Obsession

by Susan Lewis

  More often than not he faked his orgasm, knowing that he had to get away from her as fast as he could. To stay would be dangerous, for it was all he could do to keep his hands from her throat, to stop himself squeezing the very life from that artificially exquisite body. Which was why the following day would find him sipping coffee at the Dorchester before paying a visit to a prostitute.

  In his briefcase was a bottle of Octavia’s perfume. There was a photograph of her too, one that he could look at while he thrust himself in and out of a nameless, faceless woman he could pretend was his wife. The rope he didn’t need to carry with him, prostitutes always kept that sort of thing – just as they kept their silence while he tied them face down to the bed. Their bodies, of course, were never as good as Octavia’s, but that hardly mattered. What he craved was to hear their screams as he beat them, screams he would never get from Octavia, her pleasure in mindless pain was too intense for her to disguise.

  He guessed that if he asked Pam to do this for him she would. She would do anything for him. But what he had with Pam was pure. He didn’t want to sully it with his hatred for Octavia, which was why he chose to exorcise his abhorrent feelings of violence on a whore.

  Glancing at his watch he saw the time was approaching four o’clock. He summoned the waiter, paid his bill and got up to leave. As he walked out into the bright afternoon sunlight, heading towards the heart of London’s red-light district, his erection was already beginning to grow. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, neither seeing nor acknowledging anyone else in the street. He felt good about what he was doing, for in a perverse way he saw it as protecting his wife. A man was expected to protect his wife, even though there were times when she might fill him with a rage so murderous that to control it was almost impossible. This way no harm would come to anyone.

  From the Village Café, where he was drinking coffee with Bob Churchill and two of the TW reporters, Luke Fitzpatrick was watching the banker, Phillip Denby, the man Corrie had told him was her father, as he rang a doorbell opposite.

  With mild amusement Luke continued to look out of the window until Denby disappeared inside the house. A man in Denby’s position should be more careful, Luke was thinking to himself. Being seen going into the home of a known hooker would do nothing at all to enhance his career, never mind his reputation. He didn’t imagine Corrie would be too impressed either, were he to tell her. But from what she had told him Denby wouldn’t be much concerned about that. Or would he?

  Due to the live coverage of a European football match there was no transmission that week, so on Tuesday morning Bob took the opportunity to convene a special production meeting, which was held in the general office. The ratings for the programme were down and he, Bob, had received instructions from Luke that they were to put their heads together and come up with something to remedy the situation.

  It was probably the first time the entire team had been together since Corrie had started, and having been forewarned of the meeting the day before ideas were instantly thrown into the forum, discussed and discarded, or listed for action. It was a healthy debate with much humour and much furrowing of brows, and Corrie was more than a little pleased to discover that she was as up to date with what was going on in the world as any of them.

  There was no mistaking the fact that she was, at last, being made to feel a part of the unit. A space had been made for her at the meeting, she was sitting between Cindy Thompson and Perkin, and though she didn’t quite have the courage to speak up as yet, she was listening so intently to the ideas Richard Taylor – one of the reporters – had to offer, that it was only when a secretary called out that Lorna, the receptionist, needed a researcher down in the lobby, that Corrie even realized the telephone had rung. Apparently Lorna was downstairs with Bill, the security man, trying to help control a bunch of women who were insisting they see someone.

  ‘She says they’re getting violent,’ Prue added.

  Bob looked straight at Corrie. Corrie nodded, flicked over to a clean page in her notepad and left the meeting.

  When she got downstairs she could hardly believe her eyes. She had never seen women like it in her life. Their hair was every colour of the rainbow, their make-up was as thick as grease paint and their skirts were so short she thought for a minute that some weren’t even wearing one. But even worse was the noise they were making.

  ‘Who are they?’ she whispered to Lorna.

  ‘Prostitutes. Can’t you tell?’

  Corrie looked at them round-eyed. ‘What do they want?’

  ‘They want locking up, that’s what,’ Bill said, going after one who was heading for the lift. ‘Come on, out on the streets where you belong,’ he growled, hauling her out by her hair.

  The woman screeched, and started to attack him. She was cheered on by the others, who were yelling such lewd and obscene remarks about certain parts of his anatomy that Corrie had to turn away before Bill saw she was laughing.

  ‘Grab his goolies!’ one woman cried.

  ‘What do you mean, he hasn’t got any.’

  ‘Look at that face, it looks like your pussy, Sherry.’ This to a woman whose hair was as blazingly red as Bill’s beard.

  ‘We want to talk to someone, asshole,’ an Amazonian purple-haired woman snarled. ‘And we ain’t leaving here till we do.’

  ‘You’re out now!’ Bill shouted.

  ‘Oi! Rancid dick! You get someone down here now or this radio goes so far up your ass you’ll be farting the breakfast show for a month.’

  Bill swung round to make a grab for his radio. A scrawny little harpy with green and yellow hair ducked under his arm and dashed for the lift. Bill was after her like a shot, picked her up and all but threw her back into the crowd.

  Corrie watched the mêlée with horror and fascination. She knew she should do something, but wasn’t quite sure what. It occurred to her to try to speak to one of them, but as she stepped forward Bill pushed her aside.

  ‘It’s all right, I know how to handle this lot,’ he told her. ‘They’ve been here before.’ Corrie saw him going for the fire extinguisher, but the women hastily blocked his way.

  The purple-haired woman caught Corrie’s eye and winked, and Corrie was just on the point of going over to her when the revolving doors spun and in walked Felicity Burridge.

  Felicity was well known to them all. Not only because she was an actress, but because of her recent divorce from a rock star who had been made to stand trial for raping her. Corrie hardly had time to wonder what she was doing there before Felicity took charge of the situation. She was, Corrie realized with amazement, a part of this prostitute lobby.

  ‘Are you a researcher?’ Felicity asked her, and before Corrie could answer Felicity took her by the arm and marched her over to the sofas. Once there she proceeded to tell Corrie why she, and the other women, were there. In light of the recent spate of grotesque and violent murders around the Shepherd Market area they were campaigning for prostitutes’ rights. ‘More particularly for brothels to be legalized,’ she said. ‘I, and many other women in the public eye, have decided to lend our support. You know they found another body just over an hour ago?’

  ‘No,’ Corrie answered. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Well they have. Floating in the Thames, just like all the others. I won’t tell you what she looked like, just suffice it to say there is a psychopathic maniac at large and these women are his target. He’s got to be caught. There’s got to be some pressure brought to bear on the police and society to recognize that these women, just like any others, need protecting. The psychos nearly always go after prostitutes, and most of us choose to ignore the fact that they feel terror, and pain just like the rest of us. Like it or not, they perform a vital role in society, and a part of that role is not to be ripped to pieces by a lunatic’s knife. They’ve got to be made to feel safe. They need brothels. Legalized, clinicized, brothels.’

  Her large, unpainted face was quivering with passion as she went on. Throughout her monologu
e the prostitutes themselves remained silent and though Corrie heard every word Felicity was saying, her eyes frequently roamed to the bizarre faces surrounding her. Like many other women before her she found herself totally overawed by her first encounter with a prostitute. The reality of their occupation kept racing through her mind’s eye and she found herself revolted, fascinated, excited and horrified, but most of all, she realized, she was moved – deeply. For, abrasive and brash as they appeared, she could see the fear in their eyes. She could sense their vulnerability, their unquestioning trust in Felicity and their desperate need for help. Occasionally one of them met her eyes, and though some seemed almost childlike in their eagerness to win her over, most, she could tell, regarded her with cynicism. They didn’t believe she would help, and why should they when no one else had?

  When Felicity had finished Corrie took her number and told her she would contact her very soon. Quite what her next move should be, she wasn’t too sure, but she knew she wasn’t going to let them down.

  She gave herself a day or two to think it through, made copious notes, spoke several times on the phone to Felicity and Carol, the woman with purple hair who was the prostitutes’ spokeswoman, then went to see Luke.

  ‘Until I met them I had no idea just how important their role was in society,’ she told him. ‘I, like everyone else, just took it for granted that they were there, never even bothered to consider them as human beings. As women, like myself.’

  ‘Not quite like you, Corrie,’ Luke smiled.

  ‘Yes, like me. The only difference between us is our professions. But whereas both are valid, theirs is vital. Carol, their spokeswoman, told me only yesterday about one of her clients. About his fantasy. I can see you smiling, Luke, but no, I’m not going to tell you the old story of the cream cakes or hooplah with doughnuts, neither am I going to tell you about the man who likes to have cologne poured over fresh cuts in his penis. Those are sick, but they’re harmless. What I’m going to tell you is something that chilled me right to the bone. The kind of story none of us wants to hear. This man, who visits her at least twice a week, does so because he can only reach his climax by fantasizing about strangling his children. He brings dolls with him, lifesize baby dolls, and the violence he inflicts on those dolls is so horrifying that Carol has already reported him to the authorities twice in an attempt to protect his children. Two kids she doesn’t even know. The authorities won’t listen, they have done nothing about it simply because of who, what Carol is.’

  Luke’s face had paled, and only then did Corrie recall the abuse he had known himself as a child.

  ‘That’s not the only story Carol told me,’ she continued more gently now. ‘There are others, equally as hideous, equally as frightening and some that could almost break your heart. Like the man who can’t even masturbate because he has no arms. Where would he be without someone like Carol? But that’s not the point really. The point is that some men will go to any lengths, and I mean any, in order to achieve orgasm. And if Carol and women like her weren’t there, then God only knows who might be the victim of these appalling perversions. For God’s sake, these women do every bit as much for society as any social worker, very often more. We need them, and because we need them we must protect them. We must do everything we can to ensure that they too are safe. Safe from the psychopathic maniacs who make them their targets. They must have legalized brothels – and established links with the authorities.’

  ‘You feel very passionately about this, don’t you?’ Luke said.

  ‘Yes, I do. And if you were to listen to them you would too.’

  ‘I daresay if men spent a lot more time listening to women then this society we live in would take a turn for the better.’

  Corrie smiled. ‘I’m glad you feel that way,’ she said, ‘because it leads me quite neatly onto what I want to say next.’

  Luke looked at his watch. ‘Let’s go and discuss it over a spot of lunch, eh?’

  Corrie would have preferred to stay in the office, since she didn’t want any more unfounded suspicions reaching Annalise, but this was important and she needed Luke on her side.

  They went to a wine bar in the King’s Road, and once Luke had ordered a steak sandwich and Corrie – on yet another soon to be discarded diet – a salad, Luke said, ‘I have to tell you that in principle I’m for doing a programme to support these women. You’re right, they do need help, and we’re in a position to give it. However, you said there was more.’

  ‘Not specifically to do with that programme,’ Corrie answered, forking then discarding a limp lettuce leaf, ‘it’s more to do with women in general. And the ratings of the programme. I thought, well how would it be if we devoted one half hour in the month to women? No other hard hitting current affairs programme does it. I’m not talking about a Woman’s Hour type thing. Well actually, that’s pretty good, but it’s on Radio 4, a lot of women don’t get to hear it. And TV has so much more power. I’m talking about real issues. Real controversy. Things that affect the nation as a whole, and how women have created it, are subjected to it, are repressed by it, whatever, and how much better things might – or might not – be were there more women in Parliament. More women as captains of industry. Let’s give women a voice, let them shout as loud as they like about the chauvinism they have to suffer – and let the men answer, of course. Anyway, the possibilities are endless … I’ve prepared some notes on it which I can let you have, but in principle what do you think? It could bring in a lot more women viewers, and all the surveys show that in the main it’s they who control the on-off switch.’

  Luke’s eyes were brimming with laughter. ‘My, you really have been working hard, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘Well, I shall be glad to read your notes. I’m not promising anything,’ he added, when Corrie’s face lit up, ‘but if I think it’s worth a shot I’ll certainly talk it through with Bob and the producers. If they like it either Annalise or Cindy could take it on.’ He paused, and gave Corrie a look from the corner of his eye. ‘The question is, though, if it does look like a goer, who is going to research it? With Pippa leaving we’ll only have three researchers on the team and they’re all men.’ He frowned. ‘On the other hand it might be a good idea to give it to a man, to strike the balance.’

  ‘Well actually,’ Corrie said, her fingernails digging weals into her palms, ‘I was hoping you might let me research it.’

  Luke nodded thoughtfully. ‘Mmm, it’s possible,’ he said. ‘I’ll give it some thought. Again I’ll have to discuss it with the others.’

  ‘I can do it,’ Corrie said eagerly. ‘I know I can. I mean, I know I haven’t had any actual experience, but, well, we all have to start somewhere, and you could always give me a trial run. If I don’t work out then you haven’t really lost anything, have you?’

  ‘I guess not,’ Luke laughed. ‘Leave it with me, I’ll see what can be done. Now, that’s enough shop, what’s all this with the new look?’

  Corrie grinned self-consciously and looked away so that he wouldn’t see her blushing. No one else had remarked on her attempts to vamp up her appearance, so she had assumed no one had noticed. But Luke had, and she felt suddenly foolish.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, ‘I’ve got it all wrong. I didn’t like my hair when they cut it, but at least they didn’t take too much off. And these clothes look ridiculous, don’t they? I was trying to look a bit more sophisticated. There was no point trying to look trendy, like Annalise, that just wouldn’t suit me, but …’

  Luke hooked his fingers under her chin and lifted her face to look at him. ‘What you’ve achieved,’ he said gently, ‘is something between the two.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is, I look like a clown?’

  ‘No,’ he laughed, ‘But if you’d let me help …’

  ‘Oh no, no, I couldn’t do that,’ Corrie interrupted, thinking immediately of Annalise. ‘Really, I couldn’t take up your time.’

  ‘It won’t be my time,’ he said, smiling right into her e
yes, ‘I was thinking of putting you in touch with a stylist I know.’

  ‘Oh.’ She didn’t say anymore than that, since she was afraid of how her voice might sound once it had broken through the all too disturbing feelings his eyes were evoking in her.

  Later that afternoon, as Corrie was finishing off yet another revealing telephone conversation with Carol, Luke called her into his office.

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, ‘Georgina’s telephone number. The stylist,’ he explained, when Corrie looked at him blankly. ‘She’s expecting to hear from you in the next half an hour.’

  ‘Half an hour!’ Corrie gasped.

  ‘Why not? You want a new image, so go get yourself one. Take a few days off then we’ll see if we recognize you when you come back.’

  Corrie took a breath to speak then stopped herself. It would seem churlish to object when he was being so kind, but the last thing she wanted right now was to take time off. What she wanted was to get to work.

  However, between beauty salons, make-up counters, image consultants, colour co-ordinators and dress designers she was able to make even more notes, and took the opportunity to see a little more of Felicity whom she was coming to like, and respect, a great deal. She hardly had time to reflect on what exalted company she was now moving in, with friends like Felicity Burridge and Svengalis like Luke Fitzpatrick, though Paula was always there to remind her, and Corrie almost burst with pride at the way she seemed to be taking her new friendships in her stride.

  ‘Well, I think you’re done,’ Georgina, the stylist said just four days after they first met. ‘What do you think?’

  They were in the hairdressers where Corrie had just had her shoulder length hair completely restyled, highlighted and permed. Now it was just beneath her chin and framed her face with such an abundant cascade of coppery curls that when Georgina spun her towards the mirror she actually gasped. Her hair had always been thick, but she had never imagined that it could look so wildly abandoned yet chic at the same time. And her face! Her features looked so much smaller than before, yet somehow more defined. There was just a whisper of brown eye-shadow on her lids, a double coat of mascara on her lashes, the merest hint of blusher lifting her cheekbones and a soft glossy amber lipstick coating her lips.