by Mia Dolan
Allegra was dressed in a low-cut red dress with cutaway arms that exposed her creamy shoulders.
Victor Camilleri bent his head and kissed the one nearest him.
‘That man over there,’ he whispered, his free hand holding aloft a smoking King Edward so the smoke wouldn’t fall over Allegra’s face. ‘He’s in line to become a government minister. Guess what ministry he’s hoping to get.’
Holding a glass of champagne in front of her face and wearing a serene smile, Allegra shook her head. ‘No. I don’t know. But no doubt you’re going to tell me.’
His hand went from her shoulder to her knee. ‘Minister of Education. That man wants to be responsible for the education of school children and young people at university. Is that not a joke?’
Allegra kept her eyes fixed on the corpulent man with the red face and sweaty complexion. He was at least sixty years old. His mistress was eighteen years old and set up in a flat in Pimlico. She was thin and childlike with urchin eyes and straight fair hair.
‘His idea of education covers a broad canvas,’ Allegra said casually, as though she were hardened to the predicament of other people. It wasn’t true, but she’d got used to pretending.
Unlike the other girls set up with rich old men, she had not met Victor through the sewing room and Daisy Chain. Both the Camilleri and Montillado family attended mass at the Church of the Holy Trinity in Bethnal Green. That’s where Victor had first seen the beautiful young girl who had once had it in mind to become a nun. Victor saved her from that – to his way of thinking. He had gone out of his way to seduce her. Unfortunately someone else got there first.
‘Father Bernard,’ she’d said in the midst of a tempestuous argument with her parents. They had still been keen for her to become a nun and, seeing as the child had been adopted, they could see no barrier to her doing so. But Allegra had changed her mind. At Pilemarsh she’d met other girls of her age. She’d felt free but regretful that she’d given away her child. She also swore that she would never set foot in a church again.
The fact that the conception of her child had involved a young priest changed everything. Her relationship with her parents became strained, with her father in particular. He threw her out. It was difficult for a girl used to a lavish lifestyle and plenty of money. Despairingly she’d tried to make it up with her parents, but whilst her mother wanted to forgive her, her father was resolute. He considered they’d done enough merely by taking her to the home for unmarried mothers and arranging the adoption of her child – their grandchild.
It was Victor who had rescued her. He’d lavished affection on her and listened when she explained how she felt about the Church, about the child she had given away and the priest who had caused her predicament.
He did everything he could to make things up with her parents, but they’d remained unmoved. Drowning in despair, she’d cut her wrists. It was Victor who had saved her from herself. He gave her an option – the only option she had. She became his mistress and began to realise something very amazing indeed. She’d grown to love him and that in itself was a miracle.
She thought of this now and her eyes began to water.
‘You OK?’ Victor asked.
She blamed the smoke. ‘I’m also a little tired.’
His hand slid from her knee to her thigh. ‘Tired? Come on, darling, I haven’t been round that much just lately.’
‘Perhaps that’s the reason,’ she said with a generous smile. If there was one thing she’d learned early on in life it was how to massage a man’s ego. Make him feel that she couldn’t function without him; that she was at her happiest when he was making love to her. And, of course, there was no one who could do it like he could, at least, that was the picture she painted.
Victor’s attention and his plume of cigar smoke switched to his son, who was making his way through the crush of small, round tables.
Allegra gave him a nod of welcome in response to the one he gave her. Father and son embraced.
‘A man should always have a son to carry on his name,’ Victor trumpeted. ‘My son is a fine figure of a man, yes?’
People sat at tables close by overheard and gave their approval in shouts of yes and the clapping of hands.
Allegra watched cold eyed and chilled to the bone. She was reminded of a stage actor taking his encores with easy disdain – as if Roberto deserved such acclaim.
All the same, she was frightened of him. Her jaw tightened at the thought of him. Like father, like son. The two men were both arrogant and easily offended. They were also devious and vicious in their revenge. This father/son relationship could so easily disintegrate if the father knew that his son had tried to seduce her. But Allegra would never tell him that; strange as it might seem to an outsider, she loved Victor. Their relationship suited her fine.
She sipped delicately at the very good champagne Victor kept at this club alone, listening to what was being said with increasing alarm.
‘Brooksy is such a prat at times. He crowed to me about this little business of hers. Do you know what she’s doing?’
Victor laughed when his son told him that Marcie had a business making theatrical costumes. ‘So you want this girl back?’
Roberto’s face darkened. ‘She can’t just run out on me like that. She needs to know that.’
Allegra was panic stricken. She had to phone Marcie and tell her to get out of there. There was a payphone out in the hallway by the entrance where people phoned for taxis. She had to get to it. The cloakrooms were there too.
‘We’re leaving,’ said Victor, cupping her arm and rising so that she had to rise too.
‘I need the ladies’ …’
Victor frowned. ‘Well get on with it. Fast.’
She headed in the general direction of the ladies’ cloakroom but did a slight detour to the two telephone kiosks situated immediately opposite the doorman’s desk.
Fingers became all thumbs. Her hands shook as she attempted to get her purse from out of her red patent clutch bag. Her heart was racing. Pennies fell to the floor. A helpful hand reached into the cubicle and picked them up. She found herself looking into Victor’s angry countenance.
‘This ain’t the ladies’ cloakroom,’ he growled. ‘What the hell do you think you’re up to?’
Tony Brooks was drunk as a skunk and lying flat on his back. It wasn’t just the booze that had laid him low. Roberto Camilleri had been round to have a little word and had brought that animal, Malcolm, with him. At Roberto’s command the Black Bull had buried his fist in Tony’s gut. Malcolm’s closed fist was roughly the size of a small anvil and just as hard. Tony went down. Malcolm stood over him while Roberto poured a bowl of porridge onto his face. Luckily for Tony it had cooled.
‘That’s for nicking the old man’s car without permission.’
‘Just the porridge?’ Tony knew he was much too glib for his own good, but he couldn’t help it. He felt he’d had grounds for borrowing the car.
On Roberto’s say so, Malcolm thudded into Tony’s ribs.
‘You nicked my old man’s motor, you nonce. He wants an apology.’
Although his gut felt as though it had exploded into his lungs, Tony shook his head. ‘I don’t owe him any apology. He’s got it all wrong.’
‘You’ve been pocketing the rent. Ain’t that right?’
He’d been angry that Ella had scooted. The money had fuelled a booze-filled night and two whores who worked for Victor. It was them who’d reported him.
Malcolm lifted his foot. Tony winced at the thought of his right ribs being rearranged to match his left.
‘You can’t do this, Roberto. After all, ain’t we going to be related? My Marcie … and Michael?’
At mention of Marcie and Michael Roberto’s stance altered. His jaw shifted from side to side as though he were grinding his teeth.
‘Marcie and Michael? Are you havin’ me on?’
Hearing Roberto’s tone, Tony immediately knew he’d made a grave mistake mentioning
Michael.
‘They’re good friends.’
Roberto bent down, blowing smoke into Tony’s face. The sight of his eyes sent a chill through Marcie’s dad. This bloke wasn’t just nasty, he was vicious, as vicious a piece of work as you’d ever get this side of the river.
‘Is he screwing your little girl, Brooksy? Is he having carnal relations with her?’
Tony stared. A warning signal went off in his brain. Say nothing. Don’t dig yourself a deeper pit than you’ve already done. I shouldn’t have told him about her new place, he said to himself. At least he hadn’t given Roberto her exact address, had he? He’d merely told him how well Marcie was doing in her new venture, and how she was living and setting up her business upstairs from a trophy shop in Balham. Christ, what the hell have I done? he thought, they could find her.
Roberto’s face wasn’t far from his. The clean-cut features looked demonic in the half-light coming in from the street outside.
‘You sound like a fucking pimp, do you know that, Bertie? Still, not surprising seeing as you’re running a team from Daisy Chain. Does your mother know what’s going on? Does she?’
Roberto stabbed the burning cigar onto his cheek.
‘Don’t call me Bertie! Right!’
‘So what do I call you? Pimp?’
The lighted cigar again, this time for longer. Tony winced and gritted his teeth.
Roberto was snarling. ‘Let’s get this straight, Brooksy. None of these girls are forced into reaping the benefit of a lasting relationship with a rich and powerful geezer. It’s just suggested to them as a way to get the things they want in life. Nothing like that was ever suggested to Marcie. Scouts honour,’ he said, giving a two-fingered salute. ‘And by the way, it ain’t been Michael screwing your daughter. It was me. I screwed her something chronic and she groaned with pleasure like the fucking little slut she is!’
Tony rubbed at the ache in his ribs, but it was nothing compared to the anger he was feeling now. Taking the car had been a spur of the moment thing. He’d been involved in London’s underworld long enough to know what went on there. Live and let live, that was his motto, but losing Ella had upset him. And now this. He’d survive this ordeal. In fact he’d go out of his way to survive it. And then he’d go looking for Roberto and when he caught up with him …
‘Get up.’
It was Roberto rather than Malcolm who helped him to his feet. Tony eyed the young Camilleri warily. Something was on here.
Roberto brushed at the shoulders of Tony’s leather jacket then rested his hands there. He looked into his eyes as though they were the best of old friends, friends who had fallen out over a very small matter.
‘So. Michael. You approve of this?’
Tony could eat humble pie if he had to and lie as though he were telling the truth. He did all that now. ‘I told her to lose the bloke, but you know how girls are nowadays,’ he said with a nervous smile while gripping his aching ribs. ‘After all, he’s not you is he? He’s not a Camilleri.’
Roberto’s smile was slow to cross his face but Tony was glad to see it.
Roberto’s mouth curled into a cruel sneer. ‘No, Brooksy. You are right. He is not a Camilleri.’
Tony knew better than to disagree with him. Revenge, as they say, is best eaten cold. And that’s what he would do. He would wait and take his revenge cold. Bent almost double with the pain of his broken ribs, he waited until they were gone.
There was a payphone down in the hallway. Gripping the banister tightly, he struggled down the stairs, each step sending a stab of pain to his ribs.
By the time he made the hallway the sweat was dripping off him and his cheek felt on fire where the cigar had burned his flesh. Worse than that were his ribs. He could barely breathe.
‘You alright, Mr Brooks?’
The old lady on the ground floor was peeping out through a six-inch gap in her door.
‘Fine. I need to phone my daughter.’
He managed to get the piece of paper out of his pocket with her number on plus the necessary coins. It was an effort to put the lot onto the phone shelf and one or two coins fell onto the floor. He glanced at them briefly. There was no way he could bend down to pick them up.
‘Do you mind?’ he asked the old lady and pointed to the coins. ‘It’s a matter of life and death …’
The busy flock wallpaper closed in on him and the red patterns became black and then no pattern at all. The receiver was left swinging. Mrs Allen from the ground floor picked it up and called for an ambulance.
* * *
Victor Camilleri swung his arm. Allegra gave one loud cry as she fell sideways. She landed on top of the teak coffee table where recently she’d quaffed champagne with Marcie and Sally.
‘Who were you phoning, you fucking whore? Your boyfriend? Are you screwing around behind my back?’
‘No!’
She screamed as he brought his crippled leg back again. This time it slammed into the table leg. The wood splintered. The coffee table crumpled beneath her weight and both she and it hit the floor.
She shook her head, her hair, usually so glossy, sticking in wet tendrils around her wet cheeks and crying eyes.
‘There’s no one. No one!’
He grabbed a handful of her hair. Her neck straightened. Her chin went higher as she tried to alleviate the pain of having her hair pulled out by the roots.
‘You’re lying, you slut! Do you think I don’t know what girls like you want? A bit of fresh meat now and again! Yes? Is the old man getting too saggy for you? Too slow to come in the sack?’
Tears and snot mixed on her beautiful face as she shook her head vehemently, terrified as to what he would do next.
‘I would never do that. I love you.’
‘So who were you phoning? Who were you fucking phoning?’
‘A friend. A girlfriend.’
‘A girlfriend, huh! So what’s her name, this girlfriend you wanted to phone.’
‘Sally! Her name’s Sally.’
When he hit her this time, she fell to the floor and didn’t get up. It was safe on the floor. Safe and dark.
Chapter Thirty-nine
ALLEGRA HAD TAKEN to calling into the workshop in Balham three times a week and usually arrived at around lunchtime, drifting in on a cloud of Chanel perfume and perfectly attired. From the first moment they’d met Marcie had envied her class and her money. She always seemed to lead a hectic social life and even hinted at a rich fiancé. It occurred to Marcie that the fiancé was unduly possessive. Allegra had hinted that he was a very jealousman.
‘I expect your parents are excited about the wedding,’ Marcie had said blithely.
A frozen pause had flitted across Allegra’s beautiful face. ‘Yes,’ she blurted. She did not go into detail.
Marcie dismissed the fragile moment. She didn’t question how Allegra could afford such an opulent lifestyle, presuming her family supported her. It wasn’t until later on that she found out the truth.
Today was Wednesday. Allegra always came in on Wednesday, but today she was late.
Sally was lounging back in a chair, her feet up on a cutting table. Her arms were folded across ample bosoms thrusting rebelliously against a yellow sweater and she was yawning.
‘I’ll make the tea,’ said Renee, one of the part-timers who bragged that she’d been one of the Windmill Girls. The Windmill Theatre had boasted of never closing down during the war. It also boasted semi-naked showgirls forming still-life tableaux – dancing was forbidden. Renee seemed a bit short to have been one of their showgirls but she was a whiz on a sewing machine.
Marcie tucked a blanket around Joanna who had fallen asleep in an old Victorian nursing chair. She glanced up at the clock.
‘Allegra’s late.’
Sally opened one eye. ‘P’raps she’s gone off to the French Riviera with some toff she’s picked up.’
Marcie laughed. ‘I can’t imagine Allegra running off with a toff.’
‘I would,’ S
ally said gloomily. ‘Pete’s alright, but I can’t even get him as far as Brighton. It’s Southend or nothing with him. He told me he’s a “Kiss me Quick” sort of bloke. I said to him how France might turn me into a sex kitten like that Brigitte Bardot.’
Pete, Sally’s beau, was a policeman and a bit of a Steady Eddie. Marcie had been surprised to know that she had a second boyfriend, a reserve for when Klaus, her rich lover who paid all the bills, wasn’t around.
‘So what did Pete say?’ Marcie asked while taking the pins out of a heart-shaped G-string.
Sally pulled a disgruntled face. ‘I don’t think he was listening. He said he didn’t like cats.’
Marcie looked at her. ‘Are you kidding me?’
Sally burst out laughing.
Marcie joined her before once again looking up at the clock.
‘She’ll ring if she can’t get here,’ said Sally who’d noticed her looking.
‘It’s not working. Mr Griffiths downstairs has contacted the Post Office.’
Sally reached for a pair of lilac ostrich feathers that she was considering having stitched into a headdress. ‘I think the lilac,’ she said after viewing herself in a mirror. ‘Is the teeny-weeny ready? I think I’ll try it on.’
The teeny-weeny was the G-string.
‘Drink your tea first,’ said Marcie. ‘Otherwise you might scald your assets.’
Out in the small kitchen where the hot water heater above the sink made gurgling noises like a drowning goldfish, Renee was humming to herself as she filled the kettle, put tea into a large brown pot and opened a packet of custard creams. The steam from the kettle dampened her iron-grey curls so that they clung like limpets to her forehead. Her cheeks turned ruddy from the hot steam and she felt warm and happy.
Heading fast towards fifty, she could still hold a tune but her looks were long gone. The hourglass figure she’d had in her youth had widened and thickened to the proportions of a cottage loaf. Instead of Paris fashion she wore a full-figure apron that crossed over at the breasts and tied up around the middle.
