by Lulu Taylor
‘Thanks,’ Chanelle said gratefully. One of Jamal’s boys passed her the bag, its contents restored. There were her dance shoes, a little muddy but all right.
‘You can brush it off when it’s dry,’ Jamal said, seeing the worry on her face. ‘You’ll see.’
‘Thanks for helping me,’ she said, gazing up at him. He looked like some kind of guardian angel to her.
‘No worries.’ He shrugged and smiled at her. ‘Looks like they gave you a bit of a beatin’ there. We better go see if you’re all right. You come with us, OK? Just in case they’re waiting for you.’ He reached out and touched her cheek with his thumb. ‘You gonna have a black eye there.’
Chanelle smiled back at him. Her face ached and she could feel the delicate skin around her eye beginning to swell, but she didn’t mind if it meant she could feel that gentle touch of his. Jamal would protect her and keep her safe. She was suddenly more sure of that than anything else in the world.
13
THE HÔTEL DE crillon sparkled, every window draped in waterfalls of glittering lights. Its exuberance matched that of the funfair at the far end of the Place de la Concorde where a silvery-bright Ferris wheel turned slowly.
Inside the hotel, twenty-three well-born or well-connected young ladies were being prepared for their big night – le Bal, the French equivalent of Queen Charlotte’s Ball in England, where debutantes made their first official appearance in society. When Daisy had been invited to take part by the ball’s organisers, she’d jumped up and down with excitement. Her only disappointment was that none of her friends had been invited to attend. Two of the other English girls were at different schools, and a third lived in South Africa. The rest of the girls were drawn from international high society – there were two princesses, a baroness, and the daughter of a huge Hollywood star among them. They were all linked by the fact of having plenty of money, which was lucky as the ball was an expensive evening – not for the girls but for their proud parents, who footed the bills and made lavish donations to the charity the ball supported.
Before the big occasion, the girls were prepared by professional make-up artists and hairdressers. Each one had already been assigned a different designer who would provide her dress; Daisy had been allocated Marchesa, and she was delighted because their romantic gowns were her absolute favourites. She was to wear a dark grey confection of sequined tulle over a long straight column of silk, the tops of her breasts rising from the low-cut swathed bodice and her arms bare except for a light wrap of almost transparent sparkling grey tulle. When the girls were made up, they were led to a table where an array of jewels was laid out, the jeweller accompanied by two heavies to guard the pieces while the girls made their choice.
‘Diamonds, I think,’ he said wisely as he assessed Daisy’s dress and colouring. Her hair was rolled up over giant Velcro curlers but her face was finished, eyes smoky and emphasised with swoops of dark kohl, and lips pale and glistening with shell-pink gloss.
The jeweller thought for a moment and selected a simple but stunning necklace of diamonds in a filigree design along with matching earrings. ‘Allow me,’ he said, fastening them round her neck.
With the earrings tucked through her lobes, Daisy turned to examine the effect. Even with the rollers in she looked stunning, and the jewels glittered enticingly.
The hairdresser bustled up. ‘Come on, chérie, you have to go in a minute!’ She led Daisy away to have her rollers taken out. A moment later, nose prickling from the acrid hairspray she’d been liberally sprayed with, Daisy was ready.
‘You look beautiful,’ said Olympe von Grasson-Bentick, one of the other debutantes, as they picked up their long skirts and tottered on their high heels out of the make-up room. Long dark hair curled over Olympe’s tanned shoulders, her eyes looking Egyptian with their heavy cobalt-painted lids, and her dress was a halter-necked teal silk creation with a stunning jewelled collar.
‘Thank you,’ Daisy said, ‘and so do you.’
‘I’ll be glad when the circus part is over,’ Olympe confided.
‘Who’s taking you in?’ Daisy whispered as they approached the salon where the young escorts were waiting: handsome, well-bred young men in tailcoats, white waistcoats and bow ties.
‘Ugh, an idiot!’ Olympe rolled her eyes. ‘It’s Maximilian de Bettencourte – and he’s a giant. I’m going to look like a fool standing next to him … and as for the dance! How about you?’
‘Freddie Umbers,’ Daisy said in a careless voice, trying not to sound too pleased at her own luck. ‘There he is now.’
They could see the young men standing about in small groups, waiting for the girls. There would be a series of photographs first, recording the ball goers in their finery, and then a ceremonial entrance for each debutante on the arm of her escort, when she would be announced to the room full of guests, and photographed again. Daisy caught a glimpse of Freddie, instantly notable for the fact that his waistcoat was not the pristine plain white sported by the European aristocrats, but a bright Union Jack pattern instead. And he was tall and extremely good-looking, with short dark-blond hair and intense blue eyes. He was lolling insouciantly against the wall, hands in pockets, a haughty expression on his face, but when he saw Daisy approaching, he instantly stood up straight, his eyes glittering with appreciation.
‘Wow! You look amazing,’ he said, kissing her cheek, an expression of frank admiration on his face.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled, warmed by his flattery.
He bent close to her ear so that his voice buzzed deep and almost tickly inside it. ‘I’m fucking bored, though. When does this whole shebang kick off? I’ve been waiting for ages.’
‘Ten more minutes or so, I should think. They’re still finishing off the last girls. Then we have to have our pictures taken.’
‘Then,’ Freddie’s voice buzzed even closer, sending electric shivers down her spine, ‘I reckon we’ve got time to … you know what …’
She gave a little gasp. ‘We can’t!’
‘Yes, we can.’ He grinned mischievously, took her hand and led her out of the room, moving quickly so that none of the organisers or chaperones milling about noticed what they were doing. She laughed nervously as he led her to the lift. It arrived in seconds and they ascended smoothly to the top floor. As they came out, she took her room card from the cleverly concealed pocket in her dress and went to open the door of the Leonard Bernstein Suite, the grandest in the hotel. Daddy had insisted she have it all to herself, and the plan was to take her friends back there when the ball was over and continue partying in the drawing room and on the terrace, with its stunning view over the Place de la Concorde, the Eiffel Tower, Les Invalides and the Left Bank, all glittering against the night sky.
‘This is so naughty,’ Daisy giggled as they went into the lavish drawing room. A grand piano once played by Bernstein himself dominated one corner of the room.
‘That’s what makes it such fun,’ breathed Freddie as he took her in his arms and began to kiss her.
‘My make-up,’ she gasped. ‘You’re going to kiss it off!’
‘You can put a bit of lipstick back on, can’t you?’ he murmured, then kissed her properly, pushing open her lips with his tongue and taking possession of her entire mouth, while his hands roamed appreciatively over the smooth skin of her back, arms and chest. ‘God, you’re gorgeous.’
She couldn’t help surrendering to the delicious sensation as he kissed her. She felt tremendously sexy, knowing she was dressed beautifully and perfectly made up. Freddie’s hand suddenly raised the tulle skirt and he took one peachy cheek of her bottom in his hand while he kissed her even more forcefully.
‘I want to have you right now,’ he muttered, pressing his strong hard body against hers, and she could feel his desire for her through the scratchy wool of his dress trousers.
‘We can’t!’ she said breathlessly, half desperate to give in to him, and half anxious about her appearance. They would be furious with her if she reappe
ared with all that hard work ruined. Besides, she hadn’t slept with Freddie … not yet. They’d done everything but …
‘Then later,’ he said, pulling back and staring at her, eyes heavy-lidded with lust. ‘Tonight. Right here.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered back, feeling shameless but excited at the same time. ‘Later.’
He sank his mouth on to hers again, pulling her tightly to him, and she felt a hot, wet desire flood her.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ she said on a shivering sigh as their mouths parted. ‘What have you done to me?’
Freddie shot her a sly smile. ‘Just getting you fired up nicely, my darling. I want you to be thinking about me all night … and all the gorgeous things I’m going to do to you later.’
‘Not exactly pure and virginal debutante behaviour,’ Daisy returned. She caught a glimpse of the small gold and mother-of-pearl Cartier clock on the side. ‘Oh my God! We’d better get back. It will all be starting at any moment!’
They went swiftly back to the lifts. As the doors opened on the ground floor, Daisy could hear music coming from the Grand Salon which meant the debs were about to begin their procession. They must be taking the group photograph. She really was late.
Out came a flustered-looking organiser who saw Daisy and spluttered, ‘Mademoiselle, please! Come at once! We need you here.’
‘Sorry!’ she called, heels clicking on the marble floor as she dashed along the hall, oblivious of the bellboys and concierge admiring the beautiful blushing English girl flying past in a cloud of tulle and glitter, like Cinderella late for her ball.
14
CHANELLE LEANED HER forehead against the cool glass of the window pane. The city lay before her, a carpet of sparkling lights. She could see the London Eye illuminated in green against the night sky, and the floodlit towers of Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster. Everything glittered with the kind of glamour that could only be seen at night. It was hard to believe that she was in a grimy council flat twenty-five floors up in a high-rise building.
I have to believe there’s a better life out there for me, she thought, staring out at the flickering lights.
‘This is my gran’s flat,’ Jamal had told her when they’d come in. ‘She’s in hospital so it’s empty. She don’t mind if I use it.’
Chanelle had looked around. It was definitely an old lady’s flat, with its powdery but musty smell, the rickety furniture, and the china ornaments and lace doilies on every surface. The walls were covered in family photographs – weddings, christenings, school photos and other gatherings, the people in them ageing accordingly. ‘It’s nice,’ Chanelle said, and meant it. It was homely, and Jamal’s gran obviously loved a lot of people. She went over to one of the pictures on the wall and inspected it more closely. ‘This is you.’ She pointed at a seven-year-old Jamal, who was smiling broadly and showing a big gap between his front teeth.
‘Yeah. My gran loves those things. I look stupid, don’t I?’
‘No.’ Chanelle looked at it again, the picture with its white plastic frame hung with pride for everyone to see. Her mother had once stuck a school photo of Chanelle on the fridge, but it was the trial one from the photographer – small and with the company name stamped across it. ‘I think you look nice.’
‘Wanna cup of tea?’ Jamal disappeared into a tiny kitchen and a moment later she heard a kettle heating up. She browsed around until he came out with two steaming mugs. He put them on the coffee table, and they sat down on the sofa and looked at one another a little shyly. She’d been hanging around with him and his boys since they’d rescued her from the girl gang last week, and the air had been crackling with the attraction between them. She hadn’t been surprised when he’d asked her if she wanted to come up to the flat, but she had been excited.
‘Do you wanna have a smoke?’ he asked, pulling a tightly rolled joint out of his pocket.
‘Nah.’ Chanelle shook her head. She wasn’t shocked. Plenty of the kids around the estate smoked grass and weed, or were out of their heads on skunk. Loads of them had their first joint of the day walking to school. ‘I don’t do drugs.’
Jamal laughed. ‘These ain’t drugs!’ He pulled a packet of white powder out of his pocket and tossed it on to the table. ‘These are drugs, man!’
Chanelle stared at it in horrified fascination. She knew that she was looking at a lot of hard stuff, worth a ton of money. She looked up at Jamal, who was grinning back at her as though he’d just showed her a bag of sweets, not a stash of Class A. ‘Is this your gear?’
‘Uh-uh.’ He shook his head and she noticed again the swirling lines in the black fuzz of his closely cut hair. ‘Well, it’s mine, but I don’t use it. Mug’s game, this stuff.’
‘I know,’ Chanelle said, with feeling. She regarded the innocuous-looking white powder with suspicion and curiosity. Was it speed? Cocaine? Heroin? Whatever, it was what her mother craved. It was what would kill Michelle in the end. It had already taken her youth, her looks, her teeth … it would eventually take her life too, Chanelle was certain of it. Death in a bag, she thought as she stared at it. Death disguised as happiness. ‘So why’ve you got it?’
Jamal shrugged. ‘It’s what I sell, innit? Got my gang, my posse. We buy this off another guy, a big important bloke over Old Kent Road way, and then we sell it on, laike.’
Chanelle nodded. She’d guessed something like that must be going on. Jamal was boss of the local gang, called the Blacksmith Boys, after the estate, and bitter rivals of the gang over the way in the next postcode, the Righteous Crew. Last month one of the young lads had been knifed but Chanelle couldn’t remember which gang he was in now. There were still rotting flowers and teddies at the site where he’d died.
‘What you think?’ he asked softly.
Chanelle lifted her shoulders and made a face. ‘Nothing. What you do is your business.’ As far as she was concerned, if people wanted to take this stuff, it was up to them. ‘If no one wanted it, you wouldn’t be able to sell it, right?’
Jamal laughed again softly. ‘Raight. And they do want it. I make good money with this.’ He leaned back against the floral print of the sofa and lit his joint. Expelling a long stream of fragrant smoke, he slid his gaze over Chanelle. ‘I’ve wanted to get you on your own for a while, you know?’
‘Have you? Why’s that?’ Something like excitement mixed with fear turned lightly in her stomach.
‘’Cos you’re not like the other girls. That’s why they don’t like you, see? But I like it.’ He leaned a little closer to her. His dark brown eyes shone and she noticed the way the light cast a patch of gold on his dark cheek. ‘I like it a lot. And I wondered … if you want to be my woman.’
Chanelle caught her breath. She’d never had a boyfriend, not a proper one. She’d gone out with boys in her class when she was younger, but that was nothing. They only held hands and it never lasted longer than a week or so. Everyone ended up going out with everyone else. Now, here was Jamal – tall, handsome, strong – asking her to be his girlfriend. She knew it must be special because the boys usually talked about girls as bitches or whores, pussy that was there for their enjoyment. But Jamal was treating her with respect, even though loads of girls must be willing to fuck him if he wanted, because he was the boss.
She realised suddenly that she wanted to be his girlfriend more than anything. But she had no idea how to say it. After a moment, she said, ‘Er … yeah. OK then. If you’re sure.’
Jamal laughed more heartily. ‘Hey, that’s why I like you, man. You ain’t like those others! If I’m sure …’ He shook his head, grinning, and took another puff on his joint. ‘I’m sure. How about you? You like me?’
She gazed at him: she liked everything about him, from his soft but deep voice, his height and rangy body, to his face with those meltingly brown eyes. He had high cheekbones and a wide straight nose over a mouth that all of a sudden she longed to feel on her own.
She nodded, suddenly finding she couldn’t speak.
As if he was reading her mind, he leaned over and pressed his lips to hers. A second later, she felt his soft tongue probing her mouth. She hadn’t been kissed before. Too proud, the cows at school said, thought she was too good for anyone, but it wasn’t like that. She’d been scared about letting anyone get that close to her. It felt right with Jamal, though. His mouth was so gentle, the feeling of his lips gorgeous, and as she tentatively returned the kiss, she began to relax. It felt natural to let their tongues touch and explore each other’s mouths, and he tasted of smoke and honey. What was odd was how the kiss seemed to set her insides quivering, and hot bolts of sensation firing down her belly and into her groin. She felt almost uncomfortable there, as though it was aching with a need she didn’t understand.
But Chanelle knew all about sex. Boys had cocks that they wanted to shove inside you and rub until they came. The girls at school talked about it all the time. Sometimes the boys made you put their cock in your mouth and suck it. It all sounded horrible. And more than one of the girls had appeared at school with a swollen belly and then left before exams.
Chanelle pulled away suddenly, panicked. ‘I won’t get pregnant, will I?’
Jamal laughed softly. ‘Nah, I ain’t ready for that and neither are you. Anyway, we’re just kissin’, yeah? No need to rush it.’
She felt relieved. He wasn’t going to force her to do anything she didn’t want. He kissed her again, gentle pecks that became deeper and deeper until they were lost in the sensation of each other’s mouth.
After that, she was Jamal’s girl, and any moment she wasn’t at school, she spent with him and the gang. They passed long hours hanging round the playground, or at Jamal’s grandmother’s flat, his unofficial headquarters. It was there they drank gallons of tea, and sometimes beer, when the business of the day was completed, and smoked endless joints – even Chanelle, who had been persuaded that it was not really taking drugs, not if it wasn’t sniffed, swallowed or injected. It was in that flat, on his grandmother’s bed where a crucifix hung above the pillow that she and Jamal slept together for the first time. The things that had sounded so horrible to Chanelle she now surprised herself by wanting: she longed to touch his cock when it was hard with his desire for her, to kiss it and caress it. Nothing excited her as much as the groans he made when she pressed her lips to its head, ran her tongue over the smooth top and held the hot, velvety shaft in her hand. Her own reactions surprised her. The first time he’d pressed inside her, she hadn’t been frightened at all, just hungry for the pleasure that her body craved. It had felt entirely right to open herself to him, to pull him closer against her so that they moved together. It was so beautiful, she felt she could never ever get enough of it.