Secretarial The Temp: At his convenience

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The Independent Culture
IT TOOK me three days to work up the nerve to go to the bathroom in Oscar Katz's penthouse - three days with crossed legs, gratefully rushing off on errands in the outside world - and now I'm kicking myself because I could have had a whole three days' more dining out. But finally I worked up the trust in my new boss (I was convinced, rightly, that there wouldn't be a lock on the inside), in the middle of a long afternoon on the phone ringing round every tabloid and men's magazine hack in the country, inviting them to the PussyKatz Club's Pussy of the Year competition (well, almost). Well, it was either that or bust laughing. And now I have to pop back in every hour or so, whether or not I need the loo, just to check.

Oscar Katz's bathroom: my mum would have kittens if she knew. I've got used to the bedroom, with its purple satin sheets, in-bedhead stereo and purple satin tenting, because one of my duties is to check the bedside minibar and restock it with quarter-bottles of champagne - but the bathroom is something else. It's a monument to everything to do with water and nothing to do with washing. Well, there's a bidet - gold-plated - in the corner, but it seems to contain mostly white satin G-strings. Otherwise, it's a place for splashing around while looking at yourself.

For a start, the whole place is lined with mirrors, and when I say the whole place, I mean that you can actually look up your own skirt as you cross the floor. I find it disconcerting seeing myself on the loo, but each to his own taste, I guess. The bath isn't so much a bath as a private bordello, being big enough for six, with not just jet streams, but a wave machine. The shower isn't so much a shower as a car wash. Oscar has a body-length whirling loofah thing that goes on at the flick of a switch and scrapes off those dead skin cells while you lean against it. I haven't worked out where he keeps his unguents, but he must have loads stashed behind one of the mirrors, for no one in the history of the world has ever smelled so chemical. They'd label him a national disaster if he were in North America.

This is the weirdest job I've ever done. I work from 2pm to 10pm every day, following Oscar around, getting drinks for people, calling the chauffeur, sending out for sushi and timetabling his assignations. I quickly worked out that my own morals were totally safe with the old roue, as I'm obviously not his type. I haven't got white permed hair piled on my head, frosted pink lipstick and a black leather bra, for a start, and my name isn't Trixie, Vixen or Lulu - and I passed 19 some time ago. I guess there comes a time in every woman's life when she realises she is past it for certain activities; I never realised my moment would come at 23.

The Pussy of the Year competition is in fact The Search for London's Loveliest Lap-dancer. My job over the next two weeks is to send out invites to everyone Oscar can think of, chase up a few former game show hosts and disc jockeys to pad the celebrity list, and laugh at Oscar's jokes.

Oh, and try hard to tell Trixie (no calls) from Trina (put straight through, leaves different-coloured hairs in sink from those on her head).

So I emerged from the bathroom, trying hard to keep a straight face and not cause offence, though the breast-shaped door handle had nearly tipped me over the edge. "Well," said Oscar from the pink inflatable Marilyn Monroe lips chair, "I was wondering if you were related to the Queen and never went at all." "Oh, no," I said, finding myself suddenly forced to sneeze, "I go."

Oscar lit a 6-in-long cigar. "Oh, by the way," he said, "Sorry about the trolleys in the footbath, but yer can't machine-wash them, you see." He smiled proudly. "Ladies say I've got the best bum in London. Remind me to show you some time."