Scarlet Women. Jessie Keane
exploded in her head.
The girl went flying off the bed and fell to the floor. She sat up on the expensive carpet amid a tangle of shoes, trousers and shirt. Her eyes were filled with tears of pain. She could feel her heart beating hard against her ribs with the shock of it.
Fuck, where had that come from?
She clutched her jaw and staggered back to her feet, staring down at him in disbelief. He’d collapsed back on to the bed, face down. As if what he’d just done was nothing. As if hitting her, hurting her, was nothing.
As if she was nothing.
She’d dropped the whip but now she snatched it up again with a grunt of rage. Bastard punters! They were like tigers in a circus act: you were the trainer and you never let your guard down, you never turned your back, you always had to keep control—or they’d maul you as soon as look at you.
She waded in with the whip again. This time she put a lot of force behind it. This time she was angry. She was the sadist here, wasn’t she? Or that was the act, anyway. And he was supposed to be the masochist. He didn’t do the beating up, she did.
‘Better,’ he moaned happily, rolling over to display an erection the size of a baby’s arm. ‘That’s better, sweetheart, oh yes…’
And then he grabbed the hem of her rubber dress, nearly pulling her off balance, and held it over his nose and mouth. Twisted bastard. He always did that with her. Always.
She was so tired of all this.
It wasn’t that big a thrill any more.
Seconds later, he came all over the thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
She watched him, her jaw hurting, her face carefully blank to hide her fear and disgust.
Boy, she was sick of all this.
Ten minutes later, she was out of there. She left the room with a big bundle of notes and a bad taste in her mouth—oh, and a jaw swollen to the size of a watermelon.
All in a day’s work.
It was raining by the time she left the snazzy hotel in Park Lane. The smartly uniformed concierge gave her a knowing look and a nod as she emerged from the lift in reception and went towards the revolving door. She’d been there before, she was no trouble, he wasn’t about to make a fuss.
Whatever the guest wanted, the guest got—that was his motto. A Roller to take them to the theatre? Certainly, sir. Champagne at a hundred quid a pop and a whole tin of Beluga caviar on the side? Mais oui, bien sûr. A nice tart to share it with? No problem at all.
And she was a nice tart. Tall, slim and with skin dark as cocoa. A shock of dreadlocks framing her gorgeous face. She gave him a grin. You couldn’t get churlish looking at that grin, although it faded quickly and she seemed to wince.
Flamboyant dresser, too. Trailing a purple boa, toting a big carpetbag and wearing skin-tight denim hot pants. One of those cool-looking but very smelly Afghan coats flapping loose around her and big hoops of gold clattering at her ears. Could dress a bit smarter, but then it was late: few guests about, only him and the boy on reception, so all was well and why rock the boat?
Really, who gave a shit?
‘Get you a cab?’ he offered.
The grin returned. ‘What, you think I made o’ money, boy?’
‘Bet you’re making more than me.’
‘Ha! Don’t I just wish that was true. Nah, it’s okay, honey. My man’s pickin’ me up.’
He nodded and smiled at her. Yeah, she was a nice girl. No harm in her at all. Stressed-out businessmen, tired travellers, they needed the release of a bit of female company now and then. It wasn’t for him to judge. It was for him to say yes, sir, of course, sir, anything you want, we can get. Discretion was his watchword. Can-do was his attitude. It made him one of the best concierges in London.
He watched her swing through the revolving door and vanish into the rainy night. And then he thought of his own grown-up daughters, girls around the same age as this one, his precious girls tucked up safe at home where they ought to be at this hour of the night, and he thought: Fuck it. What a sodding way to make a living.
She walked quickly, head down against the rain, heading for the usual corner, around which her man would be parked up in his ancient Zodiac, waiting for her. Asleep, probably, stretched out across the single front sofa seat.
They loved that sofa seat; they’d made out on it a time or two, but really he enjoyed that more than her. She preferred their bed: good old-fashioned bread-and-butter lovemaking; no risks, no thrills, just deep warmth and contentment and waking up together in the morning, which they could do now that he no longer worked permanent nights, thank you God.
She was going to have a nice hot bath first. Wash the day away. Then crawl into bed, snuggle down. Forget the whole evening. She was good at doing that; she’d had plenty of practice. Keep her chin turned away and he wouldn’t see the redness, the swelling. Maybe while she was in the bath she’d hold a cold flannel against it. That’d soothe it. She’d be careful to take the flannel away when he came in, brought her a glass of wine as was his usual practice. He was a good husband. Even if a little too forgiving of her profession.
It wasn’t the first time a punter had walloped her, she wasn’t about to get all girly and hysterical about it. She wasn’t about to tell her loving husband that it had happened, either—he’d want to rip the bastard’s arms off.
No, what she was going to do was forget it.
All in a day’s work, and that was a fact.
You took a knock, so what?
There were footsteps behind her. High heels. Another working girl, heading home after a long day, poor bitch. She glanced back, saw who it was, and stopped walking with an exasperated sigh.
‘Fuck it, I can’t talk now…’ she started to say, and then she was hit for the second time that night. It was beyond a bloody joke, that’s what it was. But when she fell this time she wasn’t falling on to Axminster. This time her head hit the pavement with a crack and suddenly the darkness came.
Annie Carter was standing at the top of the stairs in the Palermo Lounge, looking down at the shell of the place that had once been her late husband Max’s favourite club. The builders were in—and running late. They were taking the curtains on the small stage area down. Huge red velvet drapes, a bit faded now, a bit tired-looking, like the rest of the club.
As she watched, a man up a ladder took out a hammer and chisel. He chipped loose the big gold letters ‘MC’ at the apex where the curtains joined together. He threw them down to his mate. The M hit the floor, and shattered.
And how’s that for an omen? she thought with a pang of the old sadness.
There was so much to be done, so much to think about. The brewery had been in and agreed—after some hum-ing and ha-ing—that they would continue to supply liquor to the club. The drinks licence was, after all, already in place. The dance floor—which was a total fucking mess at the moment, broken up and knocked all to hell—was going to be relaid, and there were going to be strobe lights, the works.
But first the red velvet curtains, the plaster cherubs, the flock wallpaper, all that old dated tat, had to go.
Sorry Max.
She’d hired a good accountant, set out her aims. She planned that this club—and eventually the two others, the Blue Parrot and the Shalimar, which were currently standing empty—were going to earn her a good living, support her and her small daughter