Don’t Trust Me

by Joss Stirling

  The woman waves that off. ‘No problem. I’m sorry we almost killed you with the kids’ booby traps.’

  ‘Look, you’re obviously busy…’ I begin.

  She laughs. ‘Six o’clock – full-on child time – tea, bath, wrestle them into bed. I thought you were… never mind that: what do you want?’ The baby tugs at her hair and manages to grab her glasses. ‘Stop that, pet.’

  I’m already awed by her. She’s quite a few years younger than me but obviously far more competent. ‘Are you Ellen Trott?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great. I’m looking for Lillian Bailey. She might’ve stayed here a year ago when she arrived in London?’

  Her expression gives away that it isn’t exactly good news she has to share. ‘Lillian? You’re the second person to come asking for her – there was a guy a few weeks ago. Like I told him, she was only here for a short while.’

  That had to be Jacob. ‘She’s not kept in touch?’

  ‘No, we weren’t really close. We just had the same foster parent for a time, though I was a couple of years older so didn’t run with her crowd.’ She sizes me up. ‘What are you wanting with her? She’s not in trouble, is she?’

  ‘It’s nothing like that. I work for a small agency tracing missing persons. Her friends back in Harrogate are worried for her. They just want to be reassured she’s OK.’

  ‘Glad she kept some friends, at least. Lillian was always blind to a good thing and took the hard route when there was an easier one.’

  ‘Really?’

  The young mum is interested now and is in a mood to confide. ‘Completely. Take our foster parent, Jane – she was one of those rare people in the system, a great woman, mother to the world. But Lillian didn’t like her. She thought she was too bossy; funny that, because I made Jane my role model. I suppose it takes all sorts, and Lillian had never had anyone give her boundaries before. Oh, the arguments that caused!’ She turns around. ‘Tyson, do not hit your sister! No point denying it – I can hear you.’ She grimaces. ‘Boundaries are golden. And it’s true what Jane said: that when you have kids you grow eyes in the back of your head. Look, I need to get back to do crowd control.’

  ‘I won’t keep you. Do you know where Lillian lives now?’

  ‘Sorry, as I said, we’ve lost touch. She found the children too much. Didn’t stay long. Surfed the sofa for a couple of days then announced that she had a better offer from a posh guy with money.’ A wail breaks out from behind her.

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me about her? Any clue as to where she ended up?’

  Ellen is already turning away. ‘Like I told the last guy: try that nightclub, Vaults, I think the name is. She was working there at one point. Should warn you though, it’s one of those sex clubs – lap dancing and so on.’

  ‘Great.’ I grimace at the thought of trawling for information in a place like that.

  ‘Don’t go in on your own. You might not come out.’ The door closes.

  Lillian ran off with a posh guy with money? Michael? I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. I suppose he could’ve picked her up on the train and then offered to set her up in some kind of love nest, but it doesn’t really sound like him. From her photo, Lillian is pretty but no match for the sainted Emma, and he still had me at the time she went missing. He didn’t need to pay someone for sex – though I could see him digging a lap dance. It was more likely to be some totally different guy who flashed his cash at the nightclub.

  Back on the street, I look up the club. It is in a backstreet in Soho, ironically not that far from my old office. Unless I want to beg a very strange favour from Lizzy, I have no choice but to go alone as my menfolk have all disowned me. I ring her but get passed to answerphone. This isn’t something about which I can leave a message to explain. Looks like it’ll just be me then. It is too early yet to visit a lapdancing club so I decide to find somewhere cheap to grab a coffee and wait. I don’t have the money to stretch that to a meal.

  Dreaming over a bitter cappuccino at a McDonalds on Oxford Street, I try to puzzle my way through my cloudy future. I have got to stop sponging off other people, come up with a way of earning my living. Fortunately, I haven’t heard a squeak from Khan’s men so I’m hoping the police have set him straight about Jacob’s fraud. It was spelt out in his computer files. That’s a good break for me but it doesn’t stop my credit score being rock bottom. I’m just not a good bet for anyone to invest in or give a job to.

  As the Mickey D crowd changes from pre-theatre to post-theatre, then clubland goers, I stand up and smooth down my skirt, telling myself to be professional and confident. Go in, ask a member of staff for information, then get out without embarrassing myself: that’s the goal.

  Vaults turns out, rather logically you might say, to be in the cellar of a building on Meard Street. At street level, the house, which has been converted into offices, looks like a set for a Dickens film – the kind of place Scrooge could uncheerfully inhabit with Marley for a doorknocker. From a quick look at the advertisements outside I’d say Vaults skirts the line between night- and sex-club, promising floorshows and burlesque entertainment. I wish in vain that I could be six-foot, well-built and male, going out after hours with some mates. In those circumstances, then this could be fun. As it is, I’m left with just me and not very much cash to buy a drink. The bouncers give me a quick scan and wave me past the barrier and down the steep stairs. Disorientatingly, I find myself in an ultra-modern bar and dance floor, black and silver the predominant colours, not a scrap of Victoriana in sight.

  I want to feel more competent than I do. I’ve seen scenes like this in films. The private eye goes up to the bar, strikes up a conversation with the server and slides the right tip across to get the necessary information, all without breaking a sweat. I’m already nervous and put off by the fact that the bar reaches breast-height and there are scantily dressed women gyrating around strategically placed poles. As I watch, one hen party throws caution to the winds and gathers around a set of three poles. Ellen hadn’t been quite right about lap dancing; it’s become one of those clubs where you can give it a go yourself – a kind of an exotic-dancer karaoke. With much giggling the girls start to bump and grind – not exactly the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, done mainly to impress each other. The professionals are giving them a hard look but aren’t threatened. A party like that isn’t after their customers.

  ‘Can I give you a hand up?’ A heavy-breathing businessman in a dark suit notices I’m having difficulty getting on to one of the teetering stools.

  ‘Thanks.’ I’m not meeting his eye. He won’t be getting any encouragement from me.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Damn, he is trying to pick me up, despite my Greta Garbo body language. ‘Thanks, but I’m waiting for someone.’

  ‘Shame. Well, if you change your mind.’ His eyes are on my cleavage rather than my face. I remember only now that I left home in a tight black skirt-suit and heels, going for professional when I visited Ellen. Here it looks like a costume. The secretary will see to you now, sir.

  I look a little desperately for the barmaid. The music is going to make it almost impossible to have a subtle conversation.

  ‘Look, let me get you a drink while you’re waiting.’ The guy won’t give up. He summons the barmaid on the first attempt.

  ‘No, really.’

  ‘What will you have? Let me guess: champagne?’

  ‘Champagne?’ I’m so surprised, I don’t intervene in time to stop the order being placed.

  ‘Shall I add it to your tab, Mr Tudor?’ asks the barmaid.

  ‘Yes, thanks, Maeve. You’ll have some champagne with me, won’t you? Isn’t that what Miss Golightly drinks?’

  Shit, it’s Khan’s lawyer, the man I ran from all those days ago. The wrong side of fifty, grey hair perilously close to a comb-over, with a bit of mean in his expression. I find him a little scary and quite a lot seedy. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

&n
bsp; ‘Miss Bridges, please don’t insult my intelligence. You are very memorable. I haven’t had such an exciting morning since… can’t say when. Losing you in Ann Summers – that was a nice touch.’

  ‘But you must know by now about the fraud…’

  ‘That’s still to be tested in court. As far as my client is concerned, you still owe him five thousand pounds.’

  ‘What? That’s absurd. I didn’t sign the lease.’

  ‘And your defence is that a dead man did so fraudulently. What a pity he can’t back your story.’

  That doesn’t sound good. ‘Look, the police have Mr Wrath’s notes about this. He admitted it. I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘Then why come here, right into one of Mr Khan’s properties? I thought you had to be looking for me – or him – to make a deal.’

  ‘No, no, that’s not why I’m here.’

  The barmaid delivers a bottle and two glasses. Mr Tudor serves us both and mockingly toasts me. ‘Bottoms up.’

  I gulp half the glass. ‘I’m really sorry about Jacob Wrath but it’s not my fault he ended up dead before paying for the office.’

  ‘We can talk about that later.’ Smiling with shark-like intent, he loosens his tie and undoes his top button. ‘Maybe we can help each other. Why are you here?’

  ‘It’s for the missing persons thing I do. I’m looking for someone, Mr Tudor – I’ve had a tip that she might work here.’

  ‘Call me Max. What’s her name?’

  ‘Um, Lillian Bailey?’

  He raps on the bar, bringing the server straight back. ‘Is there a girl called Lillian Bailey on the staff?’

  I feel the need to explain my interest as the barmaid looks cagey. ‘I’m asking not because she’s in trouble or anything, but her friends back where she came from just want to know she’s OK. That’s all – she doesn’t have to get in touch with them.’

  The maid wipes the bar. ‘I don’t know anyone with that name.’

  ‘She might not be using it. She’s got a Yorkshire accent and looked like this a few years ago.’ I show her a photo on my cracked phone screen.

  She taps the screen with a lethal fingernail. ‘I’ve seen that before. A guy came in here a couple of weeks ago and flashed it around.’

  I bet that was Jacob. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘The same as I’ll tell you. That’s her, over there.’ She points to a blonde hanging out with some other women in a corner. Lillian Bailey used to be a sweet-faced brunette. ‘That’s Lily, one of our dancers.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So what are you going to do now?’ asks Mr Tudor – Max – holding out a hand as I make to get off the stool.

  ‘Just have a chat with her.’

  ‘Take the champagne and a clean glass. My compliments.’

  ‘Um, OK. Good idea.’

  ‘I’ll keep your seat warm for you.’ He is still trying to pick me up.

  I cross the floor, conscious of his eyes on me. ‘Lillian, can you spare me a moment?’

  Her eyes flick to the door in shock at hearing her name.

  ‘I just want to talk.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Want some?’ I pour her a glass and set it down on the high table between us. ‘It’s with Mr Tudor’s compliments.’

  ‘You know Max?’

  ‘We’ve met once or twice.’ That seems to settle her.

  ‘OK, I’ll have a drink with you. What’s this about?’ She takes the flute and sips it appreciatively. ‘He’s sent the good stuff.’

  I’m mentally adding up her age. She’s only twenty and this place is supposed to be for over-twenty-ones only. It’s been a rough road for the trusting teen who left Harrogate wanting something better, and I can probably guess most of the bumps along the way.

  ‘Yeah, he’s a generous man, obviously. My name is Jessica Bridges. I have a small business tracing missing persons.’ As I’m making most of this up as I go along, I thought I’d just promote myself to boss. ‘I find people but only on the strict understanding that if they don’t want to be found, I won’t tell anyone where they are. All I do is pass on reassurances that they are safe and well.’

  ‘Who cares a fuck where I am?’ She raises the glass to bee-stung lips. There’s just a hint of the bruised teenager under the hard shell she has acquired.

  ‘Your friends from Harrogate. Gina Tilbury mentioned you to me – I contacted her via Facebook. And I saw Ellen Trott earlier today.’

  ‘God, Ellen, knee-deep in nappies still?’

  ‘Yes. It looks like hard work being a mum.’

  ‘But I bet she’s good at it?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s got it covered.’

  ‘I should go round and see her.’ I don’t get the feeling she will. She is saying that to seem normal to me.

  ‘I’m sure she’d appreciate that. So, you’re OK?’

  ‘As you can see. Fine.’

  ‘You’ve a job here?’

  She shrugs, a roll of her bony shoulders in her sparkly halter top. ‘It’s not a bad place. Management look after you.’ She glances towards Max again. He gives her a nod.

  ‘And somewhere to stay?’

  ‘Yeah, look, you’re not my mother or anything, so I don’t have to tell you this stuff.’

  ‘No, you don’t. But I know people in Harrogate who would love a text, or even a postcard if you don’t want them getting back in touch, just something to say you’re OK. They’ve let themselves think the worst.’

  This piques her interest. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you’re lying dead in a ditch somewhere.’

  ‘Shit, they don’t, do they?’ She gives a horrified laugh and polishes off the rest of her glass.

  ‘You’ve gone radio silent for over a year. They’ve started a campaign on Facebook to find you. Will you do that for them?’

  She refills both of our flutes then stares into the bubbles of her drink. ‘OK. I’ll let them know.’

  ‘Just one more question. Have you ever met this man?’ I show her a picture of Michael.

  She shrugs. ‘I meet hundreds of guys each week.’

  ‘But you’d remember this one. He was on the same train as you when you left Harrogate.’

  ‘Was he? I didn’t talk to anyone. Why? What’s he done?’

  ‘Very possibly, nothing.’ I tuck the phone away, feeling I’ve got my drink’s worth of information from her. ‘And if you want out of this,’ I gesture to the club, ‘there are places that can help.’

  Her expression hardens again. ‘Fuck off, I’m fine. Nothing wrong with dancing for a living.’

  That was a misstep. ‘Sorry, I just meant… Look, let’s finish this bottle.’ We’ve both now put a few away and I’m feeling a great deal more relaxed. She’s right. It’s not so bad here, sort of sexy and fun. ‘I put my foot in it all the time, saying the wrong thing.’

  She grins, looking briefly her true age. ‘I’m getting that about you. But I’m good at it – the dancing.’

  ‘I bet you are.’

  ‘It’s not easy.’ She gestures to the hen party. ‘Most people end up looking like a dog humping a leg. You have to remember to tease, not tell.’

  Could be my new motto. ‘Sounds like you’ve had training.’

  ‘From the girls here. They’ve been great.’ Her glance meets Max again across the room and takes on a mischievous glitter. ‘I’ll make a deal with you: I’ll send that postcard if you give it a go.’

  ‘What? Jeez, I’m not drunk enough for that.’

  She pours what’s left of her drink into mine. ‘Go on, drink up. Don’t be embarrassed. Everyone’s doing it.’

  Even in my befuddled state, I get what she’s doing: she’s getting back at me for my suggestion that she might need saving. She thinks I consider myself superior and wants us on level pegging. It’s not that I’m reluctant; I have few inhibitions; I’m just clueless how to go about it.

  She sees I’m thinking about it. ‘I won’t contact the
m if you don’t.’

  No one will ever say I back down from a challenge like that. Palming a couple of pills, I swallow them and the contents of the glass in one. ‘OK, you’re on. Give me your promise first.’

  She laughs. ‘You’re really going to do it? I didn’t think you would.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’ll probably look like a labrador with an optimistic urge, but what the hell? Who cares? I’m ridiculous enough as it is and I get a result – a case closed.’

  ‘I promise. Now you do your side.’

  ‘How long do I have to dance for it to count?’

  ‘One song – that’s all. I’ll look after your stuff. Take off the jacket.’

  ‘Prepare, Miss Bailey, to be amazed.’

  To Lily’s hoots and whistle, I approach the pole. Whatever I do, I won’t look as bad as the bridal party. Tease, don’t tell. And, damn, I don’t want to admit this, but it appeals to Uninhibited Me, the one who had sweaty sex with Michael within five minutes of meeting him. I roll my shoulders, unbutton my blouse a little, and begin to dance. I’ve pretended enough at home with the broom, but doing it for real in front of others gives me a real charge. Some of the punters drift over to see what the crazy lady is up to. I give them a shimmy and a flick of the high heels. I can see Lily applauding and laughing. Max has joined her and is now pouring more champagne. He offers me some and I reach down and take a gulp then, really going for it, pour some down my cleavage, much to the approval of the people gathered to watch my amateur act. I’m getting hot, and very drunk. I make love to that pole, channelling all my sexual frustration into it – it becomes Michael making me feel unlovable, Drew thinking I abused a boy. Believe what you want, guys. I don’t care if you consider me a slut because this is fun. I can run rings round you.

  The song ends and I get a raucous round of applause. I stagger a little coming off the stage.

  ‘So you’re not so stuck up as I thought,’ says Lily. She hands me back my handbag and takes over on the pole. ‘I’ll send the postcard.’

  Seeing me weaving, Max puts an arm around my shoulders and steers me over to a booth. ‘That was most entertaining. I’m pleased to see you don’t just run through Ann Summers but also shop there.’ He flicks the next button to reveal a little more of my black lace bra. ‘So, Jessica, shall we have that talk about how I might help you out of your predicament?’