Capital Sins

by Jane Marciano

  'Don't you have any work to be getting on with?' His tone gave nothing away.

  What an unfriendly-looking person, she thought, but replied, 'Er, yes, sir. I just wondered if there was anything I could do for you. Anything you needed, that is.'

  'No... wait, yes. Get me a cup of coffee.'

  'Right away, Mr Jessop,' she said promptly, and turned to leave, but stopped when he said, almost as an afterthought: 'I hope you'll be happy working here.'

  Connie flushed – she couldn't help it. 'Oh, I'm sure I will be.' Then she fled.

  She smiled now, remembering her gaucherie. She had taken in his coffee, he'd thanked her politely, and that was the last she'd seen of him that afternoon. Sheila had told her that she should leave at five-thirty even if she wasn't back and, when that time came, Connie had collected her coat and bag from the cloakroom, but had paused as she had reached for the door knob. Should she go and say goodnight to Mr Jessop? Connie had decided against disturbing him. He had looked so preoccupied, she'd reckoned he wouldn't want to see anyone.

  Connie stretched languidly on the bed and thought of all the lovely lolly she was going to earn. It was so good to imagine the new clothes she could buy, and maybe one day she would even be able to afford an apartment of her own, like Miss Delaney's. And she had noticed some nice young men at Jessop House – it would be marvellous to meet some of them socially. Her mind drifted and she pictured herself being dated by one of them, being driven in a car to a classy restaurant, and then perhaps seeing a show after dinner. It sounded good.

  Connie buried her face in the pillow, wriggled her toes in sheer delight, and laughed. Then her thoughts wandered to Sheila Delaney, and Connie's smile was warm. They were going to get on great; she could feel it in her bones. She wondered curiously about her, whether she had a boyfriend. Connie tried to imagine the kind of man that Sheila might date, but couldn't conjure up any image as she could for herself.

  Wonder if perhaps she'd got a 'thing' about that grouch of a man, Samuel Jessop? Connie turned her inquisitive and vivid mind's eye on him, then mentally shook her head. No, he wasn't the sort that gentle Miss Delaney would go for – he was far too sullen and untouchable.

  While Connie was amusing herself in this fashion, in another part of town Sheila Delaney was sitting at a bar downing her third double Scotch. Beside her sat a man. He'd picked her up earlier and during their conversation she'd learnt that he'd come up from the provinces on business, something to do with the furniture exhibition showing in town. His appearance had reminded her of the young soldier she'd known. He had the same rough manner and charm – which had attracted her enough in the first place to allow herself to be chatted up. He didn't seem to mind that the girl beside him was now being somewhat unsociable after a great start, or was suddenly morose and deep in her own thoughts. Why should he, as long as she was willing? And certainly not while he had his hand on her knee anyway – and she didn't look as if she cared what was happening.

  Sheila was, in fact, now barely aware of the man, or his groping fist. She had escaped from her silent flat and thoughts to have a quiet drink among some human company. She thought she'd go crazy if she didn't stop thinking about Sam Jessop – always Sam, she thought with exasperation – and who cared if she had company while she got herself soused? She didn't drink often, only resorted to alcohol very occasionally when things seemed as if they were too much to bear. In the office sometimes, Sheila wanted to scream at him, 'Look at me, Sam. I'm a woman, not a bloody machine! I know you want a wife, so why in hell's name can't you consider me for once?' But she couldn't do that, wouldn't shock him, and now Sheila tipped the glass again to her lips, only to find it empty. Her eyes were red from lack of sleep, too much smoke, the whisky in her brain – and her vision was unfocused.

  She banged the glass on the counter. She felt very relaxed now, almost released by her unnatural behaviour. She should let her hair down more often.

  The man slid his arm around her waist. 'Hey, baby,' he laughed. 'You wanna go easy on that stuff.'

  Sheila swivelled her head and concentrated on his nose, which was quite large and slightly hooked, with black hairs sprouting from the wide nostrils. Her lip curled in distaste, but he merely grinned broadly, increasing the pressure of his arm meaningfully.

  'You'll be no good for anything if you carry on boozing,' he warned, laughing at her indignant expression.

  'Wanna get sloshed,' Sheila said indistinctly, leaning back against his chest. 'Wanna forget myself... be happy, yes?'

  'Sure, sure, but don't pass out in here,' he man replied comfortably. 'Lookie here, why don't I buy us a bottle and we'll take it somewhere cosy and drink it together like old pals. What do you say to that, eh?'

  She nodded vigorously, her brown hair flapping against his cheek.

  'Good,' she declared, then backed away, looking suspicious. 'You're not him ... who are you? I don't know you,' she said accusingly. 'What's your name?'

  'Harvey, sweetheart. Just call me Harvey.' Without further ado, he lifted her off the stool, pressing his hands indelicately on her breasts, and clicked his fingers to summon the waiter.

  'Where we going?' Her speech was slurred as she wavered in his arms.

  'Your flat?'

  'Yes, my flat ... that's another good idea, Har ... Harvey. You can ... can call me Betty, if you want... call me anything you want... '

  'Anything you say, baby.'

  '... And... and I'll call you... call you Sam.'

  As they made love in her bed later, the man thought the tears in her eyes were for him because she was having such a great time, but Sheila was crying for herself.

  Not too far from there, in a penthouse suite, Samuel Jessop was lying in his king-sized bed, brooding. He had just paid a high-class whore a princely sum to get him excited but the whole thing had been a failure, an utter disaster; as usual. He took a sleeping pill before he could drowse off.

  Connie looked at the alarm clock on the chair beside her bed. Twelve-thirty, and not even tired. Too much excitement probably. She heard noises suddenly on the landing outside her door and, pulling her dressing-gown closer, she tiptoed stealthily across the floor and opened the door slightly. She was confronted by a girl's back. The girl was obviously searching in her handbag to find the key to her room, opposite Connie's. She hadn't seen Connie but suddenly she turned around, revealing a pretty, pert face smudged and blotchy with make-up.

  ''Ello,' she said chirpily. Just then, she produced the key and inserted it into the lock. As the door opened, she looked back at Connie again.

  'New 'ere, are ya?'

  'Yes.'

  The girl nodded knowingly. 'Thought I 'adn't seen you about. Did you want somethin'?'

  'I heard noises, I wondered what was happening.'

  The girl, who couldn't have been more than nineteen, giggled.

  'Oh, that. I were only kissing Arthur goodnight. He had to make a quick getaway, sudden like, when we 'eard Ma Withers coming, the old bat. I think he must've fallen over somethin' on 'is way out. Didn't mean to wake you up, kid.'

  'You didn't, I wasn't sleepy anyway.'

  As Connie looked at her, the girl suddenly seemed to realise what she looked like. She reached delicately up to her right eye and pulled a lump of clogged black mascara off her eyelashes, bringing out two or three lashes attached to it.

  'Better get this gunge off,' she declared cheerfully. 'Bad for the skin.'

  'OK, it was nice speaking to you.' Connie had just turned, about to go back into her room when she felt a tug at her sleeve.

  'Listen, kid, if you ain't tired, why don't you come into my room and keep me company, we'll 'ave a nice chat? I can't never sleep this early anyway ... that is, if you wanna.'

  Connie grinned at her. 'Sure, why not. My name's Constance, Constance Sands.'

  The girl led the way, speaking over her shoulder. 'Constance, eh? Posh kinda name, that. What d'yer mates call you? Con?'

  'Connie.'

  'Right,
Connie it is. And I'm Tilly ... Matilda really, but don't let on.' She gave a conspiratorial grin.

  Connie smiled, rather liking the girl.

  'Park yer bum somewhere, kid, while I scrub this lot off.'

  Tilly flung her bag carelessly on the bed, along with her coat, and Connie moved them aside as she curled herself on top. She looked around. The room was the same size as her own but, instead of the walls being bare, as were hers, Tilly had pinned up pictures and posters of pop stars. There was a record player in one corner and stacks of records nearby. The room looked very lived in, as if its occupier had been settled there for years – and it was in a mess. Clothes and magazines were strewn all over the place.

  'I like the way you've done it up,' Connie said, as her eyes wandered from one article to another.

  'Ta.' Tilly was intent on her face. The bin by the dresser, already full of rubbish, was ignored by her as she dropped dirty pieces of tissue paper on to the floor, where they lay black from the remnants of her eye make-up and greasy with removing cream.

  Then Connie noticed a small gas ring in another part of the room.

  'Are you allowed to cook in here?' she asked.

  'I make meself the odd cup'pa now and then. When I got a bloke up here, I've found he usually fancies a coffee after it.'

  Connie wasn't so naive that she had to ask was 'it' was.

  'Do you want me to make us a cup of coffee now, Tilly?' she asked, wanting something to do besides stare at Tilly undressing.

  'Great. The jar's in the cupboard, there ... '

  When Connie had made their coffee, Tilly had finished and was already in her nightie.

  'Thanks, kid.' Tilly took the cup. They sat on the bed and eyed each other. Tilly spoke first. 'Tell me about yourself, Connie.'

  'Not much to tell.'

  'Go on,' the other said scornfully. 'There must be somethin'.'

  Connie couldn't help laughing at the girl's expression, and suddenly Tilly grinned back at her.

  'I know you look like you're an angel,' she went on. 'But you must've something juicy to tell about yourself. Everybody has.'

  'Most of my past is pretty boring. I've been shunted around from one foster home to another, and spent most of my life in an orphanage for unwanted and cast-off kids. Nobody wanted to adopt me, guess they had enough kids of their own. Oh, sometimes it wasn't bad, but I could never get used to having other people's old clothes and toys. Nothing to really call my own.'

  'Didn't you 'ave any fun at all?'

  'Occasionally. It wasn't like we were at a convent, or anything like that.' Connie laughed, interpreting Tilly's expression. 'We met boys at dances, places like that, so I'm not quite as green as I look.'

  Her eyes had a faraway, distant look, and Tilly had the feeling the girl had forgotten the present.

  'I met this boy ... Lucas his name was. All my mates envied me for getting him. He was really something, you know? Well, in the middle of this dance, he pulls me to him and suggests we go out for a walk... ' Tilly smiled knowingly, but didn't interrupt. '... It was a warm night, I remember, it being the middle of summer like, so I didn't bother with my cardigan. We took our cokes and slipped away to this empty barn nearby ... '

  'Go on,' Tilly said impatiently. 'Did he do it to you?' Connie's face was comical. 'He sure did, but I was surprised that it didn't hurt.'

  'It doesn't if you'd been broken before,' Tilly said wisely.

  'I suppose so. Anyway, it was all a bit grubby and quick, nothing like I'd expected and afterwards I wished I hadn't let him. I hardly knew what was happening at the time.'

  'A disappointment, huh?'

  'A bit,' Connie admitted. 'He wasn't very romantic about it – just pulled down my knickers and that was it.'

  'Was that the only time, then?' When Connie nodded, Tilly sniffed snootily. 'So you're not very experienced after all.'

  'I didn't say I was. I just said I wasn't as green as I look.'

  They drank in silence for a while, then Tilly said, 'And you don't know anything about your parents?'

  'I picked up a bit of news here and there along the way. I'm not sure it's true, but I heard that my mother was Norwegian, and that she came to this country as an au pair or something to study the lingo. They said she was beautiful, so I guess she didn't lack for boyfriends at all.' She drew up her legs and rested her chin on her knees, looking pensive. 'It seems she met this guy, an actor by all accounts, and got pregnant by him. I was the result. They said she had a good home back in Norway and was more or less engaged to a bloke there. I guess she didn't want to jeopardise her future with him, so after I was born, she dumped me.'

  'She never visited you ever?'

  'I don't remember. Guess she returned to her own country soon after without telling her folks and got married.'

  'What happened to your father, this actor?'

  'His name was on my birth certificate, and I remember when I saw his name I just cried all day. I'd heard of him, you see. He was quite famous at one time.'

  'Didn't you bother to contact 'im, or 'im you?'

  'I read about him in the papers later. The article said that he had once earned as much as a thousand a week ... ' Tilly's eyes widened. '... in a musical or play, but then suddenly nobody wanted to employ him, and he'd been caught shoplifting in a store. He was really down, and couldn't afford to keep himself hardly, let alone pay the rent.'

  'What 'appened to 'im?'

  Connie shrugged. 'Maybe he became nameless and lost among a crowd of tramps, maybe he turned to meths ... He's probably dead now, I don't really know.'

  'Don't you care?'

  'Of course I do,' Connie said bitterly, 'but where will caring about him get me? Did he ever care about me – my mother either?' Her eyes darkened.

  'Hell, you ain't had it so bad, kid. I'd say you was one of the lucky ones, not having parents around.'

  Connie looked sympathetic. 'Rough home life?'

  'Sheer hell.'

  'Let's talk about you, then,' Connie suggested graciously..

  'OK,' Tilly said, with obvious relish. 'Ask away.'

  Connie pursed her lips. 'What do you do?'

  'I'm an 'ostess in a club.'

  'Really?'

  'Why should I lie? I been workin' at the Topaz for about six months now.'

  'Doing what?'

  ''Ostessing, what else?' And Tilly gave her a look as if she were really dense.

  'What did you do before?'

  Tilly smirked. 'Believe it or not, I was livin' with me mum and dad.'

  'What made you leave them?'

  'A girl's gotta get out and do things, see things for 'erself, ain't she? Christ, but it was awful there! They was always screaming at each other, and he would bash 'er, and then she'd bash 'im, and there was always the other snotty-nosed kids yellin' the place dahn. The nights were awful, them walls were like made o' paper, you could 'ear every grunt and snuffle from the next room, like a coupla pigs they were. I didn't 'ave any privacy – even the bog in the backyard didn't 'ave a lock. I weren't sorry to see the backs of 'em, I can tell you, and they was so pleased to see me go, they even 'elped me pack me bags.' She giggled, and Connie reflected it would take a lot to get this girl down.

  Tilly reached under her pillow and produced a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. 'Fag?' she offered.

  'I don't mind if I do! Thanks.'

  They puffed away for a while, and then Tilly said, 'And wot you doin' with yerself, Connie? Where you workin'?'

  'Do you know Jessop House?'

  'That huge great skyscraper thing bang in the centre of town? Sure, posh-lookin' place, innit? What d'you do there?'

  'I'm a secretary.'

  'Respectable, huh? Ah well, takes all sorts, I always say.' Tilly dragged smoke deep into her lungs expertly. 'What d'yer do for kicks?'

  'How do you mean?'

  'Kicks, girl, kicks! Jeeze, where you been livin' – in the provinces? Look, kicks is what you look for when you've finished at your
nice little office at five. Kicks is living and knowing you're still alive. When you don't kick no more, you can take it from me, Connie girl, you're dead and buried!'

  'I haven't had a chance to find out where it's all at yet. Give me a chance, I've only been here a short while.'

  'Then you're game, yeah? Anything for a laugh, I always say.

  Connie looked doubtful and mashed her unfinished cigarette into a dish already full of old, burnt stubs.

  'Surely you ain't really so prim as you look!'

  'I can't help the way I look,' Connie replied, rising to the challenge. 'It's just that I don't want to get myself landed in hot water.'

  'You're on your tod now, kid. You gotta learn to take care of yerself, same as I do. No one's gonna teach you about life, it comes with experience. I know what I'm on about.' She looked at Connie, considering. 'You must toughen up, otherwise you'll be taken for a patsy. The losers are a dime a dozen and unless you start thinking about number one, you'll be one too.' She shrugged her shoulders. 'If you walk around with your head in the air. thinking of romance and daft stuff like that, don't be surprised if you fall through a hole in the ground. Don't you want a good time?'

  'Depends on the good time.' Connie said carefully. 'I don't want to end up in the gutter like some. I've never taken drugs and I'm steering clear of things like that.'

  Tilly screwed up her face scornfully. 'Drugs. Bloody mugs game, them. They're just a cop-out, and people who take 'em are cop-outs, too! Christ. I've seen them kids hanging around the wharf, and in bars and at street corners. Most of them don't know whether they're comin' or goin', or what time of day it is, and I for one like to know what's happening around me and to me always.' She shrugged nonchalantly. 'I won't say I ain't never tried the stuff,' she went on flippantly, 'but I just did it to know whether I was missing anything. I only did it once, I didn't 'ave to do it at all, I mean, nobody made me. I don't need that kinda junk like some of 'em do.' She rolled over on her back. 'Anyway, I wasn't talking about drugs. I gets me fun other ways – from men, like. I like to 'ave them crawling an over me. panting like bleedin' dogs just for a tiny lick. Then when I got what I want from 'em, I give 'em the boot, richer with cash and presents if I'm lucky, and I usually am.' She winked lewdly. 'It's dead easy.'