The Girl In His Eyes: a dark psychological drama

by Jennie Ensor

  ‘’Fraid not, love. Try at the Italian café up the road, if you haven’t already.’

  She had tried them – three or four days ago. Like all the other places, they trotted out a well-practised line: ‘no thanks, maybe come back in a month and check again’.

  Oh, well. It was the expected outcome, not even disappointing. She smiled, thanked the woman and left the café. She would go home now and apply for some of the jobs from this morning. There had been a few advertisements on Totaljobs website that she might have a punt on, more out of habit, and for something to occupy the afternoon, than from any real hope of landing a job.

  Laura sat down at the table and read the letter from her landlord once more. It was printed on officious, headed notepaper, the crisp expensive kind. All afternoon the letter had nagged at her, like a toothache you tried to wish away so you wouldn’t have to go to the dentist:

  Dear Miss Cunningham,

  I am afraid I am no longer prepared to tolerate your non-payment of rent for the flat you currently occupy. If you do not pay the rent owed for the months of March and April in full by April 16th (a total of £890), I will consider the terms of the lease broken.

  In this event, I shall unfortunately have no alternative but to ask you to vacate the flat immediately. Please note that in this circumstance I shall not hesitate to take immediate legal action (and any other that may be appropriate), to obtain your removal from my property.

  Regards,

  Mr Francis Taylor

  She put down the letter. April 16th was less than three weeks away.

  Picking up a piece of scrap paper, she scribbled some figures. Her bank account was £280 overdrawn, close to her limit of £300. On top of that, there was the cost of food, travel, electricity … How would she be able to produce £900 by the middle of next month? It was next to impossible.

  Stupid though it probably was, she hadn’t seriously considered the possibility of losing her flat. You’ll find a job sooner or later, she’d told herself for weeks, despite the recession. Yet one thing after another seemed to have conspired together, making losing her home a distinct possibility.

  A job was as far away as ever. In the two months since her last day at the film production company, she’d had a grand total of three interviews and zero job offers. She was considering almost anything now. For weeks she’d sat at home, checking recruitment websites and filling in application forms. With each application the result was the same: no, thank you. Not even that most of the time, just a monotonous silence in response to her stream of emails. There was nothing for her anywhere, it seemed, not even temping work in an office – they required references and recent relevant experience, thank you very much.

  The housing benefit money she applied for weeks ago still hadn’t turned up. There’d been a delay in processing her claim due to an error in her application form, a letter informed her. It could take several weeks more to decide whether or not she was eligible for support; there would be no payment until then.

  She took out a packet of digestive biscuits from the dwindling food cupboard, and stood by the window nibbling one. Outside, black wings flapped across the darkening sky. Low cloud threatened to gobble up the church spire. She tried to think without panicking, while the question in her head became ever more insistent.

  So, Laura. What are you going to do?

  She could find somewhere cheaper to live, perhaps. But there weren’t many places as cheap as this, even sharing with others – she’d found this flat after weeks of searching for the cheapest place going. It had a bedroom just big enough for a double bed, mould growing on the walls that had to be wiped off daily, a cooker – which looked unchanged since the seventies – with a broken grill and only two rings that worked, and a fridge that growled and shuddered most of the time and was scarcely cold enough to keep anything fresh. The landlord never took any interest in the flat, and never repaired anything if he could possibly avoid it – what did she expect for such a low rent? seemed to be the unspoken rebuke. And, even if she did find somewhere cheaper, what would be the point? Even for utter dumps you had to have several hundred pounds up front.

  Maybe she could call Mr Taylor’s bluff, and stay without paying rent until she found an income. She was only three weeks overdue, not three months. Wasn’t he being a little harsh with her, threatening to kick her out so soon? Or, she could stay with someone for a while and stop paying rent on this place. Only no one she knew had a spare room, except her father’s reclusive aunt in Wales, who suffered from a long list of phobias, only washed once a week, and constantly complained about ‘young people these days’.

  Or maybe she could borrow some money from her brother. Except he was always short of cash, and complained that it would take forever to save enough for a mortgage. He was paying an exorbitant amount of interest on a car loan, he’d told her recently. What about Rachel? Her friend had some money stashed away towards a deposit on her dream flat. She might lend her some, possibly. Not £900 though. That was too much to ask a friend – too much to ask anyone. How would she ever pay it back?

  Had the time come to go to her parents for help? They would lend her the money, they would give it to her gladly, with no requirement to pay it back until she was ready. Yet the thought of asking made her cringe. It wasn’t just that she would be taking her father’s money, though that was bad enough, it would be yet another reason for her parents to sigh when they compared her with her brother. And it would be admitting to them that her life to date had been a failure.

  No, borrowing money wasn’t the answer. She could maybe pawn the antique necklace of sapphires and diamonds that used to be her grandmother’s, which must be worth a few hundred pounds. But it was the only thing she had from her grandmother and it was the most beautiful piece of jewellery she owned. Anyway, she didn’t need a pile of cash that sooner or later would be gone, she needed a job.

  She went back to the table, picked up the handwritten sheet with details of the jobs she was considering applying for, and studied each of them in turn.

  The cleaning job in Shepherd’s Bush paid £7 an hour for a twenty-hour week. She could get there by Tube or bus. Only, the thought of getting up at 5.30am to clean dirty floors and toilets … anything, pretty much, would be better than that.

  Tesco wanted someone to pack shelves three days a week. The bakery – mornings only – paid much the same, not much more than the minimum wage. Yes, she could swallow her pride, not mention she was a graduate, and apply for a job like that. But what was the point? A month ago, it might have been an option, but not now. It would take too long to earn the money she needed. She put down the sheet of paper. Suddenly, everything seemed hopeless. She imagined the summons to go to court for non-payment of rent, the burly man at her front door demanding that she leave immediately, the black plastic bags holding her possessions.

  She went to the table and picked up the free local newspaper, which lay on the pile of papers beside her laptop. It was folded at the jobs page. She turned it over and searched for the small boxed advertisement, with a question mark beside it in ballpoint pen.

  Laura reached for the phone.

  ‘Hello, Rascals. Can I help you?’ A woman’s voice, syrupy smooth.

  ‘Hello? I saw an ad, it said you were looking for girls.’

  ‘We’re always interested in taking on new girls,’ the woman replied in a gruff tone. ‘If they’re suitable. Have you got experience?’

  ‘No, but I’m a quick learner. I’m good at dancing.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  A sniff at the other end. ‘You’d have to come in first and try out. We’re selective about who we take on.’

  ‘When can I come in?’

  A long pause filled with rustling paper. ‘Friday afternoon, does that suit?’

  ‘You couldn’t make it any sooner, could you?’

  Another long pause. ‘Four thirty tomorrow, then.’

  Laura wrote down th
e details and hung up. Suddenly, the world didn’t seem so grim. They’d take her on, wouldn’t they? She could dance, she was good looking. She had a flat stomach and curvy breasts – not big, but big enough. Whatever she had to do, she would learn.

  She opened her underwear drawer and rifled through the contents. Wear nice underwear, the woman had instructed. She took out the black lace bra and pants and held them up. Yes, they’d do. A surge of nervous anticipation went through her as she put them on the back of the chair, ready for tomorrow.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Laura. I’m Zoe, the supervisor here. I look after the girls and make sure everything goes to plan. You’ll meet the manager another time, if you come back.’

  Laura smiled back and shook the offered hand. She was starting to sweat. She felt fake in this outfit, not herself at all. The shoes she was wearing, the newest and smartest pair she owned, were beginning to rub at the toes. Her skirt was too tight around the thighs to be comfortable and made walking awkward. Her bra was visible under her white shirt, which she’d discovered too late to be the only washed, ironed and vaguely suitable garment in her wardrobe.

  Zoe was jotting down something on the large sheet of paper in front of her. She had a heavy chin and opaque, humourless eyes. Her hair was expensively cut, scooped behind one ear, and her nails were professionally done. She looked about forty. There was a faded glamour and a certain hardness about her.

  ‘So, you haven’t had any experience of this sort of work?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You have, or you haven’t?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Well, before we go any further,’ Zoe put her pen down on the desk of the cramped, untidy office, ‘this isn’t a big chain, like Spearmint Rhino.’ She said the name disdainfully. ‘We’ve got our own way of doing things here, we pride ourselves on offering a good service, on giving our customers what they want. We’re looking for girls who will be responsive to those needs. We’ll treat you well in return, so long as you don’t step out of line.’ A brisk smile. ‘Anyway, Laura, let’s get down to basics. You seem like a nice, well brought-up girl. Do you think you’ll be OK to go up on stage wearing only a G-string?’ Zoe’s eyes probed her face. ‘And some of the time you may have to be completely naked. To put it bluntly, Laura, men are going to get a good look at you. Some girls find that difficult.’

  Laura held Zoe’s gaze. ‘I could do it. I’m not embarrassed about letting people see my body.’

  Zoe nodded briskly and checked her watch.

  ‘OK then, follow me. I’ll introduce you to Noelle. You can show us what you can do up on stage.’

  They went down a corridor, into a room with small glass tables and fake leopard-skin sofas. It looked like a nightclub, with a stage at one end and a huge mirrored ball hanging from the ceiling. All the walls were mirrored too, making the place look huge. Her heart beat faster. Zoe stopped at a sofa in front of the stage.

  ‘Take off your clothes, Laura,’ Zoe commanded, easing herself into the sofa and languidly crossing one leg over the other. ‘You can keep your underwear on.’

  There was nowhere to change. Was she meant to undress right here, in front of Zoe? Fingers fumbling, she stepped out of her shoes then removed her shirt, skirt and tights and placed them on the arm of the sofa, trying not to fidget while Zoe looked her slowly up and down, expressionless.

  Was her body good enough? Her breasts would have stuck out more if she’d worn the other bra.

  Zoe nodded and motioned for Laura to stand aside. Her attention had shifted to something else. Laura turned to follow Zoe’s gaze. A leggy black girl loped towards them, wearing a skimpy Lycra top and equally skimpy shorts. A mass of dyed-blonde braids fell behind her back.

  ‘Noelle, Laura’s here to try out.’

  Noelle glanced at her without interest.

  ‘Noelle checks out all our new girls,’ Zoe explained. ‘She’ll show you some moves up on stage. Watch her then copy as closely as you can.’

  Laura followed Noelle up the steps beside the stage.

  ‘OK, I’ll do an easy one first.’ Noelle sat down with her legs straight out in front of her, spread them, and lowered her stomach onto the floor, as if she’d got into that position every night for the past ten years.

  This was an easy one? She tried to coax her body into something vaguely similar, but her legs wouldn’t open as far as Noelle’s and her stomach was still miles from the floor. As she strained her body further, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, a man looking up at her. He slouched against the door at the far end of the room. His face was pitted with small craters and his lips were set in a narrow line. He was examining her as you might check apples for bruises.

  That was the whole point of it though, wasn’t it? Men came here to be entertained. They didn’t care how undignified you felt.

  The man went up to Zoe, said something, and walked away.

  ‘That’s Ken,’ Noelle murmured to her. ‘He owns the club. OK, Laura, watch this.’ She sprang to her feet, fastened one leg to the pole and spun herself around.

  Laura took a deep breath. She managed to copy the move, sort of, and awaited the next instruction. But Noelle was nodding to Zoe.

  ‘Thanks, Laura, that’s all.’

  She pulled on her shirt and buttoned it up quickly. Sweat stuck the fabric to her back. She glanced over to where Zoe and Noelle were talking, without acknowledging her presence. After a good two minutes, Zoe beckoned. She didn’t look pleased. Noelle left them to it.

  ‘You were a bit stiff, Laura, you need to loosen up a bit. But I think you’ll be OK with practice.’

  Laura let out a long breath. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’

  ‘I’ll ask Jade to put you down for this Thursday. If you can come in for a couple of hours tomorrow, Noelle will show you some routines on the pole. You’ll have to commit to at least two nights a week.’

  She nodded. ‘That’s fine. When will I get paid?’

  Zoe raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I’m a bit short of cash, you see. And how much will I get?’

  Her cheeks warmed. Zoe would think she was desperate.

  ‘I’ll explain how it works, Laura. You pay us an entry fee for the night – that’s forty pounds – and at the end of the night you take away whatever you’ve earned from your dances. There’s no wages as such.’ Zoe smiled frostily. ‘You should do OK. You’re young, good-looking. Most girls are taking home a reasonable amount by the end of their third week.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘At first you’ll probably take home around a hundred pounds a night. In a few weeks, after you’ve got the hang of things, it could be two hundred. Three hundred if you’re really good.’

  Two hundred pounds a night, twice a week. It would be worth putting up with this sleazy place for that. At this rate, she had a chance to make the money she needed in time.

  ‘Some make more than others, of course. That depends on how much the customers like you, and how far you’re prepared to go.’ Zoe paused. ‘But you’ll find out for yourself, soon enough.’

  13

  Suzanne

  31 March 2011

  ‘Where the hell did I put the damn thing?’

  Suzanne slammed shut the last drawer in the kitchen. This was the second time in a month she’d managed to lose her gym membership card. Her brain seemed to be more of a Swiss cheese than ever. She had better find it soon, she needed to leave the house in fifteen minutes for her weekly 4pm yoga class.

  After searching once again in her raincoat, her purse, her gym bag, the bedroom and everywhere else it could possibly be, she found herself entering the small room facing the garden that Paul used as an office. It had been her office too once; she liked to work there in the late afternoon, when the sun flooded that side of the house. Paul had started complaining that the desk was his, and wasn’t practical to share, so these days she worked at the desk in Daniel’s old room instead. But it was possible that Paul had picked u
p the card by mistake, without paying it much attention, and put it away with his stuff.

  Everything in the room was neat as usual and carefully ordered. Paul’s National Geographic and sailing magazines, as well as a host of business, marketing and management books, were stacked in bookcases beside the filing cabinets. The desk was clear apart from an extra-wide computer screen, paperweights of varying sizes, a paper knife, a jar with a collection of pens, and a box of his business cards.

  She opened the top drawer. It contained a calculator, a ruler, two staplers, a leather-bound desk diary, and a pile of assorted papers. She shifted through them: vehicle registration papers, a half-completed passport application form, a bundle of credit card receipts tied with an elastic band, an old newspaper clipping about a yacht for sale, and a brochure listing special offers on wine.

  She started on the second drawer. Her membership card wouldn’t be inside it, she was almost certain. But, now she had started looking, it was hard to stop. If she didn’t find the card, she might find something else that had gone astray. There was a guilty pleasure, too, in looking at what you weren’t supposed to see. She checked the top compartment, full of small items of stationery – more pens, paperclips and so on, then pushed it back, exposing the section below. There was a tear-off notepad, its top page full of Paul’s handwriting, and below that, various letters and documents relating to his job.

  The bottom drawer was fuller than the others, and less ordered. She lifted up some of its contents: old theatre programmes, maps from overseas cities that Paul had visited on business, a guide to hotels in Bangkok, business cards from cab firms and building contractors, leaflets that had come through the letterbox, and a humorous birthday card showing a drawing of a man with a fishing rod straining to haul out a giant fish. She opened it, and read, in large, childish letters: To Daddy, With Love From Laura. After replacing the items, she groped at the back of the drawer. Snuggled into a corner was Paul’s Nikon inside its case. She fished it out. It was an odd place for him to put it, she thought. Hadn’t he always kept it on the shelf behind the desk? Without hesitating, she unfastened the case and switched on the camera, curious to see what photos he’d taken. Clicking the button, she reviewed the photographs. There were several of herself and Paul with their friends, Andy and Fiona, on board Andy’s yacht. A couple of close-ups of a small scratch on the rear of the Porsche, scarcely visible, and another of its wheel, and a photograph of Emma.