The Exciting Life (4 page)

‘
You’re terrible,’ she smiled. ‘Anyway, I suppose I’d better be
getting back to the club. Not the most glamorous way to spend your
birthday, over-seeing a delivery of booze.’

‘
It’s your birthday today?’ he smiled.

‘
Yes, it is.’

‘
Happy Birthday.’

‘
Thank you.’

‘
So how are you celebrating?’

‘
I’m not. My friend Mandy’s out with her boyfriend, and
everyone else has made other plans. I had lunch with Aunt Alice, so
that was nice.’ Did she tell him about the hotel? She didn’t think
she should for now.

‘
Well that’s a shame,’ he frowned playfully. ‘We’ll just have
to come up with something.’

‘
Just you concentrate on not changing my club. When will these
men be starting there?’

‘
This weekend,’ he replied. ‘When there’s most likely to be
trouble.’

‘
I wish you’d stop saying that,’ she shivered. ‘I’ve had more
than my fair share of trouble – I don’t want anymore.

She
drained her tea cup and left Patrick in the café. She still found
herself shaking, even though she was sure he wasn’t actually a
physical threat to her. There was just something about his presence
that she found so overwhelming.

The
Fortune Hotel was tiny. Over the years, Annie had seen many
Villiers Hotels and they were usually grand buildings that would
take up a whole block. The Fortune blended in with all the other
buildings on Regent Street, close to Piccadilly Circus, and was
only the width of the average shop. As Annie stood looking up at
the eight story building, she wondered what the hell she was going
to do with it. She wished she had lots of money so she could open
her fashion house. Regent Street was filled with high-class
outfitters and fancy couture shops. She dreamt of a shop on the
ground floor that would sell shoes and bags, and the upper floors
would be where the things were designed and made. She could even
convert the top floor into a flat. But to do this would take
serious money. Something Annie didn’t have at the
moment.

She
opened the heavy, wooden, revolving front door, and stepped into
the lobby. It was as if all time had stood still. Everything was
still in place – the reception desk, the keys hanging up on hooks
behind it. Like a child, Annie stepped behind the tatty wooden
counter and pretended to be serving someone. She opened one of the
drawers in the desk and saw there was a stack of embossed paper
with ‘The Fortune Hotel’ in gold lettering at the top. Annie stood
and imagined a by-gone age when this place would have been filled
with visitors.

Because
the electricity wasn’t on, the elevator didn’t work, so Annie had
to take the stairs to each floor. The interiors of the corridors
were still in quite good condition, but all the rooms had been
stripped of their furniture. For a moment, Annie stopped and
fantasised about people working in them, making her shoes. She
wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something about this
building that made her want to hang onto it. Or maybe she could
sell part of it and keep the rest for herself. Annie wasn’t sure,
but an instinct told her that maybe this dilapidated old building
could be her way of proving herself once and for all.

Chapter Three

Late
February 1959

Cream always rises to the top
Iris
Lindholm thought to herself as the taxi made its way along Bedford
Hill, past the clapped-out prostitutes plying their wares along the
edge of Tooting Bec. Once, a long long time ago, she’d been like
them. Trying her luck, not knowing what sort of low-life was going
to pull up alongside her and ask for some disgusting act in the
back of his smelly car. Then there would be the ones who’d appear
from the bushes, as if out of nowhere, and practically drag her
back in there before negotiating a price. The thought of it made
Iris shudder, but she quickly composed herself. She didn’t have to
bother herself with men like that any more. She was high-class now.
She couldn’t even really call herself a tart these days. She saw
three men and that was it; and it wasn’t all about sex now. It was
about being seen out and about and treated like a lady. It was
Arthur, the alcoholic writer tonight. He’d been pissed when she
asked him if they could go to Bruno’s on Saturday night, and he’d
agreed. Arthur just liked going to places where there was alcohol
served and plenty of pretty girls to look at.

Soon the
car was out of South London and heading over Lambeth Bridge towards
Westminster. Iris looked at the Houses of Parliament and thought
about the MP she used to see who liked her to spank him in his
private chambers. He’d get a thrill because he could hear his
fellow ministers walking around outside, their feet clack clack
clacking on the shiny floor. Iris thought back to the two shilling
hookers on Bedford Hill and felt proud of the fact she’d come so
far. She put it down to it being in her blood. People from her
family always seemed to do well for themselves. Look at that
long-lost great aunt of hers. Starting off as a tuppeny ‘apenny
music hall performer from Battersea, and ending up as one of the
greatest actresses of all time. Of course, no one would ever
believe her if she told them she was related to Alicia Bloom. They
hardly looked alike. In her day Alicia had been a beautiful,
willowy brunette; whereas Iris was a buxom, natural blonde. That
was why she’d taken the name Lindholm - her mother always reckoned
her father was a Swedish sailor. But that steely determination to
succeed came from her mother’s side; and tonight was Iris’s chance
to start her quest.

The taxi
pulled up outside Bruno’s, and Iris found Arthur leaning against
the railings, trying to light a cigarette. He was drunk already,
which pleased her; she could prop him in a corner somewhere, and
get to work on her mission. She got out of the cab, smoothed down
her long, silver, figure-hugging dress, and wrapped her fur stole
around her shoulders. Arthur was just sober enough to spot her, and
stood up; staggering a little.

‘
Iris,’ he gasped, holding out his arms. ‘My
darling.’

‘
Let’s just get inside shall we?’ she said. ‘You’re
embarrassing me.’

Iris
wished she had a more chivalrous companion, when Arthur
part-walked, part-threw himself down the steps to the club, leaving
her to teeter down in her stilettos. By the door stood two men in
crombie coats. One of them had a long scar running down the left
side of his face and it brought to mind memories of the sort of men
she used to mix with, and suddenly Arthur seemed like a good
catch.

‘
Hello,’ said the un-scarred one - a rather attractive looking
man with dark hair and twinkling blue eyes - to Arthur. ‘Who are
you then?’

‘
Arthur Hatfield,’ he replied. ‘And this is my beautiful
companion Miss Iris Lindholm.’

‘
And what do you do Arthur?’ the heavy continued.

‘
Arthur’s a famous writer,’ Iris interjected, fluttering her
eyelashes, and making her voice sound just a little dumber. ‘He’s
written lots of plays and things.’

‘
Hold on.’

The
heavy went into the club, and the one with the scar stepped across
the doorway, blocking their entrance. A little smile came onto
Iris’s face. This sort of thing usually only happened in clubs when
they’d been threatened by rival gangs. Heavies would be there to
filter out any potential enemies, and before long it would have to
become members only.

The
other heavy re-emerged, accompanied by a beautiful brunette, who
was a cross between Audrey Hepburn and Alicia Bloom. Her hair was
pinned to one side with a red flower, and she wore a black satin,
Chinese style dress. Iris guessed she’d struck gold straight
away.

‘
Do you recognise this gentleman?’ the heavy asked
her.

‘
No I don’t,’ she replied in a very posh, plummy
voice.

‘
Says his name’s Arthur Hatfield.

‘
Arthur Hatfield?’ She furrowed her brow, but her mouth smiled
quizzically. ‘What was the name of your third play?’

‘
The Winter’s Willow,’ he replied without thinking. Clever,
considering how pissed he was.

She
looked at the heavy.

‘
Let them in, they’re fine.’

The
heavies stepped to one side and let Arthur and Iris into the club.
It was a dark and dingy affair, but smart enough to have a
well-dressed fellow there to collect their coats.

‘
I’m so sorry about that,’ the girl said, clasping her hands
together. ‘We’ve had a bit of trouble lately, so we have to be
extra careful. I’m such a fan of your work Mr Hatfield. We studied
The Constant Pain at school. It’s my favourite play.’

‘
Why thank you,’ Arthur slurred. ‘Always nice to meet a
fan.’

‘
I’m Annie Holland,’ she said, offering him her hand,
confirming to Iris she was who she was looking for. ‘Pleased to
meet you.’

‘
And you my dear,’ Arthur said. ‘Can I introduce my girlfriend
Iris Lindholm?’

‘
Nice to meet you Iris,’ Annie said.

‘
And you,’ she smiled sweetly.

‘
Let me get you both a bottle of champagne. On the house. As a
thank you for all your wonderful work Mr Hatfield.’

‘
Arthur, please.’

‘
If you insist,’ she giggled.

She led
them into the main area of the club, and as Iris watched Annie go,
she laughed to herself at how they looked like polar opposites.
Annie was so tall and dark and willowy, and Iris was five six in
her heels, blonde and curvy. That didn’t stop some of the men
sitting in the booths nearby throwing her admiring glances, which
she returned with the knowing smile she’d spent ten years
perfecting.

Annie
stood at the bar and asked the barman for a bottle of Moet and two
glasses. She then turned her attention to Iris.

‘
So are you Swedish Iris?’ she asked.

‘
No, I’m a Londoner,’ she replied, trying to use her
best-practiced posh voice, but it just came out as a husky whisper.
‘But my father was Swedish.’

‘
Are you a model?’

‘
Model and actress,’ Iris smiled.

‘
Well, welcome to Bruno’s.’ The barman passed her the champagne
in a silver bucket and she handed it to Arthur, who almost dropped
it. ‘I hope you enjoy yourselves.’

She
walked off into the throng of people and Iris looked for a booth in
which to put Arthur. There was one in the far corner, close to the
exit for the toilets. She manoeuvred Arthur over to it and sat
down. Like a child grabbing for a toy, Arthur took the champagne
and poured himself a glass – forgetting his manners and not pouring
one for Iris. She got on and did it herself and looked around for
Annie. She spotted her chatting to a group of people. Standing next
to her was a very good-looking man with auburn hair. Iris wondered
if they were a couple - after all, Annie was a free agent. Iris
knew she was a widow. She’d followed her life for so many years,
she was perfectly aware Annie’s husband had killed
himself.

Iris
heard a snore and realised Arthur had fallen asleep. She took this
as her opportunity to mingle. She had no fear mixing with strangers
– she’d been doing this since she was thirteen years old. As soon
as she entered the throng, she was approached by a fat,
greasy-looking bloke squeezed into an ill-fitting suit. With his
slicked back dark hair and toothy smile, he reminded Iris of a
vampire.

‘
Alright love,’ he said.

‘
Hello,’ she replied politely.

‘
You here on your own?’

‘
Sort of.’

‘
Fancy a drink?’

‘
I’ve got some champagne, thank you…’

‘
Dave,’ he said. ‘And what’s your name beautiful?’

‘
Iris. Iris Lindholm.’

‘
German?’ he beamed.

‘
Swedish. Half.’

‘
That accounts for the blonde hair. You are a natural blonde
aren’t you?’

‘
Oh yes, all of me is blonde,’ she purred.

Dave
staggered a little, and Iris looked up and saw the handsome chap
with auburn hair heading towards them. Now he was the sort of man
Iris liked. Tall, with a cheeky glint in his very pale eyes and an
arrogant swagger.

‘
I hope you’re not bothering this young lady, Dave,’ he said,
winking at Iris.

‘
We were just discussing natural blondes,’ Iris said. ‘Dave was
trying to guess if I was one.’

The man
lifted himself slightly and looked at the top of Iris’s head and
laughed.

‘
I don’t see any roots, so I’m guessing it’s all
real.’

‘
Iris is half Swedish,’ Dave said.

‘
Are you now?’ smiled the other one. ‘What do you do
Iris?’

‘
I’m an actress and a model.’

‘
Been in anything I would have heard of?’ he asked, and the
smirk on his face told Iris that he knew darn well what sort of
model she was.

‘
Bits of theatre. A couple of commercials. I’m only just
starting out.’