Charity ran her nails down his back, arching her body against his and moaning softly. She had to remember she was here for his pleasure: it was an acting job, nothing more.
His breathing was growing harder as he played with her nipples and his hand moved down towards her pussy. He groaned as he cupped her and she opened her legs obediently.
As his fingers caressed her gently she opened her eyes for a moment.
His mouth was on her breast, eyes closed, but his big face had a look of almost boyish wonder that touched something in her heart. ‘Let me undress you,’ she whispered, reaching out to take his face in her hands. ‘I want to feel your skin against mine.’
She rolled him on to his back, kneeling beside him as she unfastened his shirt buttons. His chest and belly were covered in black hair and he was so fat she almost recoiled, but his expression was so tender that she bent to kiss him again.
‘Oh Charity,’ he breathed as her hands went down to his belt and zipper. ‘You can’t imagine how I feel!’
It was no good remembering how quickly and effortlessly both John and Hugh could shed their clothes, or how just the touch of their smooth skin against hers had made her feel. She mustn’t dwell on Ted’s quivering white thighs as she pulled down his trousers, but try to think only of pleasing him.
He looked like a beached whale lying there in huge white underpants. Even his feet, once she got his socks off, were as fat as the rest of him. But she knelt back at his side and unfastened her garter belt and stockings, then put her hands on both sides of him to lower his pants.
His penis rose up the second the white cotton had passed over it. Alarmingly huge and purple tipped. She stripped the pants off his feet and moved back towards him, undulating her body against his.
A feeling of nausea washed over her as her fingers went round his penis. Dorothy had always claimed big men had small ones, but she was wrong about Ted. He lay back, arms stretched out, mouth open as she caressed him, and worst of all he was watching her every movement.
‘Is that nice?’ she whispered, wondering if this was what whores did. Would he come quickly and get it over? Could she hope he would fall asleep immediately?
‘It’s heaven,’ he said raising himself on his elbows. ‘Sit on me Charity. I can’t wait.’
Charity gulped. The thought of trying to get that huge thing inside herself when she felt nothing was obscene, but she’d come this far – she couldn’t back out now.
Slowly she moved to sit astride him, guiding him into her, blushing as he watched, embarrassed by his laboured breathing when all she could manage were fake sighs.
She was so dry and tight it hurt, but she made out her groans were pleasure and moved slowly up and down, gradually taking in the whole length.
His hands reached out for her breasts, she leaned forward to kiss him and thought only of how this had been with John. John’s stomach, his chest and thighs were hard. He’d been agile enough to sit up and hold her tightly, stroking her back and buttocks, kissing her till she nearly fainted with ecstasy.
‘It’s like a little virgin’s fanny,’ Ted rasped. ‘Oh my darling, it’s so wonderful!’
Charity detached herself from reality, moved up and down, clawing at his chest with her fingernails, writhing against him until he was bucking beneath her, eyes closed and mouth open in delight. He came quickly, pulling her down towards him in a fierce embrace and all at once he was still.
‘That was out of this world,’ he croaked, panting with exertion. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, the heat from his body was roasting her and she longed to get up from him and rush to the bathroom to wash it away.
Her hope that he would fall asleep was dashed when he got up, put on a silk dressing-gown and filled their glasses with more champagne.
‘Don’t cover yourself up,’ he said as Charity pulled his shirt over her nakedness. ‘I want to look at you.’
She managed to get to the bathroom and wash, but when she came back he was sitting up in bed.
Her heart sank. She had expected him to be almost asleep, sure her night’s work was over, but the expression on his face told her otherwise.
‘Tell me about you,’ she said, getting into bed beside him. She wanted to go home. To wipe the memory of this night for ever from her mind and her body. But she had made a deal with him.
‘Why would you want to know about me?’ he asked, smiling with real warmth.
‘Because you’re a good-looking man,’ she said truthfully, stroking his chin and sliding one finger over the endearing cleft. ‘And a nice one.’
Her heart ached for him and all the other lonely, unloved, good men in London. Real prostitutes were at least honest: they didn’t pretend to care.
When Ted turned out the light, Charity was sure he would fall asleep, but instead his arms came round her tightly and his mouth moved back to her breasts.
In the darkness it was easy just to let him fondle her. His fingers had that practised manner of a man who knew exactly how women worked and he was so gentle, she found herself responding just enough to give plausibility to her deep sighs.
‘It’s wonderful,’ she groaned, hoping she sounded sincere and that he’d enter her and get it over with. ‘Fuck me now!’
But her hopes for a quick release were dashed once he moved on top of her. Not only was she almost crushed by his weight, but he was clearly prolonging it because he believed she was enjoying it. His fingers gripped her buttocks mercilessly as he drove into her with such force she wanted to scream out he was hurting her, but instead she submitted, still acting out the part of someone in the throes of passion.
His tongue writhed into her mouth, he was soaked in sweat and the hair on his chest was making her itch. An image of her father came into her mind, the first time since John had banished it. She felt sick, tears welled up in her eyes and she had to turn her head away to escape his mouth and tongue, yet still he went on and on driving into her with ever-increasing force.
She tried to make her mind go blank, to claw at him and go through the motions of pretended bliss, but he was making her sore now and the slap of his flesh against hers made her nauseous.
‘I’m coming,’ she gasped, hoping it would act as a spur to him. ‘Come with me Ted, now.’
He finally came just at the point when she felt she might scream. With a shuddering moan he collapsed on to her, his big body going into a spasm of pleasure.
‘Oh Charity.’ He held her tightly. ‘That was incredible!’
She had never felt more ashamed of anything than she did at that moment.
It was midday when Charity let herself into the flat. The needle of the record player was stuck on the Rolling Stones record, ‘Not Fade Away’, the arm squeaking as it scraped backwards and forwards, and the hall was littered with debris. Dorothy and Rita had obviously had an impromptu party last night. A midnight blue satin cocktail dress of Dorothy’s was lying on the floor, her black knickers, bra and suspender belt strewn in all directions, and the room stank of cigarettes and stale booze.
A glance into Rita’s room revealed she hadn’t been part of this. Her bed was made and a couple of dresses lying on it proved she hadn’t been home since the night before.
Dorothy’s door was open, and Charity peeped in.
Dorothy was lying naked across the bed, face down, and to Charity’s disgust there was a pile of vomit on the floor.
‘Dorothy!’ she cried angrily. ‘What on earth have you been doing?’
She strode forward and caught her friend by the hair, yanking her head up.
‘Oh my God!’ she gasped.
Dorothy’s face was a mess, one eye half closed from a punch and an angry red swelling halfway down her cheek. Her lip was cut and swollen; dried blood and vomit stuck to her naked breasts.
‘Who did this?’ she said. ‘Sit up and tell me!’
‘A john,’ Dorothy croaked. ‘A bloke called Tony I’ve been with once before. He saw me in the Hilton cocktail bar with an
other guy and he asked me if he could meet me back here later.’ She began to cry then, shivering and shaking so much Charity couldn’t understand what she was saying.
‘I’ll run you a bath,’ she said firmly, taking Dorothy’s face between her hands and studying it. ‘You’ll be no oil painting for a while, but until you’re clean I can’t see your lips properly.’
As Charity ran a bath for Dorothy she realised she was shaking. She had gone straight from the Savoy still dressed in her evening clothes to Carmel’s office, to hand over the money. She didn’t want to touch the notes any longer than she had to. From there they had gone on to a solicitor who would sign the documents and transfer the lease. Her pleasure at actually owning the business had almost succeeded in wiping out the shame of how she’d accomplished it, until this moment.
A couple of days ago Charity might have berated Dorothy for getting herself into such a situation. They had all agreed many times never to give any of their escort dates this address or even the phone number. Their flat was private, a place for invited friends only. But how could she take a high moral tone now?
While the bath was running Charity slipped into jeans and a sweater, then returning to Dorothy she helped her to the bathroom.
Haltingly Dorothy explained.
‘I wanted to ignore him when he beckoned for me to come outside for a minute,’ she said, tears running down her cheeks. ‘He was a bit difficult, but eventually I said to meet me back here around two.
‘I thought you and Rita would be here,’ she sobbed. ‘We had a few drinks, then he started telling me his marriage was over and he needed me. He raped me too.’ Dorothy covered her face with both her hands. ‘He hit me first, then he pulled off my clothes and raped me. When he’d finished he threw a ten-pound note at me.’
‘Oh Dottie,’ Charity said as she helped her friend out of the bath and wrapped a towel round her. She didn’t know whether the man was a maniac or just another sad, lonely person who’d looked for Dorothy hoping she could offer him comfort. Many men had been on the receiving end of her friend’s sharp tongue, but she’d picked on the wrong one this time.
She toyed with the idea of calling the police, but that was quickly dismissed. Girls like them wouldn’t get police protection, and if the neighbours got wind of any of that they’d soon lose the flat too.
Charity got her own warm dressing-gown and led Dorothy into her bedroom, pulling back the bedclothes for her.
It was a miserable, grey October day outside and in an effort to shut it out, Charity drew the curtains and switched on the bedside light. Then she looked down at her friend.
She wanted to confess her own prostitution more than anything in the world. It would be good to sob out her pain and they could find consolation in one another. But she forced herself to sound cold. If she was sympathetic, Dorothy would have no hope.
‘I haven’t got a great deal of sympathy,’ she said coolly. That man shouldn’t have hit you, or raped you. No one can condone that. But you play fast and loose with people’s feelings, Dot; you had this coming.’
‘Where are you going?’ Dorothy looked round at her friend as she walked towards the door.
‘To clear up before Rita has to see all this,’ she said sharply. ‘But I’m not cleaning your room. You can do that yourself later. Your face will mend, Dot, but if you go on like this you’ll destroy yourself. Now, for once in your selfish little life, think about other people. Think about how lucky we were to get this flat, to have one another. Laziness and self-pity are slowly choking you. I’m ashamed of what you’re becoming.’
In Dorothy’s bedroom as she cleaned up the mess, despite what she’d said, Charity sobbed her heart out. They were both emotional cripples; they just used different crutches. Money and beautiful clothes wouldn’t bring back their babies, or compensate for lack of love. Both had gone right down to the gutter last night and perhaps the memory of it would prevent them ever rising up again.
Rita phoned later to say she was going over to see her parents after work and wouldn’t be home. She asked why Charity sounded so odd, but all Charity could offer as an excuse was that she was tired.
She was tired, too. Tired of being an adult, when inside she wanted to be a little girl again. Tired of hoping that one day everything would be perfect. Tired of other people needing her when she had no one. Her brothers and sister lived in the lap of luxury, but even though they were old enough to know the truth about why she was exiled, they didn’t care enough to phone, or write. Even Lou and Geoff told her half-truths.
As she heated up some soup for Dorothy and cut fingers of crustless bread and butter, tears trickled down her cheeks.
‘Sit up Dot,’ she said as she carried the tray into the bedroom. ‘I’m sorry if I wasn’t kinder when you needed it.’
Dorothy hauled herself up and leaned back against the head of the bed.
‘You were right in what you said.’ She shrugged her shoulders and tried to smile. ‘I’m glad to see you being a bitch at last.’
Charity let Dorothy eat the soup, silently watching her. Even with a cut lip, black eye and bruised cheek she was still beautiful. She remembered all they’d been to one another at Daleham Gardens, sharing the birth of Samantha, the laughter and tears, and she knew that the bond between them was indestructible.
She could feel how much she had changed in the last twenty-four hours and knew too that she was never going to be the same again.
‘I think I qualify for the title of bitch on all counts. I’ve stopped being a doormat. I’ve gone behind your back and bought the agency from Carmel. I’m even going to refuse to clean up after you again.’
Dorothy’s one good eye opened in surprise.
‘Welcome to the bitches’ club,’ she said, holding on to her cut lip with one hand as if afraid a smile would open it again. ‘Come into bed with me and give me a cuddle.’
Charity slipped in beside her friend and it was a moment or two before she realised it was Dorothy cuddling her, not the other way round.
Dorothy’s voice was husky with emotion. ‘I won’t let you down again, Chas, promise.’
It was the strangest thing to find her friend acting as comforter to her for once. But perhaps that was what friendship was all about.
Chapter Twenty-One
Charity climbed down the stepladder as the phone rang and wiped her paint-covered hands on a rag.
‘Chelsea 9367,’ she said. ‘Yes, you do have the right number, this is Carmel’s agency. I’ve taken over her clients …’
Charity smiled as she put down the phone. That was the third booking she’d made today. Only one man had cried off when he found that Carmel had retired.
She jotted down the details on the booking sheet, then went back to her painting.
Carmel had moved her bulging old files out last Friday, and Charity had been working on the office all weekend. It had been a daunting, filthy job. Although the old wallpaper had been peeling off, beneath it the plaster came away in places too. Only the friendly intervention of the man in the sandwich bar next door had saved her, when he gave her a packet of Polyfilla and explained what was needed. But now it was nearly done: the ceiling and woodwork were white, the walls palest pink.
Later today the sandwich bar man had promised to send in a friend of his to put up some new lights, and a contact of Rita’s was bringing round some old exhibition carpet which he said would be as good as new.
As Charity finished off the last bit of wall through to the tiny kitchen at the back of the office, her mind was on money.
By the time she’d paid the electrician and the carpet man, she’d be cleaned out. But providing the men who wanted escorts did actually turn up tomorrow with their fees, she’d have enough to tide her over. She had to get the place straight by then. She couldn’t expect anyone to take her seriously, unless it looked like a proper office.
It was only now she was nearly finished that other problems were presenting themselves, things she hadn’t eve
n thought of before. She didn’t know how to work that duplicator. She couldn’t even type!
‘Hi busy bee!’
Charity turned quickly at Rita’s voice. She had been cleaning the paintbrushes and hadn’t heard her friend arrive.
Charity grinned. ‘What a nice surprise: someone to admire my handiwork. Just don’t look too closely, the finish is hardly professional.’
‘I brought you a sandwich.’ Rita put a bag down on the desk, gazing round appreciatively. ‘It looks marvellous, Chas. I didn’t realise this office was so big.’
Charity dried her hands on a towel. She wore an old shirt and jeans and they were daubed with paint.
‘It’s only because it’s empty,’ she said. ‘It’s still tiny, really. Fancy some tea?’
‘I’ll make it,’ Rita offered. ‘You look worn out. I can’t stop long, I’m only on my lunch hour, but I wanted to see if you needed any help. I could come back after work.’
‘Bless you,’ Charity said, touched by Rita’s interest. ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about duplicators?’
‘A bit.’ Rita took the cover off it and peered at it. ‘We had one like this at college. You cut the stencils on the typewriter, wind it round, then –’
‘Stop,’ Charity said in alarm. ‘I don’t understand any of that!’
Rita shook her head in disbelief.
‘Sit down,’ she ordered. ‘I’ll make the tea and then you’d better tell me what else you don’t understand.’
Half an hour later, Rita had made Charity even more anxious. She spoke of invoices, bookkeeping and contracts and the importance of making things look professional. Charity had forgotten that her friend had been to secretarial college before Daleham Gardens.
‘Perhaps you’d better become my partner,’ Charity suggested as Rita talked of accounts books and keeping proper records.
‘It won’t support two of us for some time,’ Rita said. ‘Besides, I wouldn’t want that. But I’ll help you when you get stuck and type stencils and things for you.’
Two weeks later Carmel came in to see how Charity was getting on, and found her sitting at her desk looking despondent.
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