If someone wrote a story of his life it could be titled Confessions of a Handyman, only, what was there to confess, really? He was a young man, he kept himself in shape – it would be noteworthy if he didn’t leap into bed with the bored housewives and divorcees who would ring up to avail themselves of Handy Andy’s services.
And putting smiles on to faces, wasn’t that just as vital as washers on to leaky taps?
If there was one tip he had to pass on to any would be lotharios it would be this – check out the family photos. Did her bloke look big? Did he look rough? If possible, work the conversation around to her bloke – try and ascertain the relationship status. Frustrated divorcee wracked with self-doubt? Helllloooo, double six.
But one big definite no-no, do not leap into bed with perky young women called Holly, even if they do open the front door to their mansion wearing only a pair of knickers and a threadbare silk robe.
And when you open your eyes to find an old man stood by the grand marble fireplace looking at you? Nope, Andy had no tips for that one.
The age on the guy, Andy’s first thought, has to be her father, right?
Andy let out a breath. ‘I know this looks bad, but…’
The man raised an eyebrow, and waited. Andy had his arms under the bedclothes. He began to surreptitiously try and flex his aching fingers into fists. Anger was one thing, he could work with that, but this guy was too calm. Andy’s breath held as the old man reached a hand inside his jacket, but it was only to pull out a pen. He stooped and then stood, showing to Andy a jiggling translucent condom dangled on the pen.
Andy took another breath, and then another one. ‘I know it looks bad, but I…’
‘What? You get into a customer’s bed then knock one out into a condom? Five times?’ The old man shook his head. ‘Don’t try and bullshit me.’ He let the condom slip from the pen. The old man sighed. ‘What were you thinking? A twenty-five-year-old former fucking model at home in the day in an eight-bedroom mansion? You didn’t stop to wonder who pays for that?’
Andy managed a limp smile. ‘Say the first part of that sentence again.’
The old man smiled. ‘Smart arse.’ But he was still smiling. ‘You want to know my first thought? Down to the workshop with you, plums in a vice. But really, is that going to teach you a lesson?’
Andy managed a limp headshake.
‘Good. You see, I get it. Everyone has needs, and sometimes, if those needs can’t be met, well, I get it. You know what I’m saying?’
Andy nodded faintly. No way, could it be? Old man with a trophy wife, needs some young stallion to keep her satisfied?
The old man took off his jacket. He began to unbuckle his belt, nodding to something to the right of Andy as he did so.
‘Look in that bedside table, second drawer down. There should be some baby oil, and you’re going to need a lot of it.’