The Girl In His Eyes: a dark psychological drama

by Jennie Ensor

  Her movements felt forced and awkward, not at all sexy. She drew herself slowly to her full height, leaving a hair’s breadth between her back and his shirt, then stepped away from him. Her hands were shaking slightly as she fumbled at the hook of her bra. She turned to face her first customer, expecting interest or pleasure or amusement, something. But Roger’s eyes were blank. She stepped forward, crouching, so her nipples brushed the middle of his shirt – as Noelle had done to her when they’d been practising – then inched upright until her breasts were level with his face. He jerked forward as if to catch one in his mouth. She moved away just in time. No touching, Noelle had said.

  She knelt on the floor, her eyes locked on his, and slid her panties down to expose the shiny black G-string. All she had to do was concentrate on being sexy. She moved from one position to the next. The routine she’d learned was still in her brain, thankfully. She gyrated her hips, lay on her back, opened her legs wide and snapped them shut like scissors. She did all the moves she could remember. Finally, she stood in front of him and bent over double, until the tips of her hair touched the floor and Roger’s face appeared through the V of her legs. Thank God she wasn’t naked. Then she stood up and gave him a smile.

  It’s over. She wiped her palms on her thighs. The first one’s over.

  Sam, finished already, stood waiting a few feet away.

  ‘You weren’t bad, darl’, considering it was your first time.’

  ‘It was so weird.’

  Sam laughed, making the snake on her belly wriggle. ‘You’ll get used to it. C’mon, let’s keep moving.’

  They walked slowly around the tables, searching. Sam pulled her bra strap off her shoulder.

  An amplified male voice filled the room. ‘First up, the lovely Noelle!’

  Laura glanced back at the stage. Noelle was stripping to a G-string. A glistening brown streak with a flash of white over her crotch, she strutted towards the pole and began to twirl around it, her thighs bulging as her legs contorted into one unlikely position after the next, her breasts inscribing dizzy circles, her nipples erect, a cross between a ballerina and an acrobat on steroids.

  Sam, not interested in what was happening on stage, nudged Laura’s arm.

  ‘Gotta pee, back in a sec … see that one over there?’ She pointed to a young guy, sitting alone in an alcove. ‘He looks lonely. Why not go and say hi?’

  Anxious and annoyed, she did as instructed; Sam was meant to be looking after her, not leaving her to fend for herself.

  ‘Hi there. Can I join you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The guy took a gulp of beer. He was barely twenty, she guessed, casually dressed with steel-framed glasses. Ordinary looking. More nervous than she was even.

  His name was Ben. He supported Tottenham Hotspur and he was studying civil engineering, he told her readily, without elaborating. There was an awkward pause while she tried to think of suitable topics of conversation. Football and hobbies to start with, Noelle had recommended. The weather, TV programmes, and the news, if you’re really stuck. Never work, wives or girlfriends.

  ‘So, what do you do when you’re not studying?’

  He gave her an awkward smile and looked into the table. Oh, shit. It sounded like she was chatting him up. She sipped her Diet Coke. All this was so artificial. She didn’t want to know about his hobbies. She knew what he was here for and so did he. Why not just get on with it? All this waiting made it worse than ever. She gathered up her courage.

  ‘Would you like a dance?’

  ‘Great.’ He reached for his wallet and handed her a few notes. She glanced around. Two other girls were dancing, she wouldn’t be the only one. And they were tucked away in a corner here, away from the others.

  She nestled between his legs. It was strange, switching to this sudden intimacy after the stumbling conversation. But dancing was easier than talking, in a way – she knew how to be sexy, there was nothing complicated about it. She closed her eyes, sent her mind back.

  It was all there, somewhere inside her.

  She hadn’t needed to do anything except stay, and go along with whatever her father had wanted. Her body, for those minutes it was required, was his to watch or to touch as he pleased. It had been their private ritual, a repeated performance that never failed to satisfy. She had seen his desire close up, and known that she was the reason for it. All she had to do now was dig down to find that place, become that girl again.

  Laura opened her eyes. With her back to her customer, she moved herself slowly up and down in front of him. She removed her bra, this time without fumbling, turned to face him and came up close. His eyes followed the movement of her nipples as they moved up the buttons of his shirt. She could sense the excitement in his breath, in the shine of his eyes. She stood, her legs astride him, and cupped her breasts in her hands – just as the small blonde had done – slowly circling her hips. He blinked, his eyes fixed on her. She was getting the hang of this. It wasn’t so scary anymore.

  ‘Thanks, that was great.’

  He sounded sincere. Perhaps this was his first time in a place like this too. She plucked her lingerie from the floor. A shard of light pierced her eyes from a mirrored ball above. She turned away, drawing stale air into her lungs.

  ‘Next up – Anabelle!’ A stir went through the room. Laura turned toward the stage. Lacklustre applause as the next girl ran up.

  ‘Come on, fellas, give her some encouragement!’

  A spasm of anxiety went through her, settling low and icky inside her stomach. She’d be up there soon. It was one thing dancing for a single guy, down here. But up there, under the spotlights, for everyone to see?

  Sam reappeared at her side. ‘Fancy a drink?’ She stuck out her tongue. ‘I’m parched. Come on, it’ll help you dance.’

  On stools at the bar, three girls were seated. They were allowed to drink two glasses of alcohol during their shifts, as long as they didn’t get drunk or misbehave.

  ‘Zoe’s in a strop tonight,’ a tall girl said in a South African accent. ‘I’m glad she didn’t have a go at me for looking like an old crone. I’ll be thirty next week.’

  Moments later, Zoe appeared and tapped the blonde’s forearm.

  ‘Lucy, aren’t you on next? You should be over there ready to go by now. And, Sarina, you go on after Heather.’ Zoe appraised her with cold eyes then turned to the South African girl. ‘Heather, make sure you’re ready in plenty of time.’

  Laura took her drink and followed Sam to look for another dance.

  ‘All the guys like Lucy,’ Sam said, rotating her neck while she massaged it. Lucy was up on stage, an impish smile on her face as she approached the pole. ‘She looks so innocent, but she’ll do anything with a bit of encouragement. She’s only eighteen, you know.’

  ‘Are those real? Her boobs, I mean.’

  ‘She had them done just after she started here. Lots of us have, you earn more money with big tits.’

  ‘You too?’

  Sam was nicely curvy on top – a C cup at most, she guessed.

  ‘Not yet. I might one day, if I need to. I’ve had Botox though, I get it every month. And I’m always at the beauty salon. You’ve got to look after yourself if you want to earn good money.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Three years in June, and two years before that in another place. I know, it’s a long time.’ Her gaze slipped away. ‘I wanted to be doing something else by now, uni, or something, but this is better than a lot of jobs, believe me.’

  ‘Go, girl!’ shouted a leather-jacketed man from a table at the front, waving a bottle of beer. The men around him looked up at the stage and winked at one another.

  ‘I Want Your Sex’ by George Michael ended. Lucy waved and pulled teasingly at the G-string, flashed her shaved pussy then skipped offstage. She seemed to have no inhibitions whatsoever.

  One by one, the others went up on stage – black, white, Asian, mixed race. Most were in their twenties or early t
hirties, she guessed, and slim. Some were fluid and graceful, spinning and stretching their bodies like haughty peacocks. Others seemed to just put their bodies through the motions, their faces lifeless, as if they’d done their routine too many times.

  ‘Better get ready now,’ Sam said, after they’d done the rounds of the floor and found no takers for dances. ‘Heather’s about to come off.’

  Another song started.

  Laura put down her glass. The tables in front of the stage were all full now. Everyone would be watching her every move – literally – they’d be sure to know this was her first time. She took a deep breath. What if they didn’t like her?

  Her song, ‘Sex Machine’, boomed out of the speakers. She waited for her cue to go on then ran up onto the stage, late. She was Sarina now, not Laura. The light was dazzling. She could see nothing below the stage, only darkness.

  She dropped her gown and walked uncertainly towards the pole. No one clapped or cheered. Her feet seemed glued to the floor.

  ‘Get on with it, darling!’

  She tried to concentrate. If she could block out everyone around her, she’d be fine. She gripped the pole with one hand, positioned her foot on it, and launched herself. Once, twice, three times she swung around, her other arm limp at her side. Her hands were so damp it was hard to get a grip. She did some other moves that Noelle had shown her, and stepped away from the pole.

  ‘Show us your pussy, sweetheart!’

  She stared down into the glare of the lights but couldn’t see who had shouted. Suddenly, it was all wrong. Titillating men who cared nothing about the person she really was – what was she doing up here, for God’s sake? She had an urge to run off the stage and keep going, out of the club.

  But it had to be done.

  She forced a smile, as if she did this all the time, as if she was loving every moment, and undid her bra. She went through her positions on the floor. Lastly, she bent over at the hips, bum to the audience, and wriggled her pants down to her ankles so her body was bare, save for the G-string and platforms.

  The song ended. She hurried down the steps.

  ‘Passable,’ Sam told her afterwards. ‘Try to enjoy it more, next time. Or look like you are.’

  Things got better after that. She got a third lap dance, then a fourth and a fifth. Her confidence increased a little each time. One man, who said he’d been drinking all evening before coming to the club, left her a twenty-pound tip. The more they drank, the more generous they seemed to get.

  Around 1am, she guessed, the club began to thin out. They weren’t allowed to wear watches, Noelle had told her, as it didn’t look good to be constantly checking the time. Laura sat on a stool at the bar. Her feet were aching from the high heels. She didn’t want to do another dance before the end of her shift.

  Zoe walked by with a frown cast in her direction. Laura got to her feet. She knew she should be hustling for business; even if you were turned down, you were meant to keep asking. She went up to a nearby table where Sam had danced a few minutes earlier. Three businessmen sat around a bottle of Krug in an ice bucket.

  ‘Darling, come over, will you?’

  He had cropped hair and an expensively-styled suit, as did the other two.

  Laura looked at the money he was waving at her. At first it had looked like a couple of tenners, but no, it was two twenties. He rolled up the notes and put them into the top of her stocking.

  ‘Take everything off, will you.’

  He spoke tersely. She didn’t want to dance naked, as Lucy and the others had done. Not yet anyway, even if it meant getting forty pounds rather than twenty. It felt too uncomfortable, too much like a violation. What if he reached out and touched her? It was against the rules, but that might not stop them.

  She saw the flash of irritation on his face. No, she couldn’t get out of it, not now. She took off her wrap and started. The stale smoke and garlic on his breath turned her stomach. He had three deep lines on his forehead and a deep line curving around each side of his mouth.

  The first part was easy enough. When that was done, her hands slid down to her stomach, fingers playing with the top of her G-string. He picked up his glass, his eyes on her moving hips. She arched her back and bent over, whisked the flimsy piece of material past her knees and stepped out, naked. This was the part they liked best, Noelle had said, ‘you have to take your time at the end, wave your arse at them, let them see all your assets. Then they’ll be happy and give you a good tip.’

  Laura brushed her hair from her eyes, heart pounding, and picked up her things. She had finished the dance too quickly, and he didn’t look pleased. There wouldn’t be a tip.

  In the remaining time, nothing much happened. The men had almost all gone or were in the process of leaving. She tried not to show it, but her spirits had sunk to the floor. How would she ever get used to this? But the first naked dance was always the hardest, according to Sam.

  The club had almost emptied of customers, when an invisible signal sent every girl fleeing towards the changing room, like birds changing direction mid-flight. Laura followed. At last, her first shift was over.

  Everyone was jostling for space, peeling off clothes and stuffing things into bags. She sat on the bench and pulled out the banknotes from her money belt. She unfolded each one as she counted. Forty, sixty, eighty … one hundred and forty pounds. It wasn’t as much as she’d hoped, and she’d already paid forty pounds to Zoe just to get in, but she’d make more next time.

  She unfastened her platforms and placed her aching feet on the floor. The cold was soothing. She wiped off her lipstick, stuffed her gear into her bag, and dressed as quickly as she could. A squawk of voices filled the room – the birds were about to escape their cage. The first ones were on their way already.

  ‘Sarina, before you go, will you go and see Ken in the office?’ It was Zoe.

  Had she done something wrong? Or was there something else she had to do, before Ken would let her come back? Half of her hoped he wouldn’t want her to come back.

  She hurried down the passage to the small room where Zoe had interviewed her. The door was open. Ken leaned back in a swivel chair, puffing on a cigarette, his legs stretched out on the desk. An angle-poise lamp cast a harsh circle of light on papers strewn over the desk, leaving Ken’s face shadowed, without pockmarks. But his forehead was too narrow and his cheeks too sunken for his face to be anything other than ugly.

  ‘So, how did it go, your first night?’ His accent sounded like he was from a rough part of town and he was trying to pretend otherwise. Despite his smooth manner, neatly cut hair and expensive suit, his voice had a harshness to it and a slightly mocking tone. He’s a bully, she thought.

  ‘Alright, I think.’

  ‘You seem to have got the hang of things. If you stick with it, you’ll be making good money soon.’

  Ken took a long pull on his cigarette, his eyes raking her body as he exhaled. It would have been an insolent look, were he not the club’s manager. She waited for him to speak again.

  ‘Zoe’s put your name down for this Saturday.’ He flicked through the pages of a large diary on the desk. His voice became brisk and businesslike. ‘And for next Tuesday and Thursday. If there’s any problem, please let Zoe know as soon as possible. Otherwise I’ll expect you here Saturday, at seven sharp.’

  He was shooing her away. She nodded, grabbed her bag and flew down the hall, out onto the street. The cold air stung her cheeks and ears. She thrust her hands inside her pockets. Sam was climbing into a cab with Heather and another girl.

  Sam thrust her head out of the window. ‘Are you coming back?’

  ‘Yes, Saturday.’

  ‘See you then!’

  Another cab pulled up soon afterwards. There was no one else waiting, fortunately. Laura climbed into the back seat.

  ‘Where to, love?’

  She met the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. He was studying her expectantly, like a blackbird observing a tasty worm. He knew sh
e had been working at a lap dancing club, of course. He could see what sort of girl she was. She looked down at her hands resting on her bag, suddenly ashamed. Yes, she was Sarina the lap dancer now, a girl who flaunted herself in front of a roomful of men in return for a few quid. She had become a thing for men to drool over.

  15

  Suzanne

  11 April 2011

  Suzanne put down the article with a yawn, went into the kitchen and switched on the coffee machine. Sunshine glinted from the cooker and the neat row of stainless steel containers lined up on the worktop. Through the open window she could see the trees in the garden, their branches puffed up with blossom. It was a glorious day, not a day to be sitting indoors.

  She took her coffee outside to the patio. At last, spring had arrived. This winter had been surprisingly mild, yet lately, the bare branches and dreary, sodden days had weighed on her more than usual. As the sun warmed her skin, the aroma of coffee and damp earth mixed deliciously, removing all nagging thoughts about Paul and Emma. If only one could rein in the days as they galloped towards autumn. On days like this, the sun and the earth seemed to work their magic, turning lifeless twigs into supple shoots and flower-filled buds. She leaned her head back and basked, feeling a rush of contentment. It wasn’t just the sunshine, or the quiet greenness of the garden. Once in a while, it was as if something new and vital was unfurling inside her, too. Something beyond words, something she couldn’t explain to herself, let alone anyone else. As if the real Suzanne Cunningham was waiting to come out of hiding – not Paul’s wife, not a mother of two, not the woman who edited articles in obscure magazines, but another woman altogether.

  She sipped her coffee slowly, examining the garden. The fence was invisible under a deluge of yellow forsythia. Further down, the apple trees were a mass of white frills. Wedding dress frills. Suzanne smiled. Weddings, that was all she’d thought about these past few days, after Sunday’s conversation with her son – along with much of the country, given the upcoming Royal splurge.