by Evelyn Weiss
18Friday 4 August
Well, this is a change. I’ve made a booking myself. And it’s all the wrong way round: I’ve booked a rich older woman. And I’m desperate for what she can do for me... information, that is.
Which is why I’m here at the Savoy Hotel, of all places, in a restaurant I can’t afford, with a menu I don’t understand, waiting for the arrival of a woman I don’t know, and I’m not even going to get paid for it. This restaurant is real class: a world away from Raw Silk or even the Soames. It’s also worlds away from where I began in this game. I think back again, to Derry. After what he did to me that night, I had to move away, of course. I left Debbie behind me in her alcoholic haze, got the new flat with Jazz, and Derry never found me again. I’d got a fair bit of cash saved up by then, and I didn’t need his contacts any more. At that time I was getting a lot of work through Diamonds, Craig and I were still friends at that point and he put as much work my way as I could handle. If Craig had known what Derry had done to me, things would have been pretty nasty for Derry... so, as you can guess, I told Craig I’d had an accident and needed to take a couple of weeks off.
By the time I went back to work, Craig had also sorted a second strip club job for me, central London this time. Midweek work and higher rates. But like I said, there were downsides to Diamonds. After a few months I took Jazz’s advice: I said goodbye to Craig and his little empire and I joined GirlsDirect. Best choice I’ve ever made. Suddenly I was looking at thick wads of £20 notes rather than the little piles of tenners that Diamonds and the clubs used to pass on to me. Jazz and I moved flat again, up-market. We’re jointly named on a proper rental contract, and what with the need for banking, a credit card and so on, I guessed I’d better join the ranks of Britain’s legitimate economy. I paid for driving lessons, too, and passed first time. I’ve never owned a car, but I can use Jazz’s Mercedes to visit punters in those Home Counties villages, who are happy to pay a bit extra to have their sex home-delivered. They’re often two or three hour bookings too – a nice earner, I’d recommend it to anyone joining the game. Being more chic than me, Jazz gets more of that trade, it’s why she needs to own a car, and why she’s away from the flat half the time. And I got the photos taken by Paulo, and I put the ground rules on my profile, which send out a message: punters, behave yourself with this girl. Like the adverts, she’s worth it.
Most of all, I guess, I moved on – and up – because I learnt from all the mistakes I made. Such as: yes it’s good to have a flatmate who is in the same business as you. But it’s better to fly solo if your flatmate is a piss-head thicko. Yes an agency is a good way to get business, but advertising through a web service is better – it truly is worth being a bit brave and confident, biting the bullet, and going independent. If you do that, your price per booking is less than agency prices – but GirlsDirect just charges a one-off fee, they take no cut of your earnings. It makes most of its money from advertising: popups appear all the time when you’re logged on. The adverts are aimed, of course, not at us escorts but at the punters, and they’re hilarious. When will guys learn that nothing will actually make their cock bigger? Or that viagra doesn’t make sex more fun, it just means that if you suffer from a limp dick, it might help you keep it up until orgasm. Or, most of all, that there actually aren’t millions of women looking for casual sex. There are all these popup pictures of naked women, all of them saying “I’m desperate for a shag – to contact me, join this website…” who on earth falls for it?
OK, off my soapbox. I come back to reality. Where the fuck is Elspeth Corr? Is she standing me up? Waiters are watching me sitting here alone, like a fish out of water. I’m circling my finger round the rim of a champagne glass, and my date is nearly an hour late. I get up to go to the loo. And on the way there, as I cross a wide lobby, chandeliers, pillars, marble tiles like something in a palace, I bump into a familiar face. The word is out before I can help it.
“Martin!” I’ve broken the first rule of my job. I say in an undertone “Sorry, you’re at work.”
A warm smile. “That’s OK. Not a problem, honestly. I am allowed to talk to the hotel guests, you know.”
“I’m not really a guest, Martin. I’m here to meet someone for dinner.”
“Posh booking, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“It’s actually not a booking. In fact, I’m meeting a woman. This place was her choice. You remember that policeman – ”
“I’d hardly forget.”
“It’s all to do with that business. The police aren’t investigating properly, so I have to. Otherwise I’ll get nailed for a crime I didn’t commit. So I need to ask some people some questions – and this one, she was only willing to meet here. Anyway, how are you?”
“I’m good. I’m looking forward to finding time for our booking.” He taps the side of his nose like he’s acting in a panto. “Kids are doing well, too.”
“Busy here?”
“Full summer season, it’s mental. I take time off when I can, to see the kids, but this time of year it’s a juggling act. I’m back on nights next week, for the rest of the month. I’ll be glad of it. No guests asking me a million questions, bar the occasional late-night wanderer. Best of all, I see the kids in the daytime. Take them to the park. By the way” – he looks over his shoulder – “might that be your date?”
I glance back into the restaurant, see a waiter escorting a woman to the table I’ve just vacated. I can see what he’s thinking about the woman: she looks like a desperate old dyke.
“Yes. Good to see you, Martin. Got to go.”
I go back into the restaurant, say hello to Elspeth Corr, and I’m about to tell her that I need the loo. But the mannish, hard-voiced woman who drips jewellery – and arrogance – just speaks at me. “So you’re Holly. I need to see your proof. Where’s you photo of James?”
I produce the photo which she asked that I bring, and which James was kind enough to email to me. And then my driving licence, which she also asked for as proof of my ID.
“Do you want my St John’s Ambulance certificate?”
She looks at me, without humour. But I have to show her that everything is not on her terms.
“I’ve waited an hour for you, Miss Corr. I need the loo now. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
I know her type. Like some of my teachers when I was in my teens. You had to show them that while you would meet their demands, you were still your own person, that your identity wasn’t snuffed out by a desire to please authority. Elspeth Corr is used to people kowtowing to her. I’m not going to give her that. At least, not yet.
I return to the table. I’m not even sitting down when she fires the question she’s been thinking of while I’ve been weeing.
“You’re not a journalist. You’re not James’s girlfriend. So what are you?”
“I’m a hooker.”
She stares at me. Beady, mistrustful eyes. I keep on talking.
“Whore. Prostitute, slut, call girl, slag, tart, escort, tom, slapper, lady of the night, good-time girl, village bike. Harlot, strumpet, crumpet. A shag machine.”
She pretends to be unfazed, but I can tell she’s glancing about in case anyone hears. Cut-glass voice. “So how do you know James?”
“I booked for an appointment at Home Croft. I met him there.”
“And he saw you... and paid you? ... to...?” I can see behind her mask, her thinking that her former lover would stoop to using a prostitute.
“Not at all. He guessed that I was interested in finding out more about what goes on behind the scenes at Home Croft, and he wanted to talk to me. Then, I visited him at his home.”
“Can you tell him? ...” Pride versus desire. I can see her battling with herself.
“He knows, Miss Corr. He knows how you feel about him. Honestly, he does.”
She’s embarrassed. Because I’ve touched her rawest nerve. The lust, the head-over-heels-in-love feelings of an older women. Feelings that most, maybe, would lau
gh at. She’s not used to being laughed at. I’m working hard to show her that Holly Harlow might be a tough cookie, but there’s one thing I’d never do: laugh at her. And indeed, I wouldn’t. Because I sense that one day, I might become her.
Except without the lavish funds.
And she responds. Something changes, she makes a decision, suddenly her armour is down, she gets down to business. “OK. Let’s focus on what you want to know, then. Home Croft. Well, it’s not what it seems.”
“So what was your experience?” Although I’m itching to hear the worst about them, anything that might link them to the Soames, maybe to Lucy or Wycherley, I need to keep to the facts she actually knows. Be patient: get her to tell her story.
“I went there for –” Hesitation. A hawk-like glance at me. “Do you think I’m attractive?”
“Not really for me to say.”
“Oh yes it is. But as you’re trying to be polite, I’ll tell you. At best I look like a man in drag. A short, stocky man that you’d pass in the street without noticing him.”
“You’re not bad for your age” I lie.
“Don’t piss me about, Miss Harlow. Give me some respect.”
“Sorry. OK, you’re not the most attractive of women. Not physically, anyway.”
“And what other way is there than physically? Are people attracted to me for my ready wit? Or for my money? Go and google Dating Websites. Take a good look at those websites. Every one you look at, from Fancy A Shag Dot Com to Sensitive Soul Mates, it will be the same story, it depends one hundred per cent on one thing only: people’s profile photos. You are judged, summed up, every day by people because of how you look. If you’re a man, you can maybe get away with being less than Adonis. Men’s clothes, their whole style, shows them as a group, a team, and within that group all the members are one of the boys. Even the ugly ones have some kind of status, and as a woman, you find them cute, or characterful, or some other way of recognising that if the guy has manners and money, oh yes, you’ll end up in bed with him. But if you’re a plain woman, you’re well and truly alone. Men are constantly comparing women, ranking them in their minds, It’s hard, being at the bottom of the heap. I’ve had thirty years of it, since dances as a teenager, and I never got picked. Boys at that age – so much testosterone they’d go with anything with a fanny, and yet they steered clear of me. Didn’t want to be seen with me in front of their friends.”
“You’ve been married twice.”
“I see you’ve done some research. Both were after my money, and nothing else. I’ve tried with men, you know. I even had a go at using one of those dating sites. I put out in front of all those men. I even put on my profile ‘First Date’ as ‘Strip Poker’.”
I can’t help it. A snigger. Then a giggle. No wonder she didn’t attract the right kind of guy. She carries on, pissed-off but regardless.
“I got no offers, apart from guys who wanted my email address and then sent me photos of their genitalia.” (Hold that laugh in, Holly) “Not one decent date. I wrote a long profile about how I wanted a relationship that was filled with both sex and passion. Do you realise how it was, being regarded by the male sex like that?”
“So?”
“I wanted – a man. I wanted – I still want – to move on from gold diggers. I want to be part of a couple, and be normal. To belong.”
Is it harder to feel sympathy for ugly people? Well, despite her snipes at me, I do feel for her at this moment. A lonely woman with nothing but more loneliness to look forward to. But then, I know plug-ugly wives in loving relationships. It’s a hurdle, not a barrier. It’s easy to sit back and blame everyone else.
“So... I went to the clinic. For plastic surgery. On my face, and my body. My first visit there, it was... wonderful. I felt like I’d been paroled from prison. And I met James, of course. He was charming, attentive. We got chatting, and – we went on from there.”
“But Home Croft? The operation that you went for?”
“Franklin – not his real name, as I’ll tell you soon – was incredibly encouraging, supportive. Within two days he had a DVD couriered round to me, a simulated movie of how I would look post-surgery. During and afterwards, they’d arrange special counselling if needed to cope with the change, clothing and makeup advisers... there was nothing they couldn’t do. To create the new Me.”
“What went wrong?”
“Nothing, at first. I was completely unsuspecting. My treatment, you understand, was not one operation but a series. After the first operation, which was relatively minor, I was there at the clinic, in January, for a progress meeting with Mr Franklin. He was generous with his time, generous as...”
“... as you were generous with your money?”
“But then, he suddenly got called out from our consultation. He went out, in a hurry, and he didn’t close the door completely. And I looked through the crack.”
“And –”
“I saw this. A trolley was brought into the corridor outside his office. A trolley carrying someone I know well. I’m not going to tell you his name, but I’ll tell you this. He was a member of the Cabinet.”
“Hell.”
“And I heard Franklin talking. The man had collapsed at some place called the Soames Hotel, wherever that is. The medics also had two girls with them, in evening dress. Incongruous in that place. So I guessed that those girls had come from that hotel. Franklin and the other medics were asking them questions, they wanted to know exactly what had happened, timings and so on. And they rushed him through into the operating suite. I heard the words ‘liver failure’.”
“Was it George Vennery?”
Her face is flinty, but she blinks, and I can tell that I’ve guessed right.
“Doesn’t fit very well with all those cuts he made to the NHS, does it?”
“How did you guess it was him? And by the way, I used to know George Vennery, very well. So you can imagine my shock, seeing him in that place, in that state. Because when I knew him, he was a perfect gentleman. I danced with him at a ball at Eton, when he and I were seventeen.”
“Did he ask you out, at this ball? Or try to kiss you?”
Mistake. Not the time to touch her raw nerve. She repeats herself. “How did you guess it was him, Miss Harlow?”
“This is your story, not mine. Could you tell me about the two girls?”
“One looked very, very young. Tall and willowy. Long dark hair, like a veil. She had the saddest but most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. I didn’t get a good look at the other one, she was standing with her back to me. She was tall and slim too, but blonde. But...”
“What?”
“Thinking about it, the other one, the blonde, she was answering all the questions. In fact, I got the impression, I can’t remember exactly why, that she had driven Vennery and the other girl over, in a car, from that Soames place. The younger one – she looked – stunned, confused. Her face, it said – sad, lost.”
“Then a nurse came in, and she finished my session. She was just taking a few final notes really, Mr Franklin and I had already more or less wrapped it up.”
“So – what about the rest of your surgery?”
“I pondered and pondered what I’d seen. Eventually I decided to challenge them. To find out what had happened. Especially as George did an interview, which I saw on television, only five weeks later, and when I looked for news of him, all the information was that he’d been on holiday in Corsica. January’s not the usual time for MPs to go on an extended holiday. And then in March, George resigned, suddenly. And I thought: he’s jumped before he’s pushed. He knows this will come out, or will do if he remains in the public eye. So I decided to ask Franklin myself.”
“I bet that went well.”
“I don’t want to talk about that. All I will say is, firstly: I was not reassured. If anything, I felt... threatened. Nothing specific, but I left that place feeling afraid. I tried to find out more. I’d been chatting a lot to James, first in the reception, then we m
et at a café, then – we used to use a nearby hotel.”
“Does it ever occur to you that maybe it was just a fling, for him...?”
“You mean, like all the others, he was after my money?” The idea seems new to her. I watch surprise, then shock, pass across her face. She’ll be processing that for some time. And I’ll never know what she concludes.
She wants to talk about something else.
“I instructed a private agent to make some enquiries. Try a Google Image search for the following: Evans, surgeon, King’s Hospital. You can cull the results a bit by typing in site:fr after your search words. But you still have to scroll down many, many pages of results, almost all of them irrelevant. Eventually you’ll see a picture from a French website, showing the speakers at a surgeons’ conference in Paris, maybe ten years old. You’ll recognise the man that you met under the name of Mr Franklin. And once you’re satisfied that it’s the same man, try a normal Google search for Evans, Surgeon. And again you’ll have to scroll down through many pages, but eventually you’ll find a page from an Australian medical journal “English surgeon struck off for serious misconduct.” There’s a photo in the article, and again you’ll recognise the man in it. And if you read the article, you’ll find that a certain Mr Evans was struck off for repeatedly taking cavalier, unjustifiable risks in operations. Operations in which two people died under the knife, and many others suffered serious harm.”
“So how come he’s allowed to do surgery at all, even privately?”
“He’s not. That’s why he changed his name to Franklin. He claims to have qualified in the States. Records in the USA are complex, but my agent did some checking for me, and there was a surgeon called Franklin, in Colorado. But then, you dig some more, in different places, and eventually you find out that the real Franklin died six years ago in a skiing accident. Meanwhile, the new Mr Franklin has managed, probably through tactical bribery, to remove almost all the public record information, and images, of Mr Evans and his striking-off. Also, the NHS was at a difficult point in its history then – a scandal was not what they wanted. So even at the time, public coverage of what had actually gone on was limited. But – despite what the man’s infinite ego believes – not every last thing in the universe is under his control. Anyone who looks carefully enough can find out about his former life.”
“I still don’t get it. Why he would want to take the risks of carrying on as a doctor, illegally, after being struck off?”
“Evans’ passion was the major operations he did with the NHS. Doing that type of surgery allowed him to feel – well, it’s like a miracle, I think he felt – ”
“Like God?”
“Yes. Giving back life where it was hopeless. Only God does that, and Mr Evans.”
“But he can’t do that level of surgery at Home Croft clinic, surely?”
“No. Which is why he has put his divine stamp onto transforming lives in other ways. Making the beautiful people’s lives more beautiful. Making them perfect.”
“But – he’s not a qualified plastic surgeon? Isn’t it a bit different from like, full-blown operations and stuff?”
“The actual plastic surgery isn’t done by him at all. There are about three specialists he uses. They all have other jobs elsewhere – but when they operate at Home Croft, no patient ever meets them. Except, of course, when anaesthetised. So-called Franklin, he fronts it up, gives the impression he will be doing the operation. He talks to the rich and privileged would-be patients, he gets to know their desires. He helps them re-plan their faces and their bodies. They are people who have pretty much everything ,but still aren’t happy. Everyone aspires to be a celebrity these days, but celebrities themselves are often reaching out for something... they have wealth, fame, adulation, but they are still not content. They long for some kind of fulfilment. Often they know they should be happy, and they’re not, and they’ve had the rehab and the therapy and the realigned chakras and the CBT and they’re still searching. Whereas, people like you –
“Prostitutes?”
“Ordinary people. People who have to work for a living. And I’m sure you do work – I’m sure you’re good at what you do. No, what I mean is that your personal situation, your need to earn the daily bread, allows you think: you could be happy if you were rich. So you work towards being as rich as you could be, but you never get there. But suppose now, if you were already there, already rich... and still not happy...”
“If you’re in that situation, then – you look for another solution, I guess?”
“Yes. But because you know that getting rich hasn’t made you happy, then you might be feeling that little bit more desperate, for that happiness that’s eluding you. And some of these people think that a new face or a new body might be the answer. Evans-now-Franklin redesigns these people, he shows them what they could look like. What could make you feel more Godlike than dispensing a new body, a potential new life, to people who have it all already?”
“I guess so.”
“You guess right, Miss Harlow.”
“But all the same – if George Vennery had liver failure, could Evans bring him back from that?”
“I’m not a medical expert. I don’t know if it could be done or what kind of action they might have to take to save him. I have no idea as to whether it’s possible.”
“And the news never got out? About his health problems?”
“You know what happened next. At Easter, George Vennery killed himself. No newspaper has ever found out why. Only the usual gossipy stuff about his drinking – which everyone knew about, anyway.”
“Do you think that those two girls...?”
“That something could have happened to them, to stop them talking? I don’t know. It’s possible. Yes, now I think about it, that’s very possible. But as I got the impression that they worked at this Soames Hotel, and my knowledge of brothels is zero – especially compared to yours, Miss Harlow – I think that finding out about them is more your territory than mine.”
“Can you tell me a bit more about him?”
“About George Vennery? Or about Evans, Franklin as once was?”
“Evans.”
“Hard to say. All I know is an impression I had. An impression that struck me, when I went back to ask him what the hell was going on. The coldness, but the confidence, of his manner. Like nothing on earth. I thought, I never expected to meet such a person. Almost supernatural, I felt cold, scared. A real-life Peter Gint.”
I’m not going to show my ignorance, so I nod as if I understand, and when she’s not looking, I write it on a serviette. It’s obviously someone in the news, who I’ve not heard of. I’ll Wikipedia it later. But I have one last question to ask.
“Did Vennery know Jack Downes?”
“I know Jack Downes. He and I are on a committee together, and he’s done promotional work for several of my charities. He and I, we believe in the same things.”
“What do you think of him?”
“Well … he’s dynamic. And obviously attractive. He believes in what he’s doing, too. Making the world a better place. For me, that adds to his attractiveness. But he’s always had everything he wants. On a silver plate. So –”
“A bit of a spoilt kid?”
“That’s too strong. It’s just that – I don’t know what he would be like – if the chips were down. In a situation where things weren’t in his favour. For God’s sake, despite his high profile, he’s never served in a government, never had to actually take responsibility –”
“You mean blame –”
“Exactly. So he can afford his high ideals, carry on being a John Buchan hero.”
“Him and Vennery?”
“Well, they were in opposition, of course, but there are many close friendships across the House. In the case of those two – George, you see, his family went bankrupt suddenly, when he was at Oxford. So he had to earn his fortune. He had the right connections in the City, it enabled him to regain some level of personal we
alth. But he had to work hard for it. It gave him a chip on his shoulder, a resentment.”
“A resentment of people like Jack Downes?”
“Yes. There was a cross-party committee on the sale of a lot of NHS land for housing. Jack was on the committee. George was the Minister at the time, he got someone to look into it, and it turned out that one of the pieces of land for sale bordered Jack’s family estate. George had Jack removed from the committee, for potential bias, on the basis that Jack would be personally prejudiced against the new housing, the new roads and infrastructure needed. It was like they were kids – if Jack had a toy, George wouldn’t play with his own toys, he’d want to take the one Jack was playing with.”
And then my phone rings. Oh shit. “Incoming call: Krasniqi Bastard.”
“Sorry, Ms Corr, I do have to take this call.”
“Holly. How is your money gathering going?”
“I’ve got some. Not all. About three thousand. I’ll have more by tomorrow night. You said Saturday.”
“Tomorrow night does not matter. Because, plans have changed. I need all the cash you have got, tonight. You must bring it to me.”
“No. Tomorrow night. I’m busy, I’m...”
“You are not busy. Neither am I – I have time on my hands, time so that when this phone goes down, I can take the time to telephone Detective Sergeant Rainbow. Who is on his first really big case. Who has taken it over, because someone high up in the police decided that he was the man for the job. Rainbow listens to me. And if I do not have all the money you’ve got, tonight, I’ll tell him what he would like to know. So, as you see, you are not busy. You will meet me, at midnight tonight.”
“Where?”
“You go back to your flat. You get the money. I will drive over, and pick you up there.”
“I’m not getting in a car with you.”
“Yes you are, Holly. You will do exactly as I say.” And he’s gone. So too, I realise, has Elspeth: she got up half-way through my phone conversation. Is she in the loo? I go into the Ladies’, call her name. No reply. I go back to the restaurant: she’s still not there. I ask a waiter, he knows nothing, but I tell him sorry, we won’t be eating at the restaurant tonight. He’s amazingly polite, considering how we’ve messed them around. Then I ask a waitress who did see Elspeth, and she tells me what I’ve already guessed: she’s left.
Was it something I said, I laugh hollowly to myself. What is ahead of me? I can’t ask questions right now. I just have to take the path in front of me: there’s no option.
