by Jessie Keane
Vita quickly stood up.
Oh great, she thought. She’s seen my face and now she even knows what colour my eyes are. Wonderful!
And how come it was always her who had to fetch and carry for the kid, while the two men just sat around downstairs reading papers and drinking beer? How come when she’d gone walkabout in Palma there’d been a riot, but when they went out—like now—she was expected to say nothing and just sit here, as usual, clutching the shitty end of the stick?
She left Layla and went downstairs to the kitchen. She got out a tin of beans and the can-opener and again the gun caught her eye just lying there on the kitchen table. Why’d Danny leave the damned thing lying about like that, in full view? She looked at it. Thought again about Layla seeing her face in the hen house, and now commenting on the colour of her eyes. She turned away from the gun and opened the cupboard to find a pot for the beans, and then the front door opened and something small shot past the corner of her eye and a man said ‘Hey!’ very loudly, and a child screamed.
Really screamed.
Vita ran out into the hallway and found Danny there with Layla squirming and kicking in his arms, his hand over her mouth, his eyes blazing with fury as he rounded on Vita.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ he roared. ‘What the fuck you doing, you stupid bitch? She nearly ran straight past me.’
The bolt, thought Vita. Forgot to shoot the damned bolt on the bedroom door.
‘Sorry, I’m sorry,’ she gabbled.
‘Sorry? For fuck’s sake, will you get a hold of yourself? We nearly lost her then, what are you, crazy?’
Maybe she was crazy. Vita felt that she was going seriously mental with the stress of all this.
‘It’s all right, she didn’t get out, no one saw her, no harm done,’ she said hurriedly.
‘She screamed the bloody place down.’
‘Yeah, but there’s no one about. It’s okay.’
But Danny was not to be appeased.
‘We’ll move on tonight,’ he said, and carried Layla back up the stairs. ‘Can’t take any chances. Next time make sure you bolt the fucking door, okay?’ he shouted down at her.
‘Okay,’ said Vita faintly, thinking that the kid had seen Danny’s face too now, and that things were not looking at all good for Layla.
Oh Jesus, she really wanted out of this.
33
Annie got up next day and found an orgy going on down in the hallway. Friday, she thought.
This morning she’d awoken to the same old nightmare. Clinging to those blissful moments before full awakening, when she still had a home, a husband, a child, the cold reality of being awake, properly awake, sent her groaning and reeling all over again.
She knew she’d grown soft.
She’d grown accustomed to having Max there, making all the decisions, covering all the bases…yes, she’d grown soft.
And slack.
And lazy.
She’d been happily playing the little woman, and now it had landed her in the crap right up to her neck.
Once she had stalked about, made her way in the world fearlessly because she’d had to. But her luxurious life with Max had eroded her strength. Now she had to learn to stand alone again, to conquer her fear and somehow, somehow, make her way through all this.
But she felt as if someone had pulled all the props of her world away, and left her to slowly keel over into the dust.
She was dead in the water. And she knew it.
And—oh fuck—it was Friday again. Party day. And somebody was having a noisy orgasm in the hall.
People were amazingly perverse. That was the simple fact that had always astonished Annie. Working girls were used to being asked to meet a stunning variety of requirements from clients. Granted, some wanted a simple screw, but most did not.
‘They can get that at home,’ Dolly always said.
No, prostitutes were more often asked to perform things wives would never stoop to. Like talking, for instance. Some men didn’t want sex, they only wanted to talk about all their problems, all the stuff they couldn’t tell their mates or their wives. Work problems, health concerns, that sort of thing. The men who did want sex usually wanted sex that was out of the ordinary. Like anal. Like being pissed on: the ‘golden rainer’ syndrome. Like being tied up, whipped, fucked with a variety of implements, beer bottles even…oh, the laughs they’d all had over the kitchen table.
For Ellie, though, the laughs were over. Annie walked into the kitchen and there Ellie was, telling Dolly all about her woes.
‘If I can’t face working as a prossie no more, what’s going to happen to me?’ Ellie was asking tearfully. ‘This is my home. You and Darren are my friends. But if I can’t pull my weight, I’m sunk, right?’
Dolly had seen this coming for weeks. She glanced at Annie and her eyes said, See? Didn’t I tell you?
‘I know,’ she said, patting Ellie’s hand.
‘What the fuck am I gonna do, Doll?’ wailed Ellie, burying her face in her hands.
Oh, the Delaneys will see you right, thought Dolly. Ellie had been a Delaney snitch for years. Poor bloody Ellie, she’d had very few chances in life and a rotten background, no wonder she’d grown up not knowing right from wrong. Right, to Dolly, was never grassing on your friends. But she knew Ellie had done that, time and again, to ingratiate herself with the Delaney clan. You just had to know that Ellie could turn either way, and be careful.
‘It’ll all work out,’ said Dolly.
But truthfully Dolly felt that nothing was working out any more. Look at all the shit that was coming Annie’s way. The poor cow was up against it big time. And how much longer before the Delaneys decided enough was enough, and told Dolly to get rid? Darren was not himself. Ellie was throwing a wobbly. Una had settled down a bit since Annie had marked her card, but just having her in the house caused an atmosphere.
Still, Friday was payday. Plenty of punters in, plus a few spare girls because she was running short of workable staff. Plenty of drink taken, plenty of nibbles consumed. Plenty of action all over the house, and at the end of it a good-sized wedge of cash, so Dolly couldn’t complain. Whoever said life was going to be easy, anyway?
‘So what’s the big man like?’ she asked Annie as they sat there later in the afternoon, sharing a cup of tea.
‘Barolli?’ Annie got a mental image of silver hair, laser-sharp blue eyes. ‘Rich. Which is all that matters.’
‘Yeah, but what’s he like?’
‘Like someone who enjoys throwing his weight about. And having everyone kissing his arse.’
‘I’m surprised you got in to see him at all,’ said Dolly.
‘Didn’t think I was going to,’ said Annie. ‘I waited outside for hours. His daughter was getting married.’
‘So you picked a bad time.’
‘The worst. But he says he’s going to help.’
‘With the cash.’
‘He didn’t say a definite yes or no on that,’ said Annie. ‘He said he was going to have his people look for Layla.’
‘Is that a good idea?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘But he’s going to do it.’
‘Look, he’s calling the shots. I have to trust him to do the right thing.’
‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘Doll.’ Annie looked at her friend in exasperation. ‘Do I look like I know what I’m doing? I have no idea what those bastards have done to her,’ said Annie, her voice cracking with strain. ‘If Constantine Barolli thinks he can help, then sod it—I’ll let him help.’
Dolly nodded, her heart wrenching for Annie’s pain. There was nothing she could do about Layla being missing, but what she could do was offer a little distraction.
‘Tomorrow we’ll go up West,’ she said. ‘You got cash?’
Jimmy had delivered a couple of thousand quid to her this afternoon, so yeah, she had cash. No inclination to spend it on frivolities, though. None whatsoever.
&nb
sp; ‘I dunno, Doll. I’m not in the mood.’
‘Come on, girl,’ said Dolly bracingly. ‘I’m not taking no for an answer.’
And so there they were next day, trawling the posh shops. It occurred to Annie that the last time she and Dolly had done this, their situations had been reversed. She had been the one in charge, Madam Annie, and Dolly had been a rough, mouthy brass with no dress sense and hair like fuse wire.
But now Dolly had assumed the mantle of Madam, and Annie had put her right on turning herself out as a Madam should. Neatly groomed. Coiffed to the nines. Altogether in control.
‘Got one or two things lined up,’ said Dolly in high excitement as their cab whizzed across town.
‘Like what?’ Not that Annie cared. She guessed that this was depression, this hopeless, useless feeling of not being able to swim out of the shit.
‘Wait and see,’ said Dolly.
Dolly took her into one of the boutiques and kitted her out with several ravishingly well-cut shift dresses and a jacket and a coat. All black.
‘Let’s face it, black’s your colour,’ said Dolly.
And it suits my mood, thought Annie.
Then they shopped for underwear, and tights. Then make-up.
‘You look bloody washed out. That tan’s faded and you’re looking sallow,’ said Dolly.
‘Thanks, Doll,’ said Annie dryly.
The overpainted woman behind the counter agreed, and sold Annie a fistful of products including mascaras, eye shadow, eye pencil, tinted moisturiser, loose translucent powder—and pillar-box-red lipstick.
‘You can take a red that strong,’ said the girl through her mask of thick foundation. ‘With those dark eyes and that dark hair, you can get away with a dramatic statement.’
And then it was off to Vidal Sassoon’s to get a new hairdo—or that was Dolly’s plan. In fact Annie would not be budged on this. She agreed to having a couple of inches trimmed off the length, taking it back up to the shoulders, and she had a blow dry that left it gleaming.
‘Bloody lovely,’ said Dolly, satisfied as she tipped the stylist and the boy who had done the shampooing. ‘Now for tea, I’ve got it all organized.’
And they hailed another cab and bombed off up Piccadilly to the Ritz.
‘Fucking hell, Doll,’ muttered Annie as they piled out of the cab.
‘We need cheering up,’ said Dolly, leading the way inside. ‘Well, you do for sure. You’ve got a face on you like a smacked arse.’
Annie pulled a worse face at Dolly’s back as they went into the circular red-carpeted reception area.
But maybe this was what she needed. As they were guided to their table in the Palm Court, all pink and gold, so beautiful, so soothing with the little band playing away in one corner and blackclad waiters moving smoothly between the tables, Annie actually did find herself relaxing slightly for the first time in weeks.
‘Have you seen these sandwiches they do? Little fingers of bread with these lovely dainty fillings…and the cakes and scones…it’s lovely, I love it here,’ said Dolly, looking like a child on her birthday.
‘Who is this treat for, you or me?’ asked Annie wryly.
‘Both of us,’ said Dolly. ‘Fuck it, we deserve it.’
Dolly ordered champagne, and when it came and the waiter poured them each a glass, Dolly clinked her flute to Annie’s.
‘What are we toasting?’ asked Annie with a sigh. ‘What have we got to toast?’
‘Being alive,’ said Dolly. ‘Drink the fuck up, Annie Carter. Even you can get a glass of champers down your neck, it’s weak as gnat’s piss. Look, we’re still here. We’ve come through storms before, and we’ll get through them again. To us!’
Dolly was right—it was a lovely treat. They ate egg and cress fingers and smoked salmon rounds and miniature scones with cream, tiny chocolate profiteroles, and fancy cakes, all washed down with champagne and the finest tea Annie had tasted in years. She folded a few chocolate truffles into a napkin and slipped them into her bag. All around them the other guests were chatting and smiling. Everyone looked so happy, so relaxed.
Another world, she thought.
And then with a sharp stab of surprise she saw him, on the other side of the room.
Constantine Barolli. The silver fox.
He was with a beautiful, brittle-looking dark-haired woman of middle years, and two men in their very early twenties, one blond, one dark. As Annie saw him, he looked up and across at her. She looked away.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Dolly.
‘Who?’
‘That man over there who’s staring at you.’
‘That’s Constantine Barolli.’
Dolly looked at him assessingly. ‘He’s still staring,’ she told Annie.
‘So?’
‘Just saying,’ said Dolly with a shrug, pouring them both more champagne. ‘Tell you what, girl—you could do with some of that.’
‘Some of what?’
Dolly nodded in Constantine’s direction and gave him a toothy grin. He raised his glass.
‘Some of that,’ said Dolly. ‘He’s dishy.’
Annie stared at her, aghast.
‘You’ve changed your fucking tune,’ she said sharply. ‘Whatever happened to the Virgin Queen?’
‘Ah, that was different. We’re not talking about men on the make here. We’re talking about someone who’s on your own level.’
‘Dolly—I’m married. And so’s he. So shut the fuck up, will you?’
Shit, Dolly could be so insensitive—particularly when she’d been on the sauce.
Weak as gnat’s piss my arse, she thought. The champagne had gone straight to Dolly’s head. Straight to her gob, too.
‘You’re widowed,’ Dolly reminded her. ‘I’m sorry as hell about that fact, but face it, you are. Get used to it.’
‘I said shut up,’ said Annie through gritted teeth.
She glanced back at Barolli. Dolly was right, he was still looking, and now so were the rest of his party.
She took another reluctant swig of champagne, but now it tasted sour. Her baby girl had been snatched, and she was here, living the high life; and so for that matter was Constantine fucking Barolli, and wasn’t he supposed to be looking for Layla? Wasn’t he supposed to be helping her out here, not staring at her and making her feel so damned uncomfortable?
‘Come on, Dolly. Get the bill and let’s go, shall we?’
Annie stood up, gathering her bag, summoning the waiter.
‘Blimey, where’s the fire?’ grumbled Dolly, slipping the man some money and a sizeable tip.
‘Where we off to now then? Back to the ranch?’ asked Dolly as they surged out past the doorman, who tipped his hat.
‘Can we call in on Kath and the kids?’ asked Annie.
‘We can do anything we fucking well like,’ said Dolly, who was definitely more than a little drunk.
They hailed a cab and very soon they were pulling up outside Kath’s place.
Kath opened the door holding the baby and stared with hostility at Annie, then at Dolly.
Annie stared back in surprise, seeing the bruise over Kath’s eye, the cut that looked as if it was healing.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ she asked, shocked.
‘Tripped on the stairs,’ said Kath, her eyes sliding away from Annie’s. Jimmy Junior was hanging on her grubby skirts, grizzling again. Always grizzling, that kid.
Annie stared at her.
‘What you looking at? I tripped on the kid’s skate on the stairs, okay? Like you care.’
Annie shook her head, exasperated. ‘Of course I care, Kath. We’re family. We grew up together, didn’t we?’
‘Yeah, we did. And so did Ruthie, remember her?’
‘I remember her,’ said Annie. ‘If you’d give me her number I’d get in touch with her. Are you going to ask us in, then?’
‘You can come in if you want,’ shrugged Kath, turning and walking back up the hall to the kitchen.
Ann
ie stepped in and followed, and so did Dolly.
‘Bloody hellfire,’ said Dolly when she saw the mess in the place. When she got to the kitchen, she looked around in disbelief. ‘Dirty mare,’ she hissed out under her breath.
It looked exactly as it had when Annie had last seen it. Dirty pots and pans and cups and saucers piled up in the sink and on the draining board. The floor filthy, unscrubbed. Everywhere mess and disorder. And Kath in the middle of it, fat and sheet-white, flopping down on to a chair beside the table.
‘Go and do your colouring,’ she snapped at Jimmy Junior.
The child wandered off to his corner with the paints and sheets of paper. Annie followed him over and knelt down beside him. He looked at her with suspicion.
‘Got a present for you,’ she said, and pulled out the napkin. She placed it on the sheet of paper he was colouring in. He looked at the napkin, looked at her.
‘Are you a bad lady?’ he asked. ‘Mum says you’re a bad lady.’
‘Jimmy!’ Kath’s voice was like a whip. Jimmy Junior flinched.
‘I’m not a bad lady, Jimmy,’ said Annie, almost amused. ‘Have a look,’ she said, indicating the folded napkin with a tilt of her head.
Jimmy Junior opened up the napkin and looked at the chocolates inside.
‘They’re for you,’ said Annie.
A big unaffected grin spread itself over Jimmy Junior’s face. He picked up one of the chocolates and put it in his mouth.
‘Nice?’ asked Anne.
He nodded, chewing.
‘I don’t like him having too many sweets,’ said Kath in a masterly piece of irony.
‘What, you eat all the bastards yourself, do you?’ asked Dolly.
‘Who’s your fucking friend?’ Kath asked Annie, glaring at Dolly.
‘This is Dolly.’
‘Well tell her to mind her mouth if she wants to keep hold of her dentures,’ snapped Kath.
‘Charming as well as lovely,’ commented Dolly. Dolly, with her habit of calling a spade a spade, was not helping.
‘Could you wait outside for a bit, Doll?’ asked Annie. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Glad to,’ said Dolly, and turned on her heel and left.
Annie stood up. Jimmy Junior was totally absorbed in eating the chocolates, his expression rapturous. Annie went over and looked down at Kath.