by Fiona Mozley
Only some of the other women connected to the walk-up live in flats in the building. Others live elsewhere and hire rooms by the hour. For the most part, they get on, but it’s no utopia. Young Scarlet once called Cynthia a basic bitch and now the two women barely speak. Precious, however, is liked by everyone.
Everyone assumes “Precious” is the name she adopted on entering the trade, just as most of the other girls adopted new names. But it was the name her mother gave her at birth. Her childhood was spent between Lagos and London: most of the year in Nigeria, then long summers in the UK, visiting family. Her stepfather spent time between the two cities. He was the pastor of the strict, evangelical church in which Precious was raised, and he had travelled extensively for work, going between the UK and Nigeria and America and Canada, on preaching tours.
A clear path of marriage and domesticity lay ahead of Precious. Sex was for reproduction. She began a midwifery qualification in Lagos and then spent a year with a scheme her church ran which offered medical assistance to women in poorer parts of the country. She toured villages in the north of Nigeria to administer prenatal and postnatal care to mothers, as well as assisting the midwives with births. She saw many things. She touched bodies. She learned not to be squeamish. Although part of an evangelizing programme, this year gave Precious a taste for independence. She lived away from her family, made friends and went out in the evenings. She danced and laughed and sometimes was propositioned by men. Sometimes she accepted these proposals and went on dates, and sometimes she had sex. Sometimes the sex was wonderful. Sometimes the sex was disappointing. But she always felt in control.
She became serious with one of the men and ran away with him to London. The relationship seemed like a good idea at the time. Michael had lofty aspirations and a desire to see the world. In these things, Precious saw similarities with herself. Michael found work in a local business without too much difficulty, but Precious spent longer looking for something. She gave up on midwifery and retrained as a beautician. She got a job at a beauty parlor in Highgate. At that point they were living in Peckham so every day she took the 63 bus to Elephant and Castle and afterwards the Northern Line. She massaged bodies and used special scrubs and muds and oils to exfoliate naked skin. She waxed and shaved and threaded body hair. Sometimes she inserted plastic tubes into anuses and flushed the customers’ insides of food they had eaten and half-digested.
Precious and Michael had a son, Marcus, then things began to fall apart. There were arguments about money, childcare and domestic arrangements. There were arguments that started quietly then grew. There were arguments about arguments. Most of all, there were arguments about the fact that Precious still worked. Michael had expected her to work for a couple of years but thought she would then give up her job and concentrate on raising a family. Precious disagreed. She liked working, though the employment in Highgate was not as fulfilling as the employment she had had in Nigeria. Michael left suddenly, a month before the birth of their second son.
Precious, Tabitha, Hazel, Candy, Young Scarlet, and a few others spend the evening drinking wine. They speak about the letter from the landlord: what could be done to combat the changes, and what they would do if nothing could be done. Later, the conversation turns to Scarlet’s website. She operates online as well as taking “walk-up” clients, and reckons she’ll be fine if they have to leave Soho.
“It’s all done with subscriptions,” Scarlet explains. “There are different levels of subscription depending on how much you want to pay and how much access you want.”
“Does it start with the I Don’t Normally Do This Kind of Thing membership and go all the way up to Absolute Bloody Pervert?” asks Candy.
Precious and Tabitha laugh but Young Scarlet scowls.
“The tiers are actually Bronze, Silver, Gold, and Platinum,” she continues, as if Candy hadn’t said anything, and isn’t sitting on the sofa next to her. Then she turns to her friend. “It’s actually a very classy website, Candida, unlike your cum-shot extravaganza.”
Precious and Tabitha continue to laugh. Young Scarlet and Candy throw each other venomous looks.
Scarlet goes on to explain what the various tiers mean, and what services she provides to her members, and about how some of her online customers go on to visit her in real life, or IRL, as she calls it. “But then on the other hand,” she says, “I’ve never met some of my biggest fans. They couldn’t be more enthusiastic about my tits, but they’ve never actually come over and touched them I-R-L.”
Precious is wary of the internet. Some of the other girls think Precious is reluctant to take her business online because she is old-fashioned. They teased her for operating as a kind of vintage prostitute, contacted by telephone (landline!).
“You’re like a retro hooker,” says one.
“An artisanal, hand-crafted hooker,” says another.
“Honestly, Precious,” says Scarlet. “You’re missing out on a major source of revenue. These days I’m making almost as much from my website as I am from my walk-up. And on top of that there’s the money I earn from selling the data to this big research company that predicts what kind of car someone is likely to buy based on what kind of porn they watch.”
Precious shakes her head. She doesn’t trust technology, as she has told Scarlet before. “You totally lose control,” she says. “As soon as you film yourself or take photos and put them online, they could literally be anywhere. Anyone could be looking at them or passing them on.”
“No, no, no,” says Scarlet. “I have control.”
“You don’t though,” says Precious.
“Well, I don’t care. I’m not as fussed about that kind of thing as you are. I’d rather have money than control.”
Scarlet says nothing more for a bit. It is possible Precious went too far. Everyone has different levels of comfort, different boundaries. It isn’t for her to tell Scarlet what she can and cannot do. She only meant she wouldn’t be comfortable with it herself. She doesn’t like the idea of her digital image being out there in the world for all to see, but then obviously not all women are comfortable with having sex for money.
Precious sometimes likes to think of herself as being like a valuable painting. She is worth the money she is worth because she is unique, exclusive, difficult to access. If she allowed her image to be replicated again and again and again, she would be worthless. How could she charge clients as much as she charges them if they could just log on to her website and have a wank?
She voices this thought to the room and the others just look at her as if she is insane. Candy says something about pieces of art that are just piles of literal crap on a table in the middle of a fancy gallery, and everyone laughs, and Precious returns to her wine.
After the other girls leave, Precious and Tabitha clear up together then get ready for bed. They share a double. They are as close as two people can be, though their relationship is not romantic. They are in love but they are not lovers.
The bed isn’t the large, ornate bed in the front room where Precious conducts her business, but is at the back of the flat, in a small bedroom. It is an expensive ergonomic bed with a special mattress because Tabitha suffers from intermittent, shooting back pain. Precious bought it from John Lewis. Precious also bought the bed sheets from John Lewis, in the sale. They were a fine cotton and soft on Tabitha’s sensitive skin. Precious sleeps with one pillow and Tabitha sleeps with five.
Tabitha likes to read in bed before falling asleep, which Precious finds frustrating because she is tired and wants the light to be switched off immediately. However, she is used to the set-up and it would be unreasonable to stop her friend reading before bed.
Tabitha is reading a book about Elizabethan London. She is into the Tudors in general, and Elizabeth I, in particular. Precious was taught the history of Nigeria at school, and the history of the African diaspora, so did not know who the Tudors (or simply “Tudors” as she calls them) were when she first met Tabitha. Tabitha found this very str
ange.
“Henrytheeighth,” she said, as if this was explanation enough. “Henrytheeighth and the six wives of.”
Precious later deduced Tudors were kings and queens from a while ago, but she cannot grasp the fascination. Tabitha once gave her a book on the history of the British monarchy, and Precious was more interested in the Civil War period, in which the monarchy was briefly deposed.
Precious has turned onto her side and is dozing off when Tabitha says, “Did you know in Paris in the Middle Ages a bunch of prostitutes banded together and tried to offer some money for the construction of a stained-glass window in the Notre Dame cathedral?”
“No, I did not know that. Is that what it says in your book?”
“No, this book is about Elizabethan London, not medieval Paris. I read it in another book ages ago and just remembered it.”
“Right,” says Precious.
“Did you know in Tudor times all the brothels were south of the river in Southwark and it was only much later that they moved up this way to Soho. Stews, they were called then.”
“Yes, you have told me that before.”
Precious shuffles her body to shift some of the duvet over to her side of the bed. Tabitha has a habit of hogging it.
Minutes pass and Precious is again on the cusp of sleep.
“Elizabeth I was dead into the occult. It’s unbelievable when you think about it,” says Tabitha.
Precious tries for a couple of minutes to sleep, then realizes it is impossible while Tabitha is reading. There is a constant threat of interruption. She turns over to face her friend. “What do you think the modern-day equivalent of the cathedral thing would be? All us doing a fun run and collecting donations for Children in Need or something.”
“Yeah, or donate a day’s takings to the RSPB. Birds4Birds.”
Precious giggles into her pillow. Unable to sleep, she pulls herself up to a sitting position and leans back against the cushioned headboard. She lifts a gossip magazine from the drawer of the bedside table. She turns the pages with the tip of her index finger and stares at photographs of minor royals in front of large fireplaces and luxury cars. Britain is weird, she thinks, not for the first time.
“If we do have to leave here, will you come with me?”
Tabitha closes her book but she leaves her thumb between the pages to mark her place. “I suppose that depends on where you go. Have you had any thoughts about that?”
“Not really,” says Precious. “I’ve not had a proper think. Maybe back to Peckham to be near Marcus and Ashley.”
Tabitha creases her face. “I don’t fancy Peckham. I’m in my sixties. It’s not exactly an enticing retirement destination.”
“I like Peckham.”
“So do I, in a way, but I always thought I’d end up in a pretty cottage in the countryside.”
“What work would I get in the countryside? We set up in Chipping Norton so I can service the local Conservative Club?”
“Why not? That’s the way it’s all moving, I hear. You rent an Airbnb in the country for a month or so and advertise your services online. Then you move locations before the police start sniffing. Pop-up brothels. It opens up your business to a whole new market.”
“Like that organic pop-up farm they’re setting up in Soho Square?”
“I suppose so. Move the pigs into Soho and put the tarts out to pasture.”
“You know those countryside brothels are all trafficked girls,” says Precious.
Tabitha re-opens her book.
Neither of them like to talk about sex trafficking. It is only possible to speak casually about such things if they are many steps removed. If there is only a translucent membrane between your own world and its hellish simulacrum, it is better to look the other way.
“I’d miss all the bright lights,” says Tabitha, returning the conversation to their own situation. “Wherever we go that’s not here, I’d miss all the noise, and the sense of being at the center of things. I like that it’s busy. I’ve always liked it. If we go anywhere else, it will seem so quiet.”
Steam
Bastian stops on the pavement outside the club and puts in his earphones. He scrolls on his phone for some music and returns the device to his inside jacket pocket. The earphones fit snugly; the plastic beads like tiny snails curled in their shells. The music dampens the city and makes him feel as if he could be anywhere, doing anything.
He walks to the Tube. Bastian is making his way home alone. Rebecca wanted to stay out and go dancing with her friends. He could read her well enough to know she wasn’t completely happy about his early departure, but she didn’t make a fuss. He told her he had a headache, which was partly true, as in, he could feel a kind of discomfort in his head, even if it wasn’t physical pain.
After bumping into Glenda on the stairs, he returned to the table and told Rebecca who he had just seen.
“Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“We were at uni with her.”
“I have literally no memory of that name. What does she look like?”
Bastian described Glenda’s appearance as best he could.
“That could be about five hundred different people.” The conversation was taking place in front of the group, and Bastian could tell Rebecca was enjoying the performance.
Bastian tried again with some more descriptive material, then mentioned a couple of events and anecdotes about Glenda that might jog Rebecca’s memory. The trouble was, Bastian hadn’t known Glenda well either. He knew her friend Laura, whom he was emphatically not mentioning to Rebecca, but there were very few defining incidents involving Glenda that he could call to mind.
“I think she was on the committee for that Syrian refugee fundraiser thing.”
“I see. She was political.” Rebecca turned to her friends, with an expression that implied this last word was the only explanation they needed.
Bastian wasn’t sure raising money for refugees counted as being political in the way Rebecca meant, but he didn’t press the point. Rebecca was emphatically apolitical, which meant she liked things the way they were. She voted in general elections, like any respectable person, but she didn’t believe in campaigning for good causes, and found anyone who did deeply irritating.
She turned again to her work friends and explained, “Our college was full of Social Justice Warriors who were constantly in the bar trying to get you to sign petitions for god knows what. They all had, you know, dreadlocks.”
Her friends laughed obligingly. Bastian didn’t join in. He tended to agree with Rebecca about student politics but was, at this moment, too unsettled by the encounter with Glenda and the mention of Laura. Rebecca, however, was on a roll. “Bastian used to give this fantastic analysis about all those people,” she continued. “What was it you used to say? When boys are young, they all want to be good at sport. Football or rugby or whatever. That’s how they sort out the social hierarchy. Then if they discover they’re not very good at sport, they get into music. They become, you know, those boys who set up bands and things, because that’s the only way they can get laid. And then if that doesn’t work—if they’re not very good at music—they go off to university and get into student politics.”
The women laughed. Some of the men looked uneasy. By this point, Bastian felt the need to intervene. “Yes, I did say that once, but I’m not totally sure it’s true. I mean, it’s true that some of the student politics that went on when we were at uni was kind of annoying, but I think on balance those people did a lot of good. I mean, I’m glad they raised that money for the refugees?”
After he said this, Bastian remembered the scene upstairs. The camp beds, the postcards, the woman with the mop and bucket. He thought about telling Rebecca but the conversation had moved on and, for some reason, he felt uneasy about mentioning it to her, or to anyone. It was as if he had transgressed by walking into that room and seeing what he had seen. Describing the scene would also be a transgression, as if talking about it made him complicit
in some sort of crime. It would be easier to forget it, but he suspected that if he did nothing, it would become one of those thoughts that wriggles around and slowly corrodes, like woodworms in an old church. He made a mental note to talk to his dad about it in the morning. Bastian has just started working for his dad’s business, which represents a woman who owns a lot of the property in the area. The club might even be one of hers.
Bastian gets to the underground station and swipes himself through the barriers. A long escalator takes him to the lower levels. He can hear someone playing jazz standards on a tenor sax. The music jars with what he’s listening to, and he pops his earphones out and pays attention to the live performance. The notes bounce against the tiles, back and forth on the curved walls, through the long tunnels. He gets to the bottom and sees the saxophonist clutching his instrument and crooning into it with his eyes shut. There is a collection tin at the saxophonist’s feet, but Bastian has no loose change, so he picks up his pace and makes his way to the platform.
Bastian plays the double bass, but compared to this guy he’s a total amateur. He hardly ever plays in public, but Laura did once manage to get him to perform for her. He played part of a contemporary concerto, and then put down his bow and plucked a couple of walking jazz bass lines, which she found hilarious. He knew she was messing with him, and she said she’d actually really enjoyed it, but he was too shy to play for her again.
Bastian had met Laura in the last few weeks of his degree. Exams were finished and finalists were waiting to graduate. Those weeks were filled with garden parties and balls. Everybody drank a lot of Pimm’s and champagne and ate smoked salmon blinis and cocktail sausages. They punted and fell into the River Cam and lay on freshly mown lawns.
Bastian and Rebecca had fallen out. The pressures of finals got to them both, and they were “on a break,” like Ross and Rachel from Friends. They were no longer seeing each other but there had been no official end to their relationship. They decided to reconvene once exams were over, only Bastian’s exams finished several weeks before Rebecca’s and he was left alone in the summer celebrations.
