Bad Girl (26 page)

The next morning, Helen woke up with the headache from hell and a stomach that seemed intent on ejecting its meagre contents. She rushed to the bathroom, reaching it just in time to lift up the lid and throw up in the toilet. Leaning over the bowl, she retched a few more times before dropping her forehead on to the cool porcelain rim and swearing to God that she would never touch a drop of alcohol again.

Ten minutes later, when she felt just about able to stand, she stumbled back to the kitchen and put the kettle on. While she was waiting for the water to boil, she searched the cupboards until she found a bottle of aspirin. She took two, hoping it would be enough to dull the hammering in her head.

When the tea was made, she slumped down at the kitchen table, rubbing her eyes as she tried to remember the events of the previous night. She had said too much, she thought. The booze had loosened her tongue and removed all her natural reserve. But still she was grateful for the bed that Lily had provided her with. Glancing towards the window, she saw that it was grey outside and pouring down with rain. She wondered how long she would have waited before finally getting on a bus and going to Farleigh Wood.

After the tea was drunk, Helen went to have a shower. This proved to be a more arduous task than she had first envisaged, the water constantly changing from hot to cold and back to hot again. She found a bottle of shampoo in the bathroom cabinet and managed, eventually, to get the vomit washed out of her hair. Shivering, she dried herself quickly on the towel that was hanging on the rail.

Back in the living room, she opened the suitcase for the first time since leaving the Fox and dug out some clean clothes. Nervously she rummaged through the contents until she found the sock with the money in it. It was all there. The photograph of her parents had been packed too, as well as the shell-covered box and the old A to Z of London.

Sitting back on her haunches, Helen gave a sigh of relief. After burying the sock again – she thought she could trust Lily, but she couldn’t be sure – she pulled out the road map and flicked through the pages. She was about to close it when she came across a neatly folded sheet of paper tucked in near the back. Her heart gave a tiny jolt as she opened it out. Written on the still crisp ivory-coloured notepaper that her gran had always used, in her grandfather’s familiar slanting handwriting, was a set of directions to Kew Gardens. It was a trip that must have been made long ago, but still it stirred up her emotions. In the choppy waters of a world she had always struggled to understand, her grandad had been like an anchor, strong and steady and constantly reassuring.

For a while Helen held the piece of paper in her hand, before carefully placing it back in the A to Z. She knew it was no good hankering after the past; what was gone was gone, and she had to get on with her life. She would not grow attached to anyone else, she decided. It was too painful to lose the people you loved.

It was chilly in the flat, but as it wasn’t her home, she didn’t feel free to put on the gas fire. Instead, she took a sweater out of the case and pulled it on over her T-shirt. She ran a comb through her damp hair and glanced towards the bedroom. It was almost eleven, but there was still no sign of movement from Lily.

Helen made another mug of tea, took another aspirin – the first two didn’t seem to be working – and then, with nothing else to do, set about cleaning up. She collected the empty bottles and threw them in the bin. She put the dirty glasses in the sink, along with all the used plates and mugs, and did the washing-up. She wiped down the surfaces in the kitchen and then moved on to the living room. By the time she was finished, the place was immaculate and her headache had receded a little.

It was midday before Lily finally put in an appearance. She came out of the bedroom wearing nothing but a long white T-shirt with a picture of Mickey Mouse on the front. ‘Morning,’ she mumbled. Then she gave a shiver. ‘Christ, it’s freezing in here. Why haven’t you put the fire on?’

Helen, who was sitting on the sofa making a list of things to do, looked up and pulled a face. ‘Sorry, I didn’t… you know, with it being your flat and everything.’

Lily bent down by the fire, put a match to the gas and crouched there for a while rubbing her hands together. ‘That’s no reason to freeze to death.’

‘Do you want a brew?’ Helen asked. ‘The kettle’s just boiled.’

‘Oh, black coffee, please. That’d be great.’ Lily stood up again and gazed around the room. ‘God, you’ve been busy. I hardly recognise the place.’

‘I only did a bit of tidying up.’

‘More than that, love. It was a right tip. Ta, you’ve done a grand job.’

‘Well, it was good of you to give me a bed for the night.’

‘No skin off my nose,’ Lily said. ‘Now, how about that coffee? And then we’d better get to work if we’re going to pay the rent this week.’

And so, that afternoon, Helen’s education into Lily’s world began. It started with hot tongs to curl her hair, and then a lesson on applying make-up so she could look a little older than she actually was.

‘The punters won’t complain, love – they like the young ones – but the cops might pick you up if you look under eighteen. You’ll have to watch out for the filth; they’re all over the place and they’re not in uniform, so you just have to sniff ’em out.’

‘I can do that,’ Helen said. From time to time plain-clothes detectives had come into the Fox, sniffing around after Joe Quinn and the firm. Tommy had always pointed them out, and after a while she had learned to spot them for herself. ‘I know you explained it all last night, but tell me again how it works, this corner game
thing.’

‘It’s easy,’ Lily said, as she patted loose powder on to Helen’s face. ‘We head up to Soho and hang around some clip joint until a likely punter comes along. It won’t take long, trust me. You tell him that you’re working for the club and that you can’t get away straight off, but you’ll meet him round the corner in fifteen minutes. Say you’ve got a flat there, somewhere you can go.’

‘And then?’

Lily laughed. ‘And then you take the cash and leg it, love – once they’re out of sight, of course.’

‘But what if they won’t pay?’

‘Then you walk away. But that doesn’t happen very often. Most of them are so desperate for it, they’ve left their brains in their pants.’

Helen gazed into the mirror, absorbing all this information while her face was being gradually transformed. ‘Don’t they go to the cops? Don’t they report it?’

‘Well, what if they do? The law aren’t going to waste their time trying to find you. Be like looking for a needle in a haystack. And anyway, most of the punters don’t even bother. They’re too scared of their wives and families finding out that they’ve been after a quickie on the quiet.’

Helen, who was nothing like as confident as Lily, bit down on her lower lip. ‘It’s still risky, though, isn’t it?’

Lily’s eyes met hers in the mirror. ‘That’s half the fun of it,’ she said. ‘You’re not getting cold feet, are you?’

Helen knew that it was too late to change her mind now. Anyway, how else was she going to survive? ‘No, no way. I’m fine. I’ll do it.’

After the make-up was completed, Lily raided her wardrobe for clothes. The two girls were more or less the same size and height, and after numerous garments had been tried on and discarded, Helen found herself dressed in a black leather miniskirt and a silky red scoop-necked top. The black platform shoes were a size too small, but she managed to squeeze her feet into them.

‘Well, what do you think?’ asked Lily.

Helen frowned at herself in the full-length mirror. She certainly appeared older. However, she thought she looked not so much like a tom as a rather ludicrous impersonation of one. ‘Are you sure I look all right.’

Lily stood back and gave an appraising nod. ‘You’ll make a bomb.’

At five o’clock, they walked down to the station to catch a bus to Piccadilly. Helen, who wasn’t used to platform shoes, tottered unsteadily on them, occasionally clinging to Lily’s elbow for support. Lily found this hilarious and didn’t stop laughing all the way down the road.

They were both wearing fur jackets over their skimpy tops, which Helen was thankful for. She was worried, however, that she might bump into someone she knew – Yvonne, perhaps, or Karen and Debs – and kept a watchful eye out while they waited for the bus. Knowing that the Fox was only a hundred yards away gave her a strange yearning feeling in her stomach. She tried not to think about it. She was moving on, leaving that part of her life behind her.

It was only when they were sitting upstairs on the bus that Helen’s nerves began to kick in again. ‘What if I can’t do this?’ she asked, turning to Lily. ‘What if I do something wrong or nobody’s interested?’

Lily gave a laugh. ‘Believe me, hun, you won’t have any problems. The guys will be queuing up. You should see some of the girls working round there – they’re out-and-out dogs.’ She lit a cigarette and took a puff. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll be with you. I won’t leave you on your own.’

Helen stared out of the window, trying to remember everything she’d been told. What if she blew it? What if she was so nervy and awkward that the punters smelled a rat?

‘You’ll be fine,’ Lily continued. ‘I mean, what would you rather do – spend a few hours making a ton in Soho or sweat your guts out in a café for a weekly pittance and a few lousy tips?’

Put like that, Helen could see the logic of it. ‘How much do I ask for?’ she said, realising that she hadn’t even covered this basic question.

‘Oh, it depends what they’re after. Anything from thirty for a quickie to… well, whatever you think you might get.’

‘That much?’ Helen said, shocked by the amount. She hadn’t earned that in a week at the Fox.

‘You kind of have to play it by ear, check out their clothes, their shoes, work out how much they might be willing to pay. Just stick by me and you’ll soon get the hang of it.’

At Shaftesbury Avenue they got off the bus and walked up Dean Street into the centre of Soho. Helen had never been there before, apart from an afternoon shopping trip to Carnaby Street with her mother. And Soho at night was a very different place. It was the bustle she noticed first, the crowds of people on the streets. Slowly she took in the neon signs, the strip clubs and porn shops, the hustlers and the pimps, the toms waiting to do business. There was so much female flesh on offer, both in the pictures in the windows and in real life on the pavement, that she started to wonder how she’d ever compete. Girls in satin hot pants and Lurex halter tops stood in doorways with feather boas draped around their necks.

Lily, however, had none of Helen’s doubts. She strutted along confidently, her head held high, her long hair swinging down her back. Men turned to look at her as she walked past, their eyes raking her body like foxes eyeing up a chicken. Helen tried to keep track of the street names, to remember her way back in case they got separated. She sensed the danger of the place they were in, felt the atmosphere humming with a barely suppressed excitement.

Lily finally stopped across the road from a club displaying a neon sign that said
Striptease
. It was squeezed into a row of similar establishments offering peepshows and films and exotic dancing. She gave a wave to the bouncer on the door and then blew him a kiss.

‘That’s Doug,’ she said. ‘He’s sound. He’ll get shot of any troublesome punters.’

Helen looked towards the giant on the door. He must have been six foot six or seven and had the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen. ‘Troublesome?’

‘You know, the ones who come back looking for you when you don’t show up. Doug sends them on their way. They don’t tend to argue with him.’

‘No,’ Helen said, still staring at him. ‘I don’t suppose they do.’ Her nerves were starting to get the better of her again, giant butterflies flapping in her guts. She tugged self-consciously at the hem of the miniskirt. She felt exposed and embarrassed, as if she actually was about to sell her body.

Lily unzipped her jacket and took out a full half-bottle of vodka. She unscrewed the cap and passed the bottle over. ‘Here, have a swig of this.’

Helen shook her head, wondering where the alcohol had come from. Hadn’t Lily claimed that she had no money for booze last night? ‘No thanks. I’ve still got a headache from that cider.’

‘Go on,’ Lily urged. ‘It’ll make you feel better, honestly it will.’

Helen hesitated, but then went ahead. She took a mouthful, swallowed it and grimaced. It was the first time she had ever drunk neat vodka. Although she didn’t care much for the taste, she liked the warm glow that rose up from her throat. It took the edge off the fear, and she giggled as she passed the bottle back.

They had another mouthful each before Lily declared that it was time to get to work. She lit a fag and scanned the crowd with expert eyes. ‘What you’re looking for,’ she said, ‘are the nervy ones, the shy ones or the out-of-towners. All you have to do is catch their eye and smile. You can leave the rest up to them.’

Helen looked around. There were so many men, she didn’t know where to start. They prowled the streets like hungry wolves, some shifty and furtive, others with a more predatory look in their eye. She shuffled from foot to foot, convinced that none of them would ever come near her.

It was Lily who was approached first. An overweight middle-aged man with a spare chin and a receding hairline sidled up to her.

‘You looking for business, love?’

‘Sorry, sweetheart, I’m busy,’ Lily said. ‘But my friend here might be able to help you out.’

Helen looked at her aghast. Lily grinned, gave her a little push towards him and stepped back into a doorway, leaving the two of them alone. Helen, aware of the man’s eyes sweeping over her body, was immediately gripped by panic. What should she say? What should she do? She swallowed hard, feeling her pulse beginning to race.

‘How much, then?’ the man said. ‘For the full… you know.’

Helen glanced quickly over her shoulder, but Lily was staring off down the street. ‘Er… thirty?’ she said tentatively, turning back to the punter. ‘But… er… I can’t… not right now. I mean, I can’t get away right this moment. I’m supposed to be working for the club, you see? I’ll have to talk to my boss and… er, it’ll be about ten minutes or so.’ The explanation came out in a rushed, hurried way, sounding – at least to her ears – about as truthful as the spiel from a second-hand car dealer.