A Sunday Kind of Woman

by Ray Connolly

  ‘I don’t suppose anything has gone wrong between you two, has it?’ asked Sarah, her tone clearly expecting an admission.

  Kate preferred not to answer the question at all. Instead she sighed, the long-suffering sigh of the woman used to the whims of men. ‘You know how men are, Sarah, they always tire of you, eventually,’ she said.

  At the other end of the phone Sarah’s voice became just a fraction sharper. She obviously did not believe Kate. ‘I would have expected that someone with your experience could have kept Asid happier for a little longer than this, Kate,’ she said. ‘I only hope he doesn’t go looking elsewhere for his companions.’

  Again Kate remained silent. If Sarah were not able to find an adequate replacement for her no doubt one of the opposition organizations would be quickly in to help milk Asid.

  ‘I suggest you leave yourself available, Kate, until you hear from me. All right?’ Sarah’s voice had the finality of authority about it.

  ‘All right,’ said Kate, then added the afterthought, ‘I’m sorry about Asid.’

  ‘So am I, Kate,’ came the response, and with that Sarah put down the telephone.

  Kate sat down on her settee and stared at the phone. It was, of course, all Charlie Fairweather’s fault, but that was no excuse. She had lost the best client in London because of an inexplicable fixation on a musician.

  Before she had seen Charlie again she had been able to tell herself, and sometimes to convince herself, that Taormina had been a holiday thing which would have withered instantly in the exhausts of London. Now she wasn’t sure. Yet it was all so totally out of character. How could a professional girl like herself have been dumb enough to become involved with a piano player? It was idiotic.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Penny for your thoughts, Charlie,’ shouted Colin against the sound of the juke box.

  Marty turned round and handed them both large Scotches: ‘I’ll take ten per cent of that penny, if you don’t mind.’

  Charlie lifted his glass in a mock toast to his agent and swallowed a mouthful of whisky. It was Friday lunch-time and the three men were in the Mayflower, a large pub in Soho, much frequented by musicians, record pluggers, radio producers and agents. Since it was Friday the pub was full and the juke box loud. ‘I got the hokey Coca Cola Americana stray cat blues, it’s a requiem for felines, they’ll scratch your blood until you bruise,’ sang someone who was trying to sound like John Lennon. Charlie scratched his head and considered the shining Wurlitzer: where had all the real talent gone, he wondered.

  He had met Colin and Marty in the pub because Marty had called to say that he wanted to talk about something. Since Marty had not been prepared to discuss it over the phone he could only assume that it was news he was going to welcome. The fact that Marty was buying the first drink confirmed that view. When Marty had good news he became a veritable spendthrift.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Charlie?’ asked Colin, who was standing with his back to the bar and viewing any talent that might happen to wander in.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Charlie. ‘What about you, Marty?’

  Marty preferred not to come to the point: ‘Women,’ he said in a way destined to provoke further conversation.

  ‘What?’ That was Colin.

  ‘Crumpet,’ repeated Marty. ‘Or rather the shortage of it.’

  ‘There’s no shortage in here,’ said Colin.

  There wasn’t either, Charlie noticed, but it all had the appearance of having suffered heavy usage under a multitude of different owners. He had never been heavily into groupies.

  Marty shook his head: ‘They’re all tarts,’ he said.

  ‘Whores,’ said Charlie, and then wished he hadn’t. Kate’s face swam in front of him.

  ‘Not really,’ said Colin.

  ‘Not all of them,’ said Marty, although it really sounded more like a question.

  Charlie didn’t answer. He finished his drink and ordered another round. He needed something to take his mind off Kate.

  ‘Cheer up, Marty,’ said Colin. ‘Remember it’s always a business doing pleasure with them.’

  Marty groaned at the old joke. Charlie stared absently at his glass as the barman refilled it. It was so easy for them to make jokes. They didn’t know. He had gone through the first thirty-five years of his life hardly aware that whores existed, and now it seemed he was being bombarded with them. He supposed it was all a matter of awareness. London had always been full of them. It was just that he had never particularly noticed before.

  Marty pulled a face: ‘What’s on tonight, Colin? Anything exciting?’

  Colin looked both pained and cheeky: ‘Could be. I think so. But it’s going to be expensive. Last time I took her out she wanted dinner at Joe Allen’s before I could even get my hand on her knee.’

  ‘What happened then?’ Marty was like a dog on heat.

  ‘She melted after the third large brandy in the Zanzibar …’

  ‘And then…’

  ‘I took her back to her place, had my evil way … and hopefully left her wanting more. I’d spent every last penny I had. Had to walk home all the way from the Fulham Road.’

  Charlie considered Colin’s story with little interest. Since he had met Kate accounts of the sexual adventures of courtship had become unappetizing. ‘What news do you have for us, Marty?’ he asked.

  Marty leaned back on the counter and considered the two younger men for a few pompous moments before he spoke. ‘You’re on the way,’ he said. ‘On the way … at last.’

  ‘On the way where, Marty?’ asked Colin.

  ‘To the top, with Marty the Zee.’

  ‘Explain!’ demanded Charlie.

  ‘Next week you start a month’s gig at the Mystery Train in Covent Garden, a hundred a week, tips and all the women you can pull.’

  Charlie smiled to himself. The Mystery Train might not be the London Palladium, but it had a growing reputation as a breeding ground for talent.

  ‘How did you fix this, Marty?’ asked Colin, bluntly curious as ever. ‘Someone drop out at the last minute?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marty, with touching honesty.

  Chapter Twelve

  For Kate it was a time of waiting and wondering while Sarah organized a new client for her. And it was inevitably a time when she allowed her mind to travel back to Sicily, to the moment she had first seen Charlie, and the curious feeling of instant fascination she had felt towards him. She remembered how she had been disappointed when he had not tried to make a pass at her; disappointed and yet relieved, because his shyness had acted as a confirmation of her assessment of him. It had, she remembered, been left to her eventually to make the first move, although even then she had had to wait for the most opportune and discreet of moments, and be careful not to look too forward. All her life she had been able to have any man she wanted, and she was sure that had she wished it Charlie would have been no exception. But to have made love with him would have devalued everything.

  It was a time of solitude. In the day-time she window-shopped in Bond Street and Knightsbridge, went every day to the Dance Centre where she worked alone at keeping her body taut and firm, and visited her hairdresser in Sloane Square where the boy who washed her hair recommended the latest Fassbinder film. On one fine afternoon she wandered through Holland Park, watched the children in the adventure playground and outshone the peacocks in their enclosure. While in the evening she stayed at home, read or watched television, and went early to bed where she tried not to think of Charlie.

  Since she knew few people not connected in some way with the organization she was inevitably lonely; and so it was not an unwelcome invitation when Barbara Bachman telephoned after a few days to suggest that they have lunch together.

  If Kate possessed such a thing as a best friend then that friend had to be Barbara. Barbara was a very tall, leggy West German in her late thirties who had made a good living as a model for at least ten years before joining Sarah. She was an auburn-haired, freckled beaut
y with clear round blue eyes which looked somehow too large for her face, and a wide mouth. As a model she had had a relative amount of success; as a top-line hooker she had for several years had few equals.

  They met at a place called Morton’s which is in Berkeley Square, and is one of the newer band of Mayfair clubs for the got-rich-quick, the expense-accountable and their concomitant brigade of beautiful women. Barbara liked it there because she could peer around her from behind large owlish smoke-tinted glasses and spot the latest rock musician geniuses and visiting Hollywood film people. These sort of people might not have had the sheer tonnage of wealth of the Arabs or the inherited trust funds and breeding of the European aristocracy who were not frequent visitors to this place, but they did have star appeal. And Barbara liked stars.

  Barbara was already waiting in the large upstairs dining-room when Kate arrived, sitting pretending to be demure in something which looked like a little girl’s schooldress (aged twelve) being worn over a pair of navy blue tights, with the neck open one button too many, and a string of pearls dangling ostentatiously half way down her chest. Despite her preoccupation with herself Kate was forced to smile at the effect Barbara was creating, as man after man took it in turns to peer cautiously at this stunningly eccentric woman.

  ‘Like it?’ asked Barbara as Kate sat down opposite her.

  ‘It’s very subtle,’ said Kate smiling.

  ‘About as subtle as an air raid, I think,’ laughed Barbara. She had an ability to remember and re-use the phrases of her ex-lovers. That one had come from a night with an East End villain who was now doing fifteen years for armed robbery. Barbara liked the excitement of villains, too.

  ‘You always said “when you’ve got it, flaunt it”,’ said Kate.

  ‘Which is something I notice you are not doing too much of today,’ came back Barbara.

  She was right. Kate was not trying very hard. There didn’t seem much point. She had come to lunch in an old pair of jeans and a blouse and cardigan. Any man there could see that she didn’t have to try, but in Barbara’s eyes there was something wrong with a girl who didn’t try. It suggested a lack of interest. And nobody ever got rich without trying.

  ‘I can’t be bothered,’ said Kate. ‘Anyway, there’s no reason to try at the moment.’

  ‘I hear you lost Asid,’ said Barbara.

  Kate nodded. News travelled quickly.

  ‘Pity,’ said Barbara, ‘he was very rich.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kate.

  There was a moment’s silence while they weighed each other up. Kate knew that Barbara had asked her to lunch for a particular reason. She always did.

  ‘Shall I guess or are you going to tell me?’ Kate said at last.

  Barbara grinned widely: ‘I’ve decided to leave Sarah,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a better offer.’

  ‘What?’ Kate was so shocked that a piece of asparagus stuck in her windpipe. She coughed. She hadn’t expected this. ‘Does she know?’ she asked as she cleared her throat.

  Barbara shook her head and laughed at Kate’s evident surprise. ‘She’ll scream blue murder,’ she said.

  ‘I hope that’s all she does,’ said Kate.

  Barbara shook her head. ‘Don’t tell me you’re frightened of her. It’s all one big bluff. She needs us more than we need her so she has to make us feel that without he protection we’d be in trouble. It’s nonsense, of course. You can get her sort of protection in lots of places.’

  ‘Where did the offer come from?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Harrigan.’

  ‘Harrigan?’ Kate was again surprised. Harrigan was well-known in the London used-girl market, but socially he was nowhere near Sarah’s level. To join Harrigan would definitely be a step down for Barbara.

  Barbara saw Kate’s surprise: ‘He wants me to take over the day-to-day running of his girls. He wants me to take him up-market. I have the contacts, haven’t I?’

  ‘And what about the money?’

  ‘I get points on every girl I handle. Don’t you see, Kate, this is my opportunity to become a Sarah myself. My chance to start running things.’

  ‘But I thought you loved the life. I never saw you as an empire builder.’

  Barbara shrugged: ‘In two years I’ll be forty. All right, so I disguise it very well, but eventually the saggy flesh, rings around the neck and face lifts across the forehead are going to put me out of a job. Not this year, not next year … but eventually I’m going to become a less desirable playmate. We all know it’s bound to happen. Now I want to make sure that I don’t end up with my phone number in a newsagent’s window. I used to think I’d find some rich lunatic to marry me, but as it hasn’t happened … well, I’m taking out a little insurance for my old age. And this way I’ll be getting my own back on Sarah for some of the lousy tricks she had me turn over the years.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this?’ asked Kate, although she suspected that she already knew the answer.

  ‘Like I said … I’m taking Harrigan up-market. I’ll never be able to do that without the top girls. And you’re the top, Kate. I once was. Now you are.’

  ‘Even though I lost Asid?’

  ‘There are other Asids around. You could bring them in for us. It would be more money … a lot more, perhaps. Maybe even a share of the business.’

  Kate shook her head: ‘It’s too dangerous. Sarah would never allow it.’

  ‘Sarah won’t want to take on Hannigan and his mob.’

  ‘She might. Remember she has partners to think about,’ said Kate. ‘And when people like Sarah and Hannigan disagree it’s always us who get caught up in the middle. It’s always the girls who get hurt.’

  Obviously Barbara realized that her attempt at recruitment had failed. She smiled reassuringly: ‘All right. Let’s forget we talked about it, shall we? Promise? Anyway, I haven’t given Harrigan my answer yet. I just thought I’d try the idea out on you.’

  Kate shook her head. The whole idea of a struggle over who ran the best girls in London didn’t bear thinking about. If, with Barbara’s help, Harrigan was to upset the balance of power it could spell only danger for everyone. Sarah’s organization might have the top girls, but Harrigan, with his connections in protection, drugs, gambling and bribery, had to be a formidable opponent were he to begin to muscle in on the carriage trade of the business.

  ‘Come on Kate,’ Barbara was grinning again. ‘Let’s forget about it. It was only an idea. Have some more wine.’

  Kate allowed her glass to be refilled. She looked at Barbara. For thirty-seven she did indeed look wonderful, but they both knew that the best part of their careers belonged to the suppleness of youth. Middle age for a hooker was a lonely prospect. A weight of depression bore in on her.

  ‘Now I wonder where I’ve seen that face before?’

  Kate looked up. Barbara was staring across the restaurant. Apparently she had now dismissed their conversation as a thing of the past. Kate followed Barbara’s eye-line. A young man with a dark beard was smiling towards them from the other side of the room.

  ‘Do you know who he is?’ asked Barbara.

  Kate shook her head.

  ‘I’ve forgotten his name … but he’s something to do with Paramount Pictures … he’s supposed to be very important… He was in Nigel Dempster’s column yesterday. He’s American. What was his name now …?’

  Kate looked at him again: he was writing something on a piece of paper. He beckoned a waiter over, passed him the piece of paper and indicated Barbara. It’s the card trick, thought Kate, surprised that anyone in the world was unsophisticated enough to believe that it would still work. But then she was sitting in Morton’s.

  The waiter arrived with the folded piece of paper and handed it to Barbara, with a slight indication of his hand towards the young man. Barbara opened the message. It was a headed card: the dark-haired man’s name was Maurice Cram, and his title implied that he was one of the many vice-presidents of Paramount Pictures. Barbara had been right: she nev
er forgot a useful face, and even she could be forgiven for a momentary lapse over a name like Maurice Cram.

  Together the two women studied the message. The paper had been divided up into a series of questions and answers, like a questionnaire. It read:

  Name?……….

  Married, single, divorced … it doesn’t matter……….

  Colour of eyes?

  Are you free for dinner tonight, tomorrow night, another night?……….

  (Tick as many as possible)

  What is your phone number?………

  Any comments?………

  Laughing aloud Barbara took a small gold pen from her purse and began to fill in her answers.

  Kate watched in silence as Barbara set about enjoying herself. She couldn’t imagine what Sarah would say if Barbara did tell her that she was leaving the organization to join Harrigan. Sarah had always stressed that no one left until their agreement was finished. It was, as she put it, a very simple business matter, and Sarah demanded absolute loyalty at all times. What happened when someone broke their promise and decided to opt out was unknown territory. Sarah had never encouraged the girls who worked with her to meet socially. In fact Barbara was the only other girl that Kate really knew well.

  Barbara finished filling in the questionnaire. She summoned the waiter and sent it back to the bearded young man. She was, it seemed, free for dinner that very night. Her comments at the end of the page had read: ‘I have expensive tastes and love presents.’ Barbara believed in being honest.

  As the note was returned Kate watched Maurice Cram’s face with interest. What would he think of the last line? She saw him grin when he read it. He clearly knew he was in for a good, if pricey, night. He smiled at Barbara and then turned back and readdressed his attention to the three older men he was with, all of whom were now asking him what the reply had been, while he discreetly tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  ‘I haven’t seen anyone try the card trick for years,’ said Kate. ‘Even in Toronto they’ve given up on that one.’