by Jennie Ensor
But she couldn’t move. A question was forming in her head, one which could not yet be put into words. Without permission, her thoughts rushed ahead. Paul used to bring home comics and sweets for Laura, sometimes drawing paper and felt-tipped pens too, little offerings he knew she’d like. Never anything for Daniel. He had taken Laura on visits to the shops and the park, just the two of them. She had been anxious to think of Daniel being excluded, had been a tiny bit envious of Laura. But she had always excused Paul’s behaviour, told herself that fathers did have special relationships with their daughters.
Something horrible was unwinding itself in her brain, unstoppable. That time she’d come home after her gall bladder operation. Daniel had been camping in Scotland, leaving Laura and Paul in the house by themselves for four days. She’d sensed a tense atmosphere, as if there’d been a fight between the two. Had something happened while she was away?
Laura had started to change around then. Sometime after starting her new school, she’d begun to withdraw. She stopped talking about what had happened at school and what she was doing with her friends; often, she would hardly speak at all.
Had Paul done something to Laura while the two of them were alone?
Everything made sense now. The change in Laura hadn’t been about her new school or becoming a teenager, as Paul and others had suggested, and as she herself had come to believe. It had been because of what her father was doing to her. Paul had been abusing Laura. And now he had abused another girl. What Emma had told Jane was true. Not Paul’s version.
A wave of panic went through her, a wall of black coming down. There wasn’t enough air to breathe. The room around her began to fade and the muscles in her legs seemed to be dissolving. She sank onto the pedal bin, holding on to the counter to stop herself from sliding to the floor.
The truth was staring her in the face: her husband was a child molester. He really had committed a depraved act against her friend’s daughter, one that she could not even begin to imagine, that she could not bear to think about.
But already her imagination was clearing a space to allow in something dreadful. She saw Paul removing his jeans. His hands rough, insistent, pulling at Emma’s underwear. Emma’s confusion turning to fear. The cries submerged in her throat, his hand over her mouth, perhaps. A look of appalled helplessness on the girl’s face as she realised what he was going to do…
Her stomach rebelled. Suzanne hurried over to the sink and vomited.
Emma’s face came back to her, and that flirty expression. Suzanne ran into the office, rifled through the desk drawers and pulled the camera from its case. She swiped past the more recent photographs until she found the one of Emma. It had changed, though it was exactly the same as before. No longer was it a girl flaunting herself, trying it on. It was simply a girl eager to please in whatever way she could because she didn’t know any better. A girl who was losing her way, a girl who needed a more attention, more love.
A girl who had stolen her husband’s heart.
The twelve-year-old her husband had fucked.
A wave of nausea came over her.
She pressed the bin icon.
Are you sure you want to delete this photograph?
She selected Yes then she threw the camera across the room. It hit the wall with a dull thud.
19
Laura
23 April 2011
Laura picked up the bottle of iridescent green nail varnish from the magazine beside her on the sofa and put it down again. She hadn’t yet called Daniel. There was still time before she had to leave for work. She grabbed her mobile from the coffee table.
‘Hey, big brother, congratulations! I heard you’re about to become a respectable man – or whatever it is that blokes become when they tie the knot.’
A chuckle at the other end. ‘In big trouble, I think.’
‘I couldn’t believe it when Mum told me. I thought you were going to wait till you were thirty, at least.’
‘It’s Karen’s fault. She told me she wasn’t planning on staying single for the rest of her life.’ His voice became serious. ‘No, we’ve been thinking about it for a while, but we decided not to say anything till we were sure.’
‘You have been a dark horse.’ She twisted a strand of damp hair around her finger. ‘I’m really happy for you, Daniel.’ It was true. But for some reason she also felt sad.
‘What about you, sis? When are you going to get hitched?’
‘Not for a while, I should think.’
‘You never know, you might bump into Mr Right next week.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Are you working tonight?’
‘Yes, I have to leave soon.’
She paused. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him the truth, that she wasn’t actually working in a nightclub, but a lap dancing club. The words didn’t come. What if he told her how stupid she was to do such a thing? What if he was tempted to tell their mother? It would worry Mum to death if she knew where she really worked.
They talked a little more, mainly about houses that he and Karen had looked at buying in Bristol, then Daniel said he had to go, dinner was on the table. He would be in touch.
Laura put down the phone. Why couldn’t she let on how she was really feeling, rather than pretending everything was OK? She had wanted to talk to her brother properly, to let him know she needed his help, that she couldn’t talk to Mum and there was no one else to talk to now Rachel had gone. But she’d said nothing. Why could she not let him see the other Laura, the little girl hidden underneath her blasé exterior, the Laura who was now dangerously close to chugging off the rails?
She and her brother had shared so much as children. Cycling in the park, hanging out in the lido, skateboarding in the street. Saturday afternoons had been a refuge from their parents’ constant fighting. All the games they’d played together – conker contests, darts matches, arm-wrestling – and the laughter … An ache took hold of her throat. Once, after his trumpet lesson, she’d teased him when he was practising an obviously challenging scale. ‘Dan, maybe you should learn the piano instead?’ He’d thrown a cushion at her and they ended up having a cushion fight. One split open and made a mess of the living room floor, and another hit the cat, who screeched and hurtled away. They’d both fallen on the sofa, laughing like idiots.
Then, around the age of twelve, their relationship changed. It was hard to recall any details now, and she wasn’t sure why. Had he sensed something wrong between her and her father? Or was it just about them going to different schools and growing up?
Laura let out a long breath and poured another glass of Jack Daniels.
Whatever the reason, she’d got used to keeping things quiet and he’d stopped wanting to know about them. Right now, she couldn’t share the most important things in her life with him – like what she was going to do next. Yes, she knew in her heart that to carry on at Rascals would be choosing the path to nowhere, the start of a long slope towards self-destruction, but what else was she going to do? The future didn’t seem real anymore. Tomorrow was hazy, and next week wasn’t even above the horizon. She would go to the club tonight and do what she had to – whatever was wanted of her. It made sense in a way she couldn’t explain to anyone, and in a way that Rachel couldn’t possibly understand. This was what she deserved, wasn’t it? To be nothing but a plaything, a piece of meat.
Laura pulled the brush from the bottle of nail varnish. In three deft strokes, she’d painted her big toenail.
When she arrived at Rascals, Ken was on the front desk training the new receptionist on the phone system. She was a heavily made-up young woman, with breasts that were thrust forward by her bra, her low neckline revealing a startling amount of cleavage. Every few seconds she nodded her head eagerly.
Laura waited, trying to catch Ken’s eye.
‘Sarina. How can I help you?’
‘What we talked about last time – the private room – I’ve changed my mind. I’d like to help you out,
whenever you need someone.’
Ken’s face lit up. For the first time since she’d started he looked genuinely pleased with her.
‘Good girl. I was hoping you’d have second thoughts. I have a job for you later on tonight, as it happens. I was going to ask one of the others, but if you’re up for it?’ He scanned her face. ‘An important punter is coming in later on. I like to make sure he gets taken care of properly, if you get my drift.’
Ken’s upper lip twisted at the corner, an expression somewhere between smile and snarl. ‘He’ll be in around one. I’ll bring him over and introduce him.’
She turned away. The ease of doing what she’d just done was disconcerting. Had she really agreed to go into a room alone with a customer? The thought was scary, almost preposterous.
About seven or eight girls were already in the changing room, smelling of perfume, sweat and hairspray. She took her gear out of her bag, along with a water bottle, an apple, and a muesli bar. There hadn’t been time to cook anything. Anyway, she wasn’t hungry, she hadn’t been hungry all day.
Sam stood in front of the mirror in a silk camisole, brushing her hair vigorously, a sour expression on her face.
‘My period’s due, I’ve been like a grizzly bear all day. I’m bloated and fat and horrible.’
‘You don’t look it, dear,’ Heather replied beside her, imprinting red lips on a tissue.
‘I really didn’t want to work tonight. Ken asked me to do a job later, but I said no.’
Laura squeezed in front of the mirror. Her face was pale and her eyes stared out from dark sockets. She frowned. No one would want her to dance for them, looking like this. She smeared foundation into the dark patches and dabbed blusher onto her cheeks.
Sam greeted her. ‘Hi, hun, how’re you?’
‘Alright, I suppose.’ She followed Sam to her spot at the end of the bench. ‘I told Ken I’d go to the private room tonight.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to.’
‘I’ve changed my mind.’
Sam shrugged. ‘It’s up to you. But you might regret it afterwards.’
‘Maybe.’ She rummaged in her bag for her dangly jet earrings and looked into the mirror. ‘Do I look alright?’
‘Ten minutes, girls! Stop yakking and get a move on!’ Zoe placed a bowl beside a washbasin. ‘And help yourselves to Easter eggs.’
‘You look simply stunning, darling,’ Sam said, in a mock upper-class accent. ‘I so wish I had your looks. The guys’ll be queuing up for you.’
Laura sat at the bar with the others and asked for a Diet Coke. Everyone was waiting for the place to fill.
Heather looked into her glass and sighed. ‘I hate all this waiting around. I wish we didn’t have to come in so early on Saturdays.’
‘Easter weekend is always slow at first,’ Lucy said, in a know-it-all tone. ‘It’ll pick up.’
Sam said nothing, fiddling with her bra so her breasts stuck out more. Her silver bracelet glinted in the mirror ball’s dancing beams. Zoe strode past the bar in skin-tight black leather trousers, turning a wary eye on them.
After about half an hour, the music went up in volume. Right on cue, three youngish men in jeans and casual jackets appeared at the entrance door. They sauntered in, had a good look around then sat at a table in front of the stage.
Lucy nodded to Noelle and the pair of them went across to join the new arrivals.
They returned five minutes later, Lucy shaking her head. ‘They just want to talk.’
The minutes crawled by. Another girl got up on stage, and another. Laura looked around the club. More customers were arriving, but there still weren’t enough men to go around. No one was getting any dances anyway, she had talked to everyone at least once with no luck. As usual, Lucy and Noelle rushed over as soon as anyone new sat down, determined to get picked first. Some of the others, less confident, or more calculating, preferred to hang back then pounce at precisely the moment the guy would be ready to part with his cash.
Eventually, after lots of fruitless conversations, it was her turn to go up on stage.
She grabbed the pole and began to twirl and slide, trying to keep an alluring smile on her face. But inside she felt uncomfortable. Someone was trying to have a word with her, her old self perhaps; the Laura who would have died rather than show herself off like this.
What are you doing, Laura? Why are you doing this to yourself?
Three men sat at the table nearest the stage. They were big-framed, sporty types, guzzling a bottle of Dom Pérignon. One of them – the leader of the pack she guessed, the loudest and the best looking – gave her an exaggerated smile.
After her performance she went up to him. Before she could say anything, he grabbed her and sat her on his knee. They weren’t supposed to do this, and she didn’t like it, but she said nothing to stop him. The security guard was nowhere to be seen – they occasionally went to the toilets to snort cocaine, she’d overheard Noelle saying to Lucy – but this guy was harmless, just out of it. His eyes shone as he told her about himself, rocking slightly from side to side and slurring his words.
His mates looked on in wry amusement.
‘He’s celebrating his divorce,’ one said loudly. ‘He’s not been to one of these places before.’
She danced for him when he asked and he tucked another clutch of tenners into her garter. The sense of discomfort deepened, turning into a physical ache in her chest. A thought kept on at her, like a buzzing fly.
This isn’t the real me.
The club got busy for a while and then quietened again. Minutes dragged by. Girls stood around looking bored, moaning that they wanted to go home.
Laura went to the bar and asked for a Jack Daniels and Coke. It had to be after 1am; she was tired, and anxious about what would happen. When was the ‘special customer’ going to arrive? How much longer was she going to have to wait? She could change her mind, tell Ken she didn’t want to do this after all.
‘Don’t forget to use a condom,’ Sam hissed in her ear. ‘Sometimes they offer you extra not to.’
She nodded with a stab of alarm. Of course, condoms. She’d not given them any thought.
‘Heather keeps some under the cushion of the sofa in there, if you haven’t got any.’
It was another half an hour at least before Ken arrived, followed by a tall, well-built man, aged forty or so, with a leather jacket slung over his shoulder. His neat brown hair was greying at the temples. He walked with a slight swagger, looking straight ahead. Not the friendly type.
She watched from a nearby table as the two men approached the bar, the out-of-the-way one that she would sit at when she didn’t want to dance anymore. They ordered drinks, then Ken beckoned her over. He shouted over the music.
‘Martin, this is Sarina.’
‘Hello there.’ Martin smiled briskly. A trace of an East End accent. His eyes, cool and unwavering, appraised her in a second. Something about him made her uneasy.
Ken turned to Laura. ‘I’ll leave you to entertain Martin. The room’s ready, when you want it.’
She sat at the table with Martin. He took a swig from his shot glass. She wished she had some of her drink left.
‘So,’ she forced a smile, ‘how are you?’
‘Fine, thanks. It’s been a busy day, as usual.’ He spoke quietly, not meeting her eyes.
‘Are you a regular here, Martin?’
‘You could say. I’ve been here enough times, over the years.’
Neither spoke. Martin tapped his thigh. Then he drained his glass and got to his feet.
‘Ken said you could dance for me in private.’ He jerked his head towards the unmarked door leading away from the main club. ‘Can we go over there now?’
She contemplated making an excuse, she could say she felt unwell – something about him unnerved her. But it was too late now. He was expecting her to be available for him. He wasn’t the type who’d appreciate being let down. She led him down the dimly lit passage, past the nude
drawings, the dance music fading to a dull throb of bass.
They stopped at the door of the private room.
So, Laura, you’re a hooker now, are you?
Martin stepped inside and she closed the door behind them. She noticed that the key had been removed – might someone come in and check up on them? It was a horrible thought. She sniffed the musty air, a combination of faded perfume, a leathery, old car smell, and sex. She tried to open a window for a blast of fresh air, but it wouldn’t budge.
Martin gestured to the internal door. ‘I’ll use the bathroom, if you don’t mind.’
She dimmed the spotlights, and angled the blinds to exclude the yellow glare of the street light, then sat waiting on the sofa facing the window. Her chest filled with the same fluttery tightness as before. Shivering, she pulled her wrap tighter. It was cool in this room, and beneath the thin layer of silk she was wearing only her underwear. She lifted the cushion beside her. Underneath, two small plastic squares: Durex.
Laura put back the cushion. They could stay where they were, for now. She unclasped a small shoulder bag containing her cosmetics and examined her face in the compact mirror. Her lips were a cupid’s bow of vibrant red. Her hair, newly washed and sprayed into position, draped her shoulders. Her nails glimmered like butterfly wings.
Outside, a car alarm burst into a shrill warble then abruptly stopped, plunging the room into an uneasy quiet. She listened for the sound of the toilet flushing, or the tap running, but could hear nothing, just the tap of high heels on paving stones outside and a thudding down the corridor. What the hell was he doing in there? Why could he not hurry up and put her out of her misery?
At the same time, she was glad he was still in there. She didn’t want him to come out.
Laura looked around the room, dominated by its square of parquet floor. A plant languished in a ceramic pot by the wall. Its shiny, pointed leaves were interspersed with dull brown ones, shrivelled at the edges. On one wall there were framed, rather twee, sketches of girls pouting and preening in front of mirrors. She turned to the wall behind her. A large painting hung that she hadn’t noticed on her first visit – a striking impression of a young woman lying naked in long grass amid galaxies of tiny blue flowers. Her limbs were pale and ghostly. A clump of dark stems grew thickly from the V of her legs, part of the landscape.