Sin City

by Wendy Perriam

  We’ve turned her room into a dress shop. Half the stuff is on the bed or floor, drawers pulled out, wardrobe just a row of empty hangers. We’re both modelling cocktail gear at eleven-thirty in the morning, with rainbow-coloured eyes and three-inch heels; my broken nails enamelled scarlet now, my hair swept up on top. All the things Reuben disapproved of – frippery and fashion, froth and tinsel.

  I stare in the mirror. I hardly know the woman who looks back. She is a woman, not just some odd kid – glamorous, seductive, and more important than I realised. Men have to pay to touch her, pay for every minute of her time. Not any men. Why do work I hate? They won’t give me the ugly ones, the cripples, or expect me to do sadistic things like whipping. I’m a special case, a new girl, who’ll be treated with kid gloves. Angelique told me I’d be popular – English and the youngest, and with tits. Whatever Desirée said about gaining an inch on top, her boobs aren’t exactly obvious. She’s got courage, though; she must have. It takes guts to do this work at all. A lot of girls would be simply too conventional, or too feeble and straitlaced, or say they disapproved of it because they were really just too plain to get the chance. I’ve been negative myself, seeing all the bad things, ignoring all the good. If a nineteen-year-old with mousy hair and a 34A chest can buy herself expensive gear like that – a dozen evening gowns, a whole row of cocktail dresses, diamonds (fake maybe, but huge), thirty, forty blouses and enough belts and bags to stock a leather shop – then the pay must be fantastic. Money makes you powerful. Even Reuben taught me that. I don’t have to fritter it away, blow it all on clothes. I can also change the world with it.

  Suddenly, the whole room shakes and rattles, and a throbbing roar drowns Desirée’s voice. “Whatever’s that?” I shout.

  She waits until it stops. “Only Bob. It’s a real old crate, his plane. He bought it cheap, fourth-hand. You get so used to it in time, you hardly hear it.”

  I peer out of the window, but it faces front, not back. I can see only barbed wire fence. I strain my ears to listen. I can hear tramping feet, a laugh. Clients. Rich ones, who can afford a private plane. Attorneys and physicians. Film producers.

  Desirée checks her watch. “It’s lunch in twenty minutes. We’d better put this stuff away.”

  I leave my hair and eyes exactly as they are. I want to stay Adorée. I swap my dress for a pair of leather trousers with zips both back and front. They’re so tight, it’s hard to eat.

  There are just five of us for lunch. Which means the place is full of men. And still I haven’t seen one. No one even mentions men – nor anything you couldn’t say quite safely at a Women’s Institute coffee morning or a Conservative Women’s Luncheon Club. It’s just clothes (again), and holidays, and a bit of local gossip about the man who runs the gas station. Peg serves lunch and another jolly lady passes rolls and butter and pours out jugs of milk. Yes, milk. Nobody drinks wine, or even beer. The food is good and homely – a chicken casserole with jacket potatoes and lots of healthy vegetables. Desirée sits next to me, and the other girls make sure I’m not left out, give me double carrots, ask me about England, say they like my hair.

  The apple pie’s delicious. I lean back in my chair, lick sugar off my lips. It’s ages since I’ve had a home-cooked meal, sat around a table with a group of friendly girls instead of psychiatric patients. Even before Beechgrove, meals were pretty miserable. My mother wouldn’t cook, and if she deigned to join us, there were always rows and sulks. I understand better now what Angelique meant about a home. Her own meals back in Watford can’t have been much fun. I’ve seen her brother eat – or try to eat. She said her friends refused to visit, were too appalled by George. Just her and him, silent at the table, while her widowed mother got on with the chores.

  Peg removes my empty dish, offers coffee, tea. I’ll get ruined if I’m waited on like this. I keep feeling I should help, or do the washing up. I accept a cigarette instead, blow smug and lazy smoke rings.

  A car draws up, a door slams. More rich clients?

  “That’s Carl,” says Kristia, a Swedish girl with fantastic hair but rather podgy legs. “Late for lunch as usual.”

  I tense. Carl. The overseer. God. Supposing he doesn’t approve of me, sends me packing?

  He’s small, with gingery hair fading into grey, and a pallid doughy face. You’d call him ugly if it wasn’t for his clothes, which are plain but very elegant. He’s dressed like an accountant or a lawyer in a dark grey business suit, expensive shirt. His eyes are on me instantly, detective eyes, missing nothing, taking in the evidence. I can feel them measuring my hips, sneaking down my cleavage, up my legs. Should I stand up, or smile, or say hallo, or put my cigarette out?

  “You’re Carole.”

  I nod.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “I’m Carl.”

  I nod again.

  “Settled in?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Love the accent. Where you from?”

  “Portishead.”

  “Where?”

  “London.”

  “Great city.”

  “Yes.”

  “Wanna see me in my office?”

  “Er, yes. When?”

  “Now. Bring your coffee with you.”

  It’s tea this time. I’m so nervous, half of it slops into the saucer. I’d somehow pictured Carl as big and butch. And young. He’s old. Quite lined and with one of those high foreheads where the hair is disappearing, thinning into shiny scalp. I wobble after him, wish I’d worn a skirt, something less constricting. I can feel apple pie and fear leaking through the zips.

  His office is just that: a desk, a swivel chair and several metal filing cabinets. I suppose running a brothel is just another business; the same problems of client satisfaction, marketing, PR. He’s good at the PR. I recognise some of Angelique’s hard sell. Carl goes further; tells me how the Silver Palm ploughs back money into the community, keeps it prosperous, how the girls support the local stores, the local charities, raise funds for senior citizens.

  There’s a mirror on the wall and he keeps casting furtive glances in it, straightening his tie, or smoothing down his hair, admiring his crowned teeth. His nails are pink and glossy. He must have had a manicure. He’s as vain about his brothel as he is about his person, gives me all the Caesars Palace spiel. It’s getting a bit boring third time round.

  “If a guy comes here and asks about the competition, or is scared he’s missing something better someplace else, I always tell him ‘Go right ahead and check it out. If you find a house with more class, more style, more exciting girls, you stay right there, Sir.’” He shrugs, taps the desk with his slim gold-plated pen. “They all come back.”

  He then moves on to pay and rules. I can see the martinet now. I keep nodding, mumbling “yes” and “no” on cue. He makes it very clear that he’s doing me a favour, not vice versa.

  “You’re lucky to be working here, you know that?”

  I nod. He’s crossed one leg over the other, the foot right up on his knee. I feel somehow threatened by that foot, the black ridged sole squared up to my face; the immaculate grey trousers straining over slightly plumpish thighs; two television monitors framing his chair like blank-faced robots.

  “I got girls lining up to work for me – high-class girls – some of them with Ph.D. s or fluent in six or seven different languages.”

  I say nothing. Angelique told me he was short of girls. Anyway, I can’t see how a Ph.D. would help.

  “I turn down more than I take on. I’ve had tears and bribes – the lot. It makes no difference, Carole. If they haven’t got that something, then it’s ‘Good day, Ma’am’.”

  I’m tempted to give him a good-day myself. I loathe what he’s doing – building up my insecurity, so I’ll never dare demand a better deal, keeping me grateful and enslaved. There’s a sudden silence. I can feel his eyes still on me. I look up, look away again, start chipping at the polish on one scarlet nail.

  “Ri
ght, get your clothes off.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t hire you without giving you a look-over. It’s not fair to our customers. You might have scars or birth-marks, or some hidden disability. And you’ll have to see the doctor for a check-up. Okay, other places hire girls over the phone, but that’s not the way I do things here. I prefer to see the goods I’m buying, inspect the merchandise.”

  He laughs. I don’t. It’s not a joke. It’s monstrous.

  “Come on now, I haven’t got all night. Another girl just called me for a job – an ex-movie star from Hollywood.”

  I’m just too shocked to move. I never knew I’d have to strip, assumed Angelique had vouched for me, guaranteed my lack of scars. Carl’s been talking all this time as if I’ve got the job already, been accepted on his payroll. Now I could be shown the door. Oh, I haven’t any birth-marks – no marks at all, except a tiny mole the size of half an ant on the back of my left thigh, but Carl may well be checking something else. Like have I got a really sexy body, some instant oomph which turns men on? The answer’s no. It must be. I mean, Milt and Victor didn’t want to know, and Reuben’s panting compliments were probably only lies, like all the rest.

  I stand there with my shoulders hunched, my whole mind in a fret of fear and fury. Why should I submit, be inspected like a cow or a piece of horseflesh? And supposing I don’t pass? Do I hitch a lift back to Norah and the maid, become a char myself, end up sweeping floors and scrubbing toilets?

  I undo one button of my blouse, curse Desirée’s trousers with their double zips; inch the front one down a bit, fumble with the back one. Carl says nothing, absolutely nothing. His silence makes me clumsy as I fight with four more buttons, claw at stubborn bra hooks. My boobs spill out at last, but I immediately try to hide them with my hands. I’m not even stripped yet, but I’ve never felt so naked, so totally defenceless and exposed. It’s even worse once I’ve pulled my trousers down; stand there barefoot on the carpet in nothing but Angelique’s brief and flimsy panties.

  Carl jerks his thumb at them, wants those off as well. He takes a step towards me as I slip them off. I flinch, freeze. Is he going to touch me up, put me through my paces? I’m not sure he even goes for girls. Angelique was cagey when I asked, hinted he was gay, but Desirée told me airily that he’d slept with a thousand different women, tries out all his “ladies”. God knows which is true. I just wish he wouldn’t come so close, peer at me like that; his eyes right in my navel now, then running round my groin.

  “Turn round.”

  No “please”. No “Would you mind”. What do I expect? You don’t say please to horseflesh or to cows. It’s worse still with my back to him. I can’t see his face, can’t see what he’s thinking, keep expecting his hot hands to land on my cold back. They don’t. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t speak at all. The suspense is really awful. I want to scream with nerves.

  “Okay,” he says, “You’ll do. Get your clothes back on.”

  I’ll do. I’ll do. How dare he? I’d like to order him to strip, go up close to view his saggy stomach, his puny little prick, ask him to turn round, go down on both knees; then say sorry, no, he’s failed. Instead, I drag my clothes on, sit down when I’m told to, accept a cigarette, answer all his questions about what he calls my “work experience”. He knows I haven’t any, but he still wants all the intimate details of my personal likes and dislikes, my repertoire, my special skills and preferences. He’s slumped back in his chair now, feet spread wide apart so that his trouser-straining crotch is facing directly towards me; head thrust forward, lie-detector eyes watching every ripple on my face. It’s even harder to stay cool now he’s viewed me naked. It’s as if he can still see me – see my nipples and my bush, the crease between my buttocks, that mole on my left thigh. I can feel myself blushing through the layers of make-up; hear my voice, too shrill, saying the wrong things. I drop a trail of ash, stoop to pick it up, bang my head on something sharp. I try to smile away the pain, answer Carl’s last question.

  “Well, no, I haven’t ever actually …”

  “Okay, kid, relax. You’ll learn. And if you don’t, you’re out. What about a professional name?”

  “Yes, I’ve thought of one. Adorée.”

  “What kinda name is that, for heaven sakes?”

  I bristle. “It’s my own name. My father chose it. It means adored. My Dad was very fond of me.”

  “Must have been. So why the Carole then?”

  “My … mother called me that. She’s dead now.”

  “Angelique said your Pa was dead. They’re both dead?”

  I’m almost crying as I nod, not because I’ve made myself an orphan, but because I can’t stop lying. I don’t know why. It’s as if I’m never quite enough just as I am, got to be more tragic, more dramatic.

  “Poor kid.”

  There, you see, sympathy already. He’s smiled for the first time. I simper back, start flirting with him; despise myself, continue.

  “Well, Carole, I think we’ll get you working right away, okay? See how you make out. Like to start this afternoon?”

  I stare at him, my own smile frozen now. I’m speechless. I haven’t even seen my room, or met all the other girls. Angelique promised they’d break me in quite gently, give me time to settle in.

  “Don’t worry. All I want you to do is look after a wife.”

  “A wife?” I’m catching Norah’s habit – parroting. But I’m so confused I can’t manage more coherent words. Does he mean some sordid dykey thing? I can’t. I won’t. I was never told this brothel serviced lesbians.

  “Sit still, Carole, can’t you? You’re so darned twitchy, you’re driving me up the wall. Where was I? Yeah, this couple. They’re coming in at three o’ clock. It’s the guy’s birthday and his visit here is a present from his wife – her own idea, in fact. She did the same last year, drove him all the way from Barstow, then waited while he did his stuff. That’s where you come in. I just want you to sit with her, make her feel at home, okay? Have a cup of coffee with her, tell her about England – anything you like. She’s a real nice woman – friendly – you won’t have any problem. Then, afterwards, you can help pass round the plates. We’ve made the guy a cake, a huge one, seventy candles.”

  “Seventy?”

  “Yeah, he’s older, actually, but men are just as vain as women when it comes to birthday candles. He was seventy last year. And the year before, no doubt. Right, any questions?”

  “Er … no.”

  “Good girl. That’s it for the moment, then, until I’ve called the doctor. He won’t come up till later. Go find Kathy and ask her to show you where your room is, sort you out any stuff you need. You’ve met her, haven’t you?”

  “Mm.” The violinist. Maybe she should wife-sit too. Provide some background music, divert the wretched woman from what her husband’s doing. An old boy of seventy-two. Has he got his legs, I wonder? Will he need a winch? Perhaps she’s older still, can’t do it any more, has to hire a substitute, a treat just once a year.

  All my anger comes seething back again – anger with the couple, with Angelique, with Carl; with the whole stupid crazy set-up. Is that all Adorée’s good for, sitting with some pensioner, making instant coffee, small talk? I kick my chair back, close the door behind me more loudly than I need, fumble for a Kleenex as I walk back along the passage, start scrubbing at my face. I don’t need all that make-up or come-hither eyes. And I may as well change back into a simple skirt and blouse. Skin-tight leather trousers aren’t exactly working gear for a geriatric social worker.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  I pace up and down the room, up and down. It’s huge, what they call a VIP lounge, though its not a lounge, not really, since the only furniture is an enormous water-bed. You can’t count the chair – that’s metal, and described in the brochures as an adult monkey bar. Don’t ask me what it’s for – I don’t know, don’t want to know. There are a lot of things that go on here which I’ve simply turned my back on,
blocked out of my mind. The dominance and bondage, the slave training, spanking lessons, the video-taping service which immortalises customers in any sado-masochistic mayhem that they choose.

  I’ve been here two whole days now, and they’ve gradually lifted up the corners, let me see what’s there beneath the roses and the Pine-Fresh. I’m no longer scared and sickened, though I tend to cringe a bit when I hear Carl use his favourite words – “standards”, “class”, and “style”. Okay, he’s achieved them as far as externals are concerned. Dress and meals and décor are all elegant enough, but what about the clients and the other sort of menu? Is a fantasy dungeon “classy” (complete with rack and thumbscrew); a torture-chamber “stylish”? I haven’t seen those yet, hope I never do. I prefer to forget the more outrageous things, pretend they never happen. Some of them I can hardly quite believe – the guys who pay to have a girl shit in their mouth, or be dragged around the room with a string tied to their tongue. I try to stop my ears to those, act deaf.

  We do that all the time in what we call the real world. I mean, last night’s news on television – a kid of just fifteen strangling himself with the bed-sheets in a children’s home; a trusted babysitter molesting a six-year-old; a Chicago street gang with a thousand members buying double-barrel shotguns with their profits from the dope. I was watching it with Kristia and Joanne. We switched channels, didn’t we, preferred to listen to a jingle for Diet-Aid Dream Topping. Diet-Aid, when half the world is starving.

  There’s a commercial break now. The huge TV set above the bed is advertising itself “… elegant oak-grain cabinet frame, infra-red remote control, and fifty-inch diagonal screen with the sharpest clearest picture you can …”

  I switch it off. It’s only there to show the adult movies. (I still don’t know why “adult” should mean porn.) I don’t think my client will want porn. He’s a virgin, and probably underage. You have to be eighteen to use the brothel, and with an identity card to prove it, but some boys borrow older men’s ID’s, and Carl says if they’ve got the cash, why probe? I suspect Carl chose me purposely for this lad. As someone who is working here illegally, I’m not likely to tell tales on him. And if he’s inexperienced, he won’t be too demanding, can’t make unfavourable comparisons. Actually, I feel a bond with him. He’s Korean, a foreigner, and I’m a foreigner myself. I don’t mean being English. The twenty girls who work here are by no means all American and include some dusky skins and unpronounceable names. No, it’s because I don’t belong yet. The girls are very matey still, but it’s only superficial and I can sense a lot of rivalry bitching on beneath the smiles. The cosy happy family isn’t what it seems. Desirée said she liked the work. That’s rare. Most of the girls endure it as a duty, the only way they know of making money. Some of them resent the men, even hate their guts.