by Jessie Keane
‘Cheeky mare,’ said one of them, a tall woman with a face hard as a hatchet, her dark bulbous eyes mocking and her too-blonde hair bleached to fuck.
‘I heard that,’ said Clara.
‘You were meant to,’ said the blonde.
‘Whatever you think of it, it’s the truth. Now Mr Cotton tells me that you have no clothing allowance.’
This seemed to amuse the girls greatly.
‘Clothing allowance! We ain’t in the clothes long enough to bother,’ said the blonde, laughing and looking around at her pals for support. They smiled. A couple of them tittered.
‘Really? Well, we’re not actually running a whorehouse here, so that could be where you’re going wrong,’ said Clara.
‘Ain’t had no complaints,’ said a dumpy little brunette, round as a barrel, folding her arms.
‘Yeah, but then you haven’t seen the books, have you?’ retorted Clara. ‘Fact is, takings are poor. You, as hostesses, are supposed to encourage the punters to spend like there’s no tomorrow. And you’re not.’
‘So what about this clothing allowance then?’
‘From now on, you get one. Not a big one – don’t get excited. This is not a fucking benevolent fund. It’ll be just enough to see you nicely turned out. I want to see evening gowns, girls, not tatty old blouses and skirts with the hems coming unravelled.’ Clara looked at the blonde. This was precisely what she was wearing. The blonde’s face was thunderous.
‘So you’ll get your allowance,’ Clara went on. ‘And there’s more. Let’s get on to the subject of personal care, shall we?’
The dumpy brunette heaved a sigh.
‘You all stink like polecats,’ said Clara.
‘Hey!’ said the blonde.
Clara held up a hand. ‘You bloody do. That’s rule number two. Number one, you dress nice. Number two, you make sure you wash every day. Number three, you wear make-up, but not so much slap that you look like an eighteenth-century tart. And you clean your teeth, make sure your breath smells nice, suck on Parma violets . . . ’
‘I know what I’d rather suck on,’ said hatchet-face, to a chorus of giggles.
‘That’s number four,’ Clara went on. ‘Number five, you sort your hair out.’ Clara looked pointedly at the blonde. ‘Six? You smile. No matter what a customer says or does, you smile.’
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ said the brunette.
‘What, do they give you lip?’
The blonde laughed out loud. ‘You ain’t got a clue, have you?’
‘If they get like that, you report to the manager and he’ll get one of the door staff to see them off. You don’t start fighting it out hand to hand with the clients like an alley cat. You behave like a lady, you got that?’
‘Holy shit,’ sighed the blonde.
‘What’s your name?’
The blonde looked around at her mates.
‘You – the blonde with the mouth,’ said Clara. ‘You got a name?’
‘Sal,’ said the blonde.
‘Well, Sal,’ said Clara, ‘let me put it like this. Them’s the rules. You don’t like them, you can piss off. Simple as that.’
Sal’s eyes narrowed. ‘How big’s this allowance then?’
‘Enough to get you a couple of dresses and a few bits and pieces besides.’
‘That queer Cotton OK’d this, did he?’
Clara stiffened. She walked over to the blonde and stood nose to nose with her. Her voice when she spoke was cold as ice. ‘You know what? You’re this close to going out that bloody door with a thick ear.’
‘Christ, I’m scared to death.’ Once again Sal glanced around at her cohorts. ‘Look at me, I’m tremblin’.’
‘You don’t ever call my husband – your employer – that, you got it? I hear one more thing like that coming out of your mouth and I won’t be answerable for my actions.’
Sal blew out her cheeks. ‘Right. I’m really afraid.’
Clara hit her. Her open palm connected forcibly with Sal’s cheek. There was a resounding thwack, followed by a collective gasp of surprise from all her mates as Sal’s head whipped to one side with the force of the blow. Sal’s jaw dropped, then set in a furious line. She stepped toward Clara.
Her little fat friend grabbed her arm.
‘Don’t, Sal. You bloody asked for that, you got to admit it. You want to lose this job? Don’t be stupid.’
‘Yeah, Sal. Listen to her. You don’t want to lose this job, do you? And that’s what will happen if you don’t shut your mouth,’ snapped Clara.
Sal stood there, panting with rage. Everyone else held their breath. The dumpy little brunette kept hold of Sal’s arm. Then the tension went out of Sal and she shrugged.
‘All right,’ she said to Clara. ‘Keep your bloody hair on. I didn’t mean anything by it. Just joshin’, that’s all.’
‘I mean it. I don’t want to hear anything like that, ever again,’ said Clara, hard-faced.
‘All right, all right.’
Clara drew back. Standing in among the girls, she was even more strongly aware of their odour. She wrinkled her nose. The dumpy little brunette released her hold on Sal. The moment of danger had passed.
‘Let’s get some class back into this place, shall we?’ Clara said, looking around at their faces. ‘God’s sake, what’s the matter with the lot of you? We’ll all profit from this. We’ll trial the new working rules for a month. I’ll bring in the cash tomorrow, and you’ll all get yourself kitted out. In long black evening gowns.’
‘Black?’ said Sal.
Clara nodded. ‘Black. Suits everybody, flatters everybody, and if you’re all in the same colour it’s like a uniform, isn’t it. Like the Ford Motor Company – black is the required colour.’
50
Sal introduced Henry to Fulton Sears and told him he wanted work.
‘You fit?’ asked Sears.
‘Try me,’ said Henry.
So Sears sent him out around the manor collecting protection money; Fulton had a good few restaurants and other businesses staked out; he’d avoided those already under the control of the Triads and the Maltese, and he’d tried a few that the Redmayne crew covered, only to be shoved back, hard. He wondered how Redmayne felt about that little gift he’d left on his right-hand man’s girlfriend’s doorstep. From what the man had said before he’d died, it was Redmayne who’d done for little bro Jacko. And Fulton was going to sort that out, very soon.
Very soon.
And he was going to enjoy doing it, too.
‘Persistence is the thing if they’re kicking up at paying,’ Sears told Henry, and by God was Henry persistent.
At Sears’s instruction, Henry targeted a drinking venue in Wardour Street, first phoning the owner and offering insurance.
‘I’m insured,’ said the owner, and slapped the phone down.
Henry phoned back. ‘This insurance is different,’ he said. ‘Fifty pounds a week. All the club owners around here have got it. We chase up late payers for you, deal with any trouble.’
‘Fuck off,’ said the club owner.
Next, Henry approached the man directly, with Joey, another of Sears’s boys, as the bloke was leaving a boxing match at Earl’s Court. They dragged him into an alley, knocked him to the ground and scarred his face with a bike chain.
Soon as he was out of hospital, Henry was on the phone to him.
‘You were lucky. Next time you might not get off so lightly. Have you thought about covering yourself? With our insurance?’
Finally, the owner caved in. Henry collected the money and Sears was pleased. Sears had little else to please him right now. Granted, he was on to Redmayne over Jacko’s death and there was a score to settle there. But Clara – his Clara – had married the bender. Fulton comforted himself with the little shrine he’d set up back in his flat. A shrine to her. Her comb. Her handkerchief. Her things. One day soon, she was going to see the light; she had to. It couldn’t be too long before she came to her senses and
realized that he, Sears, was her man.
51
The clubs began to prosper, takings were boosted; there were some good bands playing in the three music venues and the others were paying too.
‘Stuff the Beatles,’ said Toby one night to Clara. ‘A hundred quid? That Epstein bloke’s having a laugh. I only pay Screaming Lord Sutch sixty.’
But then Toby saw the band had got a good write-up in the New Musical Express. He phoned them back, and now the price was a hundred and fifty.
‘For a night?’ Toby demanded. ‘Or a fucking fortnight?’
Reluctantly, Toby let the Beatles pass him by, just like the Decca record label did. There were other bands, great bands, so what the hell.
Toby introduced Clara to his lover, Jasper – a stunning blond youth with fabulous heavy-lidded blue eyes that glared into hers with jealous fury. Clara saw the way Toby looked at Jasper and she thought that Jasper was off his head; Toby was besotted with him, and she was no competition at all.
Clara found she had a new nickname – Black Clara – around Soho, for her black hair and the fact that she had made all the girls in the various cotton clubs dress themselves in funereal black gowns.
It seemed to be paying off though, and Clara was pleased. She liked to look around the clubs at night, see all was well, while Toby busied himself with Jasper. Sal and her mates at the Heart of Oak were behaving themselves, they’d tidied themselves up and were now smiling like Cheshire cats even if they had a period or a toothache. And the other girls at the other cotton clubs had followed suit. The tills were ringing. Toby and Clara were happy.
One evening she finished looking through the books at the booming takings, closed them and placed them in the safe with a sigh of satisfaction. Then Sal came up and tapped on her door.
‘What is it?’ she asked, surprised. Sal’s face, never the prettiest, was set in truculent lines.
‘I s’pose I’d better tell you before some mouthy git does it for me,’ she said. ‘Some of the girls are jealous, see. I reckon they’re getting set to blow the whistle on me, so here I am doin’ it before they can, the bitches. I don’t include Jan in that, she’s a good ’un. But the others think they should be doing it, making a bit extra. But I’m still, see. I can hold a pose for ages. That makes me perfect for the job, not like them, twitchin’ about the place.’
Clara thought that Sal was going to tell her that she was on the game after the club closed in the small hours. Clara knew a lot of the girls were, and what could she say about it? She had made them look decent while they were inside the club, had even persuaded Toby to up their wages a penny or two. But what they did outside club hours? That was their business.
‘It’s not as if it interferes with anything I do here,’ said Sal. ‘It ain’t the same thing, at all.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘The posing. There’s no harm in it, and I get a bit of wedge for my trouble.’
‘Pose for who? A painter?’
‘Nah, a photographer.’
‘Well? What do you want me to say about it?’ Clara was tired and she was wondering what the hell Sal was bothering her with this for.
Sal was rummaging in her little black velvet evening bag, pulling out some photographs. She laid them out on the desk. Clara took a look and her jaw dropped open. There was Sal in various stages of undress. Say what you like about Sal’s face, her body was that of an angel; white, silken, curving. Then there were other shots too; Sal, legs akimbo, an extremely well-hung West Indian man fucking her while taking care not to get in the way of the camera.
‘Good God,’ said Clara.
‘They’re suggestive, you see. That’s all.’
‘Suggestive?’ Clara was frowning at the man in the photos. ‘Don’t I know this bloke? Haven’t I seen him around the clubs?’
‘Oh! Probably,’ said Sal. ‘That’s Yasta, Yasta Frate. Owns a couple of cellar jazz clubs.’
‘And likes having his picture taken,’ said Clara dryly. ‘Sal – your tits are on show. And the rest, too. And this,’ she brandished the pic of Sal with the man, ‘is porn.’ She looked at a couple more; they were even worse. They were horrible. A young white boy flashed briefly in front of her eyes in a tangle with Sal and the man and she quickly put the prints aside and handed them back. ‘It’s nothing to do with me, what you do in your own time, Sal.’
Sal was stuffing the photographs back into her bag. Her face was flushed. ‘You mean none of the girls have said anything to you?’
‘I expect they were winding you up,’ said Clara. Sal was mouthy, but she didn’t have much of a brain. Clara, however, had developed a liking for rough, cheeky old Sal. And she appreciated the fact that she was always brutally honest. ‘I hope they pay you well for those.’ The sight of the boy in those pictures with Sal and the man had caused a cold shiver of revulsion to go right up Clara’s spine. ‘They’d have to pay me gold nuggets, and even then I’d pass.’
‘Those cows downstairs! I’ll give ’em a kickin’ they won’t forget.’
‘Don’t mark their faces!’ called Clara after her, as Sal stamped off down the stairs. Then she heard the woman coming back up again. Shit, what now? Clara moved around her desk, put her bag down on it, and started to pull on her coat, give the hint that she was off, going home. Give Sal half a chance, and they’d be standing here all night chewing over the rights and wrongs of smutty photographs, and Clara felt too tired for that.
‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow,’ she said, not turning round. ‘All right?’
‘Why not now?’ said a male voice close behind her.
Clara spun round. It was Marcus Redmayne.
52
‘D’you mind not creeping up on me like that?’ she snapped, stepping quickly back, away from him.
‘I wasn’t creeping anywhere. Didn’t you hear me come up the stairs?’
‘What are you doing, in my club?’ Those stupid gutless wonders on the door! Why hadn’t they stopped him? And wasn’t that thick oik Fulton Sears downstairs too? Hadn’t she seen him there earlier? What the hell were they paying him for?
‘Your club?’ He folded his arms and smiled. ‘I thought Toby owned it. Jesus, you’re a sharp operator, Mrs Cotton. Previously Mrs Hatton. Previously Miss Dolan. You believe in climbing up the ladder, don’t you? And I don’t think you’ll stop until you get right to the top. What, has that twat signed it over to you already?’
‘I meant,’ said Clara through gritted teeth, ‘that Toby is my husband and so, broadly speaking, what’s his is mine.’
‘Oh, right. I’ve never caught you very long between husbands, have I. Onward and upward, that’s the plan, right? Well, I’ve told Toby and now I’m telling you. I want these clubs.’
‘And as Toby already told you – they’re not for sale. Anyway, the price you offered was pitiful.’
‘Don’t be hasty. You might want to think it over. Maybe discuss it with me.’
‘I don’t want to discuss anything with you.’
‘God, you’re a hard cow, Black Clara. Have you found out the truth about him yet? Happy being a fag hag, are you?’
Clara’s face tensed with fury. ‘Get out of my club. Or do you want me to have you thrown out?’
He stepped toward her. Clara quickly moved back, and bumped up against the desk.
‘Try it,’ he invited.
‘All right, I will,’ she said, stepping around him to get to the half-open door.
Marcus grabbed her arm, pulled her up short. His black eyes were staring into hers, then wandering down, over her body.
‘What a fucking fabulous creature you are,’ he said. ‘All that nerve, all that power and guile and determination, and you’re bloody beautiful too. But what a flaming waste. First you marry that poor old crock Hatton. And now you’re wasting yourself on a shirt-lifter.’
Clara could hardly get her breath. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Toby and I are perfectly happy.’
‘Yeah, and I’m the Pope.
’
‘Let go of me,’ ordered Clara.
‘It’s a sin against nature, wasting yourself like this. So why not dump Toby – I’m sure he won’t even notice, he’s too busy with his boyfriends – and try me instead?’
‘And what would you give me? Exactly?’ she challenged.
‘Why don’t you try me and see. You want wealth? I’ve told you. I’ve got it. I’m richer than Toby by a country mile. And I think – physically – we could suit each other very well.’
‘I’m a married woman, Mr Redmayne. And I am going to stay married. To Toby.’
‘And what about your family? D’you know your brother Henry’s running wild?’
Clara stiffened. Bernie had told her Henry was in town, but that was all she knew, all she’d wanted to know. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s mixing with some bad faces, that’s all. Sears, that goon you got in charge of the doors, has a lot of deals going on, and I’ve heard your brother’s involved in a big way. It strikes me you ought to be thinking less about building up your cash reserves and more about what your family are getting up to,’ said Marcus.
‘Your concern is noted. If it is concern,’ said Clara. ‘More likely it’s self-interest. Toby has told me about the friction between you and Sears. And it was you, wasn’t it, who trashed our clubs.’
Marcus’s smile broadened. ‘Only to give Sears a bloody nose. See what I mean, right there? You’re sharp as a tack. You ought to have been born a man, with a brain like that.’
‘You ought to be grateful I wasn’t, or I’d have knocked you flat on your arse by now.’
‘Oh, Clara.’ Now he really was smiling, leaning in closer; resting his hands on either side of her, trapping her between the desk and his body. ‘I like it when you flirt with me.’
‘I’m not flirting,’ said Clara, wishing he’d leave her alone. There was something about him that disturbed her, terribly.
‘No?’ Now his voice was low and husky. He was so close that she could feel his breath, warm on her face. He smelled clean, soapy; and his lips were inches away from hers. His head moved, lower, lower . . . he was going to kiss her! ‘You’re such a tease,’ said Marcus. ‘All this “untouchable” business is just a front. I bet you’re wet as April. And nobody to satisfy you either. It’s tragic.’
