by Evelyn Weiss
10Thursday 20 July
The Soames is quiet today. It’s 3pm, and I’ve had my sauna, bath and skin treatments. It’s the day of my meeting with Cheriton’s very special client. Now the massage, it’s Areeya again, and she’s brilliant at what she does. But today it feels lighter, less penetrating, less satisfying.
“Your touch was different a few days ago.”
“Sorry, if it’s not as good today.”
“I didn’t mean that. It feels great. I love your hands. It just feels softer, that’s all.”
“My right wrist is a bit sore. So maybe, not as firm as last week.”
“Well, stop then. Let me look at it.” And I’m back in St John’s Ambulance mode again. Her wrist is clearly swollen. “Why are you working like this? Tell Mr Potter or Mr Cheriton.”
“I have to. Job needs to be done. Michael, he is away today. And Mr Cheriton…”
“Michael would say: you can’t work with an injury. What would Giles say – carry on regardless? Well, I think you need a break. Put an ice bag on it. Nick a packet of frozen peas from the kitchens. I don’t really need a massage, I’ll be fine. Have a break, and I’ll tell them that you’ve done the massage. So, where’s Michael gone, Areeya?” I get up, pulling my gown on.
“He’s out. He may have driven over to the clinic again. Usually Ruby goes, but sometimes, it’s him.”
“What’s the clinic?”
“It’s called Home Croft. I don’t really know what they do. Botox and the like I guess.”
“Are you allowed a phone in here? I’m not.” I have to hand my phone over to Ruby when I arrive. But Areeya has one. She gives it me and I google “Home Croft Clinic”. But there’s nothing, nothing at all. There’s only one explanation for the lack of a website. Home Croft is very, very exclusive.
“What do you think of them – Michael, and Giles? Do you get on well with them?”
“I get on very well, thank you. But – I don’t talk about people here. It’s not professional. My work, that’s what I do.”
Stonewall. I’m not going to find anything out from her. So I lie, un-massaged, on the massage table for a few minutes. She’s got her packet of peas, and is reading the paper. The Sun. I want to burst out laughing to see that rag in this place. Everything here is too bloody perfect. “I need the loo”. I get up, leave the massage suite, and walk down the corridor.
It’s like a deserted filmset. Uninhabited. I walk towards Reception, and I’m starting to feel tense. It’s mid-afternoon, the day is at its hottest. Out of the window I see Ruby on the lawn, her golden hair catching the sun, looking like a shampoo advert, she’s walking about, talking on her mobile. Michael’s office is next to the reception desk. The door is ajar and I can see there’s no-one in it. Heart-in-mouth, I slip into the office. The computer will no doubt be passworded but it’s worth a few tries. I’ve seen both Michael and Cheriton using this computer. I know which of those two would decide on the password. Even without thinking, I find myself typing in a word. “Reverso”.
Crap, crap password, Cheriton. I’m looking at a screenful of Soames members’ accounts. There are lots of names here. The bulk of the list is made up of what look like Arabic, Russian and Chinese names which I guess are businessmen. But among those names, there are more familiar ones: I recognise a lot of celebrities – singers, TV people, footballers. Hell there is some serious, serious money here. There’s a politician too, who used to be on the telly a lot, Minister for Health or something like that? George Vennery. There was some news story about him, it’s on the edge of my mind. Yes, that’s it: he died, a few months ago.
I hear footsteps crossing the lobby, and I watch the office door, like time stands still. O – M – G. They’re coming this way. One set of footsteps clacks: high heels. And then I hear voices. Two people are talking in the lobby.
“Ruby. Thank Christ I’ve found you. I’ve just tried your mobile, it was engaged. Problem, I’m afraid. Josh Borrowdale.”
“Uh-oh. Does he need taking to Home Croft again, Giles?”
“Yes. Sorry to ask, Ruby, but – the usual. Can you do it?”
“Of course. No problem.” She sounds like she’s sucking up to him now. I bet she’s regretting her outburst the other day.
“He’s in the car right now, waiting. As usual, he’s been telling me that his time is precious. This time he’s got a sprained wrist, or so he claims. He’s been overnight in the Montserrat Suite with Sunita. And like the last time he spent a night there with someone, she’s got bruises. He actually said to me that it didn’t matter, with her skin colour they wouldn’t show. Damaging our bloody goods. It’ll be a few days before we can put her with another client.”
“He’s a shit. But no problem, I’ll grab my bag and my sunglasses.”
“Thanks. If you need to call me, I may have to spend some time with Sunita. She might kick off a bit about what’s happened, but I’ll talk to her, let her know which side her bread’s buttered. So when she calms down, she’ll see that it makes sense to forget it. After all, she’ll be looking perfect again in a few days, it will be like it never happened.”
“You’re not worried about her, then? Going to the media with her little story? One day, someone will. We do need to stop these things happening, somehow. I do mean that, Giles.”
“I’ll decide about how we stop Josh B and the others. I manage the risks here, Ruby: none of the other girls have ever spilled any beans. Like with the other girls, I’ll explain to Sunita what a really bad idea for her that would be. Everyone would join ranks in denying it, she would have nothing provable to go on, and besides, TV companies know they can make more money from a squeaky-clean Borrowdale than they can by bringing him down. He knows that, too: that’s why he behaves like this. Journalists will realise it’s not a runner. I mean, Jimmy Savile and Rolf Harris got away with what they did for decades, the BBC loved them, and things haven’t really changed. I’ll tell her all that, if she gets on her high horse about it. But I think, with Sunita, it will be all sparks and no fire.”
One, two seconds, and they’re both gone. I’ve got a few minutes. Well, they’ve given me a name – I have no other clues, so I might as well start there. I look on the computer, do a search of the members’ accounts database, for ‘Borrowdale’. I know the name already, of course. Known to millions as the face of primetime TV Green and Pleasant Land. Here’s his account on their database. Josh Borrowdale, he’s spent a fucking fortune at the Soames – dinner, champagne, ‘sundries’. I have no idea what Sundries are, but I can guess, and it’s no surprise to find the Soames supplying drugs to any high-rolling guest who wants them. But what interests me is that every evening meal account also lists a girl. They’re just notes, not charged for, because of course we’re a free ‘facility’ for the guest. But so many notes… a new name every single evening he’s been here. There are, literally, hundreds of them. Averaging two, sometimes three nights a week, and (I can’t resist scrolling down, down, down) – going back ten, twelve years. And there’s longer notes, too, against several of the account items. Notes that mention that name: Home Croft. In the last year, Borrowdale seems to have been driven over to Home Croft several times. Well, if they Botox and that sort of stuff, he needs to keep those boyish looks, I guess. He’s been one of the top TV faces for... well, about the same length of time that he’s been visiting the Soames.
Against one of the entries – from about nine months ago – there’s more than a note: there’s a link to a .pdf file. I open it. It’s a long narrative, and some photos. Photos of a bruised girl’s body. And a photo of Josh Borrowdale, with a three-inch, shallow cut across his forehead – and the most glorious black eye I’ve every seen. It’s horrible, what’s going on here, but I want to laugh all the same. “I wonder what Makeup Department did with that?” Because this guy is on telly every week, presenting the cuddliest, most heartwarming stuff about badgers and organic farming and National Parks – and interviewing women (always, for some reason,
gorgeous young women) who make their own chutneys or run a vineyard. He can’t be turning up on set at Smug Farm looking like... well, like he’s just punched a hooker and she’s punched him back. And slashed him with something.
Read, read, quickly. Yes, Borrowdale was treated that day at Home Croft Clinic. Details of the treatment, some medical words. I scroll to the end and read that he went back to the TV studios and filmed for a Christmas Special that evening. How did they manage that? The clinic, whatever it is, must be bloody good at what they do.
I’ve got to stop. Suddenly I realise I’ve been reading the report – how long? Three, four minutes? Too long. You silly cow, Holly. Get out. I close down the .pdf. and go back to the Borrowdale account. Under ‘Clinic contact’ there’s a name – Mr Franklin – and a number. Pen, paper? Oh well I’ll just write it on my hand, 07854 622 678. Then, among the member accounts, I spot names that I recognise. Tony and Devine Cattrell. I recall the face of Devine Cattrell in Hot magazine, and a really insane thought comes to me. I hear footsteps again, but I can’t resist my mad idea: I change her mobile number on the database, so it’s the same as my own. Then I click back again, to the screen I first saw, stand up, go to the doorway. Fortunately it opens outwards; I look through the crack between the hinges. Michael. He’s come back. I turn around so that my back is towards his approaching footsteps, as if I’ve just come to the office and I’m looking for him.
“Mr Potter?”
“Do call me Michael. How can I help?”
“I thought I’d let you know, Areeya has hurt her wrist. We’ve finished the massage, so she’s done everything Mr Cheriton wanted. But I thought you should know about her injury.”
He thanks me, and sidles past me into his office. I’m thinking, thank fuck, the dressing gown I’m wearing helps make my story sound truthful. I step after him.
“Michael … are you all right? You look tired.”
“Fine, thanks. I’ve just got back from a long drive.”
“I’d make you a cup of tea, if I knew where a kettle was in this place. By the way – I had something I wanted to ask you...”
“Ask away.”
I was wondering something – just out of curiosity, really. If the clients here aren’t charged for meeting the girls, how do you know who’s going with who?”
I can sense an edge, a raised nerve, in his dusty, insurance-clerk manner. And I can see him thinking that he might as well answer my question, rather than being all Secret Squirrel about everything. Because it’s the sort of thing that I’m going to get to know anyway, if I stay working here.
“Well, sometimes members do book a particular girl. Cattrell, for instance, you know all about him. He comes here for dinner and so on – but when it comes to the women here, it’s different: he books a time slot, arrives at that time, spends it in a bedroom with the girl of his choice, leaves. But a lot of our members like to spend time here, chat to different girls, and we do watch them. Not CCTV, of course, that would hardly make our members feel comfortable! – we merely observe. Or rather: I observe. One of my duties is to wander around, especially in the evenings, the restaurant, the bar, note down who I see with whom, when I see them going up to bedrooms. But the members – they don’t know that’s happening.”
“Do they not suspect?”
“We’ve never had complaints. That’s how this place works, you see. It’s not a brothel.”
“That’s what Mr Cheriton told me.”
“Our members come here, they can chat to whom they like. What do you sell, Holly?”
It’s a very pointed question, and the obvious answer is not, I know, what he’s really getting at.
“You’re the GirlNextDoor, who’s available for sex. The pay-as-you-go girlfriend, it says on your profile.”
Michael seems to have a photo-memory of my GirlsDirect profile. Creepy, or just good at his job? I look at him, waiting to find out where this conversation is going.
“You know exactly what you’re selling, Holly. Your punters can pretend to themselves that you’re their girlfriend, that you’re enjoying it, that you enjoy the bookings as much as they do. Mr Cheriton, for instance. He…”
“Kids himself that the girls here find him irresistible.” His face registers surprise at my boldness, but I can tell, he doesn’t disagree.
“Why not you, then, Michael? Why don’t you try the goods here?”
He doesn’t answer, looks down. Then he goes back to the earlier subject. “The thrill, for our members, is not only having sex. It’s also the feeling that they’re not paying for the sex itself – when they go with a girl, no money changes hands. So they can believe that the girl they choose that night is genuinely attracted to them, genuinely wants to do it with them.”
“So they can pretend it’s a conquest?”
“You said, Holly, that a man can kid himself that women find him irresistible. We, ahem – sustain that idea.”
“It’s not an idea, though, is it. It’s a total fantasy.”
“Well, if it looks like that to our members… it can be real, for them. Sex is only one part of what we do. Our real business is stroking egos.”
I can sense bitterness in his voice. Does he feel he’s given away too much? Not about the system here – I was bound to find that out anyway – but about his own feelings. I look at his creased face. He spends his time running a system that helps guys pretend they’re Casanova, and watching their successes.
“You’re a nice guy, Michael. Why do you work here?”
“Money. I was in business, and it went wrong. I’m a bankrupt, you see. I knew Giles from school, he found out about my situation, offered me this.”
Yet you don’t seem over grateful, I think. He resents Cheriton and his Lord Bountiful act, I can tell. Most of all he resents Cheriton’s casting-couch perk – and he tells himself: oh no, the decent, respectful Michael Potter wouldn’t behave like that. He’s polite, righteous, envious.
“Michael!”
It’s Cheriton’s voice, calling from a distance. Michael jumps into action like a puppet when his strings are pulled. Time for me to be off. I walk casually out of the office, across the empty foyer, trying to look a little vague and clueless in my gown, like I’m still finding my way around this place. Back through the corridor, back into the spa area. Areeya is still there. She’s reading the Sunday Sport now, and she tells me that the frozen peas have helped.
A few hours later. The Soames Hotel restaurant is a glittering sight, like it’s in a TV costume drama. It’s lit by chandeliers: its outer areas, away from the sparkling, are dim and shaded. There are a few diners; enough to give it a feeling of life and enjoyment, but not so many that all these private little corners lose their intimate atmosphere. A waiter shows me to a table near the window, pulls back the chair just the right distance for me to comfortably slide into it. I remember seeing a telly programme about how proper waiters do that; they call it ‘magic touch’. I wonder: can I magic touch my client tonight? And then, in the middle of the room, under the lights, I see him. And it feels like everyone in the room has stopped talking, is struck dumb. Or maybe I’m just not hearing the chatter anymore. I’ve never seen personal presence before, not so visibly shown. He’s maybe forty, handsome, tall, very erect, slim, dark hair with a few strands of gray. Prominent jawline, bold lips. Confident but not a total narcissist – I can tell that from the way he carries himself, the way he speaks to that waitress. And although she’s a beauty, and she tilts her head at him invitingly, he doesn’t leer, his glance at her doesn’t linger. For him, that interaction with the waitress was an exchange of information, nothing more. He moves over to my table quickly. Glinty, dark eyes; skin sallow, slightly tanned but not a Mr Orange. He looks fit – but like a skier, something like that, rather than a gym bunny. He’s almost a cliché of male glamour, but so rarely in real life do you get a guy who can actually carry off one-tenth of what he does just by walking across the room. Sometimes a cliché is –
not bad, not bad at all. When you’re in my business, you’d settle for this walking cliché every day of your life. He’s standing by my table, the waiter pulls back his chair, there’s the magic touch again, and I can see that the waiter is more self-conscious than he is. He’s not self-obsessed, but he’s certainly aware of the image he projects, and he likes it. Likes the way it makes people feel. “This guy thinks he’s James Bond. Well, let’s see what you’ve got, 007.”
He sits down, and, oddly, cracks his knuckles. Then a slight smile, and ker-ching, I recognise him. I can’t control it, my first words are a gasp. “You’re Jack Downes.”
“Yes. I’d rather you didn’t mention it to anyone, of course, but Cheriton will have explained that. Yes, I am Jack Downes. The lion of the House, the knight-errant of the opposition front benches. Glamour and integrity in equal measure, and when did we last see either of those in British politics? Scourge of the government, and according to the tabloids, the politician most women would like to sleep with.”
“How many?”
“Have I slept with? Getting your story ready for The Sun, are you?”
I start talking like I’m on speed. “Sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean that. What I mean is, I’ve never met anyone from your world before. And of course, like all ordinary people, I always wonder. I’ll be honest, this isn’t my world, I didn’t know who you’d be but I knew it would be someone famous, and I had all kinds of lines planned, lots of clever conversation. But now you’re here that seems fake, such a pretence. I can’t actually carry it off and act a part, so I may as well be myself and be honest with you from square one.” I pause for breath, then rush on. “This is all new to me. The high life – your life. What’s it like, living in your world? Is it all cocaine and supermodels? Or do you spend all your time on committees and opening charity fetes?”
“The latter. Almost always the latter, unfortunately for me. I’m being totally honest with you. Politics in this country – in my experience – is very clean. Compared to the States, France or Italy, it’s fucking disinfected. What do you want to drink?”
And we get on really, really well. He’s funny, he can laugh at himself, he’s got an openness I’ve not seen in many guys. And I keep thinking: he’s ridiculously good looking. Even if he doesn’t have a different woman every night, it must be so easy for him. Why is he here, spending an evening with a professional fuck?
Two hours fly by, and now we’re going upstairs. A maid had showed me the bedroom briefly that afternoon, but it was brief indeed – she said “He’ll know where everything is” and led me out again. Which fits with Cheriton’s pep-talk – Downes uses this place regularly, I think. And I can’t help myself wondering: maybe he knows something. Something about Wycherley. I’m turning it round in my mind, even during our first kiss. “Keep it slow” I say. When I’m with a truly stunning guy, it often goes too fast. The older blokes, decent but not devastating, are the ones who’ve given me the best times. Take a little more time, keep the excitement under control. Slow, slow.
I don’t know how much time has passed: maybe it’s just after midnight. The room’s curtains are open: there’s a deep-blue square of night sky where the window is. My face is burrowed into his chest, and now and then I rub my face against his skin, against the dark hairs. Even in this dim twilight, the odd silvery one glints here and there. I nuzzle up under his chin. I say nothing; he says nothing. But his adam’s apple is moving, brushing my forehead rhythmically.
A sniff.
And then another. In the darkness, he’s crying.
“What is it? Disappointed with the quality of the service?” I try to lighten the moment, and in the gloom I can make out his lips curving, managing a smile. Then he pulls me close to him, pushed my head back under his chin. It’s a long while before he speaks.
“Best ever.”
“I bet you’ve said that to every female you’ve ever fucked.”
“OK, second best ever.”
“Thanks.”
“Sarky minx.”
“I mean it, Jack. In my business, to be second best is to be a winner. I’ll always, always settle for second place. My first rule of happiness: be happy with second. So where would you put me, on your scale? Tell me.”
“I’m telling the simple truth. Second.” Glistening in the dark, a tear-track down one cheek. “Silver medal.”
“You never looked at my face, all the time we were doing it. It was wonderful, but you were imagining someone else. With my work, I’m very, very familiar with guys who do that. Were you pretending I was your gold medallist?”
“Do you do this to all your clients? Do the agony aunt services cost extra?”
“I never mentioned any agony. But of course, if a little whipping is what you need... meet Miss Holly Prickles…” I caress his chest. “You brought up the agony aunt idea.”
“Yes... but you ask questions. You challenge me. Most women are in awe of me. They don’t say stuff like you do.”
“Oh, I’m in awe all right. But not of your Big Ben, Mr Downes. Power and fame don’t turn me on. But your body is rather nice. Although you don’t fuck much, do you. I can tell. You could have a new woman spreading her legs for you every night, maybe two at a time if you went to the right bars. Instead you live a genuine bachelor life, except when the need to have sex gets too strong and then you come to this place, because you know it’s just a body shop, it means nothing. You can get up in the morning and walk away without hurting anyone. Also, you only really enjoy sex if it’s with someone special to you. Your personality, if you weren’t so bloody successful and good-looking, is just a simple one-woman guy. Oh yes, they do exist. I’ve met a lot. They’re the happiest people in the world, I think. Except when they visit me, then they feel guilty about what they’re doing. But – you don’t feel guilty.” I pause for a moment and run my hand through his hair. “You feel no guilt with me, because – your gold medallist left you, didn’t she?”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“But I remind you of her, right? You looked at me – me from the neck down, anyway – so greedily. Like she was back here with you.”
“Please don’t.”
“Sorry Jack. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“This room’s not bugged.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Holly, that I know this place. Some pretty powerful people put Cheriton here. Before him, a few years ago, the previous manager had tried to bug and secretly film in the rooms. A member here complained. That manager disappeared. He might be abroad, he might even be dead. Like I say, some very powerful people. But let’s just say that, right now, this hotel is one of the most discreet places in England. More discreet, probably, than many rooms in No.10 Downing Street. If you wanted to say anything, tell any secret to someone, here – this room – would be the place to do it.”
“So… why are you thinking about bugging? What’s your secret?”
“Lucy.”
I give him time. It must be getting towards one o’clock in the morning, he wants me here, I’m not going home until the morning. This is hard for him to tell me, I know. Give him time; he’ll open up.
We lie together for a long, long time. I could stay like this forever. Lying here and pretending everything’s OK. His arms around me... feeling safe... It’s a fake feeling, but it’s nice all the same. I must have slept: the clouds have cleared, because I can see stars in the blue square of sky.
He speaks.
“I met Lucy here.”
“I guessed that.”
“This is my favourite room, you know that’s why you’re in it tonight. She and I used this very bed, so many times. So many beautiful times. She did look a bit like you, but more of an air, than a physical resemblance. Her features were delicate, fragile.” (Thanks a lot, Jack) “But she was younger. You’ve seen a lot in your life, I can tell that. But you’re not tainted, somehow. She wasn’t, either. But she was untainted because she was star
ting out.”
“When did you first meet her?”
“About a year ago. And she disappeared about six months ago. One day they told me: she wasn’t available. And ‘not available’ is not something that applies to Jack Downes. I demanded to know what the fuck was going on. Eventually Cheriton told me in his spineless way. Told me that no-one knew where she was.”
“Do you believe Cheriton was telling the truth?”
“I wondered about that. If they can kill the previous manager for his indiscretion – and I suspect that they did – then they can certainly kill one of the escorts.”
“Fucking hell.”
“Maybe she knew something, and they had to get rid of her. Like I say, the one thing I know is: this room’s not bugged. And Cheriton thinks I’ve got over Lucy. He doesn’t know what love, infatuation, obsession, is. If his favourite wine is not available he’ll happily enjoy his second favourite. He can’t imagine anyone feeling any different.”
“And you do feel different.”
“Well, I’ve tried a lot of different girls in the last few months, but they weren’t Lucy.”
In the darkness, as I’m listening, I’m thinking to myself: you may be a more decent guy than many I meet, Mr Jack Downes – and you’re famous and rich and handsome – but deep down, I wouldn’t want to be in a real relationship with you. Lucy disappeared, but you felt it most in terms of its effect on you. Do you wonder, every minute, where she is, how she is doing?
I speak my thoughts. “Do you wonder, every minute, where she is, how she is doing?”
“I’m a busy man. There’s a lot on my mind. But yes – I feel the loss. I’ve used a private investigation company to try to find her. They’ve found absolutely nothing. I would try hiring another investigator – except of course you’re always worried that someone will sell what you’ve told him to the Press.”
“So what do you think happened?”
I stroke his face. It’s wet: there are new tears flowing now. And although I still feel he’s crying for himself and not Lucy, I put my arms round him, hold him tightly.
“It was a little over a year ago. Glorious sunshine, your classic English early-summer day. Not muggy like it is now, this bloody stifling heatwave when all you can smell is petrol fumes. I remember it like a picture. I was in the gardens here, I’d come here to relax, to forget my work for a day. The June roses were out. I must admit, I was looking forward to – someone. I was fancying leggy, but maybe Latin. Long, dark hair turns me on. And then they sent her over to me. I saw the long dark hair, alright, but then – so unexpected – her face. Our conversation. Fresh, joyful, genuine. I knew she’d not been here long. And I knew that there were guys here – businessmen, gangsters – who would be pushing with Cheriton, making sure that she spent time with them, not with me.”
The first time wasn’t actually that good. We were both too nervous. But then... and after that I came here every week, often more. More than my work could spare. I’m watched a lot, of course, but I managed it. Besides, so far the Soames has truly got away with appearing like a normal exclusive hotel and spa, a sort of retreat for society’s favourites. No one Tweets about us here.
I wanted Lucy to leave the Soames, to come with me. A real above-board relationship. If she had been more of a gold-digger of course she would have done, straight away. But she thought it was merely a crush on my part. I suppose she thought I was too good to be true.” (Modest as well as handsome, eh Jack?) “She wanted me, but she wanted to test it for a couple of months more. That was fine with me. But I paid Cheriton £100K to not put her with any other guys.”
Suddenly, sharply, he turns his head away from me, then back again.
“I was busy over Christmas and New Year. Constituency likes to see me at that time of year. I have to travel up to the North-East, charity engagements, speeches, mutual back-slapping, fundraising dinners, key constituency stakeholders, switch on the Christmas lights. Makes them happy. Like a fucking pantomime.” He laughs at his own little joke. “Then, at the beginning of January I was back in London, I couldn’t wait to get back to this place, and I saw her here, once more – and then without warning, she was gone.”
I kiss him again, in the darkness. “So what was she like?”
“She was – different. Every girl I’m met here, under the skin, there’s a hardness. An attitude. They’re all on the make.”
“So am I.”
He ignores that: he’s on a theme. “Actually, the hardness – maybe even a soullessness – the girls can’t hide it. Because everyone knows the score. They work here for the money, but also for the hope – which not even Cheriton can control – that they might attach themselves to some rich guy, and quit the place. Which, as a punter, is great: the girls act like they’re in love with you, and they all have the conversation skills, the charm, because they do want to net someone. More gangsters have met their trophy wives here than probably anywhere else in the country. Have you noticed how few of the girls here wear really high heels?”
“So?”
“High heels is a turn-on. But a guy, especially one with a fragile ego – which, in my experience, every business big-shot and top dog criminal has – wants to be seen with a woman on his arm who’s shorter than him. He might fuck the six foot supermodel, but he’ll spend time in public with the middle-sized average model.”
“And simple old me wears lower heels cos they’re more comfortable.”
“It’s pretty faces, really, that’s the key. Pretty, welcoming faces. Smiles. Listening while the guy drones on about whatever shit he cares about – his cars, his executive box at Chelsea Football Club, the racehorse he bought with the money he stole.”
“Or the constituency.”
He doesn’t notice my joke. “So like I say Holly, you – and Lucy – are different from most girls here.”
“I’m not different. I’m just playing a less ambitious game. Like most of my friends in the trade. I don’t want – well, I don’t expect – my dreams to come true. I know that they’re only dreams. I enjoy my life day by day. Like any other job, I have good days and bad days, nice clients and duff clients.”
“An ordinary job?...”
“Yup. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s boring. The one thing that’s almost never boring, is chatting to the punters. Some don’t talk, and that can be a bit awkward, but I get through it OK. But if they do talk – I enjoy finding out about them as a person, where they’re coming from, their angle on life. They talk about family, kids and wife. Maybe a bit about their home sex life, if they have one, sometimes they ask me for tips and hints. Although I’m a crap adviser.
Then they talk about their work – like you. From my regulars I’ve learnt a bit about what’s involved in being a university lecturer, a sewage worker, a banker, a bailiff, an airline pilot. I even had a male stripper once – funny, he had a non-existent sex life. He was a sad guy; two days before seeing me, he’d walked onto the railway line, watched a train coming towards him, then bottled it and decided to book me instead. What happened to him, I’ll never know.” I pause, ten seconds, then I try my luck. “So, Jack – I’ve told you A Day In The Life Of A Call Girl. So, you tell me about this fucking love of your life.”
He smiles: sad. “I think... she’d run away from home, but she’d not ended up on the streets. Maybe some other girls had helped her, I don’t know. But anyway, someone she knew must be a good contact, because it’s not easy to get into this place.”
“Any ideas who that contact was? Maybe they’d know where she is now?”
“No idea. I know that she had – someone – a person whom she used to phone, every few days. But she was very cagey about telling me anything about them. And this person, whom she used to call – she didn’t want him, or her, to be able to contact her. She told me, she actually used a friend’s phone to contact this person, so that he – or she – could never call her back.”
“And the friend with the phone?”
&nb
sp; “One of the other girls here, I think, but I don’t know who it was.”
“Do you know where Lucy was from, her background at all?”
“Nothing. She was intelligent, we used to talk about literature, poetry, Shakespeare. She had an incredibly strong sex drive, but she wasn’t – ”
“A tart?”
“Sorry.”
“She was glad to find me in this place. Like we had an affinity. Because despite the rose garden, the high-end restaurant, the reiki, this place is crass, it only really understands two languages: money and fucking.”
“Many people would say: there are no other languages.”
“And Lucy and I, we’d say there were better languages.” But I can feel his chest heaving again. Suddenly he sits up in bed, trembling with big, shaking sobs. Maybe he really did care for her after all. I’m not used to seeing a side of guys that really cares for women – for one woman. But there’s still a boyish selfishness here, like daddy has taken away his favourite toy.
“So was she really like me? I’m finding her hard to picture.” And then, to provoke him “Should I just look at my body in the mirror? But cover up my less-than-delicate face?”
For answer he reaches over to his phone and shows me the screen. “There she is.”
I look. And what I see on the screen – somehow I’ve known, all along, what I would see. The Lucy in the picture, smiling half-shyly at the camera, is the same girl that I saw on Wycherley’s phone.
11Friday 21 July
I wake up again, see rumpled sheets thrown back. It’s like a morning-after scene from the movies: Lover Boy has gone.
I get breakfast at the Soames: it’s excellent, and free. No breakfast cereals out of a box here. I stoke up on food, because I’m not going to enjoy today: the visit to joke-name PantiesOff. Why has Cheriton asked me to see this ridiculous girl? But I don’t need to know that. And I do need the thousand quid. But even Krasniqi and his threats are not in my mind right now: all I can think of, on my journey from leafy Kingston to gritty Brixton, is what I found out last night. Jack Downes and Wycherley both knew the girl in the picture, kept images of her. And she’s disappeared.
I’m on the train from Norbiton heading into Vauxhall, where I’ll change to the tube for Brixton. The train is nearly empty: I sit in a shaded seat, away from the fierce sun through the carriage windows. A news alert comes in on my iphone: they expect this to be the hottest day yet this century. I go through in my head what I learnt last night, consider the possibilities. Option A – Lucy is not close to Wycherley, she’s just another hooker that he visited on his London trip. Yes, he came to London, he stayed in Alperton, so that he could search for something, that seems clear enough – but whatever he was searching for, it was nothing in particular to do with her. He took a photo of me, as he did of her. In which case, Wycherley’s photo was taken after she knew Jack. Option B. Lucy is important to Wycherley, same as she is to Jack Downes: she’s disappeared, Wycherley was searching for her.
If he’s linked to her, maybe she’ll be mentioned in the news about him. I check every bit of available news. But there’s no mention of any young girl. Although Lucy is probably not her real name, I even try googling “Wycherley Lucy”. Nothing.
Out of the station. I love Brixton. It’s like Finsbury Park on speed: a chaos of people everywhere, streets crowded, shops bursting with colour, Asian, Caribbean, Latin: everyone smiles in Brixton. Well, everyone smiles at me. Electric Avenue, onto Atlantic Road, I walk a couple of blocks, and everything changes.
Suddenly there’s no-one about. There’s rubbish everywhere, but the roads are quiet, and the pavements empty. A ghost town. I count the number of security cameras up on the lamp-posts, each one surrounded by metal spikes. The cameras are looking at me, but the few people I see avoid my eyes: I avoid theirs. This is not an area I know: never any outcalls here. Nor would I take them if asked. It’s not a place where I’d happily go to a stranger’s home, nor an area I’d feel safe walking back from after dark, carrying a sum of cash.
I have to walk out of the shade, across a road; the sun hits me and my throat feels instantly dry. I retrace my steps to the last shop I saw, buy a bottle of water and drink it, standing there next to the counter. The shopkeeper smiles, and we chat about the weather. Then I go back out. In the glare I see, on the corner ahead of me, a group of boys. Shouldn’t they be in school? I think, and then laugh at myself: I’m becoming Lady Neighbourhood Watch in my old age. I can’t see their faces under their hoods, but then one of them glances up at me. Then another does. Don’t look obvious, looking at the iphone. Don’t let people see it, and don’t let people see that I don’t know my way around.
Car parking is always a guide to areas. Where I live, they line up in neat rows, considerately. And shunt up close to the car in front, so as to leave more space behind for others. I’ve seen ‘polite’ notes pinned to the windscreens of cars that are parked where they take up two spaces. Here cars and vans are parked anyhow, angled into the road, tyres on the pavement, even parked on a tiny patch of grass, and on an oval of sunburnt earth which was once meant, I guess, to be a flower bed. Every car has scratches and bumps. The other side of the road, there’s a parade of shops, but every one has its metal grill down. Why, why is there no-one about?
I walk on one block further, turn a corner. Ugh. It’s the ugliest building I’ve ever seen in my life. Which, for a North London girl, is really saying something. It must be Brixton Jail: a massive wall, six storeys high, stretching all down the road as far as I can see. It’s all dark gray brick and concrete, with only a few tiny windows here and there, like it’s in one of those sci-fi future films that blokes watch. Fuck, what must it be like, living stuck in there? Will I end up some place like that, when Rainbow nails me? Then for some reason, I find myself looking over my shoulder. The gang of boys is right behind me.
“Hello. Can you tell me please, where is Southwyck House?”
Glances at each other. Then one of them steps forward. A slight swagger.
“It’s that.” He points to the dark wall.
“Thank you.”
“No problem. Round here, lady, we call it the Barrier.”
And he turns back to the others. I hear “Nice ass, lady”. Spoken almost so he hopes I won’t hear, of course it’s not meant for me, it’s to impress his mates. They’re just boys: maybe they thought to get my iphone off me, but your nerve to rob a person can be rattled, if that person gets in first with a spot of polite conversation. But I guess I’m suspicious of the boys mainly because I used to live with Derry and his dodgy mates. Probably, these boys are hanging around on the street simply because, as I’ve just remembered, the school holidays have started.
I look again at the Barrier. The locals chose a better name for it than Southwyck House. Some of the tiny windows are glassless black squares, others are boarded up. There’s fencing around one end of the building, big wire squares chained together, and there’s a metal container, like a lorry-sized skip, full of broken bits of wood and glass. The Council must have got the builders in, but there’s no-one working at the moment. I’ve no idea how to get inside. I go over to the shade of the massive wall, start walking. Some distance along, sticking out from the brickwork, there’s a circular concrete one-storey thing, like something they’d build in World War Two to put guns in. A door on one side of it: it’s the entrance to this place. Like it’s fucking Checkpoint Charlie. I press a buzzer for Flat 81 on the intercom, speak into a metal mesh. A Russian-sounding voice says “Hello, I buzz you in.” For one moment it feels like I’m in some spy programme on the telly, I’m going to meet the KGB. I push against the door, it opens, I call the lift, get in. Piss-smell in my nose, floor sticky under my shoes. I press the button for the third floor. It works. Up I go, the lift doors open, a little dark corridor, battered door: number 81, here it is. I’m about to knock, when I notice that the door is ajar. Voices from inside. Strong accents, arguing in some foreign language. The voices g
o up and down, I listen for one minute. Madly, in the middle of the gibberish, I hear “Holly Harlow” spoken distinctly. Then I hear a table being banged, with a fist maybe. Anger barely under control. Someone is going to kick off. I push through the door, call out.
“Hello! Anyone home?”
The hallway is cramped and dingy, but I’m surprised: it’s spotlessly clean and tidy. A man and a woman appear. Even in the gloom I can see: she’s absolutely catwalk-stunning. Like something off a perfume advert in a magazine, but dressed in jeans and t-shirt. Skin like cream; gold hair glowing in this murk. And taller than him – but he bulks out across the hallway, filling the tiny space; tattoos, muscles. A workout fanatic.
“I’m Holly Harlow. I’m here to talk to you, Jurgita. Like I said on the phone. Talk to you both, if that’s what you want.”
It’s not what he wants. He stands blocking the hall and glares nastily at me, but his frown looks sulky, his lips pout. You front up tough, Mr Muscles, but you’re not such a hard man as you want me to think. Meanwhile she smiles, without happiness. Because she’s trained to smile at anyone who comes to the door.
I smile too. “You work out, I see. Nice muscles.”
“What the fuck are you doing here? I know why, and you’re going to fucking turn round and leave right now.”
“OK. I’ll go. Sorry, sorry. But I’ve come a long way, and it’s scorching. Do you mind” – I look at the woman – “getting me a glass of water, before I go?”
The guy looks at me like I’m playing the oldest trick in the book, which I am. But she says “Jonas, I get some water for the lady” and he doesn’t stop her. As soon as she’s gone, I say to him “I’m sorry. I never wanted to do this either. They just offered me some money to come round here and talk to her. Paid me in cash, it was hard to resist.”
He looks at me, and can’t stop himself asking. “How much?”
“Two hundred. I mean, for just taking a tube ride and a short walk. Easiest money I’ve ever earned. Look.” I open my bag, and there are the notes. I angle it so he can see them. I’d even thought of using Wycherley’s cash for this, a good way to get shot of it – but then I thought, hang on to it. One day I might need to show the police how helpful I am with evidence and stuff like that.
It’s hard to stay looking angry when you’re curious. But he’s still trying to come across all threatening, like he’s some sort of boss.
“Show me that money. In my hand, now.”
I pretend not to understand what he’s saying, I answer him “Oh yes, of course. But I need to check the amount.”
He’s confused now. I count the cash, really slowly, right in front of his face, and meanwhile Jurgita comes back with the glass of water. I fold the notes up carefully, put them back in my bag, thank her, drink the water and turn to go.
“Stop. What about that money?”
I turn back round, smile, look him in the eye, flirty. “Do you know what, I could really do with a sit down for five minutes, after that hot walk.”
It’s five minutes later. Jonas, and the bribe, have vanished. It was easy to make him realise that the money was his for free, if he wanted it, on one small condition: that he leave me and her alone to chat.
“God, he is so stupid.”
“How did you meet him?”
“There were three of us girls. We come from Lithuania. Jonas, he is too, originally – but I know nothing of his life there. I guess he is from Vilnius. We met him for the first time when we got here.”
Some people think immigrants’ stories only start when they arrive in England. I ask her “Were the three of you – the girls – all friends in Lithuania? How did you meet there?”
“The children’s home. We are all orphans. The orphanage – in your late teens, they organise training courses. We trained together, business administration. And improved our English, of course.”
Her voice is toneless. Like she’s reading a story about someone else, out of a book. I remember my own childhood, and my teenage years. Making decisions without support, without parents to guide you.
“Then one day, Klaudija, my friend, she had a boyfriend, but she told me she’s gone with this other guy too, and he gave her 300 litas. More than I’d ever seen in my life. And the three of us girls, we thought, we will go to London. Earn some proper money, for a while at least. Me, I thought, I will do this, earn money in England for two, three years, then one day I will go back to Lithuania, get job, maybe meet someone, marry, children. I had a plan in my head, the lies I would tell my future husband about the good job I’d had in England.
“It was springtime, last year, when we travelled here, we arranged it with a contact, a Mr Urbonas. He said he would sort things out for us, a place to live. But when we arrived, there was no Mr Urbonas, we got sent to three different houses. Tasha, she was sent to Jonas’s flat, here. She had never been with a man, she phoned me that first night to say that Jonas had told her, sleep with me – or, Klaudija and Jurgita will be hurt. So she let him do what he wanted. I was at a woman’s house, she had men coming in. She said if I sleep with them, we split the money fifty-fifty. So I thought: well, this is my chance, I have to start somewhere. I felt dirty, the men were horrible – but I thought, I have to do this. The woman was English, but she was nice to me. But then after a few nights, I got sent to Jonas. All three of us were here. We all sleep with him in his room, he had two beds pushed together. Since then, many men come here, Jonas takes the money. But one day Jonas was out, and Klaudija, she went down to a strip club place, they gave her work straight away. But then Jonas found out she had good money, he took the money, he hit her. After that, we all worked for Jonas for a while, but then Tasha and Klaudija left, together. That was about a year ago. Since then, it’s just me, here.”
It’s a familiar story – I know what it’s like myself, but it’s worse for girls who come to the UK from outside, and I’ve so many of the tales Jazz brings back from Sexwork Helpline. Every week they hear of another one like this, and for every one they hear of, there must be hundreds…
“So what now?”
“Tasha, she lives in Plaistow now, she gets good money, I still keep in touch with her.”
“And Klaudija?”
Her brows knit.
“Jurgita, why haven’t you got out?”
“Because – where would I go? I have no money, none at all. Jonas, he controls all the money. He stays in, he never goes out. Most of the time, he works out, training.” I look at her; she gets up, moving like she’s sleepwalking, and leads me through into another room. A room full of weights, pulleys, machines. Smell of male sweat.
“You see? He stays, he take money direct from the guys who come to fuck with me. He gives me little bits of money, I clean the flat, I go out, shopping, buy food for him and me. Each time I go, he knows I will come back. But he doesn’t like this – what you are offering.”
Obviously not. Cheriton is hardly going to agree to pay Jonas direct, so there’s no way this is going to happen. Unless …
“Why don’t you come with me, now? And never come back?”
“Thank you. But I have to say no. It’s crazy.”
“It was crazy when you came here, how you ended up in this situation. You’re like a prisoner here.”
“I’m not a prisoner. I have clothes now, I can go out, go to shops, to….” Almost a smile plays across her lips. “It’s funny, when his mother came over to visit him, we pretended to her that I was really his girlfriend, he told her I worked in a hotel. He even said, Mamyte, you will come over for the wedding. Ha.”
I keep quiet, let her think. Then I say
“How long will he be gone? I asked him to stay away for an hour.”
“He’ll stay away for the hour. He doesn’t think I will run. He knows I need him, I need to live here. I keep flat clean, do shopping, I come and go, he never worries, he knows I will always come back.”
“Not this time. Let’s gather your stuff. Fucking hell, I earn £40
0 an hour at this place I work. And you look like a goddess.”
She looks at me blankly, taking in both the money that’s on offer, and the compliment. Then it’s as if someone’s flicked a switch: she’s awake. Her eyes open wider, her voice comes alive. “Yes, yes. You are right.”
“You can stay at mine, for a night or two, until you get sorted.”
I dial a taxi. We hurry. Two minutes: clothes gathered in plastic bags. Three minutes: the lift. Six minutes, and we’re outside on the road where I talked to the boys. Like before, there’s no people, no traffic. No-one around to see us, but I glance nervously around. Then I see a car. It moves towards us slowly, pulls up at the kerb. I’m so tense, for a moment I think the driver is Jonas, but of course it’s not him. It’s our taxi.
“Brixton Tube Station, please.” I get into the front; Jurgita into the back. Hell, I must be nervy if I mistook this driver, who’s at least sixty, wears a kufi and has verses from the Qu’ran hanging from his rear-view mirror, for Jonas.
The road we’re on, I now see, has concrete bollards across it ahead of us: a dead-end. The driver has to do a 3-point turn in the road. Time is in slow motion. I see Jonas walk round the corner. He looks straight past me into Jurgita’s face. As the driver turns the steering wheel, I see Jonas getting something: one of the squares of steel fencing I saw earlier. It’s not chained to the others. It’s twice his height, but he puts it down flat in the road in front of us as easily as if he’s putting a plate on a table.
The driver looks at me; he hasn’t a clue what to do. I haven’t either. I do the only thing that can be done: I get out of the car, stand behind my open car door, look at Jonas. But I’ve no idea what I could say to make him let us go. He stares at me, not bothering to speak, because we all know what he wants.
I hear the driver’s door opening. The driver too stands, looks at Jonas; I see the shape of his mouth, his brows, like he doesn’t want a confrontation. Like a father with his son.
“It’s Jonas Senkus, isn’t it? I remember you. I brought your mother to see you, from the airport. A good fare for me, I remember you came down, to this exact spot on this street, to pay me. Your mother is a nice lady, she told me all about you, she was so pleased to see you.”
“I want her to get out of the car.”
Jurgita’s door opens. She gets out and steps towards him. Jonas eyeballs her.
“Come here. We go inside.”
“Jonas, listen. You have no quarrel with the taxi driver, or with this Holly lady. Move the metal, let the man drive, let me go. Jonas, I could have been your girlfriend, a good woman for you. But these men who come to the flat, you hardly even make any money anymore. Two have come, only two, in the last week.”
He looks down, and I can see his face darken as he takes it all in. That the driver now knows what he’s been doing. The whole neighbourhood will know, soon enough. Is that red colour in his cheeks shame, or anger? Don’t provoke him, Jurgita, I whisper, like a prayer.
“Let me go, Jonas, and it will be different. I do want to be with you. I will come back to you. But I can’t be with you like this, not any more. And I can tell: these last few months, you’ve not been happy, either. There could be good money, now. Let’s try this.”
The three of us stand and watch him. And after five seconds, it’s like he can’t bear our gaze any more. He turns, stoops, moves the fencing. His bulky shape in the road reminds me of some big wounded animal. As we drive away I see his arm move, as if he were just about to raise it in farewell. As if we were friends.
The tube from Brixton goes straight through to Finsbury Park. Jazz is at home to meet us. I order a takeaway: Jazz talks to Jurgita. Well, 10% talking, 90% listening. Jazz is in her element, of course, and Jurgita tells her everything, from the orphanage in Lithuania to Jonas and his nasty little ways. I hear Jurgita tell Jazz that at the beginning, the three girls spent two weeks, naked, living in Jonas’ bedroom and pleasuring him and his clients. Only then did he provide some clothes, and it was at that point that the idiot forgot to lock the front door and Klaudija walked. And only when he realised that punters don’t like phoning and speaking to a bloke –with a foreign accent – did he get Jurgita her own phone, a crappy £15 one from Asda. I think of the loneliness she’s had – she’s spent over a year in that flat since the other two girls left. I bring food and drinks: I’m Miss Tea & Sympathy. But after a couple of hours, I hear Jazz winding the conversation up: she has to get ready for an outcall this evening, she goes off to her room and it’s my turn to talk to our guest. After all, I’ve still got my recruitment job to do for Cheriton.
Jurgita comes in first, with the obvious question. “How do you know about me? There must be many girls …”
“I have no idea, really I don’t. I got shown your profile by my boss, but I don’t know why he picked you. Well, he says he saw you on EscortNet, could see you had more potential that a lot of the other girls on there – but to be honest, I don’t believe him. You are so damned gorgeous, but I would never have guessed that from your profile photos. Did Jonas take those photos?
“He wrote my profile, and yes he took the photos.”
“They’re total shit.”
She smiles at my words. A sense of humour, but deeply hidden. “And your level of English too – I’d never have guessed it from the writing of your profile. I really have no idea how my boss picked you out.”
A moment ago, her face was bright; dawning on her that she’s worth so much more, could earn so much more, than her miserable life with Jonas. But now, it’s like a cloud has come over the sun. She looks at me, holds my gaze. I can tell: she’s going to ask me something. Something important. The atmosphere in the room has changed. I don’t know why, but I feel cold.
“This place you work, Holly. What is its name?”
“I’m not supposed to tell you.”
“Yes. It’s all secret, isn’t it? This offer of work – I get an email from a private account, through EscortNet. And when I replied to it, then I got the phone call, I speak to someone called Ruby, but she tells me nothing, all she does is give me your name, told me you will phone me. And then you phone me, to arrange visit. That’s all I have. Nothing that I can be sure of, just people mailing and phoning. So how can I make a decision?”
I remember what Cheriton said – “We’re invisible”. But compared to this strange, chill feeling in the room now, Cheriton’s commands seem unimportant.
“It’s called the Soames Hotel.”
Her eyes change, but all the same, I can see: this was what she expected to hear.
“Yes. My thinking is correct. I know that name. That hotel, they contact me because of Klaudija. Because she went to work there, so she recommends me to them. She told me she would do that, to help me – they might offer me work too, if I could get away from Jonas.”
“And Klaudija? –”
I can see tears in her eyes. I put my arm round her, but she doesn’t seem comforted. She sits still, frozen, making no sound while the tears trickle down her cheeks.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
As the kettle boils I hear another sound, familiar. A click. Two seconds processing it in my brain, and I go back into the lounge.
She’s gone.
I run down the stairs, out onto the street, look left and right. Nothing. She can’t have disappeared, so fast? I call upstairs to Jazz, who’s in her bedroom getting ready to go out. Jazz comes down: she takes right, I take left, we run along our street to the ends, look down the roads. Nothing.
Five minutes later.
“Why, Jazz? When you consider what she’s escaped from …”
“That’s exactly it. We see this at the Helpline, a lot. She’s afraid of Jonas, and she can’t really imagine life without him. She’s gone back to him.”
“No, I don’t totally buy that. Yes, I can see how that happens, and this might seem a typical case. And you’re probably right, she’s gone back to him. But it was something else. It
was the mention of the Soames that did it. Her face changed.”
“Really? One word changed her mind? When she’s been bullied, imprisoned? She’s still a prisoner, in her head. But look Hol, this is something I can help with, maybe. Let me have her number and her address. You’ll have to tell your boss at your posh brothel that it’s no-go, for the moment at least, but there still might be something we can do for Jurgita. I’ll go and visit her, in a few days, once the thought of freedom from Jonas has taken root in her mind. I’m used to dealing with these things. I’ll do what I can.”
“And Jonas?”
“I think I’m more than a match for Jonas, Hol.”
I thank her, and at the same time I worry about Jurgita, going back to that man. Would he hit her? She told me he’d hit Klaudija. But my concerns about her soon fade from my mind. I worry about myself instead. Having failed to reel in Jurgita for Cheriton, I’m a thousand quid down. But even so, once the Soames pays me for Cattrell and Downes, I’ll have nearly enough money to offer Krasniqi. To buy my innocence in the eyes of the law.
