by Mia Dolan
‘I love lurex!’ he exclaimed in a sudden and surprising falsetto voice. The voice had been adopted the moment his wig went on. ‘Just one point, hen – could you give me a bit more room in the jockstrap area?’ The request was accompanied with a pat on the crotch.
‘I’m here to please,’ Marcie responded.
‘You didn’t bat an eyelid,’ Sally said to her afterwards.
‘Did you expect me to?’
Sally laughed.
Between drawings and sticking samples of materials on stiff cardboard, she tended her daughter, who was teething again.
The girls who made a living taking their clothes off turned out to be a mixed bunch. A lot of them were bold and brash like Sally Saunders. Some were gorgeous to look at but gave their origins away the minute they opened their mouths.
‘Bleedin’ ’ell. Look at these tits. If they gets much bleedin’ bigger I can chuck the mink stole and put these over me shoulders instead!’
Her name was Dorothy Lambert and her boobs were her fortune. She stood just five feet two inches in her bare feet. Her hips were as slim as a boy and her waistline was tiny. Her breasts on the other hand were huge and the reason for her success.
‘So you wouldn’t ever have them cut off,’ Marcie asked her.
‘Sometimes I would – when me back’s aching like nobody’s business, but then I lie down on me back and think of money.’
She cackled like a laying hen at her joke.
The incident with Roberto was hard to forget, but her new line of business and her new company certainly raised her spirits. She’d also had a period since Roberto’s onslaught and was thankful she wasn’t pregnant. Now she was safely on the pill and safe to make love with Michael any time she chose. She was putting the past behind her as best she could.
It was on a Wednesday morning that the famous Carla came calling. Close to six feet tall, her presence seemed to fill the workroom the moment she came in the door. She had dyed honey-blonde hair pulled back into a French pleat, oozed perfume and a trashy glamour, the latter emphasised by virtue of the oversized leopard-skin coat she was wearing. It had a huge collar flopping like a cape onto her shoulders and swung from a central shoulder yoke into a swirling circle at knee level. Obviously no slave to current fashion where chunky heels and square toes were currently the norm, her shoes were still old-style winkle-pickers with four-inch stiletto heels; in the right hands they looked capable of stabbing somebody and were safer staying on her feet.
‘My name’s Carla Casey,’ she said extending a black-gloved hand. ‘You’ve got me to thank for putting business your way.’ Her voice grated like iron dragged against gravel, no doubt the result of smoking sixty plus per day.
‘In that case, thank you.’ Marcie shook the offered gloved hand.
The gloved hand held hers. She noticed a bracelet worn over the elbow-length glove. A pair of striking grey eyes looked her up and down. She was smoking via an ebony cigarette holder. ‘Sally said you were quite a beauty.’
The voice was intrusive, like grit being thrown against the windowpane close to the ear.
‘Did she?’ Marcie felt momentarily flattered.
‘Sally isn’t always right,’ Carla proclaimed dismissively.
Marcie felt deflated.
Carla appeared not to notice. ‘Now. Perhaps you could show me around. Fifi La Mare tells me she’s very pleased with the outfits you’re running up for her girls.’
Fifi La Mare was the doyenne of a troupe of dancing girls with a vaguely horsey connotation. They carried long riding crops and wore tight-fitting outfits that exposed far more than they covered: little waistcoats, tiny briefs and long black riding boots with spurs and spiked heels. The expanse of thigh between boot top and knicker leg was covered in fishnet tights.
Marcie had been along to see their act with Michael. Eva, one of her freelance seamstresses, came in to look after Joanna. It had been Sally’s night off and Allegra had come too though had left early with the excuse that she had a business appointment. It seemed an odd time of night for a business appointment, but Allegra led an odd life, being available more often during the day than she was at night.
‘I saw their act,’ Marcie informed her.
Again her comment did not draw a response.
The woman sauntered around the workroom as though she owned it, inspecting the garments hanging from rails and the items being run through a machine.
‘Are you confident of always delivering work on time?’ Again she used an imperious tone.
‘Subject to fitting. Some of the girls put weight on between ordering and fitting,’ said Marcie.
Carla looked at her without a trace of a smile. ‘It concerns me that your measurements are that inaccurate.’
‘They’re not. One or two got pregnant.’
‘Ah!’
Carla unsnapped the clasp on her handbag, placed one ebony holder back in her bag and got out a fresh one. Marcie watched, fascinated, as she lit up. She’d only seen film stars with cigarette holders, never in real life. But never two.
‘So,’ said Carla, chancing the hint of a smile. ‘Are you going to offer me some refreshment?’
Marcie nodded. ‘Come this way.’
There was something almost laughable about Carla’s attitude, not that she would dare laugh out loud. This woman had brokered a lot of business.
Marcie had left Joanna taking her midday nap in her cot in the other room. After checking with Carla, she made tea, thought about offering biscuits, but decided she didn’t want the woman to linger that long, so put the tin back on the shelf.
When she went back into the living room, Carla was nowhere to be seen. Marcie frowned. There was no way she could have left. She would have heard the door. So where was she?
Setting the tray down on the coffee table, she went looking for her. First she pressed her ear against the bathroom door but the door squeaked open.
Then there were sounds. She stood mesmerised at those sounds. Not words, not quite, but cooing sounds, sounds a woman makes to a baby or young child.
Marcie immediately knew where she was. She found her standing with her hands on the side of Joanna’s cot gazing down at the sleeping child and murmuring all the silly things that mothers croon to their children. At first unaware of Marcie’s presence, her face seemed transformed from the bitch of a woman who had come in demanding, ordering and specifying. Her mouth was open as though she’d just gasped with wonder. The hard bitch face was no more, her features softened as she reached down and touched the child’s fingers.
‘You are such a beautiful little girl,’ she said softly.
Suddenly aware that she wasn’t alone, she looked up.
‘I was looking for the bathroom,’ she whispered.
She made no attempt to move away from the cot. Her gaze went back to Joanna.
‘What a lovely little kid.’ Her tone had turned noticeably harsher.
Marcie frowned. There was no way this woman had been looking for the bathroom. It was easily found, being the first door on the right while the bedroom was the second. She could not allay the suspicion that Carla had purposely gone to this room.
‘What are you up to?’
Carla’s expression froze. Marcie could tell she was about to deny she was up to anything and keep to the bathroom thing, but she was having none of it.
‘Don’t lie to me. What are you doing in here?’
‘Nothing.’ Carla shook her head and gave a light little laugh.
Alarm bells rang in Marcie’s head. Being a mother had made her extremely protective of her child. ‘Did Roberto put you up to this?’
‘Roberto?’ Carla was almost laughing. ‘You have to be bloody joking, darling!’
Marcie could not get rid of her feeling of unease. ‘You look like my little brother Archie after he’s raided the biscuit barrel and ate the bloody lot. Go on. Get out of my flat.’
Carla was full of indignation, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘Y
ou can’t speak to me like that!’
‘Yes I can. You invited yourself in here. The tea’s on the table. Drink it, use my bathroom if you must, but keep away from my child. No one has access to my child without my say so. Is that clear?’
Carla’s face drained of colour, her pallor emphasised by her blood-red lips and the two spots of rouge remaining on her cheekbones. She walked stiffly from the bedroom and back into the living room. She paused by the coffee table, glancing down at the waiting tray as though she were trying to decide something. Then she smiled as though nothing untoward had happened at all.
‘I do have a busy schedule today, so I won’t stop for tea. I’m quite satisfied placing more business with you. Good day.’
‘No need to go through the shop. You can go out this way,’ said Marcie, opening the private door that led out onto the metal stairway. ‘Out the back way. Tradesmen’s entrance.’
She used the same stiff unsmiling fashion as Carla was using with her.
‘There’s a car waiting for me out front and you can’t expect me to get down those steps in one piece wearing these heels! Be fair!’
Marcie closed the door. Carla had a point and she certainly didn’t want to force her down a set of dangerous steps. After all, her referrals constituted a considerable portion of her business. She had to be balanced about this.
‘This way.’
She accompanied her through the workshop and along the passage, past the trophy shop to the front door. The door shuddered as she tugged it open.
Carla gave a little nod of her head by way of goodbye. Her heels stabbed at the pavement before digging into the tarmac as she crossed the road.
The leopard-skin coat swirled around the tall figure making for the sleek black limousine parked on the other side. The driver got out and opened the rear passenger door. During the brief period the door was open, it appeared there was another person sitting on the back seat, huddled into the far corner. It occurred to her that perhaps the other person did not want to be seen. Not Roberto hopefully!
Standing behind the door for what must have been at least three minutes, she swallowed the fear that had risen like bile to her throat. It could not have been Roberto sitting in the limousine. Why should it have been?
She reminded herself of what Sally had told her about the nightclub scene, that they were all hand in glove, nightclub owners feeding like louse on the other people involved. Women formed the backbone of the entertainment and in more ways than one.
But it was Roberto that Marcie feared. The main horror of any mother is for a child to go missing and her imagination was running riot. What if he had sent Carla to kidnap Joanna in order to force her to go back to him? What if he refused to give her back unless she did? What if …
How do you know it was a man?
There was that whisper again. It was like having a bucket of cold water thrown over her. She clutched at her heart and felt its beating returning to normal.
The voice was right. She couldn’t be sure the backseat passenger hadn’t been a woman. Did she see trousers legs? No. She had not.
Just in case they were lingering, just in case her first suspicion – crazy as it might be – was right, she tugged the door open.
The car was gone. A paper boy was hanging over his bicycle while fixing a pair of bicycle clips around the ankles of his baggy trousers. The rest of the street was clear. Nobody threatening, nobody looking in her direction.
Chapter Thirty-five
ELLA WOULDN’T LET Tony Brooks have a key to her place, which is why he found himself outside and hammering on the door.
She took her time coming to open it which was just as well. He was fuming, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his hairy black brows beetled like a thatched roof over his eyes. Bloody priest! What the hell was his mother thinking of telling Father Justin O’Flanagan where he lived?
He’d still been in bed when the old sod had arrived; that’s what comes of working for a bloke who owned the best nightclubs in East London. Like Count bleedin’ Dracula, he thought to himself. I works at night and I sleeps all day.
So the priest had caught him in. Even though it was only just after lunch, Father Justin had licked his lips and asked for a drink – and he didn’t mean water!
‘I’ve had a long journey,’ Father Justin had said, his eyes sliding to where Tony had left the whisky bottle from the night before.
Brought up a good Catholic boy, Tony made overtures to pour out a measure, but even before he lifted the bottle, curiosity – and bad temper – got the better of him.
‘Why are you here, Father?’
He knew the answer. Of course he knew the bloody answer even before the words were preached at him.
‘You know your mother worries about you, and your wife – although she may be a second wife and not exactly exalted in the eyes of the Church – she is the mother of your children and thus is justifiably worried about you. You haven’t been coming home, Antonio. Why is that?’
When Tony didn’t answer, the priest’s eyes fell back to the whisky bottle.
‘Your wife seems to think you may have fallen into sinful ways – with a child of Ham.’
‘Ham?’
Tony’s face screwed up in consternation. He couldn’t believe the priest knew anything about Ella’s parentage, so what the hell was old Custard Eyes, as he called him, on about?
‘Who’s this Ham when he’s at home?’ he asked again.
‘The darker children of Africa.’
Tony jerked his chin defiantly. ‘Ella isn’t from Africa. She’s Jamaican and a Christian. She’s also a very good person.’
‘How can she be if she is liaising with you, and how can you be if you are demeaning yourself …’
Tony held the rest of the scene at bay. He was ashamed he’d hit the priest, but there was no excuse for speaking of Ella with such contempt. Anyway, what did the seedy old sod know of Ella and her life or that of her kids? Nobody knew her or her situation better than he did. She’d needed help and he’d helped her. That was all there was to it – except for the sex of course, but there, she’d needed solace, he’d needed solace.
The door to Ella’s flat was still firmly closed in his face so he gave it another hammering.
A door further along the hallway opened. He saw the whites of somebody’s eyes peering at him.
‘Have you seen Ella?’ he asked, desperately trying to keep the urgency from his voice and failing miserably.
The eyes watched him approach, looking up at him like a lost spaniel once he was standing over them. The woman had woolly brown hair and a pock-marked skin. No raving beauty.
‘She is gone, man.’ Her voice was hushed, like a brush sweeping a carpet.
Tony frowned. Ella hadn’t told her she was going anywhere.
He gave it the old confident shrug of the shoulders trick. It always made people feel that he meant business. ‘What do you mean by gone, love?’
The woman shrugged her narrow shoulders. ‘Gone away. Her ole man come for her and the kids. They gone home.’
Jamaica! They’d gone home to Jamaica.
‘They flied yesterday,’ said the woman, as though she’d read his thoughts.
The door slowly closed on Tony’s shocked expression and his pain. He stood there for what seemed like an age, staring at the closed door.
The door opened again – just an inch or two. Seeing he was still there, the woman closed the door again.
‘She must think I’m a bloody nutcase,’ he said to himself. He wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the pock-marked neighbour or to Ella. The former must think his behaviour odd. The latter had taken him for a ride – or so it seemed.
Turning back towards the door to Ella’s flat he let the truth sink in. Ella had used him to pay the rent. Her husband might very well have had a hand in it. Not wanting a job on the buses, he had got the money from somewhere for the return ticket home. London, England and the crap weather and conditions couldn�
��t compete with a sun-drenched island. Island in the Sun, he thought. A touch of the Harry Belafontes.
A stain on the wall beside the door to Ella’s flat caught his attention. It looked enough like a face for Tony to bunch his fist and strike out. A shower of crumbling plaster fell from the wall in the brown-painted hallway. Tony told himself it was teeth and it made him feel better.
He stalked to the door, hunching his shoulders inside his big camel overcoat.
‘Forget it,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Bloody forget it.’
So he marched off and thought about seeking some way of raising his spirits. It was too early for the club, so he thought he might head for Marcie’s place. She’d told him about the flat above a darts trophy shop over Balham way. He’d head there and get himself a nice cup of tea and a bit of sympathy. And he could see his granddaughter while he was there. Marcie had told him she’d brought her up from Sheppey. Perhaps next weekend he’d go down there himself. Yes, he decided, it’s time to go down and see me old mum. Besides, Babs could do with a bit of attention. OK, she’d be in a bit of a mood at first, but once he got her into bed without her nightdress on, she’d forget being moody. That’s one thing he could count on with Babs: she never said no.
With that thought in his head he began to whistle. Ella was gone, but nothing was lost – except that Victor wouldn’t be getting any rent from Ella this week and he wouldn’t be paying it for her.
He’d only visited Marcie’s new place once before and, although he hadn’t made comment, he’d much admired her feisty spirit.
Rather than take the door from the street he braved the narrow passageway running beside the shop selling darts trophies, went up the metal staircase at the rear, taking the steps two at a time.
‘Hi, doll,’ he exclaimed as Marcie let him in.
His attention was briefly taken by someone halfway through the other door that led down the front stairs and out onto the street.
Michael Jones!
‘Hey, pal. What you doing here?’
Marcie interceded. ‘He’s a friend. Michael’s welcome here.’
