The girls, like the majority of ordinary people in Britain, had initially been indifferent to the idea of even bothering to mark the event and were more interested in the possibility of just having the day off.
Who gave a toss about a church service with a load of toffs parading about in robes and silk stockings, was a typical comment. Especially when the average person in the street was busy coping with the day-to-day worries of overcrowded housing, the growing threat of their menfolk being shipped off to Korea and the ceaseless, grinding aggravation of the despised rationing system – eight years after the war had ended!
In fact, rather than being keen to throw parties to celebrate the crowning of one of their ‘betters’, the general mood was more conducive to throwing bricks.
But then something happened: the excitement began to gather, slowly at first, like a snowball, then it suddenly seemed that soon no one wanted to be left out of the merry-making.
In no time at all it was as though everyone had wanted to have a party all along. Community collections were swiftly organised to fund the festivities, tasks were, as always, delegated and commemorative plates, mugs and dishes were ordered. Some families were even able to boast that they’d bought a television set in honour of the big day. Although ‘bought’ was probably the wrong word as, unlike the little walnut number in Leila’s sitting-room, most sets had been acquired with the spurious blessings of the never-never man.
Buying a television had actually been Leila’s trump card in attracting the girls to her party, and it now had pride of place in the plushly carpeted room, where the girls were gathered, oohing and aahing in wonder and criticising the hairdos and hats of the female guests attending the ceremony.
Leila, as usual, was acting totally blasé. She left it to the others to behave as if they were a bunch of convent girls who’d been let out for the first time without the nuns, while she hovered at a discreetly refined distance.
‘I can’t get over it. It’s so clear.’ Ginny shook her head in amazement as she stared, transfixed, at the bulging glass of the nine-inch screen, not even put off by the fact that it was dwarfed by its massive wooden cabinet.
The picture itself wasn’t actually up to much, it was grainy and flickery – nothing like the Technicolor wonders to be seen at the cinema – but as Ginny stood behind the enormous silk brocade sofa, peering over Carmen’s head at the grey and off-white moment of history being enacted in the cathedral before her, she was in no position to make rational judgements. Her critical faculties had been blown apart by her first sight of the eye-boggling marvel of Leila’s sitting-room.
With her feet sinking into the soft wool rugs, Ginny felt like an actress in a glamorous motion picture about sophisticated couples leading their gorgeously urbane lives in Paris and Manhattan. It was so like a film set, in fact, that Ginny wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire had come breezing into the room to whisk her away for a quick foxtrot across the parquet flooring in the hallway.
‘Let me take that for you,’ said Leila, easing Ginny’s coat off her shoulders.
‘What d’you think of the television then, Gin,’ asked Carmen without taking her eyes from the set.
‘It’s just like you’re there,’ Ginny said, as she watched the tiny figures processing along the aisle.
‘I know one or two people who are there, sweetie,’ Leila whispered into her ear.
Ginny twisted round to face her. ‘You don’t mean . . .?’ she breathed.
Leila put her finger to her lips and nodded.
‘I feel like I’m dreaming.’ Ginny turned her head so that she could take a full sweep of the room. ‘Honestly, Leila, I’ve never seen such a lovely place in all my life. It’s even better than that hotel you took me to that time.’
‘You’re very kind.’ Leila smiled graciously and took Ginny’s coat outside to hang it up.
‘You should see the kitchen,’ Carmen muttered from the sofa, her mouth stuffed full of canapes from one of the trays of food dotted around the room on the ivory and glass side tables. ‘I saw it when I come here at Christmas. It’s out of this world. There’s all tiles on the walls, and a fridge and a food-mixing thing, and . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Everything.’
She tapped the arm of the sofa. ‘Come on, Gin, park yourself next to me. Make yourself comfortable.’
Ginny couldn’t bring herself to do it; perching on the pale beige arm was unthinkable. ‘I’ll be fine down here,’ she said, lowering herself on to a squashy tan leather pouffe, tooled with patterns in red and gold.
Carmen, her gaze still fixed on the screen, held out one of the trays of food.
Ginny took a little square of melba toast spread with cream cheese and topped with a curl of smoked salmon.
‘D’you reckon she’d let me have a look round later, Carmen?’
‘Course she will. She gave Patty the full tour just before you arrived. She missed out at Christmas, like you. You ask her. Go on.’
When Leila returned, Ginny did exactly that and Leila happily obliged.
As they stepped into the hall – a wide oval, decorated in tastefully understated regency strips and with a classically inspired painting covering the whole of the high ceiling – Leila explained that two of the rooms in the flat were locked. They were what she called her workroom, and the maid’s room – the maid’s room! – but, if Ginny was interested, she was welcome to see everything else.
Leila had pitched it just right. Ginny was more than interested. She followed Leila around, her eyes taking in one wonder after another, walking as carefully and respectfully as if she were in a church, or the sort of art gallery where you knew without asking that the price of a single picture would be more than a lifetime’s wages. And, with its sumptuous furnishings, its luxurious decoration and its up-to-the-minute gadgetry – there was even a telephone in the main bedroom! – it was actually more like an art gallery than anywhere Ginny had ever set foot in before.
That someone could live surrounded by such elegance and beauty was a revelation to Ginny. There were rooms everywhere and, to Ginny, every one of them was magnificent. It was all so bright and airy, and even though there were things – exquisite things – everywhere, there was still so much space and light, real room to breathe. And not a damp patch, or a rusting, dripping pipe in sight.
The thing that surprised Ginny most of all was that Shirley had her own room in the flat, with a full bedroom suite where she could keep her clothes and shoes and things. It wasn’t that Shirley sometimes stayed overnight, Dilys had often bunked in with Ginny when she had been living at home with her mum and dad before she had married Ted – that’s what friends did – but it was having a place that was big enough to keep a whole room for a friend, just in case she wanted to stay.
While Ginny stared about her in slack-jawed rapture, Leila chatted away, pointing out her favourite ‘little pieces’, as she called them: things of which she was particularly fond, or that had an amusing story behind them. Mostly they were gifts from men, but not one, Ginny noted, seemed to be a gift from Mr Saunders. Well, not that Leila mentioned. ‘You like my little flat then, Ginny?’ she asked as they came back to the hall.
‘I think it’s the most smashing place I’ve ever laid eyes on,’ Ginny said, meaning every word, as she stared in awe, yet again, up at the painted ceiling. ‘Gloria said you had a nice home, but this is . . . Well, it’s . . .’
Leila noted that Gloria had been opening his big mouth. What was he after? But she’d worry about that later. Now she had to focus on Ginny. ‘You could have a place like this yourself one day.’
‘How?’ Ginny asked with a little laugh, tearing her gaze away from the artist’s vision of nymphs and goddesses. ‘Rob a bank?’
‘I’m serious. If you take this club manager’s job, you’ll be earning very good money, Ginny. Very good.’
Ginny’s face clouded over. Not again. She’d been feeling so down it was all she could do to find the energy to turn up to d
o the show each night; how could anyone think she had what it took to do something as difficult as running a club? In fact, she had seriously thought that if it wasn’t for the debts, and the weekly envelopes she sent to Susan and Nellie, she could have just given it all up and . . . That was the problem. And what?
She wouldn’t even have a roof over her head. Not even a slum roof.
‘Well, Ginny?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Look at me, Ginny. And just listen to those girls in there.’
Ginny did as she was told and listened to the drunken chorus of laughter coming from the sitting-room.
‘It’s you Billy singled out for this job. Not them. And why? Because you’re bright, you’re able, you’re from the area, and,’ Leila added, suddenly distracted by a loose thread on her emerald-green sleeve, ‘you look good. And let’s face it, Billy’s not asking you to run the Astor Club for him, now is he. It’s only an East End drinking spot.’
They said nothing for a few moments, just stood there while the girls’ giggles built to a crescendo of tipsy hilarity.
Leila took a deep breath and pulled her final rabbit from the hat. ‘I’ve been very good to you, Ginny. And very patient. And I think you owe me a favour.’
Ginny couldn’t look at her; she didn’t want to hear what she was sure was coming next.
‘As the governor’s right-hand assistant, I was told to persuade you to take this job, Ginny,’ she began, setting the foundation of her lie. ‘And if you don’t do this for me, I’m going to get the blame. I could lose everything I’ve worked for: my position in the business, my reputation, this flat. Do you want to be responsible for all those things happening to me?’ Leila touched the back of her hand theatrically to her forehead.
‘But Leila—’
‘And I thought you were my friend.’
Ginny ran her fingers distractedly through her hair, as a fat tear brimmed over and plopped on to her cheek. ‘I don’t know why Mr Saunders thinks I can do it.’
Leila stretched her lips in a taut smile. ‘Because he’s got faith in you. He was only saying so the other day.’ She then added with reckless impatience: ‘In fact, it sometimes feels as though he speaks of nothing else but you.’
‘But, Leila—’
‘Look, I’ve put it to you straight, Ginny. You know the position now.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. I’m really sorry.’ She shook her head at her own wickedness and sniffed loudly. ‘All right if I use the—’
‘The powder room? Of course. You go and get those tears mopped up.’ Apart from an almost imperceptible fluttering of a nerve just below her left eye, Leila looked completely composed, but she could have smacked Ginny’s face. What was wrong with her? Anyone else in her position would have jumped at a chance like this. Leila took a deep breath. She mustn’t lose control. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen.’
While Leila and Ginny had been in the hall, Shirley was pressed against the sitting-room door straining to hear their conversation. Now she’d heard Ginny go off to the lavatory, she dashed into the kitchen to find out the state of play from Leila.
‘I wondered where you’d got to,’ Shirley lied, as she hitched up the skin-tight skirt of her blue satin sheath dress and clambered unsteadily on to one of the spindly legged stools at the breakfast bar.
Leila could smell the gin on Shirley’s breath from ten feet away.
‘I was giving Ginny the guided tour,’ she said wearily, taking a tray of ice from the refrigerator, cracking it against the stainless steel draining board and tipping it into a bowl.
‘Hope you didn’t let little Miss Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt look in the workroom when you were showing her round,’ Shirley snorted. ‘You’d have scared the life out of her if she’d seen all the gear. Especially those new harnesses and whips you had delivered.’
Leila closed her eyes for a long moment. In a business where keeping your mouth shut was the first rule, Shirley’s drinking was becoming a real problem. But she couldn’t deal with her now.
‘I like the girl,’ she said lightly. ‘And I was showing her my flat. Not interviewing her for a job.’
‘Lucky you weren’t, because let’s face it, we’re none of us getting any younger, are we? And having the likes of her working here, well, we wouldn’t get a look in, would we?’
Leila poured herself a small gin, topped the tall glass with tonic almost to the brim and dropped in a single ice cube.
‘Don’t I get a drink?’ Shirley asked petulantly.
‘I think you’ve had enough.’
‘Touchy!’ Shirley grinned smugly. ‘D’you know, she’s really getting to you, Leila. You want to get her off that stage in Frith Street before she really gets you going. You can’t fool me, I know what it’s all about: every time she flashes those tits of hers you never know who’s going to be standing at the back of the club watching, and wanting her, do you? It must be driving you mad. But I can’t say I blame you. I’ve seen the way Billy looks at her. And while I can’t understand the attraction myself, whatever it is, she’s got it. You want to get her all covered up in a frock, with her legs hidden behind a cash desk, as soon as you like.’ Shirley laughed coarsely. ‘And a pair of glasses wouldn’t come amiss.’
Leila kept her back to Shirley, not trusting herself to face her. ‘Have you finished?’ she asked through gritted teeth.
‘Don’t blame me for the way she’s making you feel, Leila. I mean, we all hate getting older. Even she must. I know she doesn’t look it, but I reckon she must be, what? Late twenties? Maybe even a bit older. But she looks good. Very good. And you, Leila, you must be what? How old are you now?’
Leila spun round. ‘That’s it, Shirley. And this time I mean it. This is your last chance. Either you stop drinking and running off at the mouth, or I’m going to have to sack you.’
Shirley blinked. Sack? This wasn’t going the way she’d intended at all. She had meant to carry on planting the idea that Leila should get rid of Ginny, not her.
‘How could you sack me? Who’d help you out here with the private parties? None of the other girls have got half the brains or class I’ve got. None of them.’
‘Brains? Class? I know you’ve been drinking, Shirley, but I didn’t realise you’d completely lost your marbles.’ Leila shook her head in disdain and turned away from her. She hated losing her temper, it was so undignified, but Shirley was really goading her. ‘When did you last look at yourself?’
‘This is all her fault. I told you, she’s getting to you. You’ve got to stop her.’
Leila bent over the sink, trying to steady her breathing, her chest rising and falling as though she’d just completed the hundred-yard dash.
Shirley was relentless. ‘And I don’t know why you should pick on me anyway. How about Carmen and Patty smoking dope every night? You don’t do anything about them.’
‘They’ve stopped.’ Leila’s voice was unsteady, but quiet.
‘Have they?’
Leila twisted round to face her again. ‘Do you know, Shirley, you are really pushing your luck. I’ve told you before, there are very few things I hate more than a stirrer. But a big-mouthed, drunken stirrer is one of them. So just go in the other room, out of my sight, and keep that big mouth of yours shut for a while, because I’m going to be considering your future very carefully.’
Shirley did as she was told. Not because she thought she was in the wrong, but because she wanted to go in the other room anyway – she needed another drink. She scrambled gracelessly down from the stool, her skirt still tucked up around her thighs, and barged her way out of the kitchen.
As she flung the door back on its hinges, she almost knocked Ginny off her feet.
‘Is Shirley all right?’ Ginny asked, steadying herself against the wall and reaching out to stop the door slamming at the same time.
‘Just a bit over-excited. Not everyday we have a coronation, is it?’ Leila held up her glass. ‘Drink?’
&nbs
p; ‘I’ve already got one in the other room, thanks.’
Leila did her best to smile. But it wasn’t easy. She really couldn’t figure Ginny out at all. Any of the other girls would have accepted another drink without a second thought. Why should they worry about wasting other people’s booze? But here was Ginny – an exotic dancer – acting as politely as if she were at a vicarage tea-party. It was like at the club, whenever men showed interest in her. There she was, up on the stage, stark naked apart from a few pink feathers, flirting and pouting with the best of them, but as soon as any of the punters made an approach – and there were always plenty – she shrank into herself and fled. Even though she’d brassed all that while.
Sexy without a sex life. It was a mystery to Leila. What did she want, a man with slippers and a pipe, reading the Sunday papers while she cooked the roast? She was such a complete contradiction. Every time Leila thought she had a handle on the girl, she immediately slipped out of her grasp, like a fish struggling to return to the river.
To make it worse, Leila couldn’t even bring herself to dislike her. Not really. She was always so reasonable. So nice. So – apparently – genuine. Even if it was an act, and Leila knew all about acting, God alone knew how she managed to keep it up while working in the club every night. It was unnerving.
Much as Leila hated to admit that Shirley was right about anything, she was spot on about Ginny. She had to do something about her.
But what could she do? She’d tried her last trick and failed. She had to think. Had to be clear.
Playing for time, Leila offered Ginny a cigarette.
‘Thanks.’ Ginny bent forward to accept the light. ‘Leila?’
‘Mmmm?’
‘I was thinking when I was in your, you know, your powder room, just now. And I’ve decided I’m fed up living in that hovel.’
Leila sighed inwardly. More complaints about the room. If she heard one more word about the slot-meter gas fire giving out less heat than a forty-watt bulb she’d scream. Ginny didn’t have a clue, that was her trouble. If she did, she’d count herself lucky that the rent collectors – Saunder’s real ones, that is, the hard men with the coshes – didn’t visit her the way they did some of the other tenants. And she’d take the sodding job like a shot.
Dream On Page 29