Three

Kathy was driving. The sat nav was trying to find Sunnyfields Sun Club. It was lost.

“We’ve been here before” I said as we passed The Kings Arms

“Ask that woman there” Kathy told me

“No I am not. She’ll think we’re nudists”

“Oh for crying out loud” she exclaimed stopping the car. She got out, slamming the door for good effect, and approached a middle age woman who was weeding her front garden. After a few minutes gesticulation and pointing Kathy got back in.

“We’re nearly there” she said turning the car around. I looked out of the window at our new acquaintance. She was grinned at me and winked. I smiled weakly.

“That went well” I told her.

“Piece of cake” she replied.

She drove out of the village and took a left along a single track road. Within half a mile the road widened before ending at a high, solid gate. Either side was fenced by thick conifers which blocked the view. A discreet sign announced our arrival at the Sunnyfields Sun Club, and invited us the press the button next to the intercom. Kathy duly did as instructed, flashing a winning smile at the CCTV camera.

A geological era passed before a tinny disembodied voice emanated from the speaker

“Hello, can I help you”

“We have an appointment” said Kathy with a touch of query in her voice. “Kathy Woodall and Stephen Andrews, A1 Wedding Service”

“Ah yes, drive straight on to the car park at the end of the road. I’ll meet you there”

The gates slowly opened, Kathy put the car into gear and we eased into the unknown. I looked nervously out of the windows as Kathy drove us along the tree lined track. The club seemed to be one large wood. I was so busy looking for nudists amongst the trees that I missed the one in front of us. A large, bald headed man with a belly the size of Yorkshire stood pointing to a place in the car park.

“Oh my” exclaimed Kathy, “that’s large”

I don’t think she was referring to the size the car park, which was almost empty. What it lacked in quantity it made up for in quality. Kathy parked her small Toyota next to a very large Mercedes and an expensive sports car.

The naked man introduced himself as John Smith and claimed he was the club secretary. Suspicions grew in my mind again. Nobody is called John Smith.

“I hope you don’t mind” he said “I usually dress for visitors but you caught me on the hop”

“No not all” replied Kathy “It’s us who aren’t following the dress code”

“It’s a bit cold for me, although obviously not for you” I said.

Kathy shot me a murderous look as John led the way to his office.

“Please sit” he told us, “If you could just sign the visitors’ book. It is a quiet day so you won’t see many members today. ”

I winced, and then groaned as Kathy kicked me in the shin. We both signed and gave our business address.

“Don’t worry about bumping to anyone. Everyone’s been warned you are here so they know what to expect” said John, Greta and Bob are in the Club house. I’ll just tell them you are here”

He left us alone in his office.

“John Smith” I exclaimed to Kathy “it’s a set up; there are cameras in here somewhere.”

I looked around trying to spot them. It was just like any other office, computer, files on shelves, filing cabinets, in fact you would never have guessed you were in a nudist camp until you looked at the pictures on the wall. Pretty naked women on a beach. If I put some of them in my office I’d be strung from the rafters with a sign reading male chauvinist pig around my neck.

“It’s not a set up, Pete, I’ve checked them out” insisted Kathy, “They have a website, the secretary is called John Smith, I checked with the British Naturism Council, they are a bona fide nudist camp. I even found directions on the internet”

“So how come we got lost” I complained.

“Because you were navigating” she replied.