good you protect me.’

‘Wait. Turn around.’ I smacked her arse to a yelp. ‘You call me Mister Director. Now wash and rest.’

In the shower, the twins joined me, a good wash all over enjoyed but no sex, we were all jet-lagged it seemed, our body clocks not caught up yet. Dried, a drink of water taken, and we flopped on the bed.

Waking an hour later, I was cuddling someone, and being cuddled from behind, and by easing up and yawning I woke the twins, a mass of hair over their eyes. The wall clock said 7pm.

‘Seven o’clock,’ I told them as I eased up naked, the kettle filled and knocked on, a scratch of my balls needed. A look next door, and Olesya was still asleep, face down and legs spread wide.

From my own bathroom I fetched the plastic green frog that had an air freshener in it, and I quietly placed it on Olesya’s bed, soon handing the sleepy girls their cups of tea.

Tea made for Olesya, and I called her name from the door twice.

A scream, and I smiled widely.

‘What did you do?’ Rita asked, taking a look, the plastic frog lifted so that Olesya could see it was a toy.

Olesya stormed in naked and wagged a finger at me as Frieda and Rita laughed at her, a few curses in Russian aimed my way. But she just managed to look sexy as I handed her a cup of tea.

Sat on the balcony in the cool night air, it started to rain, but it was a warm rain, the edge of the balcony spitting the odd drop of water at us, our feet getting wet.

Then the rain intensified, then it drowned out all conversation, soon coming in sideways as the girls stood naked and screaming unheard, getting a shower from Mother Nature.

Finally inside, I grabbed large white towels for them and helped them dry off, and not slip over on the wet floor, the balcony door closed after I had retrieved the cups.

‘My god, the rain,’ Rita let out, wiping her hair.

‘Tropical rain,’ I pointed out. ‘It won’t last long. Come on, get dressed, we’ll meet your parents.’

When ready I led them out, the girls all colour-coded in beige and looking great. There was a covered walkway to the next block, the floor wet, so we held hands in case we slipped.

At Rolf’s room I knocked. ‘Are you decent?’

He opened the door. ‘Morally, or with regard to clothing?’

‘Both. You two young love birds ready?’

He told me as we entered, ‘The manager called me, and I handed the small data thing over from the digital camera. He promised to have it back to me at 8am. I gave him the email address of the printers in Sweden and my name to use as reference.’

‘Can we go meet the expert?’ I pressed.

‘He said yes, but late tomorrow. And maybe I can buy a second data thing.’

‘I’ll buy a good digital camera when we get back, I have the damn money now.’

Ready, we set out for the restaurant, and I was hoping not to run into the man with sore balls.

Sat, the old man from last night approached. ‘Will we be getting a rendition later?’

I faced Olesya. ‘I would think so, yes. Any pieces you want to hear?’

He said something in Russian to Olesya, and she nodded politely.

With the old man gone, Rolf asked, ‘Piano?’

‘Yes, he wants our classically-trained Russian spy to play.’

‘Spy?’ Olesya queried.

‘You killed a frog earlier.’

The twins laughed as Olesya cursed at me in Russian, Rita explaining it to her parents.

Rolf put in, ‘We had a cute green frog as well, yes, to be expected here.’

‘Ingrid, do you scream at small green frogs?’

‘No, they don’t bother me. We went to Africa one time, without the twins, and we had big spiders and some snakes. Rolf had a book and we were trying to identify them. Then a snake bites him and he looks in the book: OK, it’s not poisonous.’

I laughed. ‘Rolf, you’re supposed to get medical help, not read the damn book.’

‘I was confident that it was not poisonous, I just needed to check.’

Ingrid continued, ‘We had lion cubs in our room, so beautiful, but they cut my hands and legs and then pee on the floor.’

‘I’d love to do a safari,’ I put in, the twins agreeing. ‘And that train that goes all the way across Canada.’

‘We have the brochure,’ Ingrid enthused. ‘We looked at it, yes, sleeper car.’

The man with the sore balls walked past, not recognising us. I said nothing as Rita glanced at him under her eyebrows, a look exchanged with me.

Food inside us, and Olesya headed to the piano, soon a wonderful piece registering with me. I was no expert, but I liked a few classical pieces, and it sounded as if Olesya was quite the expert.

A few customers stood for a better look, a few had video cameras, and the old man and his wife stood observing. After the lengthy piece, six minutes, they applauded loudly, and Olesya completed four more, finally standing to a loud applause and looking embarrassed.

Back with us, Rolf and Ingrid commended her.

Stood at the bar an hour later, the old man approached. ‘It takes me back, what she played.’

‘Did you play?’

‘Yes, I was a music teacher, sent into Russia for the CIA.’

‘CIA?’ I blinked. ‘Really?’

‘Started in 1959, did my twenty years, research after that, many trips into Moscow. I often played at the same music school that this young lady attended.’

‘She … never attended willingly.’

‘Ah. That does happen, yes, I know … what that involves.’ He moved around and placed a hand on her shoulder, a few sentences in Russian, and Olesya started crying, soon being aided by Ingrid.

Back with me, he said, ‘I got a few kids out, defectors, one I adopted.’

‘Story for an airport novel and a movie.’

‘Perhaps, but not while I’m alive. She’s a doctor now, married with kids. Best to let the past lie.’ He headed off to his room.

I stood next to Olesya. ‘You OK?’

‘It is hard sometimes, to remember school in Russia. This man was there, he knows.’

‘If you cheer up, I’ll get you a cocktail: green frog.’

She shot me a look. ‘Cocktail will be nice.’

I ordered six Smirnov Cherryades, the barman not phased and just mixing them, the gang soon trying them. I told the gang, ‘Smirnov want to put this in a bottle and sell it, aimed at young women, a variety of flavours.’

‘You don’t taste the vodka,’ Ingrid noted.

‘That’s the whole point,’ I told her. ‘Sugar on the medicine, good tasting strong spirits.’

Rolf shook his head. ‘Encouraging young women to get drunk.’

‘Yep. Do the twins ever get drunk?’

‘One time, when thirteen.’

‘Don’t say that story -’ Rita cut in.

‘They wet the bed.’

I laughed at the twins and shook my head, the twins going red.

Olesya put in, ‘I had vodka at six years old, to stay warm in winter and sleep.’

I told them, ‘In all my life so far, I have had maybe … twenty beers. And that’s it.’

‘Only that?’ Olesya puzzled with a frown. ‘You are superstar man.’

‘I sit at home and read books on history, that’s the real me.’

An hour later Rolf and Ingrid headed off, to see us around the pool at 9am. I led the girls back, and for a shower, the twins nudging me to give Olesya a massage, a twinkle in their eyes.

‘Are you … sure?’

‘She is beautiful, and she won’t bite you. Go.’

A false sigh heaved, and I nudged a keen naked Olesya towards the bed, a second massage begun. This time I was naked, and stiff.

Forty minutes later I started on the pussy, but this time I hit the clit with my tongue for ten seconds, a gasp the result, and she was soon arching her back and breathing hard – and reaching for my stiff cock.

When she came I avoided the clit but kept going, a happy and satisfied customer the result, my cock denied to her though. Back in my room, hands washed, and the twins asked about my stiff cock and teased me.

‘I was thinking of you.’ I hadn’t been, but now I was, no massage for the girls as I thrust into Rita with a passion, kissing her like a man out of prison.

She came first, which was odd, so I moved over to Frieda after wiping my cock, and I started slowly, enough to keep the erection but not to finish, and I kissed her madly as well as I thrust in.

I held on as long as I could, and she finished just a second before me, a few extra thrusts given, but I was too sensitive. Cock washed, and we cuddled, the sheet pulled up but then discarded; it was too warm and humid.

Side light on low, and we cuddled, the rain hitting the roof.

A scream, and I jumped up and ran into Olesya, knocking on the light, a cute wriggling gecko on the cabinet and knocking things down. A hand placed, and it obliged me by climbing onto me, soon flying through the air off the balcony and to the trees.

Balcony door closed, and I assured her that it was just a gecko, the light knocked off. Cuddled up again, Olesya rushed in and cuddled Frieda from behind.

‘Oh gawd,’ I let out. But the bed was plenty big enough.

The rain eased off, it fell quiet apart from the million frogs, but something was on the roof.

‘What’s that?’ Rita whispered.

‘Mongoose.’

‘A what?’

‘They have problems with them here. Like a cute kitten they are.’

She elbowed me. ‘Not like a kitten.’

‘There are when they’re young,’ I insisted.

‘And older?’

‘Like a Swedish mink, but brown.’

‘Oh, those are nice.’

‘These bite, and have rabies.’

‘Don’t feed them then. Can they get in?’

‘No.’

The windows rattled.

‘Is that a mongoose?’ someone asked.

‘Probably a burglar,’ I suggested.

‘Go see.’

I was rudely nudged out of bed by three ladies. And I was the director. At the window I had a look, a moist twitching nose seen trying to get inside the window slats. From the bathroom I grabbed the spray bleach, waited, timed it, bleach to the face.

‘What did you do?’ they asked as I got back into bed.

‘I told it, go away or Rita will kick you in the balls.’ I got gently slapped. ‘I sprayed it with cleaner for the toilet, they don’t like the smell.’

‘Ah, good.’

‘Get some sleep, you need to look fresh for the client in the morning.’

‘Who’s the client?’ Rita asked.

‘I am.’

‘What’s the day rate?’ caused a giggle.

‘Do we get sandwiches?’ caused more of a giggle.

In the morning I eased out and woke them, soon peeing loudly, and to some even louder complaints. ‘Men pee loudly,’ I protested.

‘Sit down then!’

Showered by myself, the girls in no hurry to move, I made the tea for everyone, the cups washed out, the bugs removed first. They eased up to take the cups, in desperate need of a morning boost, three pairs of boobs on display, all similar, three messy blonde mops of hair, all very similar.

‘What do we do today?’ Olesya asked.

‘Some beach shots, but we need better bikini tops, soft material. Take the shorts. Olesya, get a tan, but not too much.’

At the pool we sat in the same spot, coffee delivered to us but also sandwiches, and this was our breakfast spot now. Rolf and Ingrid turned up at 9am, having had breakfast in the restaurant like civilised tourists.

We all swam, apart from Olesya, so I encouraged the girls to teach her – and to push her to swim; swimming was good for models.

At a leisurely 11am we set out to the beach, our driver knowing a quiet place, and after parking we walked down a path to the beach, just one young couple sat there as the waves pounded the sand.

The couple seemed far enough away, the girls changing into the cut shorts, cut t-shirts on the top – Ingrid had washed and dried them.

I told her, ‘If the t-shirts and shorts have salt stains, all the better.’

‘Ah, I take them back wet, a plastic bag.’

Ready, I had the twins stand staring out to sea near a palm tree, arse cheeks captured well, plus a little side boob. At the water’s edge they stood up to their knees, hands on hips, staring out to sea, or pointing at something, side boob captured.

Back a bit from the swell, I had them recapture the pose from yesterday – sitting together, joined by Olesya, then standing as three friends holding shoulders, t-shirts adjusted to hide nipples.

Bikinis on, arse wet, sand rubbed on, and they lay face down, several shots taken, bikinis pulled up like a thong. I had three sandy arses, the beach and the ocean in view. But I had used dry sand on the arses, making sure that it was not wet and dark in colour.

Facial shots, and they all sat with elbows locked, heads turned to face me, coy smiles held, many facial close-ups taken but always with a little side boob in the shot.

‘Take a break, one hour!’

They laughed. ‘OK, boss.’

I told Rolf and Ingrid, ‘What we need is to see the images from yesterday, then decide what we like, then to take similar images. If we have six similar shots … we use the best one.’

‘Come, I have magazine,’ Ingrid suggested, and after cold drinks from a bag we flicked pages of a swimwear magazine. I tore out three pages and showed Rolf.

‘Yes, good poses, not too sexy. We need a bending palm tree.’

‘Driver will know, none here.’

Break over, I had Rolf photograph me as I came out the water, various depths of water around me, Rita using the digital camera for the “James Bond pose”.

Dried off, I pointed. ‘What is that?’

‘A beach shower.’

‘Good. Girls, come on!’

I led them all up, no one around, Rita naked and wet but facing away. ‘Side on … hold … arms up and washing your hair … hold … good. Bikini bottom on please. OK, Frieda in as well, top off, get wet.

‘We have to hide the boobs, so you are both side on, washing each other’s shoulders.’

They got ready, giggling.

‘OK, arms up, boobs hidden a bit … good … hold.’ I moved a twin’s arm forwards, plenty of side boob but no nipple. ‘Steady … hold.’ I took several snaps from different angles, bikini bottoms pulled up like a thong.

‘Great. Twins out, Olesya in, top off. OK, face me, hand across your boobs, get very wet … good, coy smile for me, mouth closed, you want to tease me … hold it … good.’

Rolf took several snaps as I moved to the side.

‘OK, dry off.’ I faced Rolf. ‘We need some interesting scenery.’

He pointed up the hill. ‘Up there, all green.’

I had a look. ‘Yes.’

Back at the minibus, the driver took us to a local café, some lunch and a few cold drinks needed, the girls examining the digital images.

‘There’s an old castle here, a few,’ Ingrid put in. ‘Just if they are quiet. Old cannons.’

‘Girls sat on the cannons, yes,’ I agreed.

We had invited the driver to join us, and he pointed out that to film and to take photographs here in Jamaica we needed a license, $200, but that he had a “friend” who could get us one.

I told him, ‘Bring us the license, we pay you, not before. I want to see it.’

‘No problem, man,’ he assured me.

I faced Rolf. ‘If we sell posters we don’t want them complaining.’

He agreed.

The drive up the hill was just fifteen minutes, and we found a fantastic viewpoint, soon taking simple tourist holiday snaps of the view down towards our hotel.

Walking down a path, we found giant leaves on bushes over our heads, then an opening. Bags down, girls ready, I moved quickly, the cute green snaked grabbed and launched, the girls shrieking.

‘It’s OK, gone now, relax. Rolf, check that book, see if it was poisonous.’

He shot me a look as Ingrid laughed.

Girls ready, the ground around them checked carefully, and they stood staring out at the view, shorts on, tops off. Pointing at something in the distance, they posed, snaps taken, arse cheeks and side boob caught.

Pointing down the path, I could see a small tree with huge yellow flowers, so we walked down. I went first, checking for snakes.

Ripped t-shirts on, shorts on, and the three girls merged into the huge leaves and yellow flowers. Pose held, I moved a few inches, checked the shot - side boob available but no nipples, a few shots taken.

Standing back, I gave Rolf space and time, and he should have been able to take a few high-quality colour photographs here.

‘I think that could be the best shot yet,’ I told him, Rolf nodding.

Back up in the mini bus, we headed back to the hotel, some downtime around the pool as Rolf and Ingrid would head out to have the film developed – after checking the quality of the photographic studios first.

Sat around the pool, I enjoyed a cold beer, the girls swimming - some lessons for Olesya.

Walking to the pool bar, I sat on a stool and chatted to the familiar barman for a few minutes. The man who Rita had kicked walked up, a beer ordered, not seeming to recognise me.

‘You drinking alone?’ he asked me, which was a puzzle. ‘Loser, I got me some last night.’

‘Got me some?’ I repeated. ‘You from some small hick town lacking a school?’

He seemed offended, and straightened, but was he unsure what to do, and I suddenly realised that I did not want to get arrested here.

The girls appeared, soaking wet and asking me for Smirnov-Cherryades, hands on my shoulders. Now the hick town idiot was looking most put out, and he stormed off with his beer.

Drinks handed to the girls, and they walked off chatting in Russian.

‘Sir, these three ladies…’ the local black barman nudged.

‘Models and actresses, from Sweden in Europe.’

‘So beautiful and slim. But which one are you with?’

‘All three.’

‘All three?’

I nodded.

‘You … in the room … all three?’

Again I nodded.

‘You be my hero, sir.’

Cleaned up and rested, we met Rolf and Ingrid at 8pm in the restaurant, the Kodak film now handed in to a reputable place. We hoped.

After the meal we met the manager’s brother, a side office used, tight for space with us all inside. He had printed out the digital images in black and white, but high quality, and now we studied each one, the images having already been sent to Sweden – which had taken four hours.

Rolf handed the man $300, pleasing him, despite the lengthy modem link to Sweden.

I isolated four good publicity photos and tagged them, asking the man to send them to a new email address, that of my snapper in London. I added in two innocent snaps, the “friends on holiday” images.

Rolf gave the man the email address of the British reporter based in Stockholm, to send the same four images.

I asked the man, ‘Here in Jamaica, these photos are not illegal?’

‘They is no showing the naked bits, sir, it be OK, and we see many naked bits.’

‘And the license needed here?’

‘If you is company and you has group and want a beach closed, yes, but they no check.’

‘If we sell a photo that was clearly taken here?’

He shrugged. ‘Everybody do this, a million photo a year. We get more tourist from it.’

Images agreed with the girls, and the man would send them, an extra $100 handed over, plus the images from today handed over.

‘You know a professional photographer?’ I asked.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘How much, one day?’

‘I can get the man for $250 a day, good price on photo.’

‘I want him to teach us.’

‘I ask him, yes. He be white man, American, live here now.’

Leaving the side office, our trusty driver now had our license, money handed over, so at least it looked like we were complying with the local laws, laws that most people ignored it seemed.

Rolf put the printouts in his room before we headed to the bar, the old CIA guy and his wife greeting Olesya and adopting her on their table.

Drinks ordered, and I suddenly caught an image of Jacqueline on the TV screen. I pointed, the gang looked, and we closed in, the first Mercedes advert with the twins showing. I asked the barman what channel it was.

‘It be Fox, sir.’

‘Fox America,’ I told them all. ‘The advert samples, so some of the guests might recognise us now.’

Whilst keeping an eye on the TV, we stood chatting and drinking, and half an hour later the second advert popped up, so now we were curious, half an hour later the third advert.

At midnight Olesya burst onto the screen, the real Olesya yelping as she stood looking up at her own image. But apart from us, no one else was watching the wall-mounted TV screen.

Calling it a night, the girls were excited and yapping away. In our room, I calculated the time and called my parents. ‘It’s me.’

‘The TV news had you on last night, they said that the adverts were running in America.’

‘We just saw them, on a TV in the hotel bar.’

‘How is it there?’

‘Great, warm and sunny, some tropical downpours at night, a few cute green frogs in the room, but we spent two days taking photos of the girls, some sent back, they may be in the papers day after tomorrow.’

‘Smirnov ran a promotion of their new drinks, then some politician criticised them, said it encouraged women to drink, then he got some shit for being sexist.’

I laughed. ‘It is sexist, yes. How’s the weather there?’

‘Terrible.’

‘House move progressing?’ I asked.

‘Yes, we just about have it all figured out. Your uncle will act as guarantor, we sign this house over to the bank, get a mortgage less your input and some of ours. Oh, they showed another advert with some stupid Italian guy -’

I laughed. ‘My friend, Agosto. How did it look?’

‘He’s dressed like an idiot from the 1970s, he says “hello, sexy lady” to the fat barmaid - she’s an actress I recognised, he orders the drink but cocks up the finger count, then she punches him and security take him out, Smirnov-Cherryade detailed.’

‘I designed it, the sketch.’

‘Someone referred to it as Smirnov-Roskov, that drink. Now they make fun of me in work, so I told them you’re buying the new house for us, as a gift. That shut them up.’

‘It would, yes, but watch the tax man. Gifts are taxable.’ Call ended, I explained to the girls about Agosto, making them laugh. ‘In the next advert, you can be seen to kill him – the evil twins.’

They debated the best way to kill him as we headed to the shower, and I was nudged again to massage Olesya first.

Ditching the full massage, I gently massaged the pussy but avoided the clit, turning her over and using a thumb when she started to moan, a very happy lady the result, but I dragged it out, finally a huge moan before she flopped, her breathing ragged as she curled up into a ball, seemingly asleep.

I put the sheet over her lower half and checked around for geckos, the main lights knocked off, the door left open a little.

‘What did you do to her?’ Rita teased. ‘They hear her all around the hotel.’

I shot her a look before I washed my hands. ‘Lay down.’

‘OK, boss,’ they teased.

This time I repeated what I had done for Olesya, and I dragged it out by avoiding the clit, fifteen minutes on their backs before they turned over. I again took it slow, the build-up was longer, therefore the orgasm stronger.

When they came, their pussy muscles clenched my thumb, loud moans muffled by the pillows. Now, for the first time, I eased my cock in to Rita’s small pink slit as she knelt in front of me, two fingers into Frieda, and I began thrusting away, a loud moan the result from Rita.

This was a better way of doing it, and now I simply enjoyed myself since they had already cum loudly. I thrust slowly, feeling it, and I took my time – for my own pleasure, but Rita was about to get us in trouble with our neighbours – and with hotel security.

Cock eased out, I wiped quickly in the sheet and thrust back in to loud moan, and I kept going as her pussy muscles contracted, slowly building to a release as I fingered a rasping Frieda.

Head thrown back, I gasped as I finished, and the slow build-up was definitely the way to go. Pulling out, Rita collapsed in a similar fashion to Olesya, Frieda copying as I pulled out my fingers.

In the bathroom, I washed my hands after knocking off the main room light. A check of the girls and they were sleepy-happy, so I sat on the balcony, the balcony door partly closed.

Smelling cigarette smoke, I eased up and looked left, a man sat there. ‘Evening.’

An American began, ‘I can’t shout at you or complain, it’s a holiday hotel, honeymoon couples and all that.’

‘Sorry if we disturbed you, but was it the noise level or … the uncomfortable reminder of your youth?’

He stared at me. ‘Smart kid. And yes, I’m jealous.’

‘How old are you now?’

‘Fifty-six.’

‘Money?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So it could be worse.’

‘It could, yeah. You on honeymoon?’

‘No, we came to shoot some photos, modelling work.’

‘You a photographer?’

‘No, I work in my uncle’s glass factory in England, and model part time, some TV work, commercial adverts.’

‘I spent thirty years making commercial adverts, had the Coca-Cola deal for a decade.’

‘And now?’

‘Regular work, some industrial clients, and we make training videos – how to use complex equipment without cutting your damn arm off.’

‘I made five adverts for Mercedes Europe, with Jacqueline Dupont.’

‘Jacqueline? She still around?’

‘Semi-retired, still working, lives in France.’

‘She was hot back in the day, damn hot.’

‘Still looks good.’

‘Who you got in the room?’

‘You promise not to be jealous?’

‘Hell no.’

‘Oh. Well … I have blonde Swedish triplets in here.’

‘You have three in there?’

‘Yep, I satisfy one then two.’

‘Dear god. Now I am jealous.’

‘How was it when you were twenty?’

‘Girls smoked, and had hairy bush. Now they don’t smoke and are shaved, but with tattoos. And in those days … getting laid was a real achievement, something you got once a month maybe.’

‘A strange American guy walked up to me at the pool bar when I was sat alone and told me: I got me some.’

‘You hear a man use that phrase and you know he’s a real jerk.’

‘I figured, yes, then my girls came up to me, and he walked off.’

‘Cheap to fly here from the States, so you get the jerks, even the rich jerks.’

‘Divorced?’ I asked.

‘Twice.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Yeah, ouch. Four kids.’

‘My girls, their parents are with us.’

‘Parents? How old are they?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘Jesus, buddy, you trying to get arrested or what?’

‘Why … would I be arrested?’ I puzzled.

‘Law in the States don’t allow you to take them out of state -’

‘I’m British, and we’re not governed by your laws.’

‘And the parents don’t mind?’

‘I’m nineteen.’

‘Nineteen? Shit. Now I am jealous, my eldest is nineteen. You look thirty.’

‘I get that a lot, yeah.’

‘Nineteen, and getting paid ads?’

‘Yes, making good money. But a guy in England saw my adverts, saw me in a restaurant and tried to kill me with a knife.’

‘That happens, yeah, being famous sucks. I hide away behind the camera. You can have the fame – and keep it!’

‘Fox is now running my test ads for Mercedes, they showed all four of them over two hours.’

‘They’ll test-sample people tomorrow, women in malls usually. I’ll try and catch the ads tomorrow, and I can ask my research boys how it polled.’

‘Ah, please do, I’d be interested. Night.’

‘Get some rest, buddy, sounds like you need it.’

In the morning Rolf called Sweden, who were six hours ahead of us, and he spoke to both the British reporter and the printers. The reporter would run a story tomorrow, with the photos, the printer would make up a few test posters for us.

I told everyone at breakfast, ‘The guy next door to me is an American ad exec, and he’ll find out how well the ads did in America.’

Rolf threw his hands in the air. ‘How do you find them?’

‘They find me,’ I said with a smile, the twins taunting Rolf that he was not selling well.

After breakfast we headed to the pool, soon busy doing nothing, cups of coffee sipped, swims taken to cool down.

My ad exec neighbour walked to the pool bar midday, so I approached him.

He looked me over. ‘I see how you do well, you got the body.’ I pointed out the girls. ‘My guys say that the adverts are a big hit, quality not quantity, and that middle-aged ladies love it, a richer demographic, east and west coast, little interest in the Bible Belt.’

‘Same in Europe, I’m popular with the older ladies.’

‘My guys say that some of the main networks will run it, after 9pm.’

Borrowing Rolf’s clever mobile, I called Jacqueline. ‘Did I wake you?’

‘It’s only 6pm. Not that old yet. You in Jamaica?’

‘Yes, and they ran the Mercedes ad in America, a big hit, and now the main networks there will run it.’

‘Oh my boy, you’re making me rich.’

‘I expect payment in kind.’

‘Anytime, my darling. How’s the holiday?’

‘We’ve been practising photographing the girls, and some of the images will hit the papers tomorrow in Europe.’

‘I laughed when I saw Agosto.’

‘I haven’t seen it, heard about it,’ I told her.

‘He fluffs up the finger counts, and gets punched.’

‘I’ll have to think up more adverts, hopefully Smirnov and Mercedes working together.’

‘They’re talking, I was told, but I’ll be out for three months.’

‘We’ll have to use Joan Collins.’

‘Don’t you dare! And she’s older than me by ten years.’

‘We can wait, or just leave you out of one or two.’

Using the hotel beach, but with too many people around for sexy snaps, we took a few extra photographs, swam in the ocean and lounged around.

At 8pm the local pro photographer turned up and introduced himself, a hippy with a ponytail yet fifty years old, and a rate was agreed, so the next day he would meet us here at 10am.

In the restaurant, after our meal, we stood at the bar, the American ad exec coming to join us.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Pete Granton.’

‘I’m Ricky Roskov.’ I introduced him to the gang, and he seemed shocked, if not uncomfortable, around the girls, chatting to Rolf and myself mostly.

He told us, ‘A daytime chat show - middle-aged lady gossip panel format, they reviewed the adverts and loved them – they loved Jacqueline Dupont. And they all love it when the young models get some shit.’

I smiled widely. ‘Of course, they associate with Jacqueline – not side with the hot young competition.’

‘What was your input?’ he asked.

‘I designed all the sketches, but they had a director and crew of course.’

‘Quality not quantity was Mercedes?’

‘No, that was my idea.’

‘Should be working for me,’ he complained. ‘Better than my lame-ass team of so-called experts. And the girls?’

‘I met them on the Spanish Island of Tenerife; they were on the next balcony and looking hot. I had shot the first advert without them, but then dragged them in to do the other adverts.’

He faced Rolf. ‘You OK with all the publicity for them?’

‘As a father, I would rather they sit at home and read a book, but as a good father I am happy for them to have a career, money, travel – and some happiness.

‘As twins … we always worried for them, Twins Single Personality Syndrome – which was an issue, but they shine when they’re with Ricky and now we have a plan, a small agency, some work, enough to live not enough to conquer the world.

‘And this year I step back from my work and spend time with my family, a promise I made to them, I was working too many hours.’

‘I know that story,’ he complained. ‘I had that shouting match with my ex-wives.’

‘As Ricky said to me, a good father does more than just provide.’

‘Yeah … well I screwed that one up. Twice. I still have the scars.’

‘I aim to fix it while I can, and it is … now or never, before the twins leave home.’

‘Twins? Not triplets?’

Rolf smiled. ‘My twins, plus one that is part of the family.’

‘They’re hard to tell apart.’

‘Damn hard,’ I told him. ‘I don’t try and I don’t give a fuck, because they refuse to dress differently or wear name tags.’

Rolf put in, ‘In school they had names tags, or they would have been sent home, but … it was part of the syndrome. Recently, Ricky has allowed them to be twins again and to be happy as twins, and we accept that now.’

‘And if one died?’

Rolf lost his smile. ‘Then … the other would struggle greatly to cope, yes. That was always a fear. And we now have Olesya, and they get on well, a watered-down problem. We now have the extra daughter we always hoped for.’

‘And that girl’s parents?’

‘They … have problems,’ Rolf told him.

I told Pete, ‘They have a movie waiting to be made, an escape from Russia to Finland and then Sweden, a lot of problems along the way. Olesya was a classically trained pianist, a famous Moscow school, but she was … forced and beaten by the teachers.

‘Old American guy here, he was CIA, and at that school, and Olesya played the piano here for him. He got a girl out of Russia, adopted her, doctor now in the States.’

‘Shit … be a good movie, yeah.’

The old CIA guy came and joined us, a chat to Granton, Olesya soon playing for him, the guests now expecting it, a loud applause heard at the end, photos taken, an embarrassed Olesya eventually back with us.

I told her, ‘All that practice as a kid has paid off, so don’t be sad about it. Things happen for a reason.’

The old CIA guy was leaving the next day, but I took his email address - Olesya had no email address, and he offered to call her once a week for a chat in Russian.

The next day we set out with our old hippy photographer, and to a quiet beach, the man naming a few celebs that he had snapped over the years.

Rolf had taken an early call, Sweden getting to see our holiday snaps, his friends having bought a glossy magazine with four colour photos in, the sexy ones.

But somehow both a Stockholm newspaper and a Berlin newspaper had me on the front page, covering Olesya’s boobs, so our reporter must have sold the image.

‘Did he sell the images?’ I asked Rolf in the minibus.

‘More likely he just sent it with permission to use it, because I told him we wanted publicity from the images – not money.’

I nodded, Olesya yet again shocked – that she was front page, the twins wondering what their school friends would make of their photos.

At the beach, and under the shade of a beach bar, the man taught us all about the 120mm film camera that Rolf had, then explained the difference between portrait and landscape, the focal length to use – background in focus or not.

Rolf took notes, the girls very interested to learn, and they soon stood modelling for the guy as he explained what would be sharp and what would be blurred, and how to get the light.

‘Bright sunny day and you can get away with it, rest of the time we use lights, always use lights, and we get a soft yellow glow on a girl if we want to.

‘Sunset shot is bullshit, we never do them at sundown, always filtered an hour before sundown, and with lights. It’s all staged not spontaneous. At sunset, film is useless, need the bright lights.’

‘What about the best quality digital cameras?’ I asked.

‘Whole different set of skills. Some of the cameras have filters, but you can use an Apple computer to alter freaking everything, so if you take a bad shot you can fix it.

‘You can make a daytime shot look like sunset, make night look like day, make the ocean blue and the grass green.’

Rolf told me, ‘The printers can do that for us.’

‘Digital could be better then,’ I suggested.

‘For a lot of things, yes,’ the hippy told us. ‘But to sell a photo you need the negatives, the studios and newspapers are all behind the times still.’

‘We want to make posters, like Cheryl Ladd in a bikini, and sell them,’ I told him.

‘Big poster shows up the errors, but a teenage kid don’t give a fuck. And if you look close at the poster, background is out, she’s in focus, colour is enriched. A good digital image can be manipulated. Normally an image is 600 pixels -’

‘Pixels?’ I queried.

‘Each small dot that makes up a picture is a pixel. But you could have an image that’s 2,000 pixels, good quality, and you can zoom in.’ He lifted Rolf’s digital camera. ‘Setting here, on the menu, image size. 600, 900, 1,200, 2,000 pixels or something like that, they vary.

‘If you choose 2,000 pixels then it uses more storage space, way more space, so you can store fewer photos, but the quality is much better. So if you want a few good shots, image size up.

‘Anything after 1,200 is good enough for a newspaper, sometimes OK for a magazine. The 120mm film, that’s like 5,000 pixels equivalent, could zoom right in.’

‘For a Cheryl Ladd poster?’ I pressed.

‘2,000 pixels at least. More the better.’

I faced Rolf. ‘What do we normally set it to?’

‘Default.’

Our hippy checked the camera. ‘It’s set to 1,200, not the lowest. Print one and see, but not a six foot tall poster.’

‘Set it to 2,000 please,’ I requested, and he did.

‘Thing with digital, is that the quality doesn’t improve with good sunlight in the same way. A film camera is sharper with better sunlight, digital is different, and you can adjust them later.’

With the twins posing in bikinis and ripped t-shirts I tried the digital camera again, Rolf adjusting his focal length to get the girls sharp - and the background sharp as well. He was told to step back and zoom in some, to get a depth shot.

After two hours we had learnt something, Ingrid practising with her camera, the depth shot.

After lunch he took us to a little known place, flat rocks on a river, and secluded. The girls sat on the rocks, elbows locked, and our hippy used Rolf’s 120mm camera.

I told him, ‘No nipple, but as much side boob as possible.’

‘That’s normal for the States,’ he noted.

Half an hour of cold water and the girls were cold despite being Swedish, so we headed back. Our new friend would develop the roll film for us, for a fee of course.

Back at the hotel, and reception had a large package for us, A4 colour photos, lots of them. In Rolf’s room we sat and had a look, some a little out of focus but others were just right, and good quality.

One photo was of his feet, the girls laughing.

I picked out the best photos and lay them on the bed, then whittled them down to six sexy snaps. ‘Those six are best, best facial and best bodies and pose.’ I told Rolf, ‘When you get back, identify them on the negative, the number, and we can try some posters, metre tall.

‘This one, have them cut the heads out and crop it, just the heads, as an extra poster.’

He placed them in a folder, and we were making progress, we now had the material for a few posters, and I had the photos of myself from the frump in Leicester as well.

‘How many photos did you take all together?’ Olesya asked.

‘This holiday is about practise and learning, we’ll get better at it,’ I told her. ‘Tomorrow is a day off for you.’

Back in my room, I called home as the girls had a shower. ‘Still awake?’

‘11pm here, was just going up to bed,’ my father told me.

‘Did I tell you, they’ll run the adverts in America?’

‘You’ll make more money?’

‘Much more hopefully. Today we developed some of the photographs we took, and we sent digital images to Sweden and they printed them, so that gets us extra publicity. Mum OK?’

‘Yes, popular with her friends she is now,’ he complained. ‘What with her famous son and all.’

I laughed down the phone. ‘Why not, eh, she carried me for nine months, she should benefit a little.’

A shower and a rest, and now I could not be bothered to complain about Olesya walking around naked, our two rooms merging into one big room, the girls nearly always naked.

Sat on the balcony with a cup of tea. I smelt the smoke and so look around the dividing wall. ‘Bad for you, smoking.’

‘No shit. What ya’ll been up to?’

‘We had photography lessons, took a few extra photos, developed a few already.’

‘I spoke to my staff, and they can’t believe you’re here in the next room.’

‘Take a group photo with us before you leave.’

‘Any plans to visit the States?’

‘No, not yet, but if you have projects we could shoot in Europe we’d do them.’

‘Got a ski chalet that wants some work done, stills.’

‘I don’t ski, but I can dress up and pose. What’s the job worth?’

‘They’ll pay over, my staff mentioned you; seems like they know you. Unlimited stills and unlimited use, I could get you a thirty thousand Euro one-off.’

‘How many days?’

‘Weekend should do it – you pose on snow and sit at the hotel bar. How long can that take?’

‘We’d be interested, yes, it doesn’t conflict with Mercedes.’

Rita leant over the balcony. ‘Hello again.’

He shot me a look as she moved back. ‘Do they not have clothes to wear?’ he complained.

‘They do, but they’re naked most of the time.’

‘You have a hard life.’

‘Stressful, yes.’

After a rest we dressed up, and I had a clean and hotel-ironed white cotton shirt with beige slacks to strut my stuff in.

At 8pm we sat down to eat, talk of the photos and how to pose, where to shoot, then our hippy turned up, and with the photos developed already. We got him a seat and a drink, soon looking at the photos, and they were very good quality, the girls happy.

I picked out two, and Rolf would add them to the posters group. Cash handed to our hippy, and he had to rush off, a new young wife mentioned – an expensive one.

After the meal Rolf took the photos back to his room, and when stood at the bar later we again caught the adverts on Fox. Pete Granton joined us, the bar staff using his camera for several group photos – he needed proof.

I didn’t see the bottle coming.

It bounced off Rolf’s head and hit me in the eye, screams rising. Stunned, I lifted back up, the man who Rita had kicked in the balls now being tackled to the floor by a barman as shocked guests looked on. And Rolf was bleeding badly.

I grabbed a white napkin and pressed down on his scalp as I walked him to quickly reception, an ambulance called as Ingrid and the girls all freaked out, crying loudly, my right eye swelling.

The police arrived first, a glance at us as they handcuffed the stupid drunk, the ambulance arriving second. Boarded, we sped away, not far and to a local clinic, Ingrid with us – I had shouted at the girls to stay in the room.

Rolf was still conscious as we arrived, his eyes checked, four stitches put in as I consoled Ingrid.

The doctor finally said that Rolf could go, but I wanted observations. They overruled me and reassured me, that there was no brain damage or skull damage, not least because Rolf could count backwards from ten. And Rolf had not lost consciousness.

With bandages on his head, they drove us back, and they wanted the insurance details – pronto. Or else. Ingrid fetched the details, reception made photocopies, and the medics were now happy but would pop in tomorrow.

Being observed by curious guests, I helped Rolf to his room, but he was now telling us to stop fussing. I left him with Ingrid and told him to rest, and no sex.

He managed a smile. ‘Take care of my girls.’

I walked to my room with a hell of a shiner, people glancing at me, and I found the girls all mascara drippy; I received a three-way hug. ‘Your father is fine, just four stitches, he’s resting now, call him later, don’t fuss.’

‘He doesn’t like it when we fuss.’

‘Ice, please, from the fridge.’

They fetched ice and wrapped it in a cloth, soon dabbing my eye.

‘It looks bad,’ Rita noted.

‘I had many a black eye playing football; don’t worry I’m used to it.’

A knock at the door, and it was Pete Granton. He stepped in, the girls dressed for a change. ‘You OK? Anything you need?’

‘I’ve had worse. Rolf got himself four stitches and a headache.’

‘They’ll hold that guy, they’re tight on crime here, then they’ll deport him quietly and not let him back. He’ll get three weeks or so and a fine. And your insurance can claim against his.

‘Shit like this is to be expected when you’re famous, but in his case I think he was just jealous of the girls.’

‘We had a run-in with him when he was drunk, yeah. Thanks for offering to help.’

‘I checked in on the girls after you went,’ he reported. ‘I have daughters.’

‘We’ll have a quiet night tonight, maybe some television.’

He headed off, the girls thanking him, and I needed a beer from the fridge - and to sit down. ‘Girls, I’m injured, so you have to make a fuss of me.’

‘We look after you, we have nurse outfits.’

‘You do?’ I puzzled.

‘No, stupid man.’

I shot Rita a peeved look.

TV on, chairs arranged, and we found Fox, The Simpson’s cartoon, but after ten minutes they showed one of the ads.

‘Well that pays for this beer,’ I quipped.

The girls could not wait any longer, and they called Ingrid, who put on Rolf, who was soon reassuring his girls and telling them to just let him rest – and not to fuss.

Call ended, and Olesya finally asked, ‘Why that man throw a bottle?’

‘Because I am with you and he’s alone. Just that.’

‘I want to kill him with a knife. If he hurt my father I would.’

‘You won’t see him again, so relax, eh. And when you’re famous, don’t talk like that with people around.’ I turned to the twins. ‘I got us some work, Italian Alps, thirty thousand for a weekend, from Pete next door.’

‘We can ski.’

‘I can’t.’

‘We show you.’

‘I can’t risk breaking a leg, so we take it easy. You too.’

‘We ski well,’ they insisted.

‘If you break an ankle and we have a contract, you fuck-up the contract. From now on, think about the work, and about keeping your body in one piece.’ I wagged a warning finger. ‘Break a leg and you get no work for three months!’

I heaved a sigh. ‘From now on you must be careful. If you fall down and break your nose or lose some teeth you lose the modelling work, so … try and be careful always.

‘Your bodies are worth money, that’s what we’re selling. Damage yourselves having fun and we don’t make money. OK?’

‘We do what you say,’ Rita conceded.

‘Good. More ice please. Then go buy some nurses outfits.’

The twins called Ingrid again before we went to bed, and we just cuddled, all four of us in the same bed again, reason enough for most men to want to throw bottles at me.

I woke to find that my shiner was down a little from the initial swelling, but I reached for the ice again. This time, the girls still asleep, I peed quietly.

After a shower we set out to check on Rolf, and he was up and perky, no side effects so far, just the throbbing stitches for him to put up with.

‘Thick skull,’ I quipped.

‘Very thick,’ Ingrid put in.

He was not up for some breakfast, so we headed to the pool, snacks ordered for many of us, cups of tea or coffee sipped, the twins soon swimming lengths.

I simply sat and observed, taking it easy, ice from the bar on my eye.

By the end of the day, a lazy day of doing very little, my eye was better, the swelling down, but the dark bruise would take days. The hotel handed Rolf his assailant’s insurance details, and Rolf wanted blood, calls made, lawyers kicked awake.

In his room, I told him, ‘This was my fault, it was me he was aiming at.’

His face soured. ‘He could have hit my girls, so I take him to court and make it hurt; I pursue him to the ends of the earth. And I could have spent a week in hospital, missed my flight. I make an example of him.’

‘And the insurance company?’

‘They will cave, his insurance, it is black and white.’

‘How much is four stitches worth?’

‘His insurance will pay perhaps twenty thousand dollars.’

‘Good money, for a few stitches,’ I noted. ‘But for the sake of the girls, try and smile and be happy with what time we have left, eh.’ I held my stare on him.

‘Yes, of course,’ he finally conceded, a glance exchanged with Ingrid. ‘We try and have a holiday.’

Before dinner I had the girls use make-up on my eye, and in the mirror I could hardly see the bruise. The police turned up, interviews wanted and statements sought - from both of us, so we delayed dinner by twenty minutes.

At dinner a few people were staring at us, and Rolf’s head bandage was a bit obvious. But they left us alone as we ate, Olesya playing the piano afterwards, and we managed to have a quiet beer without any drama.

Back in the room, my eye better and our mood better, I gave Olesya the now customary massage and happy ending, making her cry out. Hands washed, and I started on the girls, making them moan as I kept going and going, I even massaged the sides of their pussies after the first orgasm.

Cock in whilst kneeling, and I attended Frieda first this time, and she seemed to have three orgasms in total, my cock not wanting to finish, maybe because I was angry at that man still.

I had been fingering Rita and now swapped, fingering Frieda still but avoiding the sensitive clit, loudly finishing in Rita. With the three of us collapsing in a heap, and sweating now, I asked how many times they had come.

They had lost count they reported, and seemed semi-conscious because of it, soon asleep as I gently and slowly slipped off the bed for a wash. I checked-in on Olesya, no geckos seen, side light left on and main light off, then made myself a tea on the balcony.

Sat there, I had to wonder about the dangers that fame brought, not so much for myself but for the girls, and what idiot might attack us in the future. I angered quickly, wanting to go find that man and beat him to death. Big breath taken, I had to calm myself.

You have the money and the girls, he doesn’t.

I sighed out, and I tried to remind myself how lucky I was. But I still wanted to go find that guy.

The next day was simply spent around the hotel; we could not risk a trip outside because of Rolf. The doctor had been to see him, lights shone into his eyes, blood pressure taken, stitches checked. All was good, and he did indeed have a thick skull.

The girls’ mood improved, even a few jokes heard, and some smiling was finally seen.

On the final full day Rolf insisted that we go out and take a few more photographs – and to stop fussing. We set off with the same driver, who turned on the radio, a few crappy old seventies songs heard.

But then Abba burst on, the three girls singing loudly to Dancing Queen.

‘…only seventeen, young and sweet, you are the dancing queen…’

The driver was smiling widely at the loud chorus when I turned to Rolf. ‘Did you ever meet them?’

‘Yes, twice, and we once shared a train carriage with them – they changed the girls’ nappies.’

‘Did you go to their concerts?

‘Yes, several, early on.’

Arriving at a very nice beach, one chosen because it had bending palm trees, we adopted a suitable bending palm tree and got ready, cameras ready, the twins soon sat on the tree trunk in a seductive pose.

Each girl sat alone, laying back, a classic Caribbean pose, followed by me adopting the same poses in my swimming trunks, make-up on my eye.

At the water’s edge the girls snapped me before I snapped them in a variety of poses, and seeing a guy offering horse rides we nabbed him, hard cash handed over.

Rita and Frieda were soon sat on the placid horse, many shots taken, plenty of side boob.

The girls stripped off, shocking the local man, and back on the horse we snapped them from the side and from behind.

Olesya mounted the horse alone, arse cheeks and side boob snapped, the shocked man finally thanked and sent on his way down the beach to find a few gullible tourists.

Sat in a beach bar for lunch, we reviewed the digital images, happy with many of them, plans for a trip to maybe the Maldives one day. First, we would think about the ski chalet job.

After lunch, we sat on sunbeds that cost a few dollars, cold drinks on hand, and in the shade of the palm trees and some netting we sat chatting quietly, a few trips to the sea to swim and to cool down. And I was sad at the thought of leaving.

Bob Turnball had turned up at our hotel whilst we were out, a message left, that we would meet back in the UK.

Via reception, we had been handed a letter from the doctor, a letter that allowed Rolf to fly, but Rolf had taken the bandages off his head before we had arrived at airport Passport Control – who never got to see the stitches and therefore did not need to see the doctor’s letter.

They did ask about my eye. I leant in and whispered, ‘My wife caught me with three young girls.’

The man giggled like a teenager and handed me back my stamped passport.

Boarded, we had a long boring flight ahead of us, but most of it would be night time - based on our current body clocks.

Landing at Heathrow, I had managed to get some sleep, and I felt OK as we disembarked, the temperature quite a few degrees lower than Jamaica – perhaps fifty degrees lower. At passport control they recognised me and enquired after my eye.

‘Some American idiot saw me with the twins and threw a bottle.’

‘To be expected, unfortunately.’ He handed my passport back. ‘Good luck.’

I thanked the officer and joined the family, and in Arrivals we sat and had a cup of tea; they had two hours to kill.

Final big hugs for the girls and Ingrid, a joke about Rolf’s thick skull, and I finally set off alone for Leicester in shitty weather, not wanting to set off alone for Leicester at all – especially not in shitty cold weather.

I had my disguise on and no one recognised me thankfully, no one wanted to stab me to death, and on the train I picked up a discarded glossy magazine, and there we were, our holiday snaps, two pages used up.

They had cut out the boobs and gone for the headshots, a close-up of me with Olesya, her fantastic blue eyes beaming. It was fair to say that the camera loved her.

At Leicester Station the taxi driver did a double take, and asked how Jamaica was.

‘Great. Better than Leicester.’

‘Anywhere is better than Leicester,’ he complained.

Back at home, my parents were out, so I sat with a quiet cup of tea, soon heading into work, and at 4pm.

Julie lifted her head from her computer. ‘Oh, you’re back, after your shagging trip. You doing that Olesya chick as well now?’ she complained.

‘No, it was just a pose.’

‘Oh, well everyone in the country thinks you’re doing all three girls.’

‘Jealous?’

‘Damn jealous. I want a five-way.’

I handed her $250 without anyone seeing. ‘Change it at a bank.’

‘Damn tabloids rang here a hundred times, notes on your desk.’

A glance at the notes, and I put them in the bin.

My uncle was not in, so I sat and started on emails, Julie making me a coffee. The Coventry job was progressing, that was good, Essex had a few new projects to quote for, that was good, and Watford had a new job to quote for.

I eased back, thinking, then called Trish.

‘Ricky, you’re back, great - we got the American Mercedes adverts.’

‘I know, I saw them on the TV in Jamaica, on Fox.’

‘Now on other networks.’

‘How did Agosto do?’

She laughed. ‘It’s been parodied a few times, but there are Smirnov-Roskov posters in pubs all over the UK now, I agreed it, we get the ad revenue when they put up a poster.’

‘How many posters did they issue?’

‘About fifty thousand,’ she emphasized.

‘Shit. Mercedes happy?’

‘Yes, because when people buy a Smirnov-Roskov they think of Mercedes. They want to use your name, Smirnov do.’

‘Fine, just get the money from the fuckers. Oh, the twins will sell mail-order posters of themselves in Sweden, just so that you know. Their father runs it all.’

‘What type of posters?’

‘Beach bikini stuff, sold to teenage boys.’

‘Has to be expected of them. Oh, I posted you a statement as well.’

‘Not seen it yet, the post for me will be with my dad, I’ll look later. What about the Agosto advert?’

‘We make a small amount, your idea and script, but they said they couldn’t use it for America – unless it was re-shot.’

‘Is he making some money?’

‘Yes, he has residuals piling up, he emails me now and then.’

Back home at 6pm, I greeted my parents, and we sat with cups of tea. This now seemed odd, and I had to wonder where my real life was, out in the fantasy world or back here in cold wet urban Leicester. I certainly knew where I wanted it to be.

That evening, like most others, I did sit-ups and press-ups in my room, but now I had a new determination about me, to stay in shape for the photographs and posters. And to be better prepared to hit people.

Posters

The next day in work, and Julie’s fat frump of a cousin wanted to see me, so I headed around to the printers where she worked during my lunch break. She had made up large A4 photographs and had tested them on a group of women aged 25-45 as I had requested, the best four photographs whittled down to one final winner.

She now had a large poster of me, not that I asked her to have a poster of me made up; I had asked that she conduct the survey only. The printers could mass-produce them cheaply enough, so she reported, and Trish had a deal lined up for marketing the posters through a group of ladies magazines.

Thinking about the girls in Sweden, I was tempted to say no, but the frump had put some time and effort into this. Besides, it was one poster and it was not in the group we had sat ready in Sweden.

I nodded my head and told her to try it, not expecting to make much from it. Trying to be positive, and not annoyed, I thanked her and the printers.

On the way back I stopped in a mobile phone shop and bought a new and expensive phone, the staff all asking polite questions, the boss serving me.

Back in work, I called Trish. ‘You think you can sell posters of me?’

‘Definitely, and now coming up to Christmas, so we have to move fast – while the adverts are running.’

‘What’s the cost breakdown?’

‘Eight quid a poster, you get almost two quid, I share the commission with Trudy, printer gets about five quid each poster but we can knock that down if they sell well.

‘And if they do sell well we can increase your margin to three quid or more less commissions, which is a big percentage.’

‘Try it and see.’

I called the twins at 7pm, ‘My original photographer, she made up a poster of me without telling me, got a printer involved and my agent, so I agreed that she can try and sell some through women’s magazines here in Britain.

‘The photo she used is me in a dark suit, and we don’t have one like that with you – do we?’

‘No, no dark suit.’

‘Well we can see if she sells some, and study the marketplace and the distribution channels. She thinks that she can get the printer down to five British pounds, seven Euro.’

‘We can get the cost to under six Euro on volume,’ they told me. ‘Four pounds fifty English.’

‘That would be a good cost, yes.’

‘Father has the printer making up posters now, and we’ll pay for five hundred each of six posters, and store them. The printer will then talk to the distributors.’

‘I think that adverts in the poor quality tabloids might work, but we need cheap advertising as well as cheap posters. My posters here will be sold in women’s magazines, but there’re no men’s magazines like that in Britain.’

‘The printer, he has a man that sells posters, landscapes, mountains and dolphins, some sex posters, and he has outlets, six hundred of them across Europe.’

‘That’s good, but you need to target single men, so his outlets will be general. But six hundred is a good number, and this is just the start as we get up to speed, I’m in no hurry.’

‘There is a magazine in Germany, sex magazine, many of them, so we’ll try an advert. And we try Stern magazine.’

‘Don’t spend thousands on the adverts,’ I cautioned. ‘We need a system where the advert costs are less than the profits.’

‘Father knows people, he will get us an editorial – so free publicity.’

‘Good idea, yes. When we have the posters set up I’ll do an interview and plug them. But like I said, no hurry here. How’s Rolf’s head?’

‘He saw the doctor here and had a scan, all is good they said. Oh, that man is in prison in Jamaica still.’

‘Good, they can let him rot.’

‘Father checked the man’s background, and father says the man has money, so American lawyers will be involved.’

‘For just a few stitches?’

‘The doctor says that ten years from now the wound can cause a blood clot and kill father, so … the money is not just for the stitches.’

‘Well let’s hope that doesn’t happen, eh, try not to think about it.’

‘How is your eye?’

‘It hurts a little when I sleep, but it looks OK now.’

Call ended, my house phone placed down, and my new mobile trilled, which was odd because I had not set it up yet, just placed it on charge.

A number displayed, so I answered. ‘Hello?’

‘Ricky Roskov?’

‘You tell me, you’re the one calling this number.’

‘I soooo … want to suck your cock.’

I blinked, and I cut the call, but the calls kept coming, and they got worse, so I turned the phone off.

To my father I reported, ‘I just bought a new mobile today, haven’t given anyone the number, and it’s being bombarded with gays wanting to suck me off.’

‘Someone at the shop you bought it from,’ he suggested. ‘Need a different shop.’

‘I paid for it, and signed a damn contract!’

‘Were the calls abusive?’

‘Yes.’

‘So get the police involved.’

‘I’ll get the damn Press involved.’ And I did, I called the lady reporter and asked if she could meet me at 9am outside the phone shop.

In the morning I was mad as hell, and before I set off I called the police, asking for officers in attendance at the mobile phone shop – regarding phone threats.

In a cold wind, I arrived at the shop the same time as the police, the lady reporter stood waiting for me wrapped up warm, so I led them in as a group, the lady manager surprised to see the heavy mob.

I held up the phone and loudly began, ‘I bought this from you yesterday, and I simply put it on charge, no calls made and my number not given out. Within a few hours I started to get gay men calling me and wanting to suck my cock!’

Shocked, she glanced at a member of staff, who lowered his head.

I loudly stated, ‘I also got death threats and very strong abuse!’ I turned to the police. ‘The Telecommunications Act Applies, abusive calls. I want to press charges against the boss here for the death threats.’

The male officer stepped forwards. ‘Who had access to the new number?’

‘Everyone in this office,’ the manager admitted.

‘You’re the manager?’

‘I am.’

I handed the phone to the police. ‘The numbers are listed, so maybe you can trace them. I won’t be using the damn phone, that’s for sure.’

The lady reporter moved in. ‘Leicester Echo. Do you normally make abusive calls to your customers?’

‘No! Of course not!’

‘Everyone in Leicester will see this story tomorrow,’ the lady reporter threatened, the lady manager about to explode.

That manager rushed across the room and shouted in the face of a man.

That led to the man shouting back, ‘Stick your job up your arse, bitch!’

He got his coat and started to leave, slammed into the floor by the police a moment later.

‘Where’d you think you’re going, sonny? You’re under arrest on suspicion of making abusive calls and death threats.’

‘You can’t arrest me, you pig bastards.’

A knee on his head, and he shut up, soon cuffed and dragged out.

I faced the manager. ‘I want a fucking refund, today, and you can get your damn phone back from the police! Cancel my direct debit, or face the legal action!’

‘We’ll refund you, of course,’ she offered, the lady reporter photographing a reluctant employee being bundled away.

In work, I asked my uncle for a private mobile phone – one not registered to a Roskov, after I had explained the story. He had a new one, on contract, registered to the company, and he handed it over.

‘Check the monthly bills and let me know,’ I told him, ‘Take it from my commissions.’

He nodded. ‘Coventry job is progressing, looking like a huge order now.’

‘I’ll go visit this week, weather permitting.’

After work I went to see Bonza and gave him the story. He knew someone working at the shop, and would get the name of the gay guy, and an address, a little home re-decorating to do.

The next day the local newspaper ran the story, the phone shop about to lose some business but blaming a single disgruntled employee.

At 7pm the police arrived, my parents prepped in advance. The lead officer began, ‘We’ve charged the poofter, and two of his mates, and we added Resisting Arrest. He’ll get a fine and a suspended sentence, unless he shouts at the magistrate.’

I waved my mobile. ‘This is a work phone, so I’ll use this from now on, no one knows the number.’

‘Stuff like this is to be expected, you’re a celeb know.’

I gave them the story of the flying bottle in Jamaica and the man with the knife in London.

They nodded. ‘Plenty of idiots out there that will scratch a car because it’s a nice car, and they don’t have one. Simply that, jealousy.’

‘We’re going to move to Crockton.’

‘Nice up there, out the way a little, better than around here for sure.’

‘You traced the calls on that phone?’

‘Yes, easy to do that, and it was all his mates. Stupid really, they should have known we could trace them.’

With the police thanked and gone, Bonza popped in. I took him out into the back garden.

He whispered, ‘Got the names of the gay fuckers, and their addresses.’

I handed him two hundred quid. ‘Not you, you’re linked to me, someone else must do it.’

‘Me cousin, little Terry, known as the Little Terror. He loves a bit of decorating.’

I handed Bonza and extra fifty quid for his beer and curry.

Ski slopes

In work the next day Pete Granton called from Atlanta, and he was ready to move the ski chalet job along.

Getting home, I asked my parents about our Christmas plans, and they explained that we would visit my nan as usual, just for the day. She lived close to Birmingham, so my father would drive us.

That would be the 24th, we’d be at home for the 25th, so I told them I would be back on the 23rd. Calling the twins, I asked if they could get to Switzerland for the 20th?

They discussed it with Rolf and Ingrid, who fancied a train ride; they could leave on the 19th and still be there in time. I gave them the name of the ski lodge, and to book us all in from the 20th, three days, or two nights.

Calling back Pete, a four-hour difference with Atlanta, I gave him the dates, and he would now pass those dates to the client, paperwork to be faxed to Trish.

And I had informed Trish that she would pay the Swedish company the money earned, and that I would leave the money with the Swedes - who very kindly paid for my holidays.

In work the next day Julie had a poster of me, but she had not put it up on the wall for the lads to deface, she would keep it at home – which was a bit spooky.

I had a look at the poster, and I showed it to the secretary, Claire, who thought I looked great in the poster. Julie had two posters, so I asked for the second one - but had to hand over eight quid to some complaining.

Grabbing a driver, we set off in shit weather, the threat of snow, and we made it to Coventry in good time, the staff all wanting to chat about anything other than the work at hand, more photographs taken.

The girls here liked the poster, asking where to buy them. The printers’ details were on the bottom of the poster, and the girls would need to send a postal order or cheque for eight quid to ‘MAIL ORDER POSTERS’ at the address given.

Driving back, it started to snow, but I would soon be heading for a ski resort anyhow.

Friday came, and the frump, Trudy, called me late in the afternoon. ‘Sold four posters hundred already.’

I was shocked. ‘Already?’

‘Had a load of people from Coventry order posters.’

‘Ah, I handed one out up there, to my customers.’

‘Hand out some more,’ she rudely encouraged.

‘Drop some in,’ I told her.

‘Be there in ten minutes.’

Before I left for the day I sent posters to all of my customers by post, my uncle querying that – as well as the postage cost.

‘The lady managers and wives like them. And it helps us sell more glass.’

‘It does?’

‘It does.’

‘Oh. Right.’

At home, I used my new mobile to call the twins, and they would make a note of this new number now that I was reasonably sure that the number had not been compromised. ‘Here in Britain, my original photographer, she’s sold four hundred posters already – in a week.’

‘My god, that is good.’

‘What I did, I handed out some of the posters, and on the bottom are the details - for other people to buy the posters. The girls in my customer’s offices wanted one, and they sent money to the address on the poster.’

‘Ah, yes, we tell father this, but I think they do this anyway when they make a poster.’

‘Make sure that the details are big enough, not tiny.’

‘We tell him, yes.’

I gave them the story of the mobile phone shop, I had not mentioned it up to now, and the twins were angry, complaints about the apparent lack of privacy here in Britain.

Over the weekend, I packed a bag after buying a few suitably warm ski jumpers and jackets from a town centre shop. I told them that I would not be doing any skiing, just posing.

In work on the Monday the frump rang, poster sales doing well. The printers now had a girl sat entering the addresses into a computer, sticky-back labels printed, the banking done once a day, and the frump was also helping out a few hours a day.

The twins, or more correctly Rolf, had now been nudged into top gear, and the Swedish printers had stepped things up, a few hundred of each of the posters printed, packed up and sent to the distributor on “sale or return”.

The first posters of the girls were due to be sat in a few shops in Sweden and many shops in Germany this weekend, so we would wait and see what the shops reported in the way of sales. Or in the way of returns at the end of the month.

In work on Monday, Julie showed me a copy of Woman’s Own magazine, and the poster advert. ‘Trudy is snowed under this morning,’ she reported.

‘Good, more money for me.’

‘I introduced you to her, I should be on a bloody commission,’ she complained.

‘You get cash from me, tax free. Next time, sign a contract.’

‘I bloody well will.’

‘She’s your cousin, so ask for some beer money.’

At 3pm a call came, from the hospital, and I was suddenly mortified to think that my parents had been hurt.

‘Ricky Roskov?’

‘Yes?’

‘Sister James, St. Marys, and I have a favour to ask.’

‘Favour?’ I queried.

‘Got a teenage girl here on the cancer ward, big fan of yours. She needs a boost.’

I heaved a sigh. ‘Which ward?’

‘East Three.’

‘What time is visiting hour?’

‘7pm’

‘Line up a few other patients for me.’

Bonza popped in that evening, to report some cars damaged, some paint applied, and that the arrested gay shop assistant had left Leicester with a police escort, to live with a friend in Coventry.

Seeing as Bonza was already here he drove me to the hospital still in my work clothes, a trademark dark suit with no tie. I offered him twenty quid to act as bodyguard.

As we progressed through the hospital people glanced my way, a few ladies smiling my way, and on the East Three Ward I asked for the sister, the young nurse a bit shocked.

The sister appeared, in her fifties, and she led us in and to the teenager in question, who lay asleep, a thin woollen hat on her head that covered the baldness. Sat, I held a hand, and the girl opened her eyes.

‘Hey, how you doing?’

She puzzled me. ‘Are you real?’

‘Yes, you’re not dreaming, the staff called me. They said you wanted a naked massage from me.’

The girl almost choked as she laughed.

‘Which school did you go to?’ I asked.

‘Yours, I was two years under you. My brother is Bobby Klepp.’

‘Ah, that idiot. You should disown him.’

She laughed again. ‘He’s a bit of a nutter, yeah.’

Over fifteen minutes I detailed Jamaica, and what we had done, as well as getting hit in the face with a bottle, a cup of tea brought to myself and Bonza, who was trying it on with the nurses.

A nurse came in with a camera and I posed with the sick girl, who was not much younger than me.

Excusing myself from the girl, I spoke with a ten-year-old girl that was also a fan, to her parents, then to a lady in her thirties, working my way around the ward over an hour.

Outside the ward, stood with the sister, I asked what the prognosis was for the girl I had come to see.

‘This is the terminal ward,’ the sister bluntly stated, and it hit me like a block of ice to the chest.

‘All … all of them?’

‘And many more in different wards.’

‘So young,’ I found myself saying as I stared through the glass.

‘Cancer doesn’t care how old you are,’ she told me. She thanked me and showed us the way out after the staff had lined up for a photograph.

Back at home, I detailed the visit to my parents.

My father began, ‘No cancer on my side of the family, not much on your mother’s side, and you don’t smoke, so there’s not much chance of getting cancer.’

‘Your father?’

‘Killed himself aged fifty-five, no one knows why, he wasn’t sick.

The 19th came around, and I flew from Birmingham to a snow-covered Zurich in the morning, soon on a train and heading to a small snow-covered town and enjoying the scenery, the polite Swiss citizens sat near me introducing themselves and asking after the Mercedes adverts.

Arriving at the town, an old man and his wife from the train insisted they drive me to the hotel, it was not far, and I hoped they were not local serial killers – old serial killers. We arrived at 4pm, and I asked them to pop in on the Sunday for a drink and to meet the twins.

Walking into the large hotel on pathways clear of snow - this hotel complex made up of many blocks and chalets, some five star, the lady skiers all gave me a coy smile, the beautiful girl on reception beaming at me.

‘You look good enough to be in a commercial.’ I told her.

She blushed, and booked me in, the Rasmussens now on a train somewhere and also enjoying the scenery. Up in my suite, which Rolf had booked, I found adjoining doors, but they were solid and appeared to be sound proof.

The room was already warm, so I took off the thick ski coat and the jumper that I had bought back in Leicester, a look out the window as the sun hid behind the high peaks. There appeared to be a neon-lit bar up the snow slope a way, many people in it.

My phone trilled after I had used the toilet and had enjoyed a warm shower. ‘It’s us, we’re changing trains now, to be with you in an hour or less.’

‘OK, Frieda.’

‘It’s Rita!’

‘I know, you always make the call.’

‘Crazy man.’

‘Wear a name tag!’

‘How can you see a name tag on the phone?’

Laughing, I cut the call.

They arrived fifty minutes later, as I was waiting in reception and being glanced at. I hugged the twins, Olesya and Ingrid, checked Rolf’s head and led them in to reception, a tall man approaching.

‘I am photo director.’

I shook his hand. ‘Ricky Roskov.’

‘Of course, no mistaking you. 9am we meet, yes?’

‘Where?’

‘Function room “A”’. He pointed it out and headed off.

Checked-in, bags and bodies squeezed into the lift and soon in the suite, and the girls glanced out the window. I told them about the bar up the slope.

‘We look in brochure. This hotel has a nightclub, sauna, disco for older people, massage, gym, swimming pool.’

‘Then when not working we can relax in the sauna, swimming trunks on.’

‘Here in Switzerland, this hotel, no naked sauna,’ they told me, and I was relieved.

They were not tired, but they were hungry, so we all wrapped up warm and crunched snow as we headed up the slope to the bright neon bar, the place seemingly larger than I had anticipated as we neared, my breath now seen in front of me.

Inside, we placed jackets and coats on pegs, but there seemed to be no security, the twins suggesting it was not necessary – this was not Britain.

I had on a black jumper, which had been under my outer layers, and it had an extra V-neck to it, high up the neck, my jeans black. The girls all had on white jumpers, and they looked identical.

As we walked into the warm interior people glanced at us, puzzled us, then downright stood looking shocked. At the bar stood two pairs of elegant women under thirty, tan tines on their faces from skiing. And beyond them stood a pretty blonde barmaid staring at me, her mouth opening.

I halted at the bar. ‘Three parts Smirnov, two parts Cherryade, one ice cube, stir it with your finger and … warm it with your heart please.’

The barmaid almost fainted, but fetched the drink.

‘We start work tomorrow!’ the twins lightly complained from behind me.

I turned, smiling. ‘Great to see the look on her face.’

Drinks bought for the gang, and a photographer walked up. ‘I am hotel photographer, they said to ask you … some photo with guest?’

‘Sure.’

My drink gulped down, and the photographer approached guests and asked if they wanted a photo, many saying yes and standing with myself and the girls, the camera flashing. Those camera flashes led to more interest in us, and we worked around the large facility, half of it being a restaurant it seemed.

Back with Rolf and Ingrid, I noted, ‘They’re a polite crowd.’

‘Europeans are not like British and Americans,’ Rolf responded. ‘No flying bottles here.’

A silver-haired man approached. ‘Mister Roskov, sorry to intrude, I am former Italian Ambassador to Britain.’

I shook his hand. ‘Are there no good slopes in Italy?’ I teased.

‘Many, yes, but my daughter is in Zurich, a doctor, so I get to see my granddaughters more here. And, sorry, but … my wife asks that we get a photo.’

I smiled widely. ‘Of course, it all helps with the publicity.’

He went and fetched her, and when she arrived I grabbed the old lady for a dance. ‘Your husband said to dance with you, and then take you to my room.’

She laughed. ‘Thirty years ago maybe.’

‘You speak good English,’ I told her as we mock-waltzed.

‘I lived and worked in London for decades, retired now.’

Being observed from all sides, I led her back to her husband. I told him, ‘She doesn’t want to come up to my room, you can have your money back.’

He laughed loudly, soon taking a few snaps, then we lost him as he got in deep with Rolf about EU treaties, Ingrid making a fuss of the old lady.

They had tables available, so we moved in as a group and sat, the menus scanned. As usual I was starved, and I started on the bread as the twins puzzled that.

After eating, the ambassador and his wife still with us, we stood near the restaurant bar, which was different to the other bar, and quieter.

A pale girl walked up, red rings on her face from snow sunburn, but she looked very pretty anyhow – and platinum blonde. The twins yelped in shock, and they welcomed her, the girl turning out to be Sweden’s hope for the next winter Olympics, Rolf and Ingrid greeting the girl warmly.

The girl finally turned to me. ‘You ski?’

‘No, my speciality is giving ladies a massage that’s so great they pass out.’

She cocked an eyebrow at me. ‘My legs ache, if you are available?’

‘I have my hands full already, sorry.’

‘You are with all three girls?’

‘Kind of.’ I leant in. ‘I feel like I am a sex object.’

She laughed. ‘You poor man, so many beautiful girls.’

‘They tell me what to do, trust me. So you’re in the Olympic team?’

‘Yes, and I was European junior champion, and junior champion in Sweden, but mostly we train in Italy.’

‘Are there ski resorts in Sweden?’

‘Some, Italy is better, but Sweden has better slopes to practise serious long distance skiing, and cross-country.’

‘So what do you do when you’re not skiing?’

‘I study, and try to finish Gymnasium, because of all the time taken off.’

‘And what will you become … in later life?’

‘I hope to make some money from sponsorships and advertising, then … something in my father’s business maybe.’

‘One broken ankle and it’s all over,’ I cautioned.

She saddened. ‘It is a risk, yes, all or nothing.’

I told her about my decision not to play football. ‘You get any advertising now?’

‘Some, but it’s not great,’ she told me,

‘My agent started selling posters of me, and the sales are doing very well. But I know it won’t last, so we’ll try and make as much money as we can when we can.’

‘I love the Mercedes advert, your character.’

‘I’m like that in real life, no acting. When we got here I asked the barmaid for a Smirnov-Cherryade, and I did the sketch. She almost fainted. But it’s not all fun.’ I detailed the knife attack and the bottle-throwing man in Jamaica.

She finally noted, ‘Many idiots out there, I had a man try and force his way into my room in Italy, but I put him in hospital – I do karate.’

Moving back to the busy bar, a few additional guests said hello and wanted photos, and our new adopted daughter was popular with everyone – she was famous in the ski world.

A lady walked up with a ID around her neck. ‘I am hotel entertainments manager. Can we have half hour?’

‘What for?’

‘We offer a prize, for best man which can order Smirnov-Roskov. I have five men.’

I nodded. ‘Sounds fun. Olesya can be the barmaid.’

Tables set-up, music knocked off, and Olesya stood looking like a barmaid as people around the edges of the room looked inwards, video cameraman ready, photographer ready.

Paper and pen in hand, I stood to one side, ready to mark the efforts.

First man up, and he was a good looking Italian, maybe thirty. He had an accent, but it was a sexy Italian accent, and he almost got the fingers right. I gave him 7 out of 10 as they laughed and applauded.

Next man was French, again with an accent. ‘Warm it with you big ‘art.’

I gave him 6 out of 10.

The next man fluffed it to some laughter and jeers from his mates.

A German stepped up, got the eye contact and the fingers, and his English was OK. 8 out of 10.

The last two were worse, so I handed my notes to the lady and stepped around to do my acting bit.

Leaning over the table to Olesya, I did the sketch, and she finally grabbed me and kissed me quickly to a loud cheer, cameras flashing.

The winner came forwards, four bottles of good quality wine handed over to a modest cheer and applause, and I was snapped with the man.

Back with the girls, and in front of Olesya, I told the twins, ‘Watch Olesya, she kissed me. You have some competition I think.’

‘We share,’ the twins told me, a hug for Olesya.

The ambassador and his wife had joined with us, as well as the ski champion, all instant best friends. The ski champion’s parents turned up, Rolf and Ingrid soon chatting to them.

I told the twins, ‘The skier, she does karate, a black belt.’

‘She can teach us some maybe,’ they enthused.

The father of our ski champion came to chat to me, and his factory made precision metal parts for specialist buildings and radar installations, some military work. They exported their products all over the world.

Chatting, I told him about Rolf taking a year out to spend time with the twins, and I could see the sadness of the father.

He began, ‘I try and attend the ski events when I can, but … I have two hundred staff, and responsibility.’

‘Is a father more than a provider?’

He heaved a sigh. ‘This I have to struggle with.’

‘Olesya’s father drinks and doesn’t work, so you can hold your head up high and not be counted with him.’

He nodded. ‘I am a good provider, and was a good father I think, she and her brother are good citizens.’

I told him about my visit to the cancer ward, and my shock.

‘We must be happy we are alive with good health, yes,’ he finally stated.

Finally in the suite, the door to Olesya’s room open, the heating up, we stripped off for a hot shower, the shower big enough for myself and the twins.

The room was soon steaming, a window opened a crack, a blast of cold air hitting us. Dried off, I stopped and pointed at Olesya’s room. And waited.

The twins nodded, and shooed me that way.

In with Olesya, she grabbed me and kissed me. ‘I missed you.’

It was a worry, that she would get attached to me, since I was supposed to be with the twins. Sharing myself like this was a bit odd.

Odd or not, I massaged her pussy after licking the small clit for a minute, a moan created, and she came quickly – despite me trying to drag it out.

A kiss goodnight, and I told her to be fresh for the morning.

Door pulled but not closed, the twins whispered that I had been fast with Olesya.

‘She came real quick, said she missed me.’

They lay down, my fingers soon working their magic, and it felt as if the twins might come quickly as well. Turning them over, I got my thumbs in, causing a loud moan, and I avoided the clit as I massaged around it, a slow build up.

When I felt them get close I slowed down, and they finally finished close to each other, their vagina muscles tightening as they flopped.

Sheets over us, we cuddled, the main lights knocked off, three of us under a thick and heavy duvet, no geckos to worry me, no mongoose to disturb us.

I woke as the clever alarm built into the wall sounded out, and clambering over a twin I knocked it off. ‘Rise and shine.’

Kettle filled and turned on, I made four cups of tea, soon walking into Olesya’s room and placing down the cup as I woke her, duvet pulled back and a nipple licked – causing a gasp.

Showered, I dressed first, nudging the girls to go faster or we’d be late for the start of the contract.

At 8.50am we found Rolf and Ingrid in the meeting room, the director there with the photographer, make-up ladies to hand, tall portable lights available to use.

The director told me, ‘Last night we get many photographs, and the hotel is happy already, so today we do the set statics, rooms looking nice for nice guests type of bullshit.’

I nodded. ‘When you’re ready.’

The director led us back up to our suite, the girls showing the jumpers they had, and he picked one style out. A floor below, lights carried in, and I posed looking out the window with the twins, then inspecting the nice bathrooms, sat in a chair – a twin standing and one laying on the bed with a magazine.

Progress was being made, the tick list being ticked.

Downstairs, we sat in the restaurant with a few acting extras and posed eating before we headed to the sauna, swimwear grabbed. Changed, we sat on the side of the Jacuzzi, in the Jacuzzi, in the sauna and glistening, finally on the side of the pool.

Ski clothing on after lunch, a better jacket grabbed for me, helmet on and ski poles held, I posed with the girls near the chair lift, a backdrop of the hotel, and we soon joined the chairlift, a first for me.

Up on a ridge in brilliant sunshine, people skiing past us, they fixed skis to my borrowed boots and we stood posing, and if I started to slide down the slope I would be in trouble – the girls having to rescue me.

Stood there, I took in the fantastic view, and I could see how being here - with or without skiing - would be nice, and I had been informed that some people came here just for the booze and the sex.

Finally done at 3pm, the sun low and a chill wind blowing, we headed down in the chairlift, a warm drink needed, and in the morning we would meet again for re-shoots and extras.

In the same restaurant, now quiet, the director asked about our ski champion, and could she be included. I knew she had an agent, and now I approached her and her father.

To the father I began, ‘They want your daughter in a few pictures, and I can allocate some of the budget for her, but what about her agent?’

‘We don’t have an exclusive contract, and so far this agent is not so awake.’

‘One thousand Euro, a few photos.’

Our skier, Klara, was keen, the parents happy, so she joined us in a pose as we ate, a second pose at the bar – the pose of a happy group of skiers at the end of the day.

The requested final pose was a bit cheeky, but after chatting to Rolf and Ingrid we agreed it, the twins not fussed.

Back in an empty room, and stripped down to underwear, I got into bed with the three girls and we posed as if asleep, and hugging, the girls giggling and causing a re-shoot, or two.

It was a wrap, and we should be done, the director indicating that he wanted ten good photos - and that he had a hundred to choose from.

Our new family sign-up, Klara, joined us in the suite with Rolf and Ingrid, and we sat chatting for an hour.

At dinner, Klara’s parents joined us, talk of future work, but I was yet to see Klara in a bikini, and to judge what work we might have for her; we were light on ski resort work, just the one job so far.

Stepping away, I checked the time difference and called Pete Granton and gave him the good news; job done, and no one broke a leg skiing.

After the meal, which we dragged out, we stood at the bar, a few guests wanting photographs, and by now we were used to it.

Julie called, a shock, but I had given her my new mobile number. ‘Something wrong?’

‘Trudy can’t cope, going to hire a girl.’

My eyes widened. ‘How many orders did she get?’

‘Thousands.’ She laughed. ‘And most of them are men.’

‘Men?’

‘Gay men.’

‘Oh. Well … money is money, I guess.’

‘You’re the new gay heart throb,’ she laughed.

‘I thought I was the middle-aged ladies heart throb.’

‘Not any more. On the weekend I’ll go in and help, I’ll get paid to do it.’

‘The poster does say that I’m straight, right?’

Laughing loudly, and enjoying my discomfort, she cut the call.

Back with the group, they could see my look.

‘Problems?’ Rolf asked, concerned.

‘My … posters in Britain are selling very well, but to … to gay men.’

The twins laughed loudly.

‘Money is money,’ Rolf suggested with a shrug.

‘How many you sell?’ Olesya asked.

‘Thousands.’

Klara asked, ‘How much do you make for a poster?’

‘About three Euro on small volumes, about four Euro on bigger volumes. And I thought that older ladies would buy them, some teenage girls.’

They laughed.

Rita suggested, ‘We film you singing YMCA.’

I wagged a finger as they laughed. ‘No!’

‘You are afraid of gay men?’ Klara asked with a smile.

‘Afraid of thinking that they like me as a sexy pin-up, yes.’

Being the butt of many jokes was not normal for me, I was the epitome of a male stud, James Bond, not a queer idol.

Back in the room, the girls drunk giggly, we showered, Olesya not wishing to be left out, three sets of hands washing me, so why was I worried about gay men having my posters up.

Dried off, I led Olesya next door, fifteen minutes taken to make her moan loudly, the thick duvet finally pulled over her.

Back with the giggly drunk twins, I began the massage, which they also moaned to loudly, and after turning them over and making them shout out I thrust into Rita first, taking longer because the alcohol had deadened some of the feeling in me.

Switching to Frieda, I made her shout out and moan, and I kept going, taking much longer than usual. Finally releasing, Frieda was extra loud, our neighbours about to call security.

Washed up, tissues used to wash the sleepy girls, I knocked off the lights and eased under the duvet, Olesya walking in and joining us with a yawn.

Yawning myself, I told the sleeping twins, ‘Cheeky of that director to want to photograph us, four in a bed. What a notion, eh. What does he think I am, Don Juan or something?’

Oddly enough, I was very comfortable in this bed. The pillows were oddly comfortable, the duvet was great, and being here with the girls snuggled up to me was great. It was all warm and toasty in the bed, cold outside.

The final thing I did before we left the hotel was to present my Christmas gifts to the girls, gold necklaces. They had clothes for me, Rolf and Ingrid also handing me clothes after I had handed Rolf a book on photography and Ingrid an unofficial biography of Jacqueline.

Christmas robbery

Landing back in Birmingham, I had gone from dry snow to a cold wet mush on the ground, soon on the train and heading the short distance to Leicester, a few middle-aged ladies recognising me and waving. Still, it was better that a bunch of queers smiling and waving at me.

Back at home, my parents were packed ready for the trip to my nan’s house.

‘How did it go?’ my father asked.

‘Thirty thousand Euro for two days work. Simple. The money will go to Sweden, to the business we have there.’

‘You’re … trusting them a great deal.’ He waited.

‘I want to build a business with them.’

‘And if you fell out with the twins..?’ he posed.

‘Then I sell my shares and that’s that. But we work well as a team, and by themselves they never got far, it’s been all my input. I’m the boss, and they know that.’

Number looked up, and I called Julie at home, the factory now closed for Christmas. ‘It’s Ricky.’

‘Ah, you’re back.’

‘What happened with the posters?’

‘I was there yesterday, and they’ve sold six thousand so far.’

‘Wow, that is good. And how many are … men?’

She laughed. ‘About half. More women buying now.’

‘And what did Trudy say about production costs?’ I asked.

‘They got the price down, so you make more she said, almost three quid each poster.’

I was looking at eighteen thousand pounds profit so far, a shock. ‘You … get paid well enough for helping out?’

‘It’s a good rate, yes.’

I called Trish and updated her, and she had new Mercedes figures, a big number coming my way for residuals, the twins to benefit greatly as well. And that was without the American residuals.

At 8pm I called the twins, who had flown back and not used the train. ‘You all back safe?’

‘Yes, back in the house a few hours, Olesya is with her mother.’

‘I sold six thousand posters.’

‘My god, so many.’

‘Twenty thousand Euro or more profit for me.’

‘We get some figures on January 1st they said.’

‘What offers do you have, from your agent?’

‘Clothing range, 1,200 Euro a day, maybe three days. It is here in Stockholm.

‘Do it, be good for you, and it doesn’t affect the other work.’

Next call was Pete Granton at home. His daughter came on.

‘It’s Ricky Roskov in England.’

I heard the scream, the phone dropped, Pete coming on.

‘Ricky, you shocked my youngest daughter.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Buy her a poster of me, they’re available now, and I’ve sold six thousand in just over a week.’

‘Good going, yes.’

‘Job in Switzerland went well, client was happy.’

‘They emailed me, yes, got some extras from you – guests photos, which was cheeky of them.’

‘No harm done, and it all helps with the publicity,’ I told him.

‘Got another job you can look at, new big timeshare in Spain.’

‘And if we’re seen, and these timeshare fuckers get taken to court by unhappy clients?’

‘I know what you mean, but these are part of a massive cruise line company, all legit, part if TUI.’

‘In that case we could do it.’

‘Outside Malaga, Spain.’

‘Sounds nice. Pencil us in for it.’

Next call was Jacqueline.

‘Ah, my darling boy.’

‘You all ready for January?’

‘They start on Jan 10th now, usual delays.’

‘We did a ski chalet job, stills, went off OK. And back here in the UK my agent has been selling posters of me, and we sold six thousand in a week.’

‘I can imagine, yes. What’s the margin?’

‘Up to three quid a poster for me.’

‘That is good going. Back in the seventies I received fifty-five cents a poster, which I thought was good at the time.’

The next morning, Christmas Eve, I set off early with my parents, the snow having cleared some, and on the way I bought a bunch of tabloids, some coming with their glossy magazines inside.

The second paper I opened had the shot of me in bed with the three girls, so the naughty ski resort had sold the image. I called Trish as we drove, and she would complain, a note for Pete Granton.

Another paper had a staged shot, the one of me and the girls with our ski champion, so someone had yet again sold it. I called Trish back and mentioned it, asking that she scan all the papers and magazines.

After arriving at my nan’s and greeting her, I called Rolf and told him about the stolen photographs. He would look into it.

Pete Granton called back an hour later from Atlanta, and the photographer had sold the images without the knowledge of the ski resort, legal threats pending.

I updated Rolf and the twins, all mad as hell at the photographer, legal threat letters to be posted to the photographer with a claim for money, eighty percent of any monies made.

Sat with my nan, we chatted about my newfound fame as the TV showed old war movies, the sound down, and the festive family scene around me anchored me firmly to my youth.

But where was my real life, and where did I want to be?

At 7pm, and with my nan now tired, we set off back, an hour to get back. It was time for a cup of tea and some old war movies, but my father loved old war movies and so did I, we were not complaining about the crappy Christmas TV schedule or the usual repeats.

In the morning I presented my mother with jewellery, shocking her; it was expensive stuff. My father got a bag of cash when mum was not around, a finger to my lips, nothing said as he hid it.

Bonza popped in, wanting the gossip - and was that really me in bed with three girls? My uncle popped in with his wife, a chat about the ski resort job and the posters. I had a gift for him, a box of expensive golf balls, which pleased him, a gold necklace for his wife.

At 7pm, sat as a family, a well-known comedian was doing his stand-up when he joked about me and the twins, the audience laughing, and on a big screen he showed the image of four in a bed, another breach of copyright.

But his comments and jokes were fine, they made me out to be a super stud, and he suggested that he could do what I do – if he wanted. And if his wife let him.

My father turned to me. ‘Do you … sleep three in a bed with the twins?’

I gave him a look that said yes.

‘And Olesya?’

I gave him the same look.

‘Dear god.’

‘Cold in Switzerland, need to stay warm,’ I told him, my mother shaking her head at me.

Excusing myself, I called my main customers in turn, wishing them all a merry Christmas, a quick chat about four in a bed.

Boxing Day, and I set off to the hospital in a taxi, soon up in the same ward, the staff pleased to see me. ‘Point me towards someone that needs a boost.’

‘All of them,’ the nurse quipped. ‘They’re here, not home for Christmas.’

I worked around the ward, time with everyone, a few families visiting, and I was then led to a ladies ward for more mundane ailments and injuries. I made a few old ladies laugh, and I posed with relatives for photos, soon onto my third ward after a cup of tea.

Finding the maternity ward, I did the rounds again, asking after baby names, the new mums all pleased to see me before I tried a male ward, jokes cracked about my sexual exploits, and I found a few familiar faces amongst the sickly inmates.

One was a policeman, now thirty-two, and he had been jumped by a gang, hip and shoulder broken. I cheered him with tales of the twins, then asked about the incident; they were still looking for the men. Paper and pen out, he detailed where it happened, what the men looked like, local accents, a name used, Snowy.

‘I know Snowy, a right idiot. Leave it with me.’

Back home at 8pm I was tired, and we sat down to eat Christmas leftovers, tales told of people that we knew in the hospital wards.

At 9pm, the local BBC Midlands news detailed me as having spent six hours visiting wards.

The next day, a lazy day, I walked around to see Bonza, for him to get the dirt on Snowy and his gang for me. He started to make calls, his big brother making calls – not least because he hated Snowy with a passion; Snowy had beaten up Bonza and his brother a few years back, when in school.

By 7pm I had the gang detailed, names and a few addresses. One had even been boasting about hurting a copper. A taxi ride, and I walked into the central police station, everyone recognising me. I asked for the inspector on duty, who they fetched.

Leading him to one side, I handed him the piece of paper. ‘Those are the men that jumped your officer, Markham, now in a ward I visited. Oh … and I was never here, and you never got that from me.’

‘Thanks. And … Merry Christmas.’

Julie called the next day, so I headed around to the printers, to find two girls working on the posters full time, as well as Julie helping out whilst the glass factory was closed.

Against a wall sat what looked like a million cardboard tunes with posters inside, labels now being printed off, postage being franked onto the tubes in a well-practised routine.

‘Post was late, arrived yesterday,’ Julie informed me. ‘Loads of it.’

She fetched a magazine for me, and she bent over laughing as I noticed now the advert in Gay Times. Flicking the pages, I found men in thongs posing, but I was not about to join them, not for any amount of money.

To the girls behind the computers, I asked, ‘What’s the total?’

‘Seven thousand, three hundred and sixty-two.’

I called Trish whilst I was at the printers, and she was pleased with the way it was going, ideas for other adverts – if they were even needed yet.

‘Oh,’ she began. ‘Smirnov paid, the local pub adverts, twenty—six grand.’

It was just a number, my head not able to process it. ‘Good, I had an expensive round of gifts to buy for Christmas.’

A new year

I spent New Year’s Eve in with my parents, not interested in parties, and I had received many invites via either Trish or the glass factory, as well as invites to a few TV shows. Bonza popped in for a drink, and to chat to me about Snowy and his gang; all of the gang members were now in custody and facing remand to prison as they waited for the trial.

I finally decided to give BBC Midlands an exclusive, knowing that they were mild in their questioning, so a day later I skipped the make-up and went live, my heart racing.

Stick to the truth, I told myself. Well, apart from the sex.

‘Welcome Ricky Roskov, Leicester boy made good, and not many famous faces come from Leicester. How was your Christmas?’

‘I visited my nan, I visited the local hospital, and I stayed in with my parents, no wild parties – I’m not much of a drinker, at least not yet.’

‘No champagne lifestyle?’

‘Not yet, still a young working-class Leicester lad.’

‘You had a trip to Jamaica, then Switzerland. Was that work?’

‘Jamaica was a holiday with the twins and their family, and Olesya – who’s now part of the family, but while we were there we had lessons on photography, how to photograph a model, and the girls were all keen to learn about the industry they now work in.

‘Switzerland was work, photographs for a ski resort, but the naughty photographer stole the images and sold them on, now a legal battle.’

‘He sold them?’

‘They belong to the ski resort as far as usage goes, but belong to me and my agent as far as copyright goes. Many British newspapers printed the stolen images.’

‘Will you take legal action?’

‘The newspapers bought the images in good faith, just not from us. One TV comedian showed the image of four in a bed as well, a breach of copyright.’

‘Was that photograph staged?’

‘It was, yes.’

‘So you don’t all sleep in the same bed…’

‘Well … sometimes, when it’s cold, shared body heat. And it saves on our heating bill.’

He blinked. ‘You’re reported as being in a relationship with both twins…’

‘That’s correct, yes, expensive at Christmas – twice the gifts.’

‘And the barmaid actor, Olesya?’

He was putting me on the spot. ‘We’re close as well.’

‘In Jamaica you were injured…’

‘An American man, jealous of me, threw a bottle, but it hit the twins’ father and he needed four stitches, then it hit me, a black eye the result. The man is still being held by the police in Jamaica.’

‘And Boxing Day, you spent at the hospital…’

‘I was asked to attend before Christmas, by a ward sister, to cheer up ladies on the Cancer Ward, and I’m happy to do that. Boxing Day I went back, and I visited maybe ten wards in total.

‘And if my time can help cheer up sick people then great, I don’t have a high regard for myself or my time, and I plan on visiting regular, maybe other hospitals as well.’

‘You were student president…’

‘I was, and someday I plan on going into politics.’

‘You organised your fellow students, and you slept in the homes of old ladies to stop burglars…’

‘We did, yes, and I made friends with many of the old ladies. Sadly, Gladys was beaten to death by a drug addict.’

‘We’re covering the story, and he’ll stand trial in Birmingham Crown Court in a few months. But coming back to your lifestyle, it’s not exactly a celeb lifestyle…’

‘I hate the celeb title, I still work days at my uncle’s glass factory, and I’d rather be visiting a hospital than drinking champagne at some high roller party. That’s not for me.

‘For New Year’s Eve I had invites to parties in London, TV shows, but I stayed in with my parents. I don’t drink in Leicester, I don’t drink much at all, a few beers in Jamaica.’

‘And your plans for the future?’

‘My adopted Swedish family want to learn the modelling business and create a small modelling agency for themselves, so I’ll be involved with that some of the time.

‘I had planned to go to university next year, history and politics, but I may keep with the modelling work so long as there is some modelling work.

‘In the long term I fancy directing a model agency or an ad agency, and I created the Mercedes adverts and scripted them all – that was something I enjoyed, and I plan on doing more of that in the future.

‘So I may end up behind the camera and not in front of it -’

‘Would you accept a film role?’

‘I’ve … never acted, just the adverts, so I think I would need some lessons … and to see if I was any good at it. But I would be interested in sitting down and writing a movie script, that’s a plan of mine.’

‘Ricky Roskov, modest Leicester boy, thank you for your time.’

Back home, and my parents had seen it, happy with it, my mum concerned that I was having sex with three girls at the same time.

‘Mum, don’t be daft, I’m not having sex with three girls at the same time, they take it in turns of course.’

My father hid his grin and looked away as my mother glared at me.

Trish called my mobile, having seen the interview – and that I looked great.

The twins called next, and excited, but not about my interview. ‘We sold all the posters, two thousand of them, they want more.’

‘Good, a good start. Not as good as me of course, I’m beautiful-’ The curses came in Swedish as I laughed. ‘I’m up to seven thousand. Oh, job in Malaga, Spain, timeshare apartments, be a warm holiday, just a few days.’

‘We did the clothes factory over Christmas and after, three days.’

‘Hard work?’

‘No, easy, seven hours a day, lunch. They want more, in Berlin.’

‘Good, your careers are taking off.’

‘When will you come and visit?’

‘When all the snow has gone. What month is that?’

‘It looks nice here, and we keep you warm.’

‘OK, soon, but I still have work for my uncle.’

‘You stay with him?’

‘I … am not sure, but he helps my parents buy a house, so for now I have to be nice to him.’

Back in work, a Wednesday, I settled down to checking the hundred emails that had accumulated, picking out my regulars first.

Coffee to hand, I typed up a few quotes and handed them to my uncle to have a look at, two new customers spoken to on the phone, both ladies, and I was sure that we would get the deal.

The next customer was … H.M. Prison, Dartford. Puzzled, I called the lady in question.

‘It’s Ricky Roskov, and you enquired about some glass.’

‘I did, yes. I’m a junior minister, for Prisons, and we’re building a detention centre, four blocks, six hundred windows, small and tough.’

She gave me the dimensions. ‘Frames need to meet the specs, or the prisoners will knock them out.’

‘We can have a sample made up. But why call me for a Dartford job?’

‘I went to school with your customers in Essex, they mentioned you.’

‘I’ll thank them, if the job comes off. And how many decades will the government take to pay us?’

‘We’re not fast, but we are legally bound and would not risk the adverse publicity.’

‘Take a guess at the timeframe?’ I pressed.

‘Three months is normal.’

‘I’ll get back to you with a proposal and pop in for coffee. Where are you?’

‘Whitehall. London.’

Disturbing my uncle, I told him about the new deal – warning him about the payment delays.

He eased back and sighed. ‘Six hundred small windows, it’s a lot of money, but if they delay it or there’s an issue we’re screwed. So … I can pass it over yet still make the margin.

‘My supplier, BritGlass, will accept government contracts, they’ve done them before, and they take the financial strain not us. And the wife of the CEO of BritGlass wants to meet you.’

I smiled widely. ‘Set up the meet, soon, let’s nail the job down. And the government minister is a lady, and I think she wants to meet as well.’

One of the emails was for modelling work, so I bounced it to Trish.

Pete Granton called me at 4pm. ‘The ski resort, they’re taking the photographer to court. They’re liable to us, but they have apologised, and we won’t chase them – not yet.

‘And the twins’ father, Rolf, seems to have some big clout legal firm in Zurich threatening the photographer.’

‘He worked in the EU for many years, he knows a lot of people, and he’s rich.’

‘He’s asked for 85% of the monies made, or else, a cease and desist notice issued and destruction of the photographs.’

‘Is it normal for the tabloids to buy dodgy photos?’

‘Fuck yes, they don’t care, they’d just claim they did it in good faith. ’

‘Well … it’s all publicity, and I did mention on a TV interview here that they were stolen images.’

‘The Brit public are on your side, and anyone stealing your photos will feel the heat for sure.’

‘Good to be popular, just the one man with a knife trying to kill me so far.’

The following week, and I received an odd email, a tip-off about a murdered Leicester woman, and who in particular had murdered her. On the email it mentioned my local lady reporter, Helen Hill.

I called my reporter and she came around lunchtime. The weather was OK, crisp and cold but without any snow, and whilst being wrapped up warm I took her for a walk.

‘You know a murdered woman, Tracey Pullson?’

She glanced at me sideways. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I had a tip-off sent to me, about who really killed her.’

‘Who killed her?’

‘Do you know the story?’ I pressed as we walked.

‘I covered it a year back, but my editor took the story off me and buried it.’

‘Buried it? Why would an editor bury a good story?’

‘Someone put pressure on him.’

‘Which … suggests that someone … is a local king pin, linked to the paper’s owners.’ I waited.

‘I … have a few ideas, but they warned me off it. Will you get involved?’

‘I have the fame to use, local contacts, and money. But tell me: why should I get involved?’

‘To fight local corruption, you said you wanted to go into politics.’

I nodded as we walked.

She added, ‘They’re into everything, local council, police.’

‘Freemasons?’

She nodded.

‘So if it got to court they’d quash it, and it would go away. How are your morals, Helen?’

‘I … was frightened, I backed off.’

‘Are you good at keeping secrets?’ I asked.

‘I’ve never discussed it with anyone till now.’

‘Don’t discuss it with anyone again, but do what you can very quietly and very slowly. I’ll get you some cash, and we meet now and then and chat about modelling. And … maybe someday we’ll have enough evidence to take them down.

‘I doubt that, I read about Freemasons in London, judges and police and politicians, and they can quash a story and a crime. So we need to tread very softly here and act dumb.

‘If you need a local criminal investigated I can arrange that, I have friends in low places, cash to use, I have a good network around here.’

‘I have a file, hidden.’

‘Keep it hidden for now, chat each week, and call upon me for research if you need to.’

‘Who did the tip-off say murdered the local woman?’

‘What name would you expect to see come up?’ I countered with.

She hesitated, but then answered, ‘Roger Pearson.’

I turned my head to her and nodded slightly.

She began, ‘Whoever sent you that email knows something, we might get a lead, some real evidence.’

Again I nodded as we walked. ‘If anyone asks, you came to ask me about the stolen photos and what I may do, which is nothing, it’s in the hands of others.’

I stopped and faced her. ‘Be very careful, but don’t let the bastards get away with it.’

Back in the office, I sat with a cup of tea and stared out the window, annoyed as hell and wanting to get to this Roger Pearson, but the fact was … it was not my concern. There were many towns in Britain, and they all had their corruption and their hidden deals.

But this was my town, my back yard, my people, and if I could do something then I should, as I had done as student president.

I had deleted the original email, and I hoped that no one could trace it, or ever prove that I had received it. This would be handled in secret.