by Angela Dyson
Suddenly I was furious. “Why the hell can’t you have the guts to admit that you misjudged the situation with Simon?” I was shouting now. She was the one who had asked me to investigate and now I was being punished. I’d been right about the messenger. I glared at her. “Stop blaming me for your own mistakes. You asked me to find out about him Laura. Remember? Or has that conveniently slipped your mind? Well I did exactly that. I found out what his real motives were and OK so you don’t like what I’ve had to tell you but that is no reason to take it out on me.”
Tears were streaming down Laura’s face now and I felt my own eyes filling up.
“What’s going on? Why are you being like this?” I asked more gently. “He’s not worth getting so upset about and certainly not worth us falling out over. There’s always another man out there. You know that. That’s what we’ve always said isn’t it?”
“Ah! But will you approve of him if I do meet one?”
“What?” I jerked my head back in surprise “What do you mean?”
The look she gave me was cold. “No matter who I meet they’re never good enough are they?”
“What?”
“I think it’s because you’re jealous. You’re on your own and you’re jealous that I had a chance to be happy with a guy. You’re jealous that I’d found someone.”
“No!” It came out in an angry squeak. “Of course I’m not. That’s insane. How could you possibly think that?” I looked down at my hands resting on the table. They were shaking. The bomb had exploded and I didn’t know how we would get back from here. “That’s a fucking awful thing to say.”
“Well that’s that, isn’t it?” she said. “I’m obviously a fucking awful person. I’m useless with men and now I’ve screwed up my career. Great, Just great.”
And before I could say another word she walked out of the room, crossed the hall and slammed the front door behind her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mechanically I washed the coffee mugs and put the biscuits in a tin. Then I straightened the sofa cushions and gathered up some old newspapers and magazines, but all the time my conversation with Laura kept running through my head in a continuous loop. How could Laura have said those things? We’d known each other for most of our lives and she thought me capable of the meanest kind of jealousy? Then I remembered that I hadn’t phoned Flan back. She would want to hear about what had happened last night at The Vine and I needed to offload about Laura.
The minute I heard her voice I felt instantly better. She does that. There’s something in her manner of giving you her full concentration, combined with the admirable restraint she displays in not butting in and telling you where you went wrong, that makes her the perfect sounding board. I poured out the whole story and she listened sympathetically making the occasional tutting noise as I filled her in on what Nuala had told me about Chris and then moved on to the episode with Laura.
“Oh dear, she really is confused isn’t she? Poor girl. She’s hurt and her feelings are in turmoil. No wonder she snapped.”
“But what about me?” I protested. “What about my feelings?”
“They may be a bit bruised but I think you’ll live.”
That’s the thing I always forget about when talking to Flan. Whilst it’s true that she always cheers me up, she doesn’t automatically take my side.
“And what about what she said at the end?” I exclaimed. “The bit about me being jealous. Do you think she meant it?”
“Do you?”
“Well she said it and I suppose she must. But no… honestly I can’t really believe that she did.”
“Exactly. You can’t and that probably means that she didn’t. It’s most likely that it just leaked out as part of the great gush of emotion she was feeling during the heat of the moment. You two are so close Clarry. Don’t let it get in the way.”
I thought about it for a moment. “But this has to have affected our friendship. In fact I think it may well have ended it.”
“Is that what you want?” asked Flan gently.
“No! Of course it isn’t, but it’s not just about me. I mean if she’s been thinking all those awful things.”
“One awful thing,” put in Flan.
“Well OK,” I acknowledged. “Just one, but that one was pretty loaded wasn’t it? And you know something? I’ve been going over it and over it in my mind and she’s wrong about it. Dead wrong.”
“Well you need to tell her so.”
“Oh no. It’s up to her to make the first move.”
“Well darling. If that’s the way you feel,” said Flan dubiously. “But I wouldn’t wait too long to make up if I were you or Laura may have lost her job, her romantic illusions, and her best friend all on the same day. Now that’s a lot of heartache.”
I looked at my watch. Nearly three o’clock. I chewed my lip. I needed something other than my row with Laura to think about and an idea that had been gradually taking shape somewhere in the back of my brain had skittered its way to the forefront. And for it to have any chance of success I’d need some help. Looking up Knights I found that it was on Bayliss Road and that it was listed as a bar/club. It didn’t appear to have a website. Then I picked up the phone, dialled the restaurant, and spoke to Ian who listened and said he’d call me back. Half an hour later he did so.
“Right, we’ll be with you at eight. A bit early I know but Steph has an audition tomorrow morning and so can’t have too late a night.”
For several hours, I tried to distract myself from thoughts of the evening ahead but couldn’t seem to settle to anything. So, I did a few chores, put out the rubbish bin, and threw away the dead forget-me-nots from the old blue vase. I nipped out into the garden, where the rain was still falling with dreary persistence and picked some more. Looking down at my muddy footprints on the kitchen floor reminded me that I’d been meaning to clean it for over a week now and this seemed as good a time as any and besides it would keep me occupied.
I keep my Hoover, broom, and cleaning odds and ends in a walk-in cupboard by the back door. It would originally have been used as a larder and there were still the slatted shelves for the storing of pots of home-made chutneys and preserves. As I’m not known for my pickling and bottling, the only provisions in this cupboard today were of the alcoholic kind. I got out the mop and bucket and created a nice soapy lather and made a start. I was only half way through when glancing at my watch I realised that it was after seven and Ian and Stephanie would be here in less than an hour. Propping the mop up behind the larder’s open door and abandoning the kitchen floor, I pelted upstairs to get changed.
Ian scrutinised my black halter-neck dress and then nodded approvingly. “That’ll work.” He rummaged in the carrier bag he was holding and with a flourish produced a tangled assortment of wigs. “You said brunette or black? Well there’s Jessie J, Katie Perry in her early years or my personal favourite Kim Kardashian.”
“Let me try the Jessie J.”
Steph looking sensational in a short red dress, high at the neck and plunging to a deep V at the back, laughed as I began cramming my hair into a jet-black, mid length bob. “Can’t I have one as well?”
“It’s not you that mustn’t be recognised,” Ian, admonished.
“Some of my best performances have been as a blonde,” mused Steph. “I was Rapunzel in Panto at Brighton two years ago. I had these lovely long plaits for the prince to climb up and in the Madonna tribute band I had this one wig for Like A Virgin and…”
“Oh, go on then if you want to,” interrupted Ian. “I’ve got a Dolly, a Brittany, and a Christina in the car.” Then turning back to me he said, “You want to scrape every bit of your own hair up first. I’ve got some clips… Ah no.” His gaze was critical as we both studied my reflection “Not your look love. A little too Vicar of Dibley. All you need is a dog collar and a crucifix.”
“Right,”
I said. “Pass me the Kim Kardashian.”
I opted for the independence of my own car and stop-started through the evening traffic around the backstreets of Waterloo, in the wake of Ian’s MINI Coupe. It had started to rain again as I pulled up behind him in front of a launderette on Bayliss Road and it occurred to me that another advantage of this whole wig thing is that synthetic hair doesn’t frizz. No worries about hat-hair now. As we picked our way down the street, Steph who had insisted on the Brittney agreed with me.
“Some actors when they are getting into character start with a mannerism or a habit of speech, but I always think accessories are much more fun.” Tugging on her wig she asked Ian (who under the name Fancy Nancy performed a drag act at a Burlesque club called Jezebels a couple of nights a week), “Why do you need so many?”
“It’s all about variety now love. It’s what the punters want,” he said gloomily. “And the competition’s fierce. I have to hold my own against a new boy Lady Frou-Frou who works with a live snake.” He brooded for a moment. “And that tired old has-been Maid of the Mist is still twirling his tassels.”
My eyes met Stephanie’s – Fancy Nancy and Maid of the Mist were not friends.
“Right just run this by me again Clarry because I’m not used to working without a script. Our cover story, if we need one, is that you and I are here possibly looking for a job and you can’t use your own name in case this Chris guy recognises you.” She broke off thoughtfully. “Is Mallory the best you could come up with?” and then to Ian, “What’s your role again?”
“Manager or agent. Whichever...”
“More like pimp in that outfit,” she shot back.
Ian looked down at his skinny leather jeans, silver lurex tuxedo jacket, and white low-necked T-shirt. “Too much?” he asked innocently.
I snorted. “When is silver lurex ever too much?”
We almost walked straight past the club, as there wasn’t a sign above the door.
“Is this it do you think?” I asked.
Sandwiched between a betting shop and a Korean food store, its windows were obscured glass and reinforced with security grills.
“Doesn’t look much,” said Steph. “But come on let’s ring the bell.”
She pushed at the buzzer and we waited looking at each other expectantly.
As the door slowly opened Ian started singing, “I’m coming out, and so you’d better get this party started.”
“Oh, you’re definitely out alright,” said Steph and then joined in, “Let’s get this party staaaaarted!”
“Will you shut up,” I hissed warningly. “Remember. The most important thing is not to draw attention to ourselves.”
“That’s not always easy for me darling,” drawled Ian. “Being so good-looking can be really rather a curse.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” agreed Steph patting her Britney.
I don’t know what I had expected, but the Gate Keeper should have provided a clue. He was a tall heavily built man somewhere in his late twenties, dressed in a pair of jeans that were seriously in need of a wash and a tan leather blazer that looked like something a 1970’s cop would have worn in an American TV show. He had slicked back dark hair and a pale unsmiling fleshy face that was pitted with acne scars. The smell of his aftershave was astringent as he ushered us into the confined space of a narrow lobby.
“That will be £20 for you,” he said to Ian in an Eastern European accent. “The girls go in for free.”
“Couldn’t you consider me an honorary girl?” Ian appealed smiling broadly up at him and showing a lot of white teeth. “I take just as long as them to get ready for an evening out and besides I…”
“£20!” the man repeated in a monotone.
I nudged him, “So much for the lurex.”
“Never mind,” he said fishing out his wallet. “The night is still young.”
And it was. Nine o’clock on a Monday evening is never going to be a club’s busiest time, but this place was dead. We had entered a large room where a bar dominated most of one wall. Tables set with chairs of twos and fours took up most of the floor space and built-in banquettes edged the remainder of the walls. In the far corner there was a tiny raised stage with a solitary pole upon it, where, ignored by the half dozen or so customers sitting talking, smoking or playing cards, a stringy girl wearing nothing but a thong, disconsolately grinded her pelvis to the slow ponderous beat of canned music. She was the only other woman in the room.
“Uh oh,” said Steph taking a step back.
Everyone had looked up at our arrival.
“Very low rent,” said Ian in a voice that carried. “Not what I’m used to at all. I think drinks are what we need don’t you?”
I scanned the room. Chris was not here. I breathed a little easier and followed Ian and Steph to the bar.
“Situations like this demand cocktails I always think,” said Ian and turning to the barman raised an eyebrow, “Oh ’Ello. There are two of them.”
The man perfunctorily swiping a cloth over the counter was the mirror image of the Gate Keeper. Same build. Same slicked back hair. Same pale watchful face and unsmiling expression, but this version, was minus the acne scars.
“The Brothers Grim,” Steph muttered. “Blimey this place is a bit rough. I needn’t have worn my Pulling Dress. Not that that was…” She broke off on catching my expression and then in an effort to distract me, pointed disapprovingly at a dirty plastic ashtray. “Smoking in bars isn’t allowed anymore. And look everyone’s puffing away.”
Ian appeared to be having trouble placing our orders. “Two cosmopolitans and a mojito,” he enunciated loudly as Brother Bar Keeper looked blank. “You must know how to make them? It’s simple. Three sprigs of mint, some lime juice…” he broke off impatiently. “Never mind, I’ll come around and show you.”
“Looks like Ian’s the one who’s job touting now,” laughed Steph, but stopped as the barman held up a restraining hand.
“Not come behind the bar.” His accent was even thicker than his brother’s.
“I’m just going to get you started,” persisted Ian bustling his way behind the counter. “Now I take it you have cranberry juice for the cosmopolitans? It’s one measure of vodka to two of…” He began hunting through a selection of beer mugs and wine tumblers. “Where are the martini glasses? They’re just not the same in an ordinary…”
“No,” said Brother Bar Keeper laying a thick hand on Ian’s arm. “Not come.” And forcibly pushing him back out to the customer side said flatly, “No cocktails.”
“You are strong,” said Ian. “Usually I go for a ‘Roughty Toughty’… but, I don’t think we’re bonding.”
“They do a pole dancing class at my gym,” remarked Steph some five minutes later when we were propping up the bar and sipping at glasses of acidic white wine. “It’s good for flexibility.”
The three of us studied the girl on the stage.
“She’s certainly that,” said Ian and then turned away with a grimace. “Oh, must she bend over like that?”
“I think that’s rather the point,” I said.
Steph grinned. “There are always ads in The Stage for exotic dancers. In fact there are more of those than for regular gigs.”
“Ever thought of giving it a try?” Ian asked with a smirk. “Not that I’m any judge but you seem to have the right equipment. And especially now you’re a blonde.”
Steph made a face and yanked on her wig. “Actually I love this look. I could really get into it. Like get into character. In fact I’m asking myself what Brittney would do in this situation for example. Right now?”
“Burst into a song and dance routine most likely,” I said and then as I saw her strike a pose put in hurriedly, “but don’t.”
“If she’s as white-trash as they say she is,” pondered Ian,“then I think she’d order some fri
ed chicken.”
My mouth watered. And I realised that I hadn’t eaten anything since this morning.
“Not here,” said Steph wrinkling up her nose. “She’d catch something. I mean look around you.”
Ian observed our fellow customers. “Yes they certainly drained the swamp for this crowd.”
I had to agree with him. At a nearby table three middle-aged men in crumpled office garb with their ties askew and their suit jackets flung over the back of their chairs, were drinking beer from a pitcher and scrutinising Steph and I like we were their next meal. Conducting a furtive conversation in a language I didn’t recognise, their eyes skittered over my bust and Steph’s legs as they dragged on their cigarettes. Oh for heaven’s sake I thought in irritation, why do you have to mentally undress us? There’s a naked woman at the other end of the room slithering up and down a pole. Isn’t that enough tits and ass for you?
At another table a man in his sixties with a flushed face and a comb-over, gave great jarring grunts as he yelled, “Raise” and slammed down his card deck.
His companion, an older black man, with a huge stomach and frizzy grey hair muttered, “Fold!” with obvious bad grace.
Because of Chris’s involvement with the club I had assumed that most of the clientele would be Greek, but there were only a couple of guys talking intensely to each other on one of the banquettes who looked even vaguely Mediterranean. The average age range was probably fifty and in their various groups I received an overall impression that these men were not what would be considered successful, by anyone’s standards.
“So?” asked Steph breaking my reverie. “What’s the plan?”
I must have hesitated a moment too long because it was Ian who answered for me. “Looks like she doesn’t have one, do you?”
“Well… not exactly no.”
They looked at one another.
“But that’s fine,” I protested. “That’s just how these things go. One has to work off the cuff.”