Tony refilled their glasses, and her eyes noticed the wedding ring on his left hand. ‘I have no intention of forcing you, Emma. I’m content to drink champagne and enjoy your company.’ His hand crept closer to her knee. ‘That is, of course, unless you’re … willing?’
Emma studied his features, so boldly handsome, and saw how much he wanted her. This was not Melvyn’s stomach-turning brand of pitiful, panting need. This was the natural desire of a fit, healthy man for a woman. Just as the stallion back on the farm had desired his mares. And she realised the power she held, and that she wanted him too. Wanted to know what it felt like to be held in a real man’s arms. What did she have to lose that wasn’t already lost?
Emma swigged down her champagne. ‘Yes, Tony. I am willing.’ Still he hesitated. Slowly she unbuttoned the bodice of her dress. He watched her, hypnotised, as the swell of her pale breasts peeped through.
He put a hand around her waist, and drew her to him. ‘So young,’ he whispered. ‘So lovely. So wasted on that preening old fool.’
* * *
During that wild night, Tony Angelo opened her eyes to the pleasures of the flesh. He taught her what he knew and she discovered much more for herself. How naïve she’d been, imagining that she might only enjoy sex with a man she loved and married. What a silly, childish notion. Tony was a skilful, considerate lover, strong and arousing – as different from bumbling, ham-fisted Melvyn as a cockroach was from a lion. But the two men had one thing in common; a powerful weakness for what she could offer them in bed. She must learn how to use that weakness. Use it to somehow wrest back her life.
* * *
Emma lay lost in thought, as the faint light of dawn crept in the window. Trying to make sense of last night, and what she’d learned, and how it had changed her.
Staying all night in the flat was a first. Elsie was perfectly capable of looking after Mum, but Emma had always escaped at the first opportunity. So far Melvyn hadn’t minded. He always fell asleep afterwards anyway, but lately he’d been angling for her to stay. ‘An extra hour’s sleep in the morning,’ he’d offered, as if negotiating a pay rise. An extra, vile sexual encounter, more like it. The thought of waking up with Melvyn beside her made Emma ill, and how could she explain an overnight absence without exposing her shame to Elsie?
Tony stirred, and tried to wrap her in his arms. She shrugged him off, went to the bathroom, stood in the tub and turned on the shower. Hoping the hot water on her bare back could drum some answers into her. Tell her what she was supposed to do. Last night with Tony had made her current life even more unbearable. How could she stomach Melvyn now that she knew what a real man felt like?
Emma retrieved her clothes from the wardrobe, slipped into them and put up her hair. She checked her watch. Wearing the same dress as yesterday would no doubt inspire a fresh round of hateful gossip downstairs, but so what? Why should she care what they thought?
She was putting on the kettle in the kitchen when Tony appeared, wet skin shining from the shower, wearing nothing but a smile. He bounded over and pulled her in close for a kiss. For an awful moment she thought of how shocked her mother would be to know a naked man was taking such liberties. A few short months ago she herself would have been just as shocked. Emma cast the thought away. Too late for those sort of delicate sentiments where she was concerned.
‘Where are you going?’ said Tony, his voice husky with desire.
‘Downstairs. Mind my hair.’
She twisted away from him, but he grasped her by the shoulders and sat her down at the table. ‘Emma, sweetheart. Listen.’ He licked his lips and glanced briefly at the roof, like he was thinking on his feet. ‘I must see you again. Come to Hobart with me. I’ll rent you an apartment. Lovely clothes, an allowance to buy pretty things. We’ll paint the town red.’
How stupid did he think she was? She needed to get away, but not by swapping one trap for another. ‘And your wife?’ she said. ‘Will she be there too?’
‘Don’t be like that, sweetheart.’ He pouted like a thwarted child. ‘Lily … Lily and I have an understanding. She won’t get in our way.’
Poor Lily, thought Emma. Tony was another Melvyn, just younger and better-looking. Were all men the same? No, not Tom. He would never treat another person with such contempt.
‘Come on,’ he coaxed. ‘You’re something special, sweetheart. Any red-blooded man would give his eye teeth for a night like we just had. You don’t want to stay here with that bloody old rogue, do you? Someone who was happy to pimp you out to make a deal?’
She studied his face, surprised at her own detachment. A plan was forming.
‘Leave the old man behind,’ he urged. ‘Don’t you want to come to Hobart?’
‘Yes, but I have a sick mother, who must come with me.’
‘Whoa,’ he said. ‘Mama’s not part of this arrangement.’
‘I don’t want another arrangement,’ said Emma. ‘I want to be in control of my own life, make my own money – a great deal of it. Enough for my mother to go to an expensive rehabilitation hospital in Hobart.’ She looked him coolly in the eye. ‘Is there somewhere a girl like me could make that sort of money, Tony? I imagine a man like you might know these things.’
He shook his head. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying. What kind of life would that be for a young girl?’
‘What kind of life is this?’ Emma shrugged. ‘A whore is a whore.’
Tony took a step backwards, disappointment written large on his face, and something else. Sadness perhaps. Then he went to the desk and scribbled down a name, address and phone number. ‘This lady may be able to help. She’s always looking for talented girls. Models and … more. Tell her I sent you.’ He took a wad of notes from his wallet. ‘A contribution towards your mother’s hospital fund.’ He left the money on the desk, and added his business card. ‘Call me when you get to Hobart.’
She put the card and money in her bag. Twenty pounds. More than enough to pay for her trip and cover Elsie’s wages while she was away.
‘Wait for me,’ said Tony, throwing on some clothes.
Emma waited, quite looking forward to the stir when she came downstairs.
‘Are you really going to invest in Trés Chic?’ she asked.
‘Not if you don’t want me to.’
‘I don’t want you to.’
‘Then I won’t. It was touch and go anyway. Old Melvyn’s been cooking the books.’ He spun her around for a last, heart-thumping kiss. ‘My God, sweetheart. You’ve bewitched me. I must see you again. Promise you’ll call.’
* * *
When Melvyn saw Emma, he hurried over with what almost looked like shame in his eyes. ‘My dear, I didn’t sleep a wink.’ He ran his tongue over his lips. Every staff member on the shop floor had stopped what they were doing and turned to watch. For once Melvyn didn’t reprimand them for laziness. He didn’t even seem to notice. ‘Can we speak privately, Mademoiselle?’
They moved to his office.
‘I may never forgive myself for last night,’ he said. ‘And for not warning you first. I assume that Monsieur Angelo, that he, ah—.’
‘He did.’
‘I see.’ He sniffed, and sighed, looking decidedly miserable. ‘Well, we must find a way to put this unpleasantness behind us. It was ultimately in a good cause, my dear, for your … cooperation will help seal his investment in the business. However, I could never countenance such a thing again. Frankly, I was green with jealousy. It was all I could do not to burst in and throw the cad out.’
Melvyn was sweating now. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his florid face. Then he extracted a little box from the desk drawer, and gave it to her.
‘Open it.’
Inside was a gold ring, set with a brilliant blue stone in a cluster of diamonds.
‘Hope you like sapphires, my dear. I got a great deal on this ring from a chap whose engagement fell through. His loss, our gain, eh?’ He took Emma’s hand and slipped it on her finger.
‘When you’re of age, yes. Make an honest woman of you.’ She opened her mouth to speak and he held up his hand. ‘Don’t thank me, Emma. The truth is you are good for me. You make me feel young again.’
He leaned in to kiss her lips and she turned away. ‘I’m tired,’ she said, staring at the ring, wondering what it might be worth. ‘May I take the rest of the day off?’
‘In the circumstances I think that’s fair. Tomorrow we shall announce our engagement, and set a wedding date.’ He tried to kiss her again, and this time she endured it. He made a satisfied grunt in the back of his throat. ‘Now, off with you. I have business to discuss with Monsieur Angelo.’
Emma decided to escape out the back way. With head held high, she marched past the shop girls, who were giggling and talking behind their hands. Past the other models who, along with trying on frocks for the morning showing, were also pointing at her and laughing. Past Jane in the cutting room, thick-waisted with child.
She did not say goodbye or look back. In the space of a few hours her life had utterly changed. She’d changed too. For better or worse, she didn’t know yet.
* * *
When Emma arrived home, she went straight in to see her mother. Turning off the radio, Emma took her hand. ‘I’m going away for a few days, Mum. To Hobart, to look for work. The boutique hasn’t panned out.’
She felt Mum squeeze her fingers. It was happening more and more often lately.
‘Elsie will look after you. I’ll get Peggy from down the road to come in twice a day and give Elsie a hand turning you. You know Peg. She’s a sweet girl, and strong too.’
Emma blinked back a tear. What was Mum feeling in that very second? Was she straining to connect with her fingers and toes? Was she struggling to get words out of her head and into her mouth? Or was she forever lost in a foggy brain, damaged beyond repair.
‘Don’t worry, Mum. When I find a job, you’ll come with me to Hobart. Dr Dennisdeen has promised you a place in his new hospital. I’ll get you the best care money can buy.’
That was the plan, anyway. Emma spent the rest of the day packing. She went shopping to stock the cupboards. She spoke to Elsie. ‘I’ll be employing you directly from now on,’ she said, handing the surprised nurse ten pounds. Emma imagined Melvyn’s pudgy face when she didn’t show up for work in the morning. How could she? Tomorrow, she and her savings would be boarding a bus to Hobart.
Chapter 18
The bus trip was bittersweet. Three years ago a very different girl had waited at the same stop, caught the same rattly old bus, with the same chatty and cheerful driver. She’d sat in the very same seat at the front, with a good view of the road ahead, and excitedly told the driver about her scholarship to Campbell College. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
‘Going back to school, Miss?’ he asked, as the bus pulled away.
Back to school? ‘That’s right,’ she said, wishing it were true. ‘I’ve been home for a few days to see my mother. She hasn’t been well.’
‘That’s no good.’ He braked and honked as a pair of dogs raced across the road, chasing a terrified hen. ‘Your mum doing better now, is she?’
‘Much better, thank you.’ Emma gave wishful thinking free rein. ‘She’ll be moving to Hobart soon. Getting a place near my school so we can be together.’
‘That’s great, love,’ he said. ‘Good old mum, eh?’
It seemed miraculous to Emma that the driver believed her. Surely he could tell she was no school girl? Surely, just by looking at her, he could see her shame?
* * *
The bus dropped Emma off outside the General Post Office on the corner of Elizabeth and Macquarie Streets. She checked the time on its grand clock tower, modelled after London’s Big Ben. Almost one o’clock. She found a shop window, scrutinised her reflection and tidied her hair. In her blue cap-sleeved dress she might have been off to a tea party instead of a brothel. Emma picked up her small suitcase and sat on a bench to gather her thoughts, shivering under the cold winter sun. In different circumstances it would have been exciting to be back in Hobart. The clanging tramcars, the bustling crowds, all the pulse and vitality of Tasmania’s biggest city. Happy memories crowded in. It was all she could do not to hop a Queens Domain tram to the zoo. Or maybe Campbell College. Would Harry still be there? And Tom?
The clock chimed the hour. Emma took a deep breath and pulled the scribbled address from her pocket. First things first. Right now she needed to ring Mrs Martha Finchley of Hampton Hall and tee up a job interview.
She found a public telephone and dialled the number with trembling fingers. The receptionist put her straight through.
‘Ah, yes, Emma Starr,’ said Mrs Finchley with an English accent. ‘I’ve been expecting this call. You come highly recommended by Mr Tony Angelo, a valued client of ours.’
Emma wondered what form the recommendation had taken. Emma’s a talented girl or she’s a great lay.
‘Can you be here in half an hour?’ asked Mrs Finchley.
It was as simple as that. Emma thought back to her disheartening job search in Launceston earlier that year. Traipsing around the whole town, twice. Scoring only one interview with a lecherous shopkeeper who indecently propositioned her in the first five minutes. How shocked she’d been; how outraged. How she’d changed.
Emma looked in a shop window to check her hair. She tossed up whether or not it was worth the expense of a taxi, and decided it was. She needed to arrive looking her best, and she was flush with money, having sold Melvyn’s ring to a Launceston jeweller before she caught the bus that morning. She tried to look into the future but drew a blank. Maybe Hampton Hall was a legitimate fashion house. Maybe it wasn’t. It didn’t really matter. If she was offered a job there, she’d take it.
The taxi dropped her off at an impressive sandstone and brick mansion in Runnymede St, Battery Point. An engraved sign on the wall behind the wrought iron gate read Hampton Hall, giving no hint of the nature of the establishment.
Emma smoothed her dress and knocked on the door. A maid opened it. She wore a tailored black dress and white apron, and looked very stylish. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m here to see Mrs Finchley. She’s expecting me.’
The maid beckoned her into a wide reception lobby, with rich rugs on the floor, a grand piano in the corner and sparkling crystal chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceiling. ‘May I take your hat and coat?’ Oil paintings decorated the wood-panelled walls. Glossy magazines such as Vogue and C'est La Mode lay on an intricately inlaid antique table by the chesterfield sofa. The place screamed of money. ‘Wait here, please.’
The only indication that Hampton Hall might not be a high-end fashion house was the giant guard positioned at the base of the stairs. A mountain of a man. His broad coffee-coloured face cracked into a friendly smile when she looked at him.
Emma resisted the urge to inspect herself in the large gilt mirror. If her dress was wrinkled from the bus trip or her hair was mussed, it was too late to do anything about it. Instead she went over and over the story she’d practised in her head. Hands clammy with nerves. Worried that she’d be asked to give Melvyn as a reference.
When Mrs Finchley arrived, she wasn’t at all what Emma expected. For some reason she’d imagined a tall, intimidating person with hard, calculating eyes and a haughty expression. But the plump, middle-aged woman who emerged from a side room reminded Emma of her mother. Expensively dressed, certainly; that gorgeous beaded gown must have been a Chanel original. But Mrs Finchley couldn’t quite pull it off. She was too short, for one thing, barely five foot two. And her bosom was too generous, and her hips too wide for elegance.
‘Emma, my darling girl.’ Mrs Finchley wrapped her in a warm embrace, smelling comfortingly of cinnamon and talcum powder. ‘Come with me, and we’ll have a chat, shall we?’
When they passed the guard, Mrs Finchley introduced them. ‘This is Kai, Emma, from Tonga. He keeps us all safe.’
; She led Emma to a lavishly furnished sitting room.
‘I believe you have a position vacant, Mrs Finchley. For a model, or—’
‘All my girls call me Martha,’ she said, as if Emma already worked there. She beamed so broadly that Emma couldn’t help but smile back. ‘You speak beautifully, Emma. An educated young woman. We love that here. Now, tell me about yourself. I know a little already. You’re seventeen, you come from Launceston, and you have a sick mother.’
Tony had been true to his word. Martha gave her an encouraging smile, one of immense sympathy; a warm invitation to confide. The dam burst and her carefully rehearsed lines were forgotten in a rush of emotion. Emma told Martha everything. About the scholarship to Campbell College and her mother’s stroke. About running out of money, and asking Jane for help, and Melvyn. About last night with Tony and how she couldn’t stay in Launceston, and her resolve to somehow secure a place for her mother in Dr Dennisdeen’s new hospital. She barely drew breath.
Martha let Emma talk, never once interrupting or trying to hurry her. At the end she patted her hand and offered a handkerchief. Emma blew her nose. ‘My, you have had a time of it, haven’t you? But you’ve done the right thing coming here, dear. I can help if you’ll let me.’
Emma sniffed a few times, and balled the hanky in her hand. The maid came in and Martha asked her to bring tea. ‘Do you know what kind of business I run, Emma?’
‘A fashion house? It looks too grand to be a … to be a brothel.’
Martha stopped her. ‘Brothel is such an ugly word. I prefer to call Hampton Hall a gentlemen’s club — one that caters to the cream of Hobart society, I might add. We hold exclusive parties and put on regular fashion shows for our clients. My girls model the latest couture gowns and lingerie from London and Paris, and the gentlemen are able to purchase the outfits for their wives and girlfriends. They are also free to request private time with the models, who split their remuneration with the house on a fifty-fifty basis.’
The Lost Valley Page 13