Blood Mother: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Two (Flesh and Blood series)

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  ‘Mickey. Don’t know his last name.’

  Mickey? Babs couldn’t think who she was going on about. Then the penny dropped. ‘Mickey? Mickey Ingram?’ Any happiness she felt drained away. ‘How did you link up with him? I never gave you the number for the agency.’

  Denny shot her a resentful look. ‘I’d been asking you morning, noon and night for the number but you didn’t come up with the goods, so I used this for once.’ She tapped her head. ‘I met his missus. Ooh! You should’ve seen her, all done up in a fur coat. She’s been telling me all about the modelling biz. She’s ever so nice. Thinks I’ve got what it takes.’

  Babs remembered the reception she’d got from Mickey at the agency and Stan’s warning. ‘I don’t think he’s the type of bloke you wanna be knocking around with.’

  Denny folded her arms. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just take it from me, he ain’t.’

  Denny flounced like she was already on the catwalk. ‘Well, Mel’s been really good to me. She’s a proper lady, so her old man must be a real gent. I’m meeting him later today.’

  Babs didn’t like what she was hearing at all. She didn’t want Denny anywhere near the thug. But from the stubborn expression on her mate’s face, she knew that her mind was made up.

  ‘Maybe I should come with you.’

  Denny threw her hands in the air. ‘Don’t be daft, I’m not a baby. What’s it gonna look like if I turn up with you as my minder? So ta, but no ta.’

  A tap at the open front door pulled them into the passage. Two women were peering in.

  ‘Are you the new family?’ one piped out.

  Both women were similar ages, wearing similar clothing. But one was large, with an enormous bosom, and the other was thin and as flat as an ironing board.

  ‘I’m Beryl,’ the thin one announced.

  ‘And I’m Cheryl,’ the large one added. ‘Beryl and Cheryl, I know,’ she finished off, laughing at the astonished look on Babs’ face.

  Beryl explained, as a curious Rosie came into the hallway. ‘We moved here on the same day a couple of months back. Me and my family had to shift ourselves sharpish because our bas—’ she coughed, ‘no-account landlord chucked us out onto the street.’

  Babs caught her mum’s anxious expression and remembered how concerned her parents were about the disgraceful evictions they kept hearing about, how worried they were they’d be next.

  ‘It’s my daughter here,’ Rosie nodded in Babs’ direction, ‘who’s moving in. I’m Rosie Wilson.’

  The women introduced themselves again – Beryl Bradshaw and Cheryl Parker.

  ‘You don’t need to be worrying about your girl while we’re around,’ Cheryl reassured Rosie, then noticed Babs’ belly. ‘Ah, expecting a new addition? So your other half will be along shortly?’

  Wrong question. Rosie tightened her mouth in displeasure. Spotting the tension, Beryl and Cheryl winked at each other in an unspoken agreement. ‘Husband, no husband, who the heck cares? Look at that Liz Taylor; she seems to be eating ’em for lunch most days,’ Beryl said, lightening the mood.

  It got Rosie laughing, though Babs still saw her mum sigh. Her mother wasn’t happy about her moving out; she hoped that Rosie felt better now she’d met two cracking women who obviously weren’t about to judge her.

  ‘Well, we’ll leave you to it.’ Cheryl stepped back. ‘But any time you need anything, don’t worry about banging on our doors.’

  ‘Nice ladies,’ Rosie commented as they stepped back outside. ‘Right, I’m off to measure the windows.’

  After her mum had gone, Babs got back to her earlier concern. ‘I ain’t happy about you meeting Mickey.’

  Denny got narked. ‘I’m a big girl now,’ she said with conviction. ‘Whatever I’ve gotta do to get out of my mum’s house I’m gonna do.’

  As if sensing its mother’s changing mood, the baby started turning in Babs’ tummy.

  She had a dreadful feeling about this.

  Seventeen

  ‘I ain’t ever been to Park Lane,’ Denny confessed, clearly out of her depth as Mel led her up the stairs to the third floor of the Imperial Hotel.

  Mel plastered her special dopey Denny grin on her face. ‘Mickey only uses the best places for his photo shoots. People are already calling him the new David Bailey.’

  The Imperial was indeed a swanky hotel, but most people didn’t know that the manager wasn’t above taking a backhander to rent out rooms to make blue movies. Everyone from the cops to the council was willing to make a little money on the side and a posh hotel in town was no different.

  ‘Right, here we are,’ Mel announced as they reached room 243. She turned to Denny. ‘Now remember, Mickey is the real deal, so don’t get up in his face asking all kind of questions. He won’t work with chatterboxes.’

  Denny nodded as Mel knocked on the door. A tall woman with flowing blonde hair in a raspberry-coloured maxi dress opened the door. ‘Oh, hello, Mickey said you might be dropping in.’

  Mel smiled. ‘Alright, Linda. I’ve brought my friend Denny, she’s looking to get into the business.’

  Linda ushered them into the room. The wallpaper was mind-blowing: small beige circles threaded through larger brown ones. In the middle of the cream carpet a zebra print rug was laid out as if the animal had died there, and against the back wall was a huge waterbed with scarlet satin sheets. To those in the know it was a classic porn set, but to Denny it was the most stylish room she’d ever seen.

  And there was Mickey, snapping away at a slim thing reclining on the black leather sofa. ‘That’s it babe,’ he encouraged her. ‘Now give the lens a really big smile, show your pearly whites.’

  Pearly whites? Mel had to stop herself rolling her eyes. Mickey was meant to be a classy photographer, not a frickin’ dentist.

  ‘Mickey,’ she called sweetly. ‘I’ve brought that girl who—’

  ‘Not now,’ he growled. ‘Can’t you see I’m photographing Candice? This is art.’

  Mel gritted her teeth. She’d give him bloody Candice if he didn’t get with the programme. She kept her voice calm, but with enough sting that her husband would notice. ‘But Mickey, you said finding new girls is a priority.’

  With a huff he turned around, giving Mel the shock of her life. She’d told him to dress for the part, not to look like he’d crawled onto The Sonny and Cher Show. His shirt was unbuttoned to his navel, showcasing his incredibly hairy chest and a chain with a peace sign medallion. He wore a rainbow-coloured headband and a beaded belt hung around the waist of his bell bottom jeans. What a Class A prat.

  He leered at Denny, and Mel was dismayed to see her little lamb stumble back. If Mickey fucked this up . . . She let out a breath when he started smiling. ‘This the chick you told me about?’ he asked.

  Mel grabbed Denny’s hand and tugged her forward. ‘Isn’t she something?’

  Mickey swaggered up to her, his medallion bouncing like it was trying to escape his chest hair. He said, ‘hold up a minute!’ Denny was clearly startled when he touched her cheek with his nicotine-stained fingers and tilted her head to one side. ‘Lovely profile, darlin’. Just fantastic. I can see you now, wearing a gymslip, sucking on a lollipop in your gorgeous mouth . . .’ Mickey caught the warning in Mel’s eyes. ‘The camera’s going to love you, baby.’

  Mel rubbed Denny’s arm. ‘Didn’t I say you were a born model?’

  Denny just nodded, obviously heeding Mel’s advice about speaking too much.

  Mickey turned back to the other two women in the room. ‘Right ladies, that’s a wrap. I’ll let you know when Vog says the pictures will run—’

  Mel jumped in. ‘Vog’s Mickey’s pet name for Vogue.’ Couldn’t the idiot remember anything? She’d coached him for the last couple of days.

  ‘Vogue, yeah, yeah right,’ Mickey agreed, looking slightly sheepish. ‘What’s your poison?’ he asked Denny, waving at the drinks cabinet

  As he led Denny to the sofa, Mel followed the other two women
out of the room. As soon as they hit the corridor her smile slipped from her chops. She pointed her finger. ‘Hop it back to the knocking shop. And if I find out that you’ve breathed a word of this to anyone . . .’ Mel knew she didn’t need to finish. They knew the score. Mickey was not the type of man they wanted to cross on his good days, much less his bad ones.

  Mel returned to find Mickey with his arm along the back of the sofa behind Denny and his legs spread like he was king of the castle. ‘So you wanna be a model, princess?’

  She nodded shyly. ‘Yeah, I really do.’

  Mickey looked pensive. ‘Well, darlin’, I’m gonna be straight up with you, it’s a long and stony road to the top, full of setbacks. But with the right guy to hold your hand, it’ll all be worth it when you get there. Do you wanna drink, Denny? I can call you Denny, can’t I, babe?’

  Mel stepped in. ‘We’ve got some lovely champagne. Ever had a bit of fizz Denny?’

  Of course the muggins hadn’t, but Mel waited for the expected nod. Then she made a big drama of filling the glass. It was actually lemonade mixed with a touch of cider. Mel had filled an empty bottle of Bolly from the brothel’s bar.

  As Denny sipped, her nose wrinkling at the taste, Mel parked herself on a sofa opposite.

  ‘So how long have you owned the modelling agency?’ Denny asked.

  While Mickey told her a bogus story, Mel thought back to how the agency had really come into their lives. Originally it had been owned by a Maltese bloke. In the Sixties it did topless shots for dirty mags and supplied actresses for blue movies. Mickey had been excited about winning the business in a card game, surprised that the Maltese didn’t seem upset. But that was before he discovered the business was making about ten bob a year. He also learned that the modelling studio down in Vauxhall had a hole in the roof and equipment that a kid with a box Brownie would be embarrassed to use. Still, there was a girl called Brenda who knew how to keep it ticking over and Mickey let her get on with it until she’d left for greener pastures in Amsterdam. He’d realised it had another advantage.

  He’d already been running the knocking shop, and soon put two and two together – a modelling agency equalled an endless supply of candidates for his establishment out East. He started sitting in on the interviews. He said nothing when Brenda asked questions about whether they were willing to do topless. That way, he soon redirected the ones willing to do a bit of modelling on their back, and the ones who needed some smack. He was more than willing to feed the habit – deducted from their wages, of course. He wasn’t a charity.

  Mel came back to the present to hear Mickey giving it the big ’un about his successful career. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a carefully constructed joint. ‘What about a bit of Puff The Magic Dragon? That’ll be your thing, won’t it? Being a model and that, it helps relax you on a shoot.’

  Mel almost shoved the thing down his gob. They had discussed this and agreed not to frighten the girl off.

  And, surprise, surprise, Denny looked shit scared. ‘I don’t really smoke that much. It’s bad for your looks, ain’t it?’

  Mel desperately tried to catch Mickey’s eyes to tell him to lay off, but he was in full flight. He squeezed Denny’s shoulder. ‘I’m not talking about fags, darlin’. I mean a bit of blow, the old Jamaican woodbines.’ He lit up, breathed in the smoke for a moment and passed it over.

  Right, enough of this malarkey. Mel gently plucked the joint from a bewildered Denny’s hand. She turned to Mickey with vengeance in her eyes. ‘Denny’s right, Mickey, she don’t want to be losing her looks. Why don’t I show her your portfolio?’

  Mel took out a book from the large wooden sideboard. She’d nicked one of Donna’s exercise books and glued in pictures from magazines. Now the trick was not to let Denny see they weren’t real. Once she was back sitting down, Mel held the book a careful distance away and began to flick through the pages. Mickey distracted her with stories about film stars and fashion designers, about his adventures and travels and the time he pulled Sean Connery’s girlfriend in St Tropez and Sean had never forgiven him for it.

  Denny was shocked. ‘You got off with Sean Connery’s girlfriend?’

  ‘Yeah – and if Sean don’t wanna call me any more on that account, that’s his loss not mine. No sense of humour. Mel, fill her up with more fizz—’

  Denny gazed at her glass with obvious distaste. ‘Err . . . no thanks—’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Mickey said, ‘you’re going nowhere in the business if you don’t knock the Bolly back. You don’t want people to think you’re from up North or something, do you? Plus it stops you from scoffing, keeps your figure nice and trim for the camera.’

  Denny obligingly hit the fake fizz, determined to show she’d fit in.

  After four glasses she asked tentatively, ‘Do you think you’ll take me on?’

  He squinted and gave her a good looking over. ‘I dunno—’

  ‘Pleeeze. You won’t regret it.’

  ‘Tell you what I’ll do. I’m away on a fashion shoot in Paris for a bit.’ He pulled out a mountain of notes from his jeans and passed them to Mel. ‘Why don’t you let Mel wine and dine you, on me of course. My way of showing I’m interested. Then when I’m back, we can get down to business.’ He winked. ‘I’m gonna make you a big, big star. Believe me.’

  When Mel got back from escorting Denny out of the hotel she found Mickey happily puffing away on the spliff.

  Mel fetched the real booze out and knocked some Scotch back. Then she waved the bottle threateningly. ‘You know what, you’re a right twat.’ Her mouth curled. ‘Look at that get-up—’

  ‘What’s the problem? I could’ve told her I was Peter Pan and she’d have believed it.’

  ‘You got off with Sean Connery’s girlfriend? What a joke . . .’

  Mickey was hurt. ‘I might have done – why not?’

  ‘Because you’re a fat ugly prick who hasn’t been on a day trip to Calais, never mind St Tropez – that’s why.’

  Mickey drew deeply on the joint. ‘We shouldn’t wait. The girl looked ready to me.’

  Mel took another strong slug of booze. ‘No, she ain’t ready yet. I need her to be like putty in my hand. Her situation is ugly.’ Her voice hardened. ‘I want the dopey moo to think I’m the only person she can turn to.’

  Mickey ground the joint into the ashtray. ‘Your plan depends on Pete being in Mile End and completely pissed. You made me get Stan to read the riot act, so he might be on the wagon now.’

  Mel moved towards the waterbed and pressed the vibrator button. It started jiggling like jelly. ‘The only wagon Pete’s going on is the one I’m building for him.’ She started unbuttoning her blouse. ‘Get your kit off. Thoughts of revenge have put me in the mood.’

  Eighteen

  ‘Close your eyes,’ Stan ordered as soon as Babs walked into the office.

  Babs rolled her eyes playfully instead as Donny Osmond sang sadly about ‘Puppy Love’ on the radio. Stan had his hands hidden behind the back of his emerald-green jacket. One of the things Babs loved about him was how impeccably turned out he always was.

  ‘Go on,’ Stan urged, ‘shut your eyes.’

  With an indulgent smile, Babs humoured him. She heard him move close to her desk. ‘Right, open them.’

  Babs gasped when she saw the pair of beautiful booties he’d put on the desk. They were crocheted, one blue, one pink, with a yellow flower on top. She picked them up, ever so carefully. ‘Oh, they’re absolute heaven.’

  He sniffed, like he was embarrassed. ‘I got them made special like. Since your sprog ain’t made an appearance yet I got one blue, one pink, you know what I mean?’

  Her lip wobbled in gratitude. ‘Stan, you’re a total sweetheart.’ And before she knew it she had her arms tight around him, hugging him to death. It felt so good to be in Stan’s arms. Being this close to him made her feel like she was next to her mum and dad’s coal fire. There were butterflies fluttering away in her tummy that had nothing
to do with the baby.

  She pulled her head back, mortified. ‘Uh . . . Err . . . I . . .’ But she never finished. Stan planted a killer kiss on her lips. She’d been dreaming of this for such an eternity. Babs pushed him onto the desk and took the kiss in a whole new direction. Bloody hell, she couldn’t stop, he tasted that good.

  Stan gently picked her up and turned her to face away from him. Babs leaned forward and braced herself on her desk. Most people had told her that pregnancy would kill her sex drive but when Stan was near it rocketed into outer space. She wanted this so much. So . . .

  Babs let out a tiny squeal of pleasure. Bloody hell, he blew her mind.

  Ten minutes later, they were a heaving heap on the desk.

  ‘Is the baby alright?’ he breathed into her ear.

  Babs came crashing back to earth. The baby kicked her twice.

  He pulled himself off her and she scrambled back, her hand flying to her mouth. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m giving it away for free.’ The baby kicked again, as if reminding her she’d already done that once.

  Stan smiled an easy smile. ‘Don’t be daft, Babs-babe. We fancy the pants off each other, nothing wrong with that.’

  She felt crushed. ‘But I’m having another man’s kid.’

  Stan’s face turned serious. ‘Look, let’s not make a big drama out of it. Let’s take a breather and when the baby puts in an appearance . . . who knows, eh?’

  He caressed her cheek. She noticed his half-finger again and this time she didn’t hold back. ‘It ain’t none of my business, but what happened there?’

  For an instant his face clouded over. ‘That, my girl, is the wages of a misspent youth. When I was a young ’un I got into a nasty ruck and got it sliced off.’ Babs winced. ‘That’s when I realised if you want anything out of the world you’ve got to use this.’ He tapped his temple before heading to his office.

  Babs slumped into her chair. What a prat! Fancy chucking yourself at him like that. The geezer probably thinks you’re a division three slapper! Babs couldn’t stop beating herself up about it. Depression cloaked her until she noticed the darling baby shoes again. They were so soft and so teeny-tiny. She was seven-and-a-half months gone and couldn’t wait to hold her baby in her arms. She had a new doctor in the modern medical centre on the Essex Lane Estate, a woman doctor, mercifully, who hadn’t branded Babs a whore. She said that both Babs and the baby were hale and hearty.