‘Why so glum?’ she asked. ‘It looks wonderful.’
Charity smiled weakly. The office did look good, if a little bare. The new lights and the grey carpet, a secondhand filing cabinet and a large plant on her desk all created an aura of success. But the new pink lettering on the windows reading STRATTON PROMOTIONS didn’t mean clients were beating their way to her door.
‘I haven’t got one promotion job yet,’ Charity admitted. ‘I’ve rung dozens of companies I’ve worked for, but all of them use Central Promotions. Rita typed out a circular and I spent about twenty quid on postage sending them out, but not one reply. Other firms I’ve rung just say they’ll be in touch if anything comes up. If it wasn’t for the escort service I wouldn’t be earning a penny.’
‘Rome wasn’t built in a day,’ Carmel said. ‘Keep at it. Maybe you ought to change tactics and think up some scheme to put to companies.’
‘Like what?’ Charity said wearily.
‘Well, Christmas for one.’ Carmel shrugged. ‘Look at a few store advertisements and consider how one or two of your girls might enhance sales over the Christmas period. How many girls have you got on your books?’
Charity gulped.
‘None, really,’ she said. ‘I mean I was relying on getting the offer of jobs before I rang some of the girls I know. Rita and Dorothy will do them like a shot, and then there’s the escort girls to call on.’
‘Put a card in your window, now,’ Carmel said firmly. ‘Girls wanted for promotion work. Good wages, etcetera. They’ll come in, there’s hundreds of pretty girls walking up and down this road. Get them to fill in an application form and submit a photograph for your file. Meanwhile use your imagination.’
‘When’s this car coming then, Chas?’ Dorothy shouted out from behind the screen hiding the kitchen. ‘I’m dying to show off in this outfit. Maybe we could do a bit of carol singing outside the office?’
‘Come out and let me see,’ Charity shouted back.
Dorothy pranced out first, closely followed by Rita. Jane and Wendy, two newly recruited girls, were less enthusiastic and hung back.
‘You all look marvellous!’ Charity exclaimed.
All four girls were dressed as lady Santa Clauses in short fur-trimmed costumes with fishnet tights and hats worn at a jaunty angle.
Charity had taken Carmel’s advice and at last she’d landed her first contract. The girls had been hired to add a touch of seasonal glamour to a new garage and car showroom opening this weekend in Tottenham Court Road. They were waiting now for the car to take them to the grand opening and Charity had been assured that the press would be there taking photographs.
‘Do we really look all right?’ Jane said nervously. She was one of the escort girls and she’d never done a promotion before.
‘You all look beautiful.’ Charity smiled. ‘Sexy, gorgeous and utterly delectable. You’ll stop the traffic in the Tottenham Court Road. But mind you behave properly. There’ll be a lot of booze there, and randy salesmen. But I don’t want any of you getting pickled. This job might lead us to many more if you charm everyone in the company.’
‘Message received and understood, boss!’ Dorothy clicked her heels and saluted. ‘We’ll behave with the utmost decorum.’
Dorothy had been very quiet and broody since the night she’d been beaten up and raped and Charity had been very concerned about her. But Dorothy was resilient: she’d taken on a promotional job as soon as her face was healed and she’d even insisted on Charity finding her escort dates, just as long as she was paired with Rita.
This Santa Claus job was the tonic they all needed. For Charity it meant she’d cracked the ice and launched her business; for Dorothy and Rita it meant three weeks of fun and a chance to show off in their brief and sexy costumes.
‘Here’s the car now.’ Charity jumped up as she saw the limousine draw up outside. ‘Now remember too that I have dozens of contracts,’ she said with a wink. ‘Stratton Promotions is the agency, with the brightest, best and most beautiful girls.’
But by the middle of February, things had got worse. Charity sat at her desk studying the paper, idly ringing round advertisements for companies who looked like prospects. She couldn’t use the phone: it had been cut off that morning because she hadn’t paid the bill, and she was trying to quell the panic rising inside her.
It was a bitterly cold, grey day and she didn’t know where to turn next.
The Santa Claus job at the car showrooms had given her a false sense of security. Although she got a hefty fee and some free publicity from it, the escort business had gone quiet at the same time.
Carmel was right when she said girls would come into the office looking for work. They had. But what good was a file of girls’ application forms without the jobs to send them to?
An electricity bill would plop through the door any day, the rent was due, and all the money she had was gone. Without the phone she was lost.
Charity had five bookings for escorts, but when the men found the phone wasn’t working they’d assume she’d gone out of business, and although she was anxious to drop that side of her agency, at the moment it was her only lifeline.
On top of all this she was so lonely. She spent long days sitting in the office with little to occupy her other than practising two-fingered typing, with an even longer empty evening ahead of her.
Dorothy and Rita did glamorous, well-paid work by day, and divided their evenings between escort dates and boyfriends. From the day Charity took over the office she had vowed she’d never be an escort again. The image of Ted taunted her, a permanent reminder of a ruthless darker side of her nature, and it prevented her from even considering an innocent date with a man.
Even her twentieth birthday back in January had passed without celebration as Dorothy and Rita had both been out of town on jobs. She’d drunk a cheap bottle of wine alone and tried to think positively. After all, January was always a quiet month in any business.
But now she’d hit rock bottom and short of pawning the brooch John had given her, or asking the girls to lend her the money for the phone bill, she was finished.
A blast of cold air made her look up and to her absolute amazement there was John at the door.
Her heart hammered, her troubles instantly put aside.
‘John!’ she shrieked, getting up and rushing to him, flinging her arms round him. ‘What a wonderful surprise. How did you know I was here?’
He didn’t answer immediately, just held her tightly. She could feel how cold he was, even through his thick overcoat.
‘I don’t think I should have come, really,’ he said into her neck. ‘I went round to the flat, intending to put a book through your door. But Dorothy was there and insisted I went in. When she told me about the agency I tried to phone but there’s something wrong with your number.’
Charity was hurt that he had intended to avoid her, but thought she’d better wait and hear him out before she said anything.
Over a cup of tea John explained he was back in London for just a couple of weeks to launch a book of his photographs, before going back to India. He sat hunched up over the electric fire and Charity saw he wasn’t well. His face had always been thin, but now it was gaunt, his cheekbones sticking out prominently.
‘Are you ill?’ she said, kneeling down beside him and sliding her hands inside his coat. She could feel his ribs through his shirt and she saw he had lost perhaps two stone in weight.
‘I got a dose of the Delhi belly.’ He laughed but there was no humour in it and he moved her hands away from him, almost as if repulsed by her.
‘What is it, John?’ she asked anxiously. Seeing him again after so long brought back all the old feeling, but he was being very strange.
He didn’t reply and his eyes wouldn’t meet hers as she sat back on her heels by his feet.
‘Come on!’ she wheedled. ‘We’re old friends, aren’t we? Are you in some sort of trouble?’
‘I got married,’ he blurted out.
He nodded, his eyes downcast.
Charity leapt up then, backing away.
‘How could you be so cruel?’ she shouted. ‘Why come and tell me something like that?’
‘I didn’t mean to be cruel,’ he said wearily. ‘Like I said, if Dorothy hadn’t been there I would just have left the book. There were some pictures of you in it, you see, and I had to give you a copy. But once I’d spoken to Dorothy, I knew I’d have to see you face to face.’
Charity began to shake uncontrollably. This seemed to be the last nail in the coffin, on top of all her other problems.
‘Go, John.’ She pointed towards the door. ‘I’d like to say I’m happy for you, but it’s just such a shock. Please don’t come back again.’
‘I’m not going until you’ve heard me out,’ he said stubbornly. ‘I hoped you’d found someone else. I thought I could exchange a few pleasantries with you, and be on my way.’
Charity turned away from him, struggling to control herself. John had always been honest to a fault. But this time she would have preferred a little less directness.
She composed herself and turned back.
‘Well get on with the pleasantries,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Who is it you’ve married? When and where?’
Charity listened as he explained, trying hard to control herself. Fifteen years ago on his first trip to India he had taken photographs for an illustrated animal book. The writer was a man called Martin Fellows; his wife was Nina. The three of them became good friends. He had stayed at their bungalow in the hills at the time, and on every subsequent visit to India he went back to see them.
He went on to say that he had met up with Nina again in Nairobi, some weeks after he last saw Charity. Martin had died two years earlier and she was in Africa doing research for a biography of her late husband.
‘We were both lonely and heartsick,’ he said. ‘We leaned on one another. I dug out some old material of Martin’s which had never been published. The African job I’d done led on to one in India, near where she lived. I knew then it was no good spending the rest of my life moping, and one thing led to another.’
It was obvious they had become lovers and just the thought of John making love to another woman made Charity feel intensely jealous.
‘Are you happy with her?’ she asked, wanting so much to hear it had all been a dreadful, hasty mistake.
‘I’m content,’ he said. ‘Nina and I are the same age. We have the same interests. It’s a peaceful relationship, Charity. We’re both too old now for passion and fire.’
A picture of two calm, middle-aged people together was soothing. Charity fell silent for a moment, struggling with the need to wound him and yet knowing she still cared too much for him to do so.
‘I’m glad then.’ She put one hand on his shoulder. ‘You were good for me, John, you deserve to be happy now.’
He stayed silent for a moment.
‘And you?’ he asked finally. ‘Have you found happiness?’
‘I think so.’ Charity wished she could tell him how low she felt, but her pride wouldn’t let her. ‘Though I work too hard to think about it much.’
Over another cup of tea John asked her questions about the agency. Realising Dorothy had let it slip about how she came to buy it, she was forced to admit she still ran the escort service, and why the phone didn’t work.
John’s eyes were dark with reproach.
‘It’s no good you looking like that,’ she said quickly, hoping he wouldn’t press her about how she managed to save so much money. ‘It was a good opportunity and I grabbed it. The only reason I still handle that side of it is because I have to.’
‘Charity, listen to me,’ he said, grabbing her hands, his eyes full of concern. ‘I’m not concerned about you having a few dates with lonely businessmen, heaven knows I’ve hoped you’d find a man who could make you happy often enough. But it’s running the service that concerns me. If just one of your girls takes money for sex and it comes out, you’ll be in trouble. It’s living on immoral earnings, a criminal offence. Do you think anyone will believe you didn’t know?’
She had wrestled with this dozens of times, but always the need for money got the better of her.
‘I would drop it immediately if I could get the promotions side off the ground.’ She pouted defiantly, irritated by his remark about hoping she’d find someone to make her happy. ‘You tell me how I’m going to get a few good contracts and I’ll jack it in tomorrow.’
He took her to the Marco Polo where they’d had lunch the first time and over lasagne and a bottle of wine she blurted out her problems.
John let her talk. He was surprised by her knowledge of the promotion world, and impressed by her courage at taking on such a venture so young, with no backing. More than anything he wanted it to work for her.
‘I’ll pay the telephone,’ he said immediately, getting out his chequebook. ‘But to get the promotions agency off the ground, you’ve got to think more positively.’
‘I have tried.’ Charity sounded plaintive, a little irritated that he thought she hadn’t worked hard at it and embarrassed by his cheque. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I’m game for attempting anything to get me noticed, but advertising costs so much.’
‘Not always,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll come up with a plan. Meanwhile get that phone bill paid, stop worrying and come out to dinner with me tomorrow night.’
John turned on the light on his bedside table and looked at his watch. It was four in the morning and he couldn’t sleep. He was shivering, even though the room was warm. His stomach kept churning and although it was partly due to the severe attack of dysentery, he knew most of the problem was Charity.
All through lunch he just hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. She had altered subtly – a few gained pounds which added curves to her slender shape – and her hair had lost that wispy, childish quality and now hung in one gleaming swing of white gold. He remembered wincing once at her hastily applied makeup. Now it enhanced the beauty already there. Her lustrous eyes, and those full lips were enough to draw any male eye. Her black suit could have come from Worth, the only decoration the bow brooch he’d bought her in Florence and a single string of pearls.
But these visible attractions were nothing to her new manner. She no longer giggled, she had looked at the menu with complete understanding and even suggested a red wine that was superb without being outrageously expensive. She had asked him intelligent questions about his work.
He had to help her get her business off the ground. She deserved it. Maybe, too, it would end that dull ache for her inside him and he could return to Nina and India knowing he’d finally severed the last strand.
*
They had dinner at John’s hotel. He chose it because it was brightly lit and impersonal, yet comfortable enough to sit for a long talk.
Over coffee, he began to talk to her about Stratton Promotions.
‘More than anything you need publicity,’ he said forcefully. He’d given her business a great deal of thought during the day. ‘You need the right girls, the right image and the good companies. Publicity will get all three.’
His plan was to run an advertisement for girls to come forward to enrol with her, the inducement being a chance to be photographed by Grant Meredith, the top fashion man who happened to owe John a favour.
‘The girls will come running,’ he replied firmly to her protestations. ‘So will the media! Then we get a glossy brochure printed and you’re halfway there.’
‘Grant Meredith!’ Charity could hardly believe he was serious. The man was legendary: to fashion what John was to scenic photography. ‘He’ll cost a fortune!’
John didn’t deny or confirm this, just insisted he was going to see to it and the cost of the printing.
‘You can’t do this stuck behind a desk, Charity.’ He spoke in the kind of bullying tone she knew he used with the
magazines he worked for. ‘You’ve got to get out there yourself, demand to see the top men and plonk down these images of glorious girls on their desks. You can sell, Charity, but now you’ve got something bigger than lipsticks or perfume. You’re selling your company image and your expertise. You must convince yourself you are the best and convince them too.’
‘Will you be around long enough to see all this happen?’ she asked, suddenly aware he was speaking as if this was their last meeting.
‘Long enough to set it up.’ He half smiled, the lines on his face deeper than she remembered. ‘I’ll see to the finances and give you all the contacts. But I think it’s better we only talk on the phone after tonight.’
John was as good as his word. All the next week he used his contacts, his keen mind and his powers of organisation to make the name of Stratton Promotions work.
He didn’t have to tell her that she must drop the escort side of the business like a hot brick, she knew that. She paid the bill, and changed the number. The files of old clients were destroyed and a circular was sent out to all her legitimate business contacts informing them she was moving on to a higher profile.
Charity saw then just how John Marshall had become so successful. It wasn’t just his creative photography, but his ability to motivate others. He booked a studio in Kensington for the following week and hired a public relations man to handle the publicity. The printers were standing by and the advertisement for girls was placed in several papers.
‘This time tomorrow I’ll be halfway back to India,’ John said as they ate a last dinner together at the Marco Polo. They had both been uncertain about meeting again but it was unthinkable for him to leave with only another phone call after all he’d done. ‘Don’t look so anxious, Charity, you can handle everything now.’
The Marco Polo hadn’t changed. Still the old red and white checked tablecloths, white walls and vibrant Italian pictures. Yet even though Charity had changed immeasurably since that first lunch date two years earlier, in many ways she felt the same. Scared, excited, sad and happy all at once, with the same sensation of standing on the threshold to a new world.
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