Expose!

by Hannah Dennison

  “I’ll just change.”

  Annabel pulled out a cornflower blue shirt from my wardrobe. “Put this on. It brings out the color of your eyes and while you are doing that, what’s the password to your computer? I need to check my e-mails.”

  “I don’t have the Internet here.” This was true. It meant that if I needed to work in the evening, I had to go back to the office.

  “Why do you keep it password protected anyway?” she said with a laugh.

  “Don’t you?”

  “Of course not.” She cocked her head. “You’re such a funny thing. I often wonder what’s going on in that little head of yours.”

  “Well, while you are wondering away, I’ll change.” I refused to let her wind me up.

  “Oh, where’s my black dress?”

  “At the dry cleaners,” I lied, glad that Annabel’s snooping can’t have spread to delving under the duvet at the bottom of my bed.

  Ten minutes later, Mrs. Evans followed us out to the BMW clutching a heavily taped, brown-paper parcel. “Sadie’s expecting you,” she beamed. “You have to go to the stage door and ask for Sadie Sparkles. You are such kind girls, thank you.”

  “We’re happy to do it,” Annabel said, taking the credit. “Any other message for her?”

  Mrs. Evans’s eyes watered a tad. “Just tell her I love her.”

  As the BMW left Factory Terrace behind, Annabel scoffed. “Sadie Sparkles! God! What a pain. How did you manage to get talked into that? We’ll have to park twice now and it’s expensive.”

  “It makes Mrs. Evans happy and will only take a few minutes.”

  “You’re right,” Annabel said. “Don’t you wish you had a mum that gave you care parcels?”

  “What you haven’t had, you’ll never miss,” I said lightly, though inside I felt wretched pretending my parents were dead.

  “Gosh. I wish I could be like you,” said Annabel. “I think about my mum all the time. I was eight when she left. How old were you when your parents had that car crash. Spain, wasn’t it?”

  “No. It was in Africa.” I refused to tell the parents-eaten-by-lions story again. “Actually, I’d rather not talk about it. It makes me sad.”

  “I thought you said what you haven’t had you’ll never miss?”

  “That’s because I don’t think about it to miss it,” I said quickly.

  “You have to think about it—especially on your birthday and at Christmas. You’ve got no brothers or sisters. No one to buy you presents apart from your godparents in Spain.” She gave a peculiar laugh. “Marie and Derek?”

  “I told you, they don’t live in Spain,” I said.

  “Am I upsetting you?” Annabel reached out and patted my knee. “We’re friends. We should be able to tell each other everything.”

  “I will,” I lied. “But not today. To be honest, I’m far more worried about you. You’ve seemed so unhappy recently. Is everything all right with Dr. Frost?”

  “Oh, what do you know about relationships?” said Annabel.

  “Probably not as much as you, but I’m a good listener.” Bravo Vicky! Get her to talk about herself. “He’ll regret it if he lets you go.”

  “I know!” Annabel cried. “That’s just it! He doesn’t realize what a catch I am. All he does is work, and one day he’ll come home and I won’t be there, and then he’ll be sorry.”

  “Perhaps you need to spice up your relationship a little bit?” I suggested. Mum always maintained it was important for a woman to be unpredictable. That way, a man never got bored—though in Mum’s case, Dad couldn’t handle her volatile moods and sought solace in the arms of Pamela Dingles.

  “I do! I try to make him as jealous as possible,” said Annabel. “But he doesn’t seem to notice.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t trust you anymore so he’s pulling back?” Into another woman’s arms and I couldn’t say I’d blame him! Annabel must be a handful.

  “I’m very trustworthy.” Annabel sounded hurt. “I’ve been one hundred percent faithful to Jack.”

  “That’s not true,” I said. “What about Steve Burrows? I know you spent the night with him a few weeks ago.”

  “It was business and besides, I never go all the way, so it doesn’t count. Wait. . . . What the hell?” She leaned forward, peering closely into the rearview mirror. “I knew it! We’re being followed.”

  I swiveled around to look out the rear window and, to my dismay, recognized the Mark III Capri practically riding our bumper. Blast! It was Topaz and she was in disguise! I know it sounded childish but I felt really guilty. Hadn’t I sworn that Annabel was no longer my friend? Topaz had caught me red-handed.

  “Omigod! I think it’s a farmer!” said Annabel.

  Topaz was wearing a flat, tweed farmer’s cap, wire-rimmed spectacles, and a false mustache. “Looks like it,” I said. “But why do you think she—he’s following us?”

  “There is only one way to find out!” Annabel slammed her foot down on the accelerator. The BMW surged forward. We tore along the dual carriageway, reaching seventy miles an hour in seconds.

  “Omigod!” said Annabel as her eyes flicked back and forth from the road to the rearview mirror. “He’s really keeping up.”

  I held on to the sides of my seat. “Don’t get caught for dangerous driving,” I said as we cut between two slow-moving trucks and swerved onto an exit ramp. Annabel hit the brakes. “I think we’ve lost him. No! Blast!”

  I turned around again. Topaz waved and flashed her headlamps. We sped off once more along an old highway that ran parallel to the dual carriageway. “Omigod,” cried Annabel for the third time. “We’re really being chased!”

  Suddenly it occurred to me that Topaz would not want her cover blown. I began to relax.

  “I hope you know where you’re going.”

  “It’s the back road to Plymouth. Watch this.” She started slamming on the brakes, then flooring the accelerator.

  I was beginning to feel carsick. “If he’d wanted to run us off the road, he would have done so by now.”

  “Good point, but this is fun.”

  “Please, let’s just ignore him,” I begged, after nearly being thrown through the windshield for the umpteenth time. “We’ll get caught for speeding. Oh! There’s a police car!” There wasn’t, but it had the desired effect. Annabel instantly slowed down.

  We passed the WELCOME TO PLYMOUTH sign and merged into the Saturday-evening traffic. The Capri sat firmly on our tail, until we turned into Plymouth Hoe itself—a natural cul-de-sac since it ended at the edge of a cliff overlooking the English Channel.

  “Looks like we’ve lost him,” said Annabel. “What a weirdo.”

  I had to agree with her there. “The Banana Club is at the end of the Hoe.”

  Annabel sniggered. “Don’t you mean the Hoe is at the end of the Banana Club?”

  “Sadie is an exotic dancer.” Annabel could be so unkind. “And anyway, the word hoe derives its name from Anglo-Saxon times and actually means a sloping ridge shaped like a foot.”

  “Okay, Ms. Prim,” Annabel said. “It was just a joke.”

  The Banana Club was easy to find. The former lockup, built literally into the cliff face, was painted in browns and greens to simulate jungle foliage. Devon is one of the few counties in England with a climate mild enough to grow palm trees. A pair of genuine Torbay palms flanked the main entrance—although the bananas that nestled in the fronds were clearly plastic.

  Despite the relatively early hour, cars lined the streets. Parking was going to be a problem. People were strolling along the bluff enjoying a sunny May evening. In the distance I saw several gunmetal gray ships anchored in the port and knew one would be HMS Dauntless.

  My thoughts turned to Robin. How strange that only twenty-four hours earlier I had been fantasizing about spending the rest of my life with him, but now I prayed we wouldn’t run into him. He was bound to ask if I’d picked up Eunice’s statement and probably order me back to Dairy Cottage “on the double�
�� to do so.

  Annabel zipped into a parking space with a large blue handicapped sign.

  “We can’t park here,” I said. “It’s for disabled motorists. The fine is huge.”

  “Stop worrying.” Annabel opened the dashboard, pulled out a disabled placard, and stuck it on her rearview mirror. “When I broke my ankle, Jack gave me one of these and I kept it.” She laughed. “Why? Surely you, of all people, aren’t going to report me?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I said.

  Annabel didn’t answer, merely smirked. Taking out a compact mirror, she reapplied her lipstick, then handed both to me. “Here. Use mine.”

  “I’m fine without it.”

  “Nonsense. We’re going out clubbing. Here, I’ll do it.” Annabel cupped my chin in her hands and deftly applied the lipstick. “Very pretty. Come on. Let’s go.”

  Outside, the air was brisk. We walked the few yards to the Banana Club. A smoked glass booth was located to the right of the main entrance. Alongside a placard—LADIES, THIS COULD BE YOU—were posters of scantily clad girls in animal skins clinging to vines and poles in extremely ambitious positions.

  “Some of these look impossible,” Annabel said, peering closely at a young girl executing a vertical inversion.

  “Now, that would spice up your sex life,” I said. “You should try it.”

  Annabel turned to me, “Omigod. You’re right! I should!”

  “Can I help you?” Came a disembodied female voice from behind the smoked-glass window.

  I leaned down to speak into the small microphone at the base of the screen. “We’re here to see Sadie Sparkles.”

  “Stage door is down the alley on your right.”

  Since the Banana Club was the last building on the Hoe, the stage door was easy to find. Tucked down a side alley that reeked of sea salt and urine, a neon light marked STAGE ENTRANCE flashed above a yellow door that was several steps below street level.

  “It’s disgusting down here,” said Annabel as she kicked what looked like an empty packet of condoms out of our path. “There’s more than dancing going on if you ask me.”

  I had to admit the thought had crossed my mind, too. I hammered on the stage door. It opened instantly, revealing a heavy-set man with oily, slicked-back hair dressed in a tattered navy blue sweater and jeans. He held a clipboard under his arm and was eating a hamburger.

  “We’ve got a package for Sadie Evans . . . Sparkles, I mean,” I said holding up the box. “She’s expecting us.”

  He consulted his clipboard. “Vicky Hill and Annabel Lake?”

  We nodded. He stepped aside and waved us in.

  “I’m Bert,” he said through a mouthful of burger. “Follow me.”

  “God!” Annabel whispered as we entered a narrow corridor lit with red-tinted lightbulbs. “It feels like a brothel.”

  “I didn’t know you’d been in one.”

  “I haven’t.” We both began to giggle. It felt as if we were doing something illegal.

  A door marked MANAGER opened and a man in his early sixties stood before us. He had a pencil mustache and wore his gray hair in a neat ponytail. “Are you girls auditioning?”

  “No. Visiting Sadie Sparkles,” I said, brandishing Sadie’s parcel once again.

  “I’m interested,” piped up Annabel, thrusting out her boobs.

  I stared at her with horror. “She’s joking.”

  “No. I’m serious.”

  “Very nice,” he said, giving her an appraising look that made Steve’s leering bland by comparison. “Name’s Liam.”

  “I’m Annabel.”

  “Let’s go somewhere quiet and I’ll take your particu lars.” He took her arm before I had a chance to intervene.

  “I’ll come and find you later,” Annabel said with a wink.

  Liam steered her back into his office saying, “Have you danced before?” and closed the door.

  “She’ll be all right. Liam looks after his girls,” said Bert. “Let’s go and find Ms. Sparkles.”

  Bert led me down a second corridor. Above, I could hear the beat and muffled applause. We had to be right under the stage. We stopped outside a door clad in red velvet and emblazoned with dozens of glittering stars. The nameplate, SADIE SPARKLES, was embossed in large silver letters.

  Bert knocked. “Someone to see you, luv.”

  Sadie greeted me with a big smile. I’d met her before. Although she was only two years older than me, she seemed much more worldly.

  “I expected this last week,” Sadie said, snatching the box from my hands. She wore her waist-length blond hair down, heavy kohl-rimmed eye makeup, thick false lashes, and a full-length pink silk robe decorated in sequins.

  Sadie opened the door wider. A silver pole was bolted to the ceiling behind her. “Come in and tell me about Mum. How is her arthritis?”

  I followed Sadie inside, glad of her genuine concern for her mother and, at the same time, suffering a mixture of feelings for my own. I rarely spoke to Mum so would never know if she had any ongoing ailments. The postcards I received from my parents were more a statement to say “we’re alive” rather than a warm personal letter filled with “we miss you.”

  Sadie pointed to a daybed covered with a fake fur leopard-skin throw. “Make yourself at home. I’ll get some scissors.”

  I sank down on the bed and took in my surroundings. A large mirror hung on one wall framed with naked lightbulbs. Stacks of makeup littered the countertop beneath along with half-used tissues, brushes, and perfume bottles. Sadie had plastered the other walls with photographs of Hollywood celebrities—notably Catherine Zeta-Jones—and fellow showgirls executing pole dancing climbs, spins, and inversions. Above the daybed was a shelf of books with lofty titles such as Jonathan Livingston Seagull and The Way of the Peaceful Warrior by Krishnamurti.

  Pointing to a photo of Catherine Zeta-Jones playing Velma Kelly in the hit show Chicago, Sadie said, “I really want to get into musicals like Catherine. Get out of Plymouth. Move to New York, you know?”

  “At least you got out of Gipping-on-Plym,” I said.

  “Yeah. What a dump. I can’t imagine why you’re there.”

  My thoughts exactly. “I’ll be a full-fledged journalist in July,” I said defensively. “Then I’ll be off.”

  “Mum said you fancy yourself as the next Christiane Amanpour.”

  I felt my face turn red. “Well . . . not really.”

  “You’ve got to visualize it. Know what I’m saying?” Sadie said. “I’m very spiritual. You have to act like you already are Christiane Amanpour.”

  Clutching the scissors in her beautifully manicured hands, Sadie joined me on the daybed and started stabbing at the brown paper. “I don’t know why Mum always has to do it up like this.”

  Sadie’s robe gaped open. Beneath was a minuscule halter-neck, one-piece leopard-skin cave-girl costume. It was hard not to stare, especially since her voluptuous breasts were barely restrained by the flimsy top. I couldn’t help wondering how everything stayed in place when she was hanging upside down.

  “Here, you try.” Sadie thrust the box at me. “I don’t want to ruin my nails. These are acrylic tips and cost me a fortune.”

  Finally, we got the paper off. Sadie tipped the box upside down onto the bed. Two packets of Marks & Spencer digestive biscuits came tumbling out, followed by some homemade raspberry jam, a pair of brand-new pink pajamas still with the price tag on, and an envelope. Sadie ripped it open and pulled out five ten-pound notes. “Good old Mum,” she said grinning. “Your parents are dead, aren’t they?” I must have looked startled because Sadie added, “Mum told me. I’m sorry. Must be hard.”

  “It doesn’t get any easier.” I had to change the subject. “Your mum seems quite happy at the moment.”

  “Snail season,” Sadie said, getting up and moving to the countertop. She stuffed the money into her handbag. “Dad’s always nice to her in the summer. I wish he’d be nice to me.”

  It was common
knowledge that Leonard Evans heartily condemned Sadie’s chosen profession. I knew what it was like to have a dad who disapproved. “I’m sure when you’re dancing on Broadway he’ll come around.”

  “Do you think so?” Sadie said hopefully. “It’s hard for Mum to put up with him sometimes. That’s why she likes to keep busy. I couldn’t believe it when Mrs. Fleming gave her the boot.”

  “I heard about that.”

  Sadie sat in front of the mirror and began to backcomb her hair. “She had it coming. It’s Karma. Know what I’m saying?”

  “Really? Why?” My pulse began to quicken. I’d never thought to ask Sadie about Scarlett Fleming.

  “I told Mrs. Fleming, ‘What goes around comes around.’”

  “You spoke to her? When?”

  “Just before she went off on her holiday. We get our nails done at Polly’s in the Barbican.” Sadie held up her hand and inspected her nails for a moment before continuing to backcomb her hair. “Mum worked for the Flemings for twenty years. She worked hard. They just bought a brand-new Range Rover and next minute, Mrs. F. tells Mum they can’t afford her anymore. Bugger.” Sadie winced as her hair got caught in the comb and she yanked it from her scalp. “Then, I hear she’s going on a fancy yoga retreat in Spain. If you want to get rid of someone, be honest about it, know what I’m saying?”

  “I bet she didn’t like that.”

  “She was a bitch. Told me to mind my own business,” Sadie said. “She even got the locks changed! Mum went back to get her feather duster and couldn’t get in. Yeah. Mum was upset. She didn’t even like cleaning there because it gave her the creeps. I didn’t like it there, either.”

  “Why?”

  “Everyone knows Headcellars is haunted.” Sadie shrugged. “Something to do with a dead monk. Mum used to take me there in the school holidays. It had a secret passageway, you know.”

  It seemed everyone except the man who lived at Headcellars knew the place was haunted. I made a mental note to tell Topaz she was right. “Did you run into Mr. Fleming much?”

  “Haven’t seen him since I was a kid.”

  “What about Neil Titley?” I said suddenly. “He runs a company called Go-Go Gothic.”