You Don't Know Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

by Georgia Le Carre

  I mark her as my biggest competitor. It turns out the sleekly beautiful olive-skinned beauty has the longest legs I have ever seen on a human being. To increase the illusion she hooks on glass-effect shoes. As if by unspoken agreement we are all ready at the same time.

  Together we go up the grand staircase Jake Eden had come down and through a pair of gold and black doors.

  I have been in nightclubs when daylight starts filtering in before, and it always looks dirty and sordid, but not this place. Here it is as if we have stepped back into a decadent time in Paris or Vienna when men wore wigs and high heels. From the hundreds of gilded mirrors to the intricate gold on black brocade upholstery on the armchairs and settees, the rich wallpapers, the heavy velvet curtains, to the massive chandeliers it is just over the top splendor. The rich mix of colors reminds me of a Gustav Klimt painting. Patrick is standing at the lip of the stage talking to a balding man. He beckons us over.

  ‘This is Mark. He’s the manager so be nice to him.’

  ‘Hey,’ Mark greets with a smile that encompasses all of us. We pipe in with our bright volley of hellos and heys.

  Mark doesn’t waste time. He zeroes in on the olive-skinned beauty. ‘Haven’t I seen you before, sweetheart?’

  She shakes her head decisively. ‘Nope. This is my first time here.’

  ‘Yeah? Weren’t you here about six months ago?’

  Saying nothing she starts walking away.

  Mark looks at Patrick. ‘Roamers.’

  Patrick shrugs. That’s a commission he won’t be getting.

  I watch her go—one down, three to go. Later I would learn that roamers are hookers who work a few sessions in strip clubs every few months to look for customers they can turn into private clients.

  ‘I’ll be at the bar,’ says Patrick turning away from us.

  ‘First time for anybody here?’ Mark asks.

  I raise my hand.

  ‘Right. We run a squeaky clean club here. No drugs. No prostitution. Zero tolerance. Got that?’

  ‘Got it,’ I say quickly.

  He nods. ‘Did you bring your music?’

  I nod.

  ‘Great. The set-up is you’ve got two songs. Keep your clothes on for the first song. Start getting undressed for the second and by the middle of the second track you have to be topless. You have only one objective. By the end of your second track you want every guy in the place to want to empty his wallet all over you.’

  I nod slowly.

  He turns toward the redhead. ‘Want to go first, sweetheart?’

  ‘Sure,’ she says with a sweet smile, and gives him her CD. He sticks it into a small machine that is conveniently just under the stage. ‘Ready when you are.’

  She takes her time sashaying to the pole.

  ‘Ready,’ she calls out once she is in position.

  Mark hits play and the club fills with the sound of Pussycat Dolls belting out, ‘Don’t You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me’. The redhead is OK, but nothing special, and my confidence goes up a notch. As the seconds tick by I realize I am miles better than her. In fact, she does not even get a chance to finish her first number before Mark snaps off the music.

  ‘Thanks, sweetheart, but you need more moves. Get some dance lessons and then come back for another audition with the House Mother,’ he dismisses. It is a no, but he has left the door open. He turns toward the black girl.

  ‘Can I have only the ultraviolet lights on, please?’ she requests.

  Mark shouts over to the barman who slips to the back of the bar. Seconds later when the stage is lit by a purple glow she steps into it and suddenly her dark skin makes her disappear. She becomes a collection of pink and green patterns. Justin Timberlake’s ‘Sexy Back’ comes on and she launches herself with surprising energy onto the pole and begins to execute the most intricate moves. But the real beauty is the way she seems to be a geometric shape moving up and down the pole. The way she gets out of her catsuit is pure class. She is damn good and so impressive to look at my heart sinks a little. If this is the standard I am competing against there is no way I am getting this job. When the music finishes it is a foregone conclusion that she is getting the job.

  ‘Fantastic show. Come back this evening at six,’ Mark tells her, and turns toward me. His eyes travel casually down my body, taking in the red dress that I could shimmy out of in two seconds flat. ‘You want to keep the fluorescent lights going?’

  I shake my head. My heart is suddenly beating so hard I feel my blood buzzing through my body. This is it. It is tits out time.

  He hollers to the barman and the lights change back. ‘Right. Off you go then.’

  The butterflies in my stomach begin to crawl up my throat. I swallow hard and nod.

  ‘Just be yourself and have fun,’ he advises with a friendly smile.

  I give him my CD and walk to the stage slowly, deliberately swaying my hips, but I am so nervous my knees wobble. I climb the steps carefully. No point falling on my ass before I start the show. There are large mirrors on stage and I can see myself walking. Five feet five inches on top of nearly seven inches of heels, slim hips, flat stomach, nothing special chest, dark chocolate hair with tints of copper and a wide red mouth fixed into a professional dancer’s smile. I guess I don’t look too bad. And I can definitely do this. I have practiced this routine for hours. OK, I am not as good as the girl who can magic into geometric shapes, but I can do this. I have a good, foxy routine. Even Ann says so and she has taught hundreds of girls. All I have to do is get to the pole and follow the routine.

  I reach the pole.

  ‘Ready?’ Mark asks.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Mark hits the play button and Marilyn Manson’s skin-crawling voice reverberates around me.

  Sometimes I feel I got to run away.

  Holding onto the pole I circle it with a prowling gait and sinuously rub myself against it. I snake my hands above my head and grabbing the pole jut my ass out and swing it from side to side. I sneak a look at Mark and he is leaning forward. Approval.

  Yeah, I can definitely do this.

  I grip the pole hard and with all my might I fling myself into the air. It should have been an energetic and impressive one-handed swing around the pole, but instead my sweaty palm starts slipping off the metal. In a blind panic I try to right myself by catching the pole with my other hand but it is too late—I am flying into the air. I end up hitting the stage floor hard with my knees. For a few seconds I sit stunned in the position I have fallen in. My adrenaline is pumping so hard I do not feel any pain. Then my brain kicks into gear. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. With my legs still twisted underneath me I turn toward Mark.

  He has slid off the table and is bounding up to the stage.

  ‘Let me try again,’ I plead, and putting my palms on the floor I attempt to push myself upright. A sharp pain shoots right up my legs. Wincing, I persist and right myself to a standing position.

  Mark is standing in front of me, looking concerned. ‘Are you all right?’

  Around us Marilyn’s raspy voice screams, Tainted love, tainted love.

  ‘I really need this job,’ I beg, humiliated by my graceless fall and annoyed with myself for being so careless.

  He eyes my knees and rubs his chin thoughtfully, and I know just by looking at him that he is going to ask me to take more lessons or something in that vein.

  ‘Please,’ I urge. ‘That was my first time. I was just nervous. I can do this.’

  ‘Look,’ he begins more firmly, but he is interrupted by his mobile ringing. He takes it out of his pocket, glances at the screen and looks surprised. He lifts one finger at me in a gesture that tells me to wait, presses his thumb on the answer button, and puts his phone to his ear.

  ‘Yup,’ he says after less than a few seconds of listening to someone speak, and terminates the call.

  He turns his attention back to me, but his eyes are now speculative and assessing. ‘Good news. You’ve got the job. You can start whenever the swel
ling’—he nods toward my knees—‘goes down. Arrive at five thirty p.m. with a photo ID, proof of address, and your National Insurance number and report to the House Mother. Her name is Brianna.’

  For an instant I stare at him speechlessly. My knees are throbbing like crazy by now. ‘I’ve got the job,’ I repeat stupidly.

  ‘Looks like it,’ he says with a grin.

  ‘Thanks, Mark. You won’t regret this.’

  ‘No problem,’ he replies casually, and losing interest in me turns toward the blonde Barbie. ‘Want to show us what you’ve got?’

  As I hobble away from the stage, a slight movement in the far shadows catches my eyes. I turn my head and at the dim edges of the club I see the glint of snakeskin as Jake Eden quietly slips out of the black and gold doors. And I know without a doubt: North London’s most illusive gangster, Jake Eden, has just hired me.

  TWO

  For two days I hobble around my flat, eat junk food, and endlessly replay my disastrous reaction to Jake Eden. Could it have been some sort of freak overreaction caused by nervousness about my impending audition? On the third day I convince myself it must have been, and slapping a bit of concealer on my knees I make my way back to the club.

  To my surprise the House Mother is a female version of my bank manager: forties, a sleek helmet of strawberry blonde hair, and a dark blue suit with a classy fitted top underneath it. Then she goes and does what my bank manager never does: she flashes a genuinely warm smile and I know we are going to get on just fine.

  ‘Hi, I’m Brianna.’ She extends a hand. ‘Patrick told me to expect you.’

  Her grasp is warm and soft.

  ‘We’re all known by our stage names here. Thank God. I’d go bonkers if I have to remember two names for all my girls. Do you have one?’

  ‘Jewel.’

  ‘Jewel. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that stage name.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been in this business for twenty years, you know. And I danced for the first ten.’

  She was so respectable and ‘establishment’ it was hard to imagine her on a pole. ‘You did?’

  ‘I sure did. A part of me still misses the attention and the money, but I’m married with kids now and I wouldn’t exchange that for the world. Besides I love being House Mom here.’ She smiles charmingly, but her next words are a smooth shift into her business mode. ‘About a hundred and twenty girls work at any given time and it is my job to ensure that just the right amount of redheads, blondes and brunettes are on the floor, so that all my girls make good money.’ She looks at me curiously. ‘You have a very exotic look. Unusual. Your eyes are slanted, but so blue.’

  ‘My grandmother is from China and my grandfather was Nordic,’ I offer reluctantly into the expectant pause. I don’t ever want to talk about my personal life to anybody here.

  ‘Ah! That will explain the amazing cheekbones too.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I accept politely, but my stiff expression closes off that avenue of conversation.

  ‘Right. I expect all my girls to be able to do at least three shifts a week. If for any reason at all you can’t make it, you’re ill, you’ve got your period, or you’ve got a mother of a hangover, just let me know so I can cover my ass. Be honest with me. I expect straight talking from all my girls and I’ll do the same with you. Understand?’

  I nod quickly.

  ‘It is also my job to act as the buffer between the customers and the dancers so no matter what troubles you find yourself in you can always come to me.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Good. Let’s get the house rules out of the way. The most important one is: the punters aren’t allowed to touch you and you aren’t allowed to touch them below the waist. Break that rule and you’re out. If the security cameras ever pick up a girl touching a man’s groin with any part of her body that girl never dances here again. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Now, it’s pretty standard that while you are dancing for a guy he will have a semi happening in his pants. At that point it is exactly the same with all men. They’ll look at their crotch meaningfully and ask you to touch them.’

  My belly churns with disgust, but I fight hard to keep my face neutral, and I must have succeeded because she carries on without batting an eyelid.

  ‘They’ll plead with you, offer you money, and some of them will even tell you they are friends of the management, and that it’ll be OK for you to “help” them. But if you do touch them and they turn out to be undercover officers from the licensing department at the Council or the police, the club will be closed down within the hour.’

  ‘So what does everybody do at that stage?’

  ‘Tell them you’d love to, but it could be seen as soliciting and that would be in breach of the club’s license. Point coyly to the security cameras.’

  ‘What if they insist?’

  ‘If anybody behaves in a perverted way, is rude or aggressive to you, simply signal one of the security boys and the chancer will be escorted or dragged out, depending on the situation, by the back way where there are no security cameras.’

  It is hard to imagine that simply the sight of a pair of breasts will make grown men gladly drop thousands of pounds from their wallets, but I do start to feel better about the job.

  Then she explains the financial set-up. For the first three days I will not have to pay house fees, but after that all dancers have to pay a house fee of ninety-five pounds—sixty-five at the start of the evening and thirty by midnight. Use of the VIP rooms costs thirty pounds an hour, but the men get charged two hundred so my profit is a hundred and seventy for that hour.

  Then she tells me the interesting part: money does not change hands between customers and dancers. Instead dancers and punters use plastic chips called Eve’s Currency or ECs. The club adds twenty percent to whatever the customer converts into ECs and deducts twenty percent commission from the dancers when they change ECs back into cash at the end of the night. It seems incredible to me that the dancers can make any money at all with all these charges. My thoughts must have showed in my face.

  ‘Most of the men who come in here know the deal. They understand that the girls aren’t here for free and they keep the lovely stuff flowing. Don’t worry—a girl with your looks will make money—lots of it. And when you do always remember to show your appreciation to the finely tuned invisible grapevine circulating intelligence around the club.’

  ‘Invisible grapevine of intelligence?’ I thought this was a gentlemen’s strip club!

  ‘Let’s say a customer pulls up in a Lamborghini. The doorman will radio ahead to reception that someone who needs looking after has just come in. Reception might decide to waive the entrance fee, which will make him feel special and put him in a good frame of mind. While seating the prestige customer the waitress will ask him what kind of mood he is in or if he has any special requests.’

  She stops to smile cheekily. ‘If he says, “Tonight I’m feeling exotic,” she will pass that information on to the DJ who will instantly call you or the other exotic on the floor up to the stage. By the time you sashay over to the big spender to ask if he wants a dance, he will think Eden is the most brilliant place in the world. All he has to do is think of the flavor of girl he wants and lo and behold, by a beautiful coincidence, she is everywhere. He’ll never know that it is well-oiled cooperation at work.’

  She looks at her watch.

  ‘I’ll give you a quick tour, show you to your locker, introduce you to Josh who is head of security, and then take you over to Terry, our resident make-up artist. Since this is your first time you must pay twenty-five pounds for a compulsory complete makeover session with her. She’ll teach you how to bring out the most of yourself. If you can learn to recreate that look tomorrow you won’t need her anymore, but if you can’t you’ll have to shell it out again. Are you OK with that?’

  I nod.

  ‘After Terry I’ll introduce you to our no-buttons dres
smaker, Donna. She can make an outfit to cater to any man’s fantasy and she’s an absolute genius with Velcro. Her dresses are designed to fly off you if you stick your tits out forcefully or squeeze your buttocks hard.’

  ‘God!’

  Brianna laughs. ‘I think you’ll find it good for tips. Punters are usually so amazed and entertained they’ll tip you all over again to see a repeat performance. And if you find a “lucky” outfit that you make a lot of money in you can ask her to make you a copy.’

  ‘OK,’ I agree, as she pushes the door open and we start the tour. The place is massive. The restaurant and lounge are downstairs and the club is upstairs. At the end of our look around she introduces me to Josh. He must be at least six feet six inches tall. He has small eyes, a shaved head and a neck thicker than my waist. He nods his greeting.

  After meeting him I am taken to a small room where I meet Terry. After the introductions Brianna leaves telling me she will send Donna around to look in on us.

  ‘Sit yourself down,’ Terry invites merrily. She is in her thirties and full of bright chatter. She tells me I have a very different look and I should play on that. First she does my hair, backcombing it from the top of my head and stiffening it with hairspray before combing the front end back so my hair becomes tall and big. She is very precise and very sure in what she does.

  I watch her in the mirror as she quickly and expertly applies a layer of foundation, using a darker tone to emphasize my cheekbones, and give my chin a more pointy look. Then she carefully draws my eyes with blue eyeliner focusing attention to their slant and bringing out their color. Afterwards she glues on fake eyelashes. It is a surprise how foreign and heavy they feel. With a wand she dusts glitter on the ends.

  ‘Nearly there,’ she says, and paints my lips rose pink. As a final touch she plants a beauty spot on one cheek.

  ‘And now for the magic touch. We have a Chinese girl here called Jade who carries an intricate fan and makes it part of her routine, but you can become known as…’ She brings out a plastic flower from her box and holds it behind my ear. ‘The girl with the flower.’