The Diamond Ring

by Primula Bond

  ‘Not much of a punishment!’ giggles the girls’ ringleader. ‘We sold him our favourite!’

  ‘And we specialise in using oversized ones,’ chime in the others. ‘Bet it made your eyes water!’

  The three of them jiggle and dig each other in the ribs as they straighten their minuscule clothes. They seem to fill the gallery with their swishing blonde hair, spray-tanned limbs and a kind of chirruping dawn chorus. They check their reflections in each other’s hand mirrors and then sway across to the couch in the window to sit in a row, like tropical birds on a wire.

  They obviously take their work home with them. The dildo-wielding may be their signature act when they’re on stage, but I bet they enjoy using the toys on each other when they’re at play, too.

  My body gives a dirty little kick deep inside. I know damn well how good a woman’s naked skin feels. Her mouth. Her nipples between my teeth. I have an inkling of what that’s like because I was kidnapped, for half an hour, by a couple of dancers at Pierre Levi’s burlesque theatre after that shoot back in February. When everyone had gone, they dragged me behind the scenes backstage, set up my camera to film us then ravished me with their mouths and fingers.

  I cross my arms firmly across my breasts. My body prickles with a mixture of remembered pleasure and remembered anxiety. It was fun, an eye-opener – and a leg-opener – but I still suspect that Pierre was not only hanging around to witness that impromptu girl-on-girl display but set the whole thing up. Well, if he thought it would serve as another ploy to turn Gustav against me, it backfired. Gustav loved the footage when I showed it to him.

  I perch on the edge of the desk facing the girls, and try to look serious.

  ‘OK, lovelies. I’d love to talk about my sex life with you all day, but that’s not why you’re here. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, it is partly why we’re here. We only saw you working behind your camera that night at the Club Crème, but we’ve heard about you going a bit crazy with the stags, as you put it. So we wanted to check you out for ourselves.’ The second girl, the one who just pretended to take a dildo up the ass, speaks up. ‘Word on the street is that you’re just as smoking hot as us professional strippers.’

  The third girl kicks out petulantly. ‘Dancers, please. We’re artistes!’

  We all giggle again. It’s as if they’ve blown fresh air through the gallery.

  ‘So much for confidentiality. And look, you’re fantastic artistes. But this is my place of work. It’s a gallery, not a pole-dancing club. I’m not about to join your troupe if that’s what you’re after.’

  ‘Well, that’s just it. We might have a commission for you,’ says the first blonde, the one who kissed me on the mouth. ‘But first, to prove that we girls aren’t solely about tits and ass, I’ve brought a portfolio of my own work to show you.’

  The pink folder she pulls out of her enormous bag of tricks feels rather light when she hands it to me.

  ‘I’ll look at it with pleasure. May I keep it for a day or two?’ I start to unzip the case, then pause. ‘So as well as rumours that I’m “smoking hot”, you’ve also heard about my new gallery and that I’m actively seeking new talent? You seem to know an awful lot about me, er—’

  ‘Chloe!’ They all sing her name together. ‘And they’re not rumours.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll look at the portfolio tomorrow, Chloe, if that’s OK. I’m closing up now because I have to get back home and cook dinner!’

  They all stand up slowly and stretch like cats.

  ‘Cooking dinner at home on a Friday night? What are you, fifty years old?’

  ‘None of your business how I choose to spend my time! Now if you don’t mind—’ I move to the back of the gallery to start switching off the lights. These girls must be at least three or four years older than me. So why do I suddenly feel like the sensible big sister? I pause. ‘But before you go. Who was it who told you all about me? Did someone send you?’

  They finish their stretches and start draping their silky scarves around their necks.

  ‘One of our new colleagues met you at the Theatre B.’

  Half the lights are out now. The three of them are illuminated by the spots over the door.

  ‘Theatre B?’

  They are smiling at me. Glossy cupid’s-bow lips spread over those even white American teeth, but there’s a couple of beats of hesitation before Chloe, the leader of the pack, continues.

  ‘It stands for Burlesque. Midtown. Gramercy Park. You did a day’s work when Pierre Levi had invited the Hollywood guys in. I guess you must have so many commissions, but you were shooting a storyboard, a day in the life of a burlesque show.’

  I swallow, try to keep my face straight.

  ‘Of course I remember. Fantastic Moulin Rouge décor, costumes, music.’

  ‘You must be stoked to have him as a future brother-in-law.’ They all nod enthusiastically. ‘We hear he’s going places. The cameras are rolling.’

  I lock up the back office carefully and gather my things. ‘So is it me personally you’re interested in, or is it what I can do for you at the gallery?’

  ‘Both! The world of theatre and dancing is such a small one, you see. Everyone talks about each other. Our friend told us how she dragged you backstage when the shoot was over and introduced you to the delights of girlie sex. Oh, look, guys, Serena Folkes is blushing!’

  A confusion of shame and exhilaration swirls inside me as I recall the heated atmosphere of the Theatre B, as they call it. The scented changing rooms recreated on the stage. The dancers arriving for work in their street clothes and then transforming themselves with costumes and make-up into painted, show-stopping can-can girls. The illusion, to give Pierre his due, cleverly created to make us believe that we had all been transported to fin de siècle Montmartre.

  And, permeating the whole day, Pierre’s dark, disconcerting presence. So different from the cowed young man who flew all the way from California on his brother’s orders to shake my hand and say sorry. Or is he?

  ‘Some of those lucky girls have gone off to Tinseltown to make their fortune.’ Chloe’s voice interrupts my reminiscences. ‘And we’ve been left behind. For now. But while we’re resting, we’re working in this amazing new bar. It’s called Sapphix. The clue’s in the name. It’s a bit like the Club Crème, but not so exclusive. And not so secretive.’

  ‘So not really the same.’ I start to move across to the door. ‘I mean, is it girls only? Do they keep boys out altogether?’

  ‘Oh, the gorgeous ones who hang around the doors are occasionally allowed in once the scary boss has checked their credentials!’ The girls are all talking at once.

  ‘Sounds fun.’ I flick off the last light, leaving just one to illuminate the main photograph above the desk. ‘But I really can’t—’

  ‘We know you’ve used a dildo. We know you’re not nearly as innocent as you look! But really the club’s cool. You drink, you dance and you forget all your cares!’

  They are all clustered round me like a shoal of silvery fish. I fling the door open and hold my arm out to usher them out.

  ‘Hey, girls, I’m glad you’ve got a great new job. You deserve to do well. You’re amazing strippers – I mean dancers. But you’re telling me all this why? Did you say something about a commission?’

  ‘You’re obviously not selling Sapphix to her, Chlo!’ The second girl nudges their ringleader in the ribs. ‘Get to the point!’

  ‘You look as if you’ve got the world on your shoulders today, so we reckon we’ve come along just in time! We want you to come down and check out our club. You can let your hair down! And if you’re worried about taking time off from running this place and spoiling your husband’s dinner, think of it as a brief. Publicity for the club. We can be your new client!’

  ‘Venturing into the world of hospitality—’

  ‘It’ll be fun!’ They giggle again as I lock up the gallery. Our breath puffs in joined-up clouds on to the window.

 
On impulse, I take a picture on my phone of my three abductors all whispering and fidgeting around me, and send it with a text to Gustav:

  Remember that scene in Love Actually when the gauche English guy travels to America seeking adventure and is picked up by four gorgeous gals? Well, these are my new friends, honey. But I’ll still be home in time to meet you!

  The girls run into the road to hail a cab that cruises past while I wait for Gustav’s reply. His response comes quickly.

  Your kidnappers look cute, naughty and familiar. I know what they like to do with a length of silicone and latex. Don’t worry, plane delayed. Just make sure they leave you in a fit state to pleasure your fiancé when he gets home.

  I hesitate for a moment. Maybe I should go home and make myself beautiful for him. But the girls are herding me towards the yellow cab.

  ‘I give in. I may be the owner of a smart new gallery, but I can’t afford to turn down work. So OK. We’ll call this a commission. Because God knows, I could do with letting off some steam!’

  And then I turn to my gaggle of admirers and crook my elbows for them to lead me astray.

  There is so much gossip and chatter in the cab that, although we’re still somewhere in Manhattan, I have no idea which area we have come to. When the car comes to a halt, we pile out on to a scruffy narrow street which seems to be buried almost entirely under scaffolding. A brave row of spindly, leafless trees lends sparse softness to the acres of grey tarpaulin flapping in the sudden aggressive breeze.

  The girls trot across the pavement and drag me down some basement steps, noisily assessing my vital statistics as we all tumble past display cases showing flashing neon images of stripping starlets. And then we’re in the warm, noisy embrace of the already rammed, brothel-red, chandelier-lit Sapphix Bar.

  The heat and noise of voices and music envelop me, and I cease to give a damn about anything. I don’t know what made these girls think I had the world on my shoulders. Maybe it was the severe suit, my hair up in the kind of tightly pinned knot that Crystal would be proud of. Maybe it was something in my face. Maybe they are mind readers. I could use some female company. My handful of trusted friends who saw me through thick and thin when I was a troubled, lonely kid are all back in Devon, England, leading their own lives. Or maybe I’m spending too much time with Gustav and not enough time around other females. My cousin Polly is meditating in Morocco and virtually uncontactable. Crystal – if you could call her female – is looking after the London properties. And every time I see Ingrid Weinmeyer, she paws me like a hungry cat.

  We’re not about to sit down and chill out, it would seem. The girls pull me round to the back of the bar where a statuesque waitress with chocolate skin barely covered by a sparkling white bikini spins shot glasses from a bullet belt slung across her body.

  ‘Remember me, honey? I was one of the dancers at Theatre B when you were shooting that storyboard for Pierre Levi back in early February?’ she cries, pouring a neat line of liquid into each glass. ‘My girlfriend and I had a taste of you behind the scenes. And I’ve still got your panties from that day as a trophy!’

  ‘Oh, God, of course I remember! Your world really is far too small for my liking,’ I say with a pout, wagging my finger at the other girls. ‘Is nothing sacred?’

  ‘Certainly not your panties!’ The blondes all laugh and slap their long slim thighs. ‘You think her man has a clue what Serena Folkes is like behind that wide-eyed look?’

  ‘If Gustav Levi is anything like his wicked brother Pierre, he’ll handle her just fine.’ The black girl leans down, breasts spilling from her tiny white bikini. She studies me hard as she hands me a glass. ‘Everyone knows about you and Gustav Levi, honey. You and he are the hottest couple outside showbiz. And I’ll bet he’s happy to see his girl swing with girls as well as boys. No faking that cute little climax once we’d got our hands on her, I can tell you.’

  I pick at the pins in my hair to loosen them. ‘You owe me dinner for that little escapade. Remember? You and your girlfriend grab me at the end of a long day, ravish me with fingers and tongues as a none too subtle introduction to lesbian sex, oh, and also you film it – I reckon dinner’s the very least you can offer me!’

  They all kick their legs out again, shrieking with glee.

  ‘Sure. Whatever madam wants. But first, a tequila tasting to get you in the mood. Stocking this really good stuff was my idea. The new management didn’t have a clue. Just told me to get on with ordering it in. So listen up. This liquor is not your usual tacky “mixto” tequila. This is a hundred per cent agave. Tell me what you taste. And mind you sip it like real Mexicans. Don’t shoot.’

  We hold our glasses up, pinkies in the air, and drink.

  ‘Lime!’ shouts Chloe.

  ‘Citrus, definitely!’ shouts the second girl.

  ‘Oranges,’ I murmur, relishing the ooze of warmth invading my veins.

  ‘Good. That’s a blanco. You can drink it with delicacies such as ceviche dressed in lime, chilli and coriander. So. Here comes another.’

  The girl stands in front of us and spins another bottle out of her holster twixt finger and thumb, like a pistol. ‘This is a lightly aged reposado. You can eat strong cheese or hung meat with this. Totally different taste.’

  ‘We like well hung meat,’ chortles one of the others.

  ‘Cinnamon,’ I murmur, draining my next glass. ‘God, it’s making me hungry!’

  ‘I can taste honey!’ calls out Chloe. ‘Ooh, making me horny!’

  Any stresses and strains the girls thought were bothering me have vanished, washed away by these first fiery tequila shots. I slam my shot glass down on to the chrome and, as I reach for a third glass, a thought strikes me.

  ‘Shit! In all the excitement I’ve left my camera behind at the gallery!’

  The girls stop as they’re about to knock back the third round, and exchange looks. Chloe jumps to her feet. ‘I’ve an idea! You can sing for your supper, then! Or rather dance.’

  ‘You have to be kidding! You owe me, remember, not the other way round! I’m no one’s performing seal, and if I’m not working, at least let me relax!’

  We all down another row of shots, and then they’re off their barstools and surrounding me. I stare round in confusion as they bundle me off my chair.

  ‘Not any more. We’ve been told to get you to work, and if you’ve left your camera behind then you have to pay for your drinks some other way. Come on. Let’s get you out of these boring clothes and have you looking like a proper ho!’

  We tumble through a glittery curtain into a small, hot changing area consisting of wall-length mirrors and tiny pink fluffy bathroom stools. They push me down on one of these while they peel off their clothes. Unlike the performers at Pierre’s burlesque theatre, who draped themselves and fondled each other as they undressed, applying lipstick to each other’s mouths, navels and nipples, transforming themselves as part of the performance, these girls are brisk and on a meter.

  I feel like a spare part without my camera to hide behind. The girls pour themselves into smooth, sequinned leopard-print bodysuits. I remember the costumes so well from the stag night at the Club Crème. The music throbs louder at the front of house. The girls stop talking at last, concentrating on painting each other’s faces with gaudy shading to accentuate their eyes and bright red lips.

  I can’t tell the difference between them now. They are standing in a row, each one back-combing the next one’s hair into a lion’s mane.

  ‘Is it just the three of you here?’ I ask, remembering the crowded stage at the burlesque theatre.

  ‘The boss was supposed to complete the line-up.’ I think it’s Chloe speaking, with her mouth full of hairpins. ‘That was the idea when we were hired. Problem is, it turns out she’s not as young as she makes out, though we’d be fired on the spot if we said as much. There’s something wrong with her, anyhow. Collapsed on the first day of rehearsals.’

  There’s too much noise. Too many voices. I pu
t my hands over my ears and glance round the little space for some kind of back door, but the three of them turn to me now, bending from their waists, rotating their necks and knees sinuously as they sketch their stretches, their huge cartoon-cat eyes unblinking as they surround me again.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve all been muddling along for the opening nights of your routine? You must be pretty nervous, then!’ I take off my jacket, but sweat continues to trickle between my breasts and down my back, making my crisp cotton gallery-owner’s shirt stick to my armpits. I try to pluck it away from my overheated skin, but I seem to be getting hotter by the minute. I realise they haven’t answered me. ‘Wait a minute. You’re looking at me like that – why? Oh, God. I thought I was off the hook, but you little bitches are serious about me getting up on my hind legs, aren’t you?’

  ‘We told you. You’re here to work, and now there’s a gap in the formation, we need you in the chorus line.’ They advance on me and start unbuttoning my shirt. ‘And if you’re sexy enough tonight, maybe you can understudy for Chloe when she goes off on her holidays!’

  And that’s how I find myself blinking in the light from my phone camera as they take a picture of me dressed in a sparkly white bra just like the tequila lady’s. I’m also wearing white lace hold-ups and a tiny white tutu like a cygnet in the corps de ballet. They go to put the finishing touches to their own attire, strapping leather suspender belts round their waists to add to the oddness of their costumes.

  I peer through the glittery curtain at the back of the stage. It’s little more than a podium. I can’t think how the girls are going to move at all, let alone gyrate and dance in such a small space. They have deliberately dressed me differently from their jungle motif, because I am playing a ‘victim’ and must therefore stand out.