The Room on the Second Floor

by T A Williams

  Her enquiring glance at the dog for any fuller information resulted in no more than a slobbery lick, so she got up. After washing Jasper’s kiss off her hands, she filled the kettle. She cast an enquiring glace back across to Duggie on the sofa. He nodded absently, his mind miles away.

  In fact his mind was still focused on the second floor, as it had been for a few days now. And, in particular, whether he should go ahead with his idea of returning the manor to its former function. If so, how should he go about it? Since his meeting with Mr Cardew, he had reflected upon the fact that he was one of the 91.5% of men in Britain not to have availed himself of the services of a prostitute. He found himself in a cleft stick. On the one hand he felt this lack of familiarity with sex for money was something of which he should be proud. Now, on the other hand, he rather wished he had a bit more knowledge of just exactly what went on inside such a place.

  All he knew about brothels had been furnished by various television programmes, the cinema and newspaper articles. Plus, of course, the usual run of porn movies that he had seen in his time. Saucy lingerie, pretty girls and beds. That was about it really. The sum total. Up till that moment he had always considered himself to be a man of the world, for whom life held few secrets or surprises. And now, he realised, he didn’t know any more about what went on inside a brothel than the next man. Or woman. Now that was a thought.

  ‘Tina, I don’t suppose you know anything about the workings of a brothel, by any chance, do you?’ As he said it, he realised this had not quite come out as he had wanted. He saw her eyebrows raise and hastened to explain, ‘Not that I’m trying to imply anything here, you understand. Just in general terms, how do they work and what goes on there? Ever read anything, seen anything, met anybody?’

  She came across to the sofa with two mugs of tea. She set them down on the table by his hand and then sat down on the other side of him.

  ‘Still thinking about that, are you, Douglas? I really don’t think it’s a very good idea, you know. What if Roger ever found out? Or rather, what will happen when Roger finds out, because I just can’t see how he won’t. Pass me my tea, babe.’

  He passed the mug to her and nodded. She was right, really. In his heart of hearts, he knew that. But still, in spite of her starting to call him Douglas and others following suit, in spite of his new position of responsibility at the manor, in spite of his executive salary, there was still enough of the naughty boy left. The old Duggie knew that he wanted to do it, just because he shouldn’t. In a rare moment of self-analysis, he reflected that that was the way his life had always been. Start something, follow the rules and then, when you know what they are, break them. For the hell of it, because they are there. He reached for his tea and took a sip.

  ‘I know, darling, I know. But just humour me for the moment. The fact is that I don’t know the first thing about what goes on in those places.’ She gave him a mischievous smile.

  ‘That’s funny, I thought you wrote the handbook.’

  ‘No, I know what goes on, but what I don’t know is how it all goes on; the logistics, the organisation. I mean, if I go into a restaurant, there is a choice of food. I consult the menu, that tells me what’s on offer, and at what price. But in a brothel, how do you know what’s on offer and at what price? I mean, do they charge the same for a quick peek as for the Full Monty? And which Monty are we talking about? And what does Full mean? Do I pay at the end, or in advance? Who do I pay? Do they take credit cards? And what about the staff? Adverts in the local paper are great, if you’re looking for a job as a chef, but you don’t see adverts for ladies of the night.’

  She sat upright.

  ‘You’re wrong there, Duggie. That is exactly where you see the adverts. Wait a minute.’ She scrabbled around on the floor and located the previous night’s paper from under the sofa. One corner had been seriously mangled by the dog, but the bulk of it was still legible. Leafing through the pages, she came to page thirty-five.

  ‘Here you are. Personal Services. I knew I’d seen it.’ She ran her finger down the column, reading out a selection of what was on offer. A few offered ‘discreet’ massage, a few ‘private’ massage and a few just plain massage. This was occasionally qualified by ‘in and out’, presumably referring to the location of the service. A lady called Becky claimed to be ‘looking for fun’ and added that her service was ‘private and discreet’. And so it went on.

  ‘If you really want to find out what it’s all about, then try phoning one of these girls. But God help you if you so much as lay a finger on any of them.’ Her hand reached across and gripped him through his trousers, hard enough to make her point.

  ‘Easy, tiger. Don’t damage the goods,’ Duggie protested hastily, setting his mug down on the table and catching her hand in his. Gently disengaging her from him, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die. There is no other woman in the world for me but you. I swear it.’ She smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  ‘Prove it.’

  The dog looked up from the floor with interest. Duggie again felt he had to protest.

  ‘I don’t really want an audience.’

  As he led her into the bedroom, she observed, ‘Audiences in one of those places probably cost extra. Anyway, you can ask, can’t you?’

  Chapter 17

  Duggie reached the top floor slightly breathless. To be quite honest, he felt more than a little nervous at the forthcoming encounter. The building had seen better days, and a threadbare carpet did little to improve the first impression. The door to flat thirty-one, on the other hand, looked quite new. He reflected that it was, in all probability, armoured. Steeling himself, if that was what one did before an armoured door, he rang the doorbell. There was a delay and then, with a rattling of bolts, the door opened sufficiently for him to glimpse the face of the woman inside.

  She peered at him for a moment, then asked, ‘Are you my six o’clock?’

  Duggie assured her that he was, indeed, her next client. The door was opened fully to allow him in. A wave of cheap perfume assaulted him. In the background he could hear the title music to the news.

  ‘Room on the left.’ Her instructions were clear, if lacking in finesse. She followed him into the bedroom and closed the door behind her. The curtains were closed. There was little in there apart from a big bed. The bedcover, consisting mainly of camouflage colours could, and no doubt did, hide a multitude of sins – and many of those of a biblical nature. Light was provided by an old standard lamp with, at best, a forty-watt bulb.

  He turned to look at her. He immediately realised why she had chosen low lighting. She had described herself in the local paper’s Personal Column as a ‘bubbly blonde babe’, but she had clearly been more than a little disingenuous. She would probably never see forty again, and there was nothing baby-faced about her. The ends of her hair were indeed blond, but in serious conflict with the dark roots. Any trace of bubblyness was conspicuous by its absence. Instinctively, he took a couple of steps backwards, trying to find the right words to start the conversation.

  Before he could utter a word, she whipped her top off, exposing a well-filled, luridly coloured bra. She started fiddling with the zip of the mini-skirt, which clung tightly to her somewhat overripe hips. As she did so, she began to reel off what was on offer.

  ‘Thirty pounds just for me to take it all off, another tenner for a feel, thirty for a hand…’ Duggie found himself fascinated but, to his surprise, somewhat intimidated by her actions. He cut in before she could get any further into the list of delights.

  ‘That’s all right, dear. It’s your mind I’m interested in.’ As he said the words, he found himself wondering what Tina would have made of such an observation.

  The woman straightened up suspiciously, angrily even. Her skirt flopped to the floor at her feet, revealing a matching thong whose elastic bore witness to a considerable amount of hard wear. She pointed sharply at the door.

  ‘I don�
�t want anything to do with any weirdoes. One quick shout and my friend will come in here and sort you out. “Interested in my mind” indeed. Whatever next?’

  There was an edge to her voice that was probably fear. Duggie realised, not for the first time, that girls working in this profession often risked more than a visit to the clap clinic. He made a mental note that security would be high on his list of priorities ? along with hygiene. He sat down on the edge of the bed, so as to appear as unthreatening as possible. He started to explain. As he talked, she gradually relaxed.

  ‘Not a weirdo. Promise. My name is Douglas and I am planning on going into the same business as you. I’ve come here for some advice and help. I will willingly pay for any information, but there is no need for you to take any more of your clothes off. Here…’ he took five twenty-pound notes out of his pocket and laid them on the bed beside him. ‘As a sign of my bona fides, here is a little payment in advance.’

  He rather regretted the use of the Latin words, which were clearly unfamiliar to her. He made another mental note that his staff were not likely to be over-endowed in the intellectual department, whatever their other attributes and talents might be. Sight of the money had a remarkable calming effect upon her.

  He waved his hand gently towards the bed and was pleased to see her sit down a couple of feet from him. After the briefest of glances in his direction, she reached out and picked up the money. If he had been assuming it would be thrust down the front of her bra, he was disappointed. It disappeared into the drawer of the bedside cabinet. She now looked much less fearful. In fact, she adopted a sympathetic, almost friendly, tone.

  ‘Sorry about the “weirdo” thing, but we do get them, if you know what I mean. You will too, I expect. Much better to get rid of them at the start, even though you miss out on the cash, rather than find yourself in big trouble part way through. Girlfriend of mine had to be taken to A&E a few weeks back. Some bastard beat her black and blue.’ Duggie looked and felt suitably disgusted. She continued pensively. ‘Mind you, you lot go in for that S&M stuff more than we do, don’t you? At least there always seems to be a lot of leather about. Well, if you want my advice, it’s not to get involved. On your knees or on your back, that’s my advice. Keep them where you can see them, if you know what I mean. Of course, I suppose you boys are mainly on your knees. At my last place…’

  The penny suddenly dropped. Duggie moved quickly to rectify the apparent misunderstanding.

  ‘No, dear. When I said I was going into the same business, I meant the hetero business and in a supervisory capacity.’ Although, as he said it, he realised that there was probably a big potential market out there for those of the opposite persuasion. Another mental note: consider getting the boys in too. Even though it went contrary to his natural inclinations, business was business. She looked surprised and, clearly, she did not follow. He explained.

  ‘I mean, I am thinking of setting up a brothel. Sorry to use the word, it sounds so squalid.’ She was unselfconsciously scratching an itch under her right breast at the time, so then he realised he maybe didn’t need to choose his words too carefully. ‘I am going to start a place where girls (and maybe boys) can make a good living in clean, safe conditions. We will be providing sexual services to the elite of local society. I am talking about a smart, professional operation where everybody gets satisfaction.’

  Her eyes bulged and she burst out laughing. ‘You know you won’t last ten minutes. The Vice will be down on you like a ton of bricks. You see, it’s like this.’ She started to repeat the advice he had already received from Mr Cardew. ‘It’s not illegal to sell it, like I’m doing here off my own bat, if you know what I mean. It’s the setting up of places like you are talking about, that they crack down on. You could try calling yourself a massage parlour, but I doubt if you’ll last more than a few weeks.’ She was warming to her role as mentor. ‘Maybe if they are all self-employed…but it’s tricky.’

  Duggie was on more certain ground as far as the legal aspects were concerned. It was the nitty-gritty he wanted to learn about. ‘Yes, I know all that. Thanks for the advice. But let’s just suppose that I have found a way of getting round the legal nuts and bolts of the operation. What I want from you is an idea of what your clients want, what they are willing to pay for and how much to charge.’

  She gave him a look that indicated she did not hold out much chance of his success. Then, to his delight, she launched into a fascinating, slightly scary and sometimes downright baffling, list of things that her clients ? she called them all by the name ‘Joe’? enjoyed. She did not hesitate to go into graphic physiological detail. She described a mind-boggling variety of acts she had been called upon to perform over her career. Duggie found himself wondering, for an irreverent moment, how she and Paddy the general factotum would get on in a discussion of the functions of the human body.

  By the time he reckoned he had exhausted her expertise, he felt exhausted himself. He had noted down a remarkably long and detailed list of acts and services. Along with these were the concomitant accessories and equipment. He also got a notional reckoning of the relative cost to the client of each. Some of the services on offer were fairly familiar and straightforward, while others had baffled him completely. And one or two, once explained to him, had left him wondering, why on earth? Anyway, by the end of her exposition, she had definitely been very helpful. He told her so.

  ‘Thank you. That was exactly the sort of information I was looking for. You have been very kind. By the way, what is your name? Mine, as I told you, is Douglas.’

  She gave him a smile.

  ‘I call myself Antoinette. Professionally, if you know what I mean. I chose it because I do good French. I thought it would be more suitable. I’m really called Maureen.’

  Duggie had to flick back through his pages of notes to remind himself of the meaning of ‘French’ in this context. Ah, so that was it. Well, well. You would never know, if you met her on the bus. An idea began to develop in his mind. His train of thought was interrupted by her voice.

  ‘Mind if I put my top back on? It’s a bit blooming chilly here, if you know what I mean.’ He nodded absently, as she retrieved her clothes and squeezed back into them. He took a critical look at her and decided to take the plunge.

  ‘Tell me, Maureen, how much do you earn in a good week, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  She screwed up her face as she did a rapid mental calculation. When she told him the figure, he was surprised, having expected quite a lot more. She noticed his expression, and added in a moment of candour. ‘I’m not as young as I used to be, you know, Douglas. There’s a lot of competition out there at this present moment in time, if you know what I mean.’

  He nodded sympathetically. He knew exactly what she meant.

  ‘Listen, Maureen, how would you like to come and work for me?’ Her ears pricked up, but she looked uncertain. ‘I’ll pay you double the figure you just mentioned, each week for the next six months. At the end of that time it is either arrivederci, or I’ll add a bit more and keep you on full time. What do you think?’

  He saw conflicting emotions on her face. ‘What would I have to do? There’s some things I don’t do, if you know what I mean.’ He not only knew what she meant, he had a list of them in his notebook. He assured her that she would not be called upon to perform any acts to which she might take exception. In fairness, in her previous explanation, she had indicated that there was not really a tremendous amount to which she would object.

  ‘I don’t see you having to do a lot of,’ he consulted his notebook, ‘tricks. We’ll get other girls for that. I see your role more as our resident expert, responsible for training and supervision of the staff. Could you also get involved with recruiting suitable girls?’

  This was something that had bothered him for quite a few days. How did one go about staffing a brothel? It was all very well advertising the services on offer via discreet newspaper ads, such as those that had led him here. But in the search fo
r suitable staff, you could not exactly stick an advert in the Guardian. And adverts close to home would most probably bring about the sort of unwanted publicity his solicitor had warned him to avoid. This was always going to be a problem. Maureen immediately cheered him up.

  ‘Girls? I can find you girls, all right. Reckon I could get you some really good material, if your place is as swish as you say it is. I might even be able to find you a few boys as well, if you like. As for training, I doubt if you could do better. What I don’t know about this business isn’t worth knowing, if you know what I mean.’

  Duggie had no doubt at all that she was right. Maureen was exactly what he needed. They would, however, need to be discreet. He eyed her attire. She had squeezed back into the microscopic skirt and the over-tight top. That wouldn’t do at all for the sort of establishment he had in mind. He reached into his pocket and pulled out another three hundred pounds. Her eyes widened.

  ‘Here, take this money. Go out and buy yourself some new clothes. I want you looking smart and businesslike, not tarty. Spend some of the money getting your hair done nicely. And, for goodness sake, get rid of the two-tone colour scheme. My place is going to be classy and very upmarket. As the First Lady you need to set and keep up standards. No mini-skirt, no tits hanging out, and tone down the make-up. Got it?’

  Not only did she get it, she appeared to relish the thought. As an afterthought, he added another fifty pounds to the pile and told her to buy some good perfume but, for the love of God, to use it sparingly.

  He stood up to leave. She looked up at him from the bed, her hands reaching towards his fly, which was just in front of her face. ‘Sorry to send you away empty-handed, so to speak.’ She clearly indicated her readiness to fill hers. ‘Would you like me to give you a little something, sort of like a sample, Douglas?’

  He looked down at her. Tactfully, he declined the offer, with the explanation that it was not a good thing to mix business with pleasure. Also, Tina had made it abundantly clear to him that she would kill him, if he were to even think about sex with one of his future employees. Besides which, he thought happily, the way things were going at home, Tina was woman enough for him by a long chalk. Maureen gave him an understanding smile and stood up. She shook his hand formally.