by Jessie Keane
‘You’re nothing but a whore,’ shouted Pally.
‘Fuck off, Pally, before I do something I’ll be sorry for,’ snapped Josh, wrestling the older man to keep him clear of Shauna, who was frozen to the spot.
‘Ah, don’t worry. I’m going,’ said Pally, and Josh released him. ‘My girl was always too good for the likes of you, anyway.’
As he passed her, Pally spat at Shauna’s feet. ‘Slut,’ he muttered, and moved on, out of the swing doors and back into the night.
32
Josh and Shauna moved into a rented flat over a chippy in the East End of London the week after they’d looked at the show house on the new building site. The week after that, Josh drove his old Zephyr back from the bank, where he’d kept an appointment with the manager. Shauna was still bending his ear over how much she wanted to get that show house, to not be at the mercy of landlords, so against his better judgement he’d gone to the bank to see how the land lay. He wished he hadn’t bothered. He was wondering how he was going to break the news to Shauna, but she was waiting at their new rented place that was never going to be big enough or good enough for her – she’d already made that perfectly plain – and the instant he was through the door she was on him.
‘Well? What did they say?’
‘Turned me down,’ he said.
In fact, the bank manager had said a lot more than that, none of which Josh felt inclined to share with Shauna. With a look on his face that said there was a bad smell in his office, he’d listened as Josh listed the things he was doing to earn a decent crust, including some legal boxing bouts – although most were not legal at all – some door work, some landscaping and even lately a bit of tarmacking with some of his old Romany contacts. Then he’d asked whether Josh could produce three years’ worth of books, certified by an accountant.
Josh couldn’t. He didn’t keep books. Who the hell did in their right mind? Next thing you knew, the taxman was on you and you were in double-deep shite. Cash in hand was always king. But that didn’t cut no ice with banks and accountants. So, a mortgage? No chance. He could go and whistle for that.
‘Turned you down?’ Shauna’s face was thunderous. ‘They what, those bastards? How could they? You’re a good earner.’
‘Without a steady income, Shaun,’ he said, taking her in his arms. ‘Jesus, thinking about it I must have been crazy to even go near a bank. As far as the taxman’s concerned, I don’t even exist. There’s no chance we can get a bloody mortgage, it’s too damned risky.’
‘Then what the hell are we going to do?’
‘Look, we’re renting and that’s good enough for now. This place is all right, ain’t it?’
Shauna looked outraged. ‘All right? It’s a poxy little flat over a chip shop. We both stink of chip fat.’
‘Don’t go getting yourself upset, it’s bad for the baby.’ Josh thought that was uncalled for. This place wasn’t exactly Ideal Home material, but it was good enough. It was several steps up from a trailer, that was for sure.
‘Fuck the baby and fuck you,’ snarled Shauna, brushing his arms away from her. ‘I want my place, Josh. My own home. To mix with decent people, not to have everyone looking down their noses at me, calling me a gyppo.’
‘Who’d dare call you a gyppo?’ Josh almost had to laugh at that, but her scowl wiped the smile off his face. ‘Look, Shaun. It ain’t a long-term thing, the renting,’ said Josh soothingly, making calm-down gestures. ‘It’s only to tide us over, make us comfortable until the baby comes. Then we’ll have more cash behind us and we’ll see what can be done.’
‘More cash? With a baby? They cost a fucking fortune, any fool knows that.’
‘What, a baby? A tiny little thing two foot long? How can that be?’
‘Well, there’s schooling to think about. A good primary. Then a grammar school, and further education, maybe university . . .’
‘University?’ Josh echoed in disbelief. ‘What you talking about, girl? You and me, we can read and write and add up, and that’s where it ends. Some of our kind can’t even do that and you know it. What makes you think our kid’s going to go for all that?’
‘We’ll make sure he does. That’s the way people get on in the real world, Josh,’ said Shauna. ‘They get a proper education, a good one, and they make contacts that help them along in later life.’
Josh stared at her face. Their whole lives had been spent in the camp and visiting others like it, plus the horse fairs and funfairs, that was real life to him. He didn’t understand what she was talking about. They’d had their support network among their own folk and their kid would too. He said as much.
‘You’re mad,’ sneered Shauna. ‘All that’s finished for us. We’ve left it behind. And a good job too. It’s time we stepped up in the world, Josh, and getting our own house is just the beginning. That’s why I’m so fucking cut up about you being turned down. But there are other banks, we’ll try them.’
‘No,’ said Josh. ‘We won’t. Today taught me that it’s a no-go.’
‘Then we’ll never have a place to call our own,’ said Shauna, and burst into tears.
‘Oh, don’t start,’ said Josh, pulling her back into his arms. Female tears alarmed him. He didn’t know what to do when a woman cried. ‘I told you,’ he said gently against her head, kissing her hair. ‘We do this first. Then, later, we buy. We buy a fucking palace, cash on the nail, the way things are going.’
Shauna drew her head back and stared into his eyes. Her cheeks were wet with tears and he thought she had never looked more beautiful. Yes, she was loud, demanding and a pain in the arse. She wasn’t gentle dreamy Claire, that was for sure. But she wasn’t an ugly mare, either, and she was carrying his child.
‘You promise?’ she sniffed.
‘I do.’
He’d messed up so much, but this time he was going to get it right. He wasn’t going to let Shauna down. Like it or not, he was committed to her now, and to their life together. It was their wedding on Saturday, he was going to be a married man with responsibilities; it was time he got his act together and did as she said: put the old life, the simple wild and free life he’d loved so much, behind them.
33
Claire had enough money to rent a studio apartment in Brooklyn. It was old, mould-ridden, up three floors and no lift. Still, it was a place to stay, a roof over her head. At night she lay awake listening to the foreign sounds of the city – the sirens, the gunshots. People moving in the hall outside, calling up the stairs, laughter, faint music.
When she went to bed, it was with a kitchen knife hidden under her pillow and a heavy tallboy positioned in front of the door. But sleep – once so easy in the deep dark country night, snuggled in the warm cocoon of her parents’ trailer – now eluded her. She lay wide awake, nervously listening to the sounds, wondering if one of those people out in the hall would come and try the door, try to get in.
Hours, she lay like that, tense, anticipating attack.
Sometimes she was so exhausted that she did sleep. And then she dreamed. Of running as if through treacle, unable to get away, and people jumping on her, pulling her down to the ground, hurting her, while Shauna Everett stood over her, laughing, cheering on her attackers. Then she would wake, screaming, run to the toilet and vomit.
And there were worse dreams. Nightmares. That Shauna was chasing her, intent on killing her, and Claire thought she’d escaped, that she was safe. But then she stumbled across the dead bodies of her loved ones: her mum, her dad. Trace. Even once – horrifically – Josh. Maybe she was cursed with the Sight like Nanny Irene, and this was a psychic warning to her, saying Stay away, keep clear, keep yourself safe and those you love protected, or this will happen.
She found a job dishwashing in a dirty roach-infested diner, and worked there, keeping her head down, not making friends, trusting no one. Her hands grew red-raw from hot water and detergent, and her guts churned constantly. She was beginning to think that coming here had been a horrible mistake. She
was miserable in this vast, sprawling, noisy, dirty city, when all she had ever known was country stillness and fresh air, the free Romany way of life she’d loved so much.
Before too long she decided that she’d get a better job in a nicer place. Make more money. The cash was starting to run low.
On her last day at the diner she left without a single soul saying goodbye to her. She came home to her little apartment, pulled the tallboy over the door, and sat down on the thin mattress of her bed and thought of Josh, so far away, gone from her forever. Her life, like her dreams, had become a nightmare; she was tired, lost and utterly alone.
Josh, she thought, and lay down and let the tears come. Oh, Josh.
34
On one of her rare days off from her new glistening career washing pots in a not-much-better establishment, Claire left Brooklyn for Manhattan. She window-shopped wistfully in Bloomingdale’s then peered in upscale restaurant windows, looking for staff vacancy signs. She found a couple of possibles.
She went into Central Park with the paper and her lunch, sat down on a bench and flicked through the news as she ate, seeing that Cuban-backed forces were winning in Angola. Halfway through the sandwich, she felt sick. This was normal for her, lately. And even though she wasn’t keeping food down, she was gaining weight; her clothes felt uncomfortably tight around her middle. She was ill and she knew it; those horrible bastards had infected her during the rape, they’d given her some terrible disease. But she had no one else to depend on except herself; she had to struggle on, find a better-paying job, and fast.
Flicking to the jobs section, she trawled through endless ads, but nothing caught her eye until she came across one for ‘hostesses’ at a club called Sylvester’s. Claire squinted at the ad suspiciously. There was a checklist. You had to be over eighteen but under twenty-five. Whether you were married or single, childless or with kids, it didn’t matter. You had to have charm, be cheerful, attractive, intelligent, with common sense and a good speaking voice.
Claire thought about it and found that she just about fitted the bill. The ad went further, detailing an eight-hour day and a five-day week, but what really stunned her was the wages. The figure quoted sounded way too good to be true. Still . . . her money was nearly gone, and if she saw another pile of dirty dishes she felt like she might run off screaming.
Her mind made up, she sat there in the weak New York sunshine and filled in the application form. Then she bought stamps and an envelope and posted it. Nothing would come of it anyway, she knew that, because nothing good had happened to her in a very long time.
35
Shauna splashed out on a white chiffon dress for the wedding; Empire-line, so that it flowed out from under the bust and hid the worst of the bump. She bought some white slingbacks with Cuban heels and a bouquet of red carnations and then gazed in the mirror and thought she looked OK. Plump, but still a looker, no doubt about that. Josh was lucky as fuck to have her.
They dragged in some witnesses off the street outside the register office, and quick as that, the deed was done. Josh looked a bit dazed. Suddenly, he was a married man with a kid on the way.
‘Happy, darlin’?’ Shauna asked him as they came down the steps to his ratty old car. That was going to have to go, Shauna thought. Damned rust-bucket. They were going places, but not in a crappy thing like that.
‘’Course,’ said Josh, and kissed her.
They honeymooned in the Lakes, then Josh drove them back to London.
‘Got a surprise for you,’ he said on the way.
‘What?’
‘A surprise.’ He tapped his nose. ‘You’ll see.’
It was a new rental, a small terraced house in Bow. Josh carried her over the threshold and dropped her to her feet. Shauna looked around. It was neat, clean and newly decorated. While they were away, Josh had arranged for all their stuff from the flat over the chippy to be brought here.
‘Like it?’ asked Josh.
Shauna was still staring. It was bigger than the flat, where the stink of stale chip fat had made her want to heave. Yes, it was OK. But like it? No. She wanted better than this. Still, he’d made the effort, tried to please her.
She flung herself into Josh’s arms. ‘It’s bloody great,’ she lied. ‘Is there a bed upstairs?’
‘Am I the business or what?’ preened Josh, hugging her. ‘Yeah, there’s a bed. You think I’d forget that?’
‘Let’s go christen it then,’ she said, and tugging him by the hand she led the way up the stairs, laughing.
‘But the baby . . .’ fretted Josh.
‘Fucking’s good for babies in the womb,’ Shauna shot back. ‘Especially to bring on labour when the time’s near – did you know that?’
‘No. I didn’t,’ said Josh.
‘Well, you do now.’
36
‘You know the Playboy clubs?’ asked Sylvester Drummond as Claire Milo sat in his office being interviewed.
Claire nodded her head, smiled sweetly. Everyone knew about the Playboy clubs. Sylvester was the owner of this place and she already had him pegged as an oddball. He was fiftyish, skinny and clumsy – he’d just greeted her, then knocked the stapler clean off the desk. He was a plain man, narrow-shouldered, all bones and sharp angles. Nothing she would have expected in a club owner. His hair was a thin fluff of pale brown, and his face was long and solemn, enlivened by nice brown eyes.
Sylvester straightened and replaced the stapler on the desk. ‘See, they got these fabulous girls in there. Bunny Girls. All kitted out in coloured corsets with bunny tails and ears. These are classy women. Not waitresses. Well, they are waitresses I guess, but a step up from that, you see? There’s all sorts of rules and regulations the girls have to follow: they have to do the Bunny greeting, the Bunny stance, the High Carry, the Bunny crouch and the Bunny perch, and most important there’s the Bunny dip. You know what that is?’
Claire shook her head, still smiling sweetly, wondering where the hell all this was heading. All she knew was she needed this job. Badly. She felt constantly sick. Really sick, like maybe she was dying, but she tried to look interested in what he was saying.
‘No matter. It’s a way of presenting clients with their drinks, it’s elegant. You hold a tray of drinks in one hand, and you dip backwards to place a coaster on the table. You dip back again to place the drink on there. Got it?’
Claire nodded. She didn’t care what she did. Why should she? The only thing that mattered was the pay, and that was good. She only hoped her health was going to hold out for a while. Her sudden lack of vigour alarmed her. With such strong gypsy genes, very little real illness had ever troubled her. But now, for the first time, she knew what it was like to feel sick, and weak. And she hated it.
Gypsy genes.
She still missed the campsite, and her family, and Josh. Longed for the still nights of the English countryside, the simple pleasures of cooking fresh-caught rabbit over an open fire, of chatting to her sister. She thought of her wedding dress, how proud she had felt to wear it, how much she had been looking forward to becoming Josh’s wife.
All gone now.
All in the past.
‘Otherwise you do it from the front and your hooters fall out in the client’s face, and that would not be good, you got it?’
Claire gazed at him. She’d drifted off. ‘Sorry. What?’
‘Hooters,’ said Sylvester.
‘Got it,’ said Claire. Hooters?
‘Good!’ He pressed a buzzer on his phone and presently the door behind Claire opened. ‘This is Gina,’ said Sylvester to Claire. ‘She was a Bunny once, way back. She’s a real lady, and she manages this place. Gina here’s going to teach you how to do everything. All right, Gina?’
Gina came up to the desk. She was a grim-faced matron of solid build and to Claire it seemed impossible that this matriarchal figure had ever cut a dash as one of those famous jet-setting Bunnies. Gina cast a look at Sylvester, then glanced down at Claire. ‘Come on then,’ she s
aid.
Claire followed Gina out of the door, and Gina closed it behind them.
‘How can your “hooters” fall out in the client’s face if you’re wearing a costume?’ asked Claire. She didn’t like the thought of anything revealing. Suppose one of the punters tried to grope her? She felt sweaty with fear at the thought. Even being alone in the office with Sylvester, who looked harmless enough, had made her shake.
Gina gave her a look. ‘They can, believe me.’
‘Why’s he so obsessed with the Bunny girls? I mean, couldn’t Hugh Hefner sue him for infringement or something?’
‘What we have here is just a pale imitation of Hugh’s set-up,’ said Gina. ‘He ain’t going to bother with us. What’s that accent?’
‘English.’
‘It’s cute. Follow me and I’ll show you.’
Half an hour later and the whole thing was clear.
‘I can’t wear this,’ said Claire, turning back and forth in front of a full-length mirror in a tiny dressing room at the back of the club.
Her ‘costume’ was tiny too. It was a corseted velvet swimming costume – hers was pale baby-blue, but the others hanging up on rails around the room were all colours of the rainbow, to suit different skin tones. There was no tail, no ears. There was a pair of dangerously high heels, fishnet tights, and right now Gina was stuffing balls of cotton wool down the bra part of the costume to help Claire’s breasts fill out the D cups. Trouble was, by the time Gina finished stuffing, her hooters really were in danger of popping out the top of the thing, and she could see why the Bunny dip was a necessity.
Gina paused as Claire spoke, and looked at her with her gimlet eye. ‘You want this job?’
‘Yeah, I need it, but . . .’
‘Then you wear the costume.’ Gina stuffed some more cotton wool down Claire’s frontage. ‘There. What do you think?’ she asked, standing back.
Claire looked in the mirror. Her figure had somehow morphed from normal to wildly voluptuous in the space of a few minutes. It made her feel horribly self-conscious and uncomfortable. Christ, was she really going to do this? Could she do this? Men would look at her in this get-up and think she was easy, wouldn’t they? And then they might try to touch her. She shuddered, hard.