There were no regrets about Aiden. He had given her what she wanted at the time, a lightweight romance with heavy duty sex, a caring friendship with no strings. He was a lovable rogue, the kind of charmer a girl only meets once in a lifetime, and he'd left her with something more than a few vivid memories.
But now Camellia felt she and Bee should plan for the future. They had become closer still since that night with Aiden, and they often talked of learning to drive, buying a car and travelling. Merely talking about it wasn't enough, though. Unless they made a concrete plan to save money, they would go on drifting.
'Tell me about your family,' she suggested when it seemed Hank had finally run out of steam about his damned machines. 'I'm sure a handsome man like you has one?'
He fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out the inevitable plastic concertina of photographs.
'This is Fern, my wife.' He pointed out a studio-posed picture of a moon-faced blonde in soft focus. 'She's put on a few pounds since then, but she's still a looker.'
Another snap of Fern gave Camellia a greater insight. Here she was wearing Bermuda shorts which looked as if they had a couple of cushions stuck down them, arms round two buck-teethed all-American brats.
'That's Marlene,' he pointed to the girl. 'She's eight now and as smart as her daddy. Buck's nine and he's gonna be a doctor.'
Every aspect of his life in Detroit was there: the white painted clapboard house, the Chevrolet, even the pet poodle called Misty.
'You're a lucky man,' Camellia said. 'You've just about got it all!'
'I'm luckier than most.' He snapped shut his pictures and stowed them away next to his heart. 'Fern ain't too strong on the intimate side, if you know what I mean, but she's a good wife.'
'Shall we have another drink?' Camellia knew from experience that such lines were usually an opener to an outpouring of a man's heart. She didn't want to know how Hank Beckwith supplemented his sex life. Getting him drunk and packing him off home early was a far better idea.
'One more maybe.' Hank put his wet fish hand over hers. 'Why don't we go on somewhere, maybe grab a hamburger and go back to my hotel?'
It was the first time he had managed to surprise her.
'I think you've misunderstood what a hostess is,' she said in her best starched voice. 'I'm here to keep you company, nothing more.'
He gave her a sharp look. 'I paid for you, honey. I call the shots.'
She looked at his bloated face, and three chins, the quivering belly straining his shirt buttons and the wispy ginger hair and thought of having him thrown out by the bouncer. But the club was quiet. He might insist on having his money back and they'd discover that she'd asked for double the fee.
'You paid only for my company,' she said firmly. 'I don't know how it works in America, but here a hostess is a lady, not a prostitute. If that's what you want, please go and look elsewhere.'
'I didn't mean to insult you.' He looked confused now and a little embarrassed. 'Aw hell, honey, you're mad at me!'
'I shall forget what you said as long as you don't repeat it,' Camellia said crisply. 'Now let's have another drink.'
The club's income depended on making men drink heavily but it was clear to Camellia that this man resented paying the high prices. Begrudgingly he bought another round, but he sipped it painfully slowly.
He was such hard work. He answered questions briefly, never once bouncing spontaneously onto a new subject. Minutes seemed like hours and time and again she had to stifle a yawn.
'Would you like to dance?' she asked desperately. Two of the other girls were out there on the floor with a couple of businessmen. Sometimes the girls could engineer it so the groups joined together, that way making a lone male more affable.
'I don't dance,' he said firmly. 'Never saw no sense in it.'
There was no answer to this and Camellia racked her brain to think up some new ploy. 'When are you leaving London?' she asked. If he had an early flight booked, maybe she could nudge him into an early night.
'Maybe tomorrow,' he said. 'Got a few people to call up first.'
Camellia's desperation had almost reached screaming-point, when she heard his stomach rumbling. 'You're hungry,' she said solicitously. 'Haven't you eaten tonight?'
'No,' he admitted somewhat reluctantly.
'I could order you a snack here,' she said quickly. 'It's a bit expensive though.'
'I'm okay till later,' he said. His stomach rumbled again.
'The trouble is most of the restaurants near here close by midnight. There's nothing worse than going to bed on an empty stomach. Why don't you pop out now and get something?'
She saw suspicion on his shoe-button eyes. 'Trying to get rid of me?'
'Of course not.' She forced herself to pat his arm maternally. 'You can always come back afterwards. I don't like to think of anyone being hungry, it spoils the evening. Now there's a good, inexpensive steak house up by Marble Arch.'
She hoped he would gorge himself then think better of returning. At half past ten in the evening all restaurants would be packed and he'd have a long wait to be served.
He licked his lips, as if already smelling the steak. 'You won't run out on me?' he asked.
'Of course not.' She moved nearer to pat his cheek, but recoiled quickly as his breath smelled so foul.
When he stood up she realised he was even more enormous than she'd thought. He had to weigh eighteen stone.
'See ya later then, honey,' he drawled and walked away to the door.
'Hard work, eh?' Denise, the bar manageress, smiled in sympathy as Camellia came over to her.
'The pits,' Camellia grimaced. 'Let me have a real drink, Den. I need it after him.'
Denise was thirty-five. Her bleached-blonde dizzy style, and low-cut dresses, concealed a knowing, hard-headed woman. Divorced, with a son at boarding school, a rich lover and a beautiful flat in Notting Hill it seemed to Camellia she had everything. She ran the club for Napier, had her spangly evening dresses made specially for her, and yet was caring enough to listen to all the hostesses telling her their troubles.
'He certainly wasn't prince charming,' Denise smiled. 'But you got rid of him early. How did you manage that?'
Camellia told her.
'Well, have that drink and shoot off home,' she laughed. 'By the time he's stuffed his face with steak and chips he'll be too tired for nightclubs, even with you as a lure.'
'But what if he does come back? He might complain about his fee,' Camellia said weakly. She didn't want Denise to know she'd overcharged him.
'I'll tell him your mother was ill or something,' Denise said helpfully. 'You can't really be expected to wait for hours for anyone. Give it half an hour, then go.'
Camellia agreed to this and sipped her drink.
'He was such a drag,' she burst out a few seconds later. 'Imagine being married to someone like that!'
'I was,' Denise said wryly. 'Promise me you won't ever be tempted by a loaded wallet alone. It's like being in purgatory.'
Denise often entertained the girls on quiet nights with tales of her ex-husband, his quivering belly, his belching and his insatiable appetite for kinky sex. Fortunately for her he met a nineteen-year-old model and left Denise to live in Florida.
Camellia smiled, but she still felt miserable.
'When's Bee coming back?' Denise asked. 'You seem lost without her!'
'I hope by the weekend. It's fun when we work together, even if the men are old farts. She's got this knack of bringing out the best in almost everyone.'
Denise nodded, but not exactly in agreement. 'You two should start to think about saving some money.' Her tone was almost maternal. 'I know you both think tomorrow won't ever come, but it does, sooner than you expect.'
Camellia smiled. Denise often used this line with them, but they usually laughed at her. Tonight however Camellia was beginning to come round to the older woman's way of thinking.
It was well after twelve when Camellia finally left the club. She had
felt compelled to stay just in case Hank the Horrible did come back and she'd spent the time talking to Denise over another couple of drinks.
She paused for a second under the black and white club awning, looking out for a taxi. Davies Street was unusually deserted. For a second she thought of going back inside to phone for a cab, but Oxford Street was only a few minutes' walk and she could hail one there.
Two days ago warm sunshine had heralded summer, but May was an unpredictable month and it had turned bitterly cold again. She was glad she'd decided to wear her white rabbit coat. Turning up her collar, she began to walk. To her delight a taxi was coming down from Oxford Street, pulling in some fifteen yards from her as if to let out a fare. Clutching her bag under one arm, she ran towards it.
But as the passenger door opened and a big leg in familiar checked trousers slid out, Camellia froze. It was too late to turn and run in the opposite direction. The rest of him was now out on the pavement and he'd spotted her.
It was only polite to make some sort of apology; besides she wanted his cab.
'I'm afraid I couldn't wait any longer for you to come back,' she said as he paid the driver. 'My flatmate is sick and I have to get home.'
'Could you take me to Chelsea please?' she said to the driver, insinuating herself between Hank and the cab.
'But I came back for you,' Hank said, his fat face slumping with disappointment. Camellia got into the car, but Hank held onto the open door, looking in at her. 'I didn't think you'd be this long,' she said weakly. 'Go on in the club, someone will look after you. I must go.'
The cab driver turned to look back at them, his expression irritated.
Camellia reached out for the door but Hank pulled it open further and began to get in.
'I'll see you home,' he said, his bulk filling the cab.
'That's not necessary,' she said, a little afraid now. 'Besides it's a long way.'
The driver cleared his throat. 'Look sir,' he said testily. 'I'm taking the young lady to Chelsea first.
If she doesn't mind I'll drop you off afterwards. All right with you, love?'
Short of making a scene, Camellia could only nod in agreement.
'The ABC in Fulham Road,' she said quickly so that Hank wouldn't discover where she lived. It was only a short walk from there to Oakley Street.
But the moment they drove off towards Piccadilly, Camellia regretted not having been tougher. He slung one big arm around her shoulders, and tried to force her face round to kiss him.
Just the mere thought of his slobbering lips on hers made her feel nauseous. 'How dare you?' She wriggled away as far as possible from him. 'Don't touch me again or I'll ask the driver to go straight to the police station.'
'You fobbed me off didn't you?' he sulked, slumping over against his window. 'Took my money and got rid of me.'
Camellia willed the driver to get a move on, wishing now she'd told him to drop her in Knightsbridge. 'It was you who decided to go for a meal,' she said snootily. 'I waited over an hour before I left. I could only assume you weren't coming back.'
It was so tempting to tell him what a fat, stinking bore he was. But she wasn't that brave.
The atmosphere grew heavier by the minute. Camellia stared out the window, and counted the landmarks. The Scotch House, Harrods, the turnoff to Fulham Road, the Michelin building–it wasn't much further now.
'I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in England,' she said stiffly as she saw the ABC cinema up ahead. 'This will do nicely,' she called through the glass compartment to the driver.
He didn't say goodbye. Camellia was barely out of the taxi before it pulled away and turned left up Beaufort Street towards King's Road.
She paused to light a cigarette, letting Hank get well away. She had always liked this bit of Chelsea: it wasn't as smart as some parts, but it was intriguing, almost like a cosmopolitan village. She was standing in front of Tully's brightly lit windows. Opposite was the Baghdad House, its Arabic-shaped windows alight with jewel-encrusted lamps. She could hear a faint hum of music and wondered if they had a belly-dancer performing inside. Beyond the cinema, now in darkness was Finch's, and the Hungry Horse cafe. She was shaking a little, unnerved by the big man. In all her time at the Don Juan, she'd never met anyone quite so unpleasant.
Shouting and a bright light spilling out onto the pavement opposite made her look up. A group of student types were coming out of a doorway next to an antique shop with bottles in their hands.
'Want to come to a party?' one of them called out, waving his bottle. 'It's only down in Finborough Road.'
Their cheeriness banished her shakes. Tucking her bag under her arm, she turned into Beaufort Street.
The road was deserted. Up ahead cars passed in King's Road but here all the residents were in bed.
This was the road she and Bee aspired to live in. Once at Christmas they had peered in at one of the elegant town houses through its wrought-iron gates. The front room was lit up, and the table laid for dinner, with silver candelabra, red napkins and flowers. A maid in a frilly apron was putting the finishing touches to it all. Enviously they soaked up the whole picture: a tree strewn with coloured lights in the garden, a holly wreath on the door, a silver Mercedes parked outside. Upstairs behind closed curtains the mistress of the house was probably zipping up a Bond Street evening dress.
There was nothing to see now. The windows were all in darkness. She could just make out the glint of glossy paint on front doors and a canopy of cherry blossom in the gardens.
A creaking noise startled her. She stopped, looking all around, but she could see nothing. Dropping her cigarette into the gutter, she walked on, assuming she'd imagined it.
She felt his presence split seconds before an arm locked round her neck. Before she could even scream a hand was slapped across her mouth.
It happened so swiftly. One moment she was walking, the next held captive. Her bag fell with a clatter to the pavement, scattering the contents. A whiff of foul breath told her it was Hank even before she saw the checked material on the arm holding her.
'You thought you were such a smart arse,' he hissed. 1 knew you didn't live back there, you said earlier you lived near the river. Took me for a sucker, didn't you.'
She struggled to free herself from his grip, but he held her too tightly.
'Do you know what I'm gonna do to you?' His voice was husky with menace. 'Would ya like me to spell it out?'
She couldn't reply. She tried to get her mouth free enough to bite him, kicking out backwards at his legs, flaying her arms around trying to get a grip on him.
But the more she struggled the more firmly he held her, pulling her head right back till it felt as if it would snap at the neck. He was using his knees to push her through an open gate, into the pitch darkness of a garden.
A flash of intuition told her that if he intended to rape her he would have to turn her towards him. She stopped struggling, allowing him to move her forward, waiting for her chance.
As he took his arm way from her neck and momentarily let go of her mouth, she screamed at the top of her lungs, turning and bringing her knee up to his groin. But the scream didn't frighten him and he side-stepped the knee. In a flash he had her by the throat, squeezing her windpipe till she could feel her eyes popping out of her head.
'I was a marine,' he snarled at her. 1 know at least ten ways to kill you, but that ain't what I got in mind.'
Her chest felt as if it would explode as he squeezed her throat still harder. She was growing dizzy and could no longer see. All at once she felt rape would be better than death. He continued to hold her by the throat, yet kicked her legs from under her so she fell back to the ground. Still holding her, he followed, his knees either side of her.
'I had my bellyful of English girls during the war,' he croaked, one thumb right on her windpipe. 'Sucking up to us, asking for nylons and tins of food then laughing at us behind our backs. Nothing's changed, though we won the war for you. Still so goddamned arrogant.'
The oddest things sprang into her mind as he leaned forward onto her, using his entire weight to subdue her: Bee at home wondering where she was, the twenty pounds tucked in her bra, her lovely coat lying in mud. All so unimportant compared with rape or death.
He fumbled for something in his pocket. Holding her windpipe with just one hand, he thrust some material in her mouth, pushing it back till she retched.
Now she could only plead with her eyes. One of his knees held her firmly to the ground; each time her arms moved to fight him off he squeezed her neck tighter.
'You understand at last?' he whispered as she became still. 'Now I'm gonna truss you up like a turkey at Thanksgiving.'
Something white and long appeared in his hand. He had a noose over her head in a second, pulling it tight round her neck. Then he grinned, and somehow that was even more terrifying than his scowls.
With one end of the cord he made another slip knot, putting her wrist inside it. But as he reached down behind him, yanked off her shoe and grabbed her ankle to add to the wrist, she saw what his intention was and knew that she was going to die, slowly and painfully.
Camellia put all her strength into struggling to get free.
Once he'd tied one wrist and ankle, then pulled the cord tight to fasten the other side, she would strangle herself if she moved.
She bucked her body under his violently, lashing out each time she felt him loosening his grip on her still free arm, but his weight was crushing her like a tank, and the rope merely tightened more round her neck.
As he pulled on the second leg to attach it to her wrist, it was agony. A sharp crack rang out like gunshot and she knew he had broken it.
Pain obscured everything now–the wet grass beneath her, his foul breath, even the expected rape. She was entirely helpless, any movement tightening the noose round her neck. She felt tears turn cold on her cheeks. Her attempted screams gurgled in her throat, inaudible to anyone but herself.
'I saw some guys do this to a nigger,' he said almost casually, pulling her skirt up above her waist. 'If you lie still you just might live, struggle and you'll die.'
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