You Don't Know Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (22 page)

He turns his attention back to me, but his eyes are now speculative and assessing. ‘Good news. You’ve got the job. You can start whenever the swelling’—he nods toward my knees—‘goes down. Arrive at five thirty p.m. with a photo ID, proof of address, and your National Insurance number and report to the House Mother. Her name is Brianna.’

For an instant I stare at him speechlessly. My knees are throbbing like crazy by now. ‘I’ve got the job,’ I repeat stupidly.

‘Looks like it,’ he says with a grin.

‘Thanks, Mark. You won’t regret this.’

‘No problem,’ he replies casually, and losing interest in me turns toward the blonde Barbie. ‘Want to show us what you’ve got?’

As I hobble away from the stage, a slight movement in the far shadows catches my eyes. I turn my head and at the dim edges of the club I see the glint of snakeskin as Jake Eden quietly slips out of the black and gold doors. And I know without a doubt: North London’s most illusive gangster, Jake Eden, has just hired me.

F
or two days I hobble around my flat, eat junk food, and endlessly replay my disastrous reaction to Jake Eden. Could it have been some sort of freak overreaction caused by nervousness about my impending audition? On the third day I convince myself it must have been, and slapping a bit of concealer on my knees I make my way back to the club.

To my surprise the House Mother is a female version of my bank manager: forties, a sleek helmet of strawberry blonde hair, and a dark blue suit with a classy fitted top underneath it. Then she goes and does what my bank manager never does: she flashes a genuinely warm smile and I know we are going to get on just fine.

‘Hi, I’m Brianna.’ She extends a hand. ‘Patrick told me to expect you.’

Her grasp is warm and soft.

‘We’re all known by our stage names here. Thank God. I’d go bonkers if I have to remember two names for all my girls. Do you have one?’

‘Jewel.’

‘Jewel. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that stage name.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, I’ve been in this business for twenty years, you know. And I danced for the first ten.’

She was so respectable and ‘establishment’ it was hard to imagine her on a pole. ‘You did?’

‘I sure did. A part of me still misses the attention and the money, but I’m married with kids now and I wouldn’t exchange that for the world. Besides I love being House Mom here.’ She smiles charmingly, but her next words are a smooth shift into her business mode. ‘About a hundred and twenty girls work at any given time and it is my job to ensure that just the right amount of redheads, blondes and brunettes are on the floor, so that all my girls make good money.’ She looks at me curiously. ‘You have a very exotic look. Unusual. Your eyes are slanted, but so blue.’

‘My grandmother is from China and my grandfather was Nordic,’ I offer reluctantly into the expectant pause. I don’t ever want to talk about my personal life to anybody here.

‘Ah! That will explain the amazing cheekbones too.’

‘Thank you,’ I accept politely, but my stiff expression closes off that avenue of conversation.

‘Right. I expect all my girls to be able to do at least three shifts a week. If for any reason at all you can’t make it, you’re ill, you’ve got your period, or you’ve got a mother of a hangover, just let me know so I can cover my ass. Be honest with me. I expect straight talking from all my girls and I’ll do the same with you. Understand?’

I nod quickly.

‘It is also my job to act as the buffer between the customers and the dancers so no matter what troubles you find yourself in you can always come to me.’

‘OK.’

‘Good. Let’s get the house rules out of the way. The most important one is: the punters aren’t allowed to touch you and you aren’t allowed to touch them below the waist. Break that rule and you’re out. If the security cameras ever pick up a girl touching a man’s groin with any part of her body that girl never dances here again. Understood?’

‘Understood.’

‘Now, it’s pretty standard that while you are dancing for a guy he will have a semi happening in his pants. At that point it is exactly the same with all men. They’ll look at their crotch meaningfully and ask you to touch them.’

My belly churns with disgust, but I fight hard to keep my face neutral, and I must have succeeded because she carries on without batting an eyelid.

‘They’ll plead with you, offer you money, and some of them will even tell you they are friends of the management, and that it’ll be OK for you to “help” them. But if you do touch them and they turn out to be undercover officers from the licensing department at the Council or the police, the club will be closed down within the hour.’

‘So what does everybody do at that stage?’

‘Tell them you’d love to, but it could be seen as soliciting and that
would
be in breach of the club’s license. Point coyly to the security cameras.’

‘What if they insist?’

‘If anybody behaves in a perverted way, is rude or aggressive to you, simply signal one of the security boys and the chancer will be escorted or dragged out, depending on the situation, by the back way where there are no security cameras.’

It is hard to imagine that simply the sight of a pair of breasts will make grown men gladly drop thousands of pounds from their wallets, but I do start to feel better about the job.

Then she explains the financial set-up. For the first three days I will not have to pay house fees, but after that all dancers have to pay a house fee of ninety-five pounds—sixty-five at the start of the evening and thirty by midnight. Use of the VIP rooms costs thirty pounds an hour, but the men get charged two hundred so my profit is a hundred and seventy for that hour.

Then she tells me the interesting part: money does not change hands between customers and dancers. Instead dancers and punters use plastic chips called Eve’s Currency or ECs. The club adds twenty percent to whatever the customer converts into ECs and deducts twenty percent commission from the dancers when they change ECs back into cash at the end of the night. It seems incredible to me that the dancers can make any money at all with all these charges. My thoughts must have showed in my face.

‘Most of the men who come in here know the deal. They understand that the girls aren’t here for free and they keep the lovely stuff flowing. Don’t worry—a girl with your looks
will
make money—lots of it. And when you do always remember to show your appreciation to the finely tuned invisible grapevine circulating intelligence around the club.’

‘Invisible grapevine of intelligence?’ I thought this was a gentlemen’s strip club!

‘Let’s say a customer pulls up in a Lamborghini. The doorman will radio ahead to reception that someone who needs looking after has just come in. Reception might decide to waive the entrance fee, which will make him feel special and put him in a good frame of mind. While seating the prestige customer the waitress will ask him what kind of mood he is in or if he has any special requests.’

She stops to smile cheekily. ‘If he says, “Tonight I’m feeling exotic,” she will pass that information on to the DJ who will instantly call you or the other exotic on the floor up to the stage. By the time you sashay over to the big spender to ask if he wants a dance, he will think Eden is the most brilliant place in the world. All he has to do is think of the flavor of girl he wants and lo and behold, by a beautiful coincidence, she is everywhere. He’ll never know that it is well-oiled cooperation at work.’

She looks at her watch.

‘I’ll give you a quick tour, show you to your locker, introduce you to Josh who is head of security, and then take you over to Terry, our resident make-up artist. Since this is your first time you must pay twenty-five pounds for a compulsory complete makeover session with her. She’ll teach you how to bring out the most of yourself. If you can learn to recreate that look tomorrow you won’t need her anymore, but if you can’t you’ll have to shell it out again. Are you OK with that?’

I nod.

‘After Terry I’ll introduce you to our no-buttons dressmaker, Donna. She can make an outfit to cater to any man’s fantasy and she’s an absolute genius with Velcro. Her dresses are designed to fly off you if you stick your tits out forcefully or squeeze your buttocks hard.’

‘God!’

Brianna laughs. ‘I think you’ll find it good for tips. Punters are usually so amazed and entertained they’ll tip you all over again to see a repeat performance. And if you find a “lucky” outfit that you make a lot of money in you can ask her to make you a copy.’

‘OK,’ I agree, as she pushes the door open and we start the tour. The place is massive. The restaurant and lounge are downstairs and the club is upstairs. At the end of our look around she introduces me to Josh. He must be at least six feet six inches tall. He has small eyes, a shaved head and a neck thicker than my waist. He nods his greeting.

After meeting him I am taken to a small room where I meet Terry. After the introductions Brianna leaves telling me she will send Donna around to look in on us.

‘Sit yourself down,’ Terry invites merrily. She is in her thirties and full of bright chatter. She tells me I have a very different look and I should play on that. First she does my hair, backcombing it from the top of my head and stiffening it with hairspray before combing the front end back so my hair becomes tall and big. She is very precise and very sure in what she does.

I watch her in the mirror as she quickly and expertly applies a layer of foundation, using a darker tone to emphasize my cheekbones, and give my chin a more pointy look. Then she carefully draws my eyes with blue eyeliner focusing attention to their slant and bringing out their color. Afterwards she glues on fake eyelashes. It is a surprise how foreign and heavy they feel. With a wand she dusts glitter on the ends.

‘Nearly there,’ she says, and paints my lips rose pink. As a final touch she plants a beauty spot on one cheek. 

‘And now for the magic touch. We have a Chinese girl here called Jade who carries an intricate fan and makes it part of her routine, but you can become known as…’ She brings out a plastic flower from her box and holds it behind my ear. ‘The girl with the flower.’

I stare at my transformation. The idea is seductive and even I cannot help but fall for the pure poetry of ‘the girl with the flower’ line, but… ‘Look, Terry, I don’t want to insult you or anything, but don’t you think it’s all a bit much? I look like a transvestite.’

Terry covers her mouth and peals of laughter escape from between her fingers. ‘Don’t worry. The lights on stage are very bright and afterwards it is very dim in the shadows. You will be the perfect fantasy in both types of lighting,’ she says and switches off the bright lights that surround the mirror. And suddenly in the dim there is this fantasy creature. I stare at her curiously almost in disbelief. Is that really me? Some of the glitter has fallen from my sweeping lashes onto my cheeks and they sparkle like magic dust.

‘See?’ she says gleefully.

‘Yeah, I get it now,’ I agree with a smile.

She switches the lights back on.

As she is arranging my hair around my shoulders Donna comes in after knocking softly. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun and she has the look of a harried housewife but her voice is low and melodious.

‘Well, dear. What kind of clothes would you like to wear? I could get you a nice long gown with a Mandarin neckline going. Some of the other girls wear it and it works very well if you have the slit going right up to the crotch.’

I think of my grandmother’s beautiful silk cheongsams with their demure side slits and I suddenly miss her so much I lose the ability to speak. I just nod.

‘What color?’

‘Whatever you think is best.’

‘Either blue to match your eyes or deep red to catch attention.’

‘Deep red then.’

In full fantasy mode I find my way to the changing rooms. It feels as if I have accidentally stepped backstage during a Miss World contest. Unbelievably beautiful girls of every race speaking a cacophony of languages are in various stages of undress. In all the madness of shaving creams, tampons, sequined G-strings and feather boas I spot the black girl who became geometric patterns in the dark.

I experience an instant sense of solidarity with her. There is something about her I really like. Even at our audition I recognized her as one of those straight people. No bullshit. What you see is what you get. I go up to her. She is sitting in front of a mirror applying her make-up.

‘Hey, remember me?’

She regards me in the mirror with cool eyes. ‘Sure I do. How are the knees?’

‘Fine. I’m Jewel by the way. What’s your name?’

She carefully glues on a strip of false eyelashes and says, ‘Melanie.’

‘In ancient Greek that means “the black girl”.’

She stares at me in the mirror, one eye extravagantly lashed, the other oddly bare. The coolness is gone. She is as impressed as I had wanted her to be. ‘Where did you learn that?’

I’m not about to tell her that. ‘I was interested in Greek mythology when I was younger.’

‘And then you became a stripper.’ Her voice is challenging.

‘Yeah. Shit happens.’

‘Hmmm…’