by David Waine
*
Friday, 30th September, 1988
Cathy Kelly flushed the used condom down the toilet and washed herself briefly with water from the small sink by the door, giving her mouth a quick wipe as well. That, in turn, required her lip gloss to be replaced, which was a delicate operation in the cramped confines of the cubicle and with the irregular motion of the train. She had stowed the money safely in her purse as the man made a hurried departure, avoiding her eyes. Picking up her skimpy knickers from the shelf, she checked that they were still clean and stepped back into them, pulling them up over her self-supporting stockings. She always wore stockings, never those ugly sexless tights that made a tantalising glimpse up-skirt such a disappointing experience for a man. Sometimes she went the whole hog and accompanied them with a suspender belt, but, when travelling, preferred the thigh-hugging built-in garters for reasons of comfort. It had been the sight of those dark stocking tops against several inches of smooth flesh, culminating in the inviting frilly V shape of her knickers visible beneath her expensive, but necessarily brief, skirt that had originally excited his interest. Men were all the same at heart, she told herself, all prick and testosterone, and women were whores at bottom if the truth were known. She was doing the most natural thing in the world, and what was wrong with that?
Opening the toilet door, she stepped confidently back into the rocking carriage and made her way to her seat. She passed the man en route, but his red face was buried in the Financial Times and he did not look up. It had been a profitable encounter, more than the expected blow-job. When in the tight confines of the toilet compartment the proximity of her soft body and the heady influence of her scent had induced him to part with extra for the full whack. Profitable, but uncomfortable. These facilities were not designed for leisurely lovemaking, but the job was done and the money was hers.
Settling herself back into her seat, she adjusted the hem of her skirt to deny an unrestricted view of her crotch, for she would save herself for her prime assignation now, and stared through the train window at the depressing landscape of London outskirts as they rumbled past. Why was it, she thought, that railway lines always ran through the most derelict, run-down, ramshackle parts of any town? She had been to London often enough before and knew perfectly well that much of it looked better than this, but it was the same in Newcastle, her home town. If you were simply to pass through on the train, you would have thought that the place consisted of nothing but empty, mouldering warehouses and graffiti.
The rumble from the wheels deepened, indicating that the brakes had gone on and the train was slowing at last and entering the lengthy tunnel that preceded the end of the line. Less experienced travellers emerged from their seats and began rummaging in the luggage racks for their bags, ready to make a dash for the door when it stopped.
She remained seated. King’s Cross Station was upon them. The train wasn’t going anywhere else, so she could get off when she was good and ready, take her time and make sure she arrived at her client’s pad looking her best. She was to be picked up, after all, so there would be no fighting over a cab. What was the hurry?
She liked these London assignments, which were becoming quite a regular thing since she bought her new computer and started advertising her services on that bulletin board. It wasn’t much of an advert, really, just the same discreet message that was pinned to the door of her flat on working days: innocent enough on the face of things, but worded carefully so that the true import could be inferred to the right reader. Not for her walking the streets in all weathers with next to nothing on, offering herself to all and sundry. Her clients came to her, these London trips excepted, and she worked in comfort, warm in a bed with the all-important shower just a few steps away in the next room.
Cathy Kelly did not consider herself a whore. That was an ugly term. There was no pimp to dock her earnings, beat her up and pump her full of drugs. There was a tax man who may have guessed what she was really up to, but as she also worked as a model, she declared her earnings from that to keep him sweet. If there was any exploiting to be done, she was most certainly the one to be doing it. As a result, she was successful, comfortable and relatively wealthy.
In a previous age, they would have called her a courtesan. That was a bit old fashioned now, so she settled for call girl. She dressed elegantly, although still provocatively, doused herself with expensive perfume and looked younger than her thirty-one years.
The train was pulling into the station at last. Still she did not move. The aisle was thronged with people queuing up for the door. There was the business man to whom she had sold a blow job and a quick ram in the toilet. He passed her deliberately not looking, his conscience as full as his wallet was empty. Those notes would turn themselves into a sparkling new pair of shoes tomorrow, or perhaps something exotic from Harrods' lingerie department. She would allow them all to get off before leaving her seat, collecting her bag and leaving unimpeded. There would be a car waiting for her. There always was. That was the nicest part of being a regular lay for the London business community. They looked after you. The car would take her straight to the client’s flat, which he used while working in the City. His wife would be at home with the kids in the Cotswolds or some such place. He would only go there at weekends, and not even then if he could avoid it. She would give him a night to remember, with a freebie in the morning if he had been worth the bother, whereupon the following day would be hers to spend as she wished in the capital. Lunch at a swish restaurant, shopping in Knightsbridge before catching the night train back to Newcastle with several hundred quid nestling safely in her purse. Life was good for Cathy Kelly.
With a final squeal of brakes and a slight judder, the train lurched to a halt. Immediately the door was flung open and the crowd spilled out onto the platform. Still she waited until the carriage was almost empty before rising from her seat and retrieving her small travelling bag from the luggage rack. She travelled light deliberately. It wasn’t as if she would need a complete change of wardrobe. For much of the night she wouldn’t be wearing anything at all, so there was simply a change of blouse, bra and knickers, plus the essential perfume, make-up and toiletries, not to mention the condoms. She never relied on the client to supply them.
Considering that it was one of the most famous railway stations in the world, King’s Cross was a disappointingly drab building, sooty and plain, in stark contrast to the magnificent St. Pancras next door. How she wished the main east coast line terminated there instead. Alighting from the train, she shouldered her bag and walked along the platform to the grille, where she had her return ticket checked, and passed through without looking.
The concourse was spacious and cleaner than the platform area. Ignoring the hustle and bustle around her, she walked straight across it and out into the sunshine where the taxis stood. There she paused and looked round. She did not have to look far. Her chauffeur waited, complete with cap, at the door of a Rolls Royce. A hired one, evidently. That made no difference to her. In his hand he carried a large card with the message, ‘C. KELLY’ printed thereon. Moments later, she was in the back seat being driven to her assignation.