All I Want Is You (30 page)

‘Where is she?’ I breathed.

Beatrice lifted her painted eyebrows. ‘You want to join her? Sophie, darling – to think I encouraged you in your ambitions to entertain the public! I really am quite proud of myself… You’ll find her,’ she concluded, ‘dancing at the Club Paradis.’

I slammed the door on her and hurried outside.

That evening I headed east to darker streets, where men and women loitered outside the bars and beggars lurked in doorways. Times were getting hard again in London and many were out of work and without a home.

I felt, as I’d done several times before that I was being followed, but when I swung round I was accosted by a gaunt woman with bold lipstick and brash clothing and I guessed it was she who’d been at my heels. ‘Looking to earn a shilling or two, love?’ she grinned. ‘Nice, clean gents only, mind; none of yer riff-raff…’

I swept on and asked the way to the Club Paradis from a lad selling newspapers, who grinned up cheekily at me. ‘Next lane on yer left, darlin’.’

And so I found the painted sign saying
Club Paradis
, above a picture of some dancing girls. There was a door that was half open, and from it a stairway led downwards. Though it was quite early in the evening, there was already a heavy smell of spirits and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. Men lounged at tables, and waitresses hurried between them serving drinks; waitresses who were either young, or pretended they were, in short black skirts and low tops in garish colours like scarlet
and jade. On their feet were little high-heeled ankle boots, over black stockings.

My heart sank.

I suddenly realised that a man in a shabby brass-buttoned coat was hurrying over in my direction – some kind of doorman, I suspected, but at the same time a woman dressed like a waitress but lounging at the bar spotted me. She put down her drink and came over to say to the man, ‘Leave this one to me, Fred.’ She looked me up and down. ‘What’s your business, then?’

‘I’m looking for a job. As a dancer,’ I said.

‘You’ve got experience?’

‘Yes.’

She inspected me anew, curious. The man she’d been talking to at the bar had followed her, slightly unsteady on his feet. He pawed at her. ‘Aw, c’mon, Susie. I’ve only half an hour before I’m expected back home.’

He was holding some crumpled bank notes in front of her but she waved him aside impatiently. ‘In a moment, right?’ Then she turned back to me. ‘Come on. I’ll take you to meet Mr O’Rourke.’

I followed her towards another door where I waited outside; although I could hear her voice and that of a man from within, I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Moments later she was back, gesturing towards the open door. ‘He’ll see you now.’

She left and I went in, a little blinded by the light. Mr O’Rourke, blond and in his early thirties and presumably the owner, had got up from his chair behind a desk and was strolling towards me, his sharp eyes scouring me.

‘Susie tells me you’re a dancer,’ he said in an East
London accent. ‘As it happens, I need a few more girls for tonight – can you oblige? Chorus-line work, that’s all.’ He thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘I’ll put you on the back row for starters – you should pick up the steps quickly enough. Oh, and I pay five bob an hour.’ He looked at me expectantly.

‘I’ll do it,’ I said.

‘Good girl.’ He grinned. ‘You’d better get changed. The show starts in half an hour.’

He took me to the dressing room. All the rooms backstage at Cally’s were cluttered but basically clean, whereas this one had heaps of stuff everywhere; pots of old make-up littered the dressing tables, and the air smelt of cigarettes and stale clothes.

Mr O’Rourke introduced me to the dressing assistant, whose name was Sal. Sal was a hard-looking woman, forty or so, with a red gash of lipstick and blonde-dyed hair. She eyed me suspiciously. ‘New, eh? Precious little time they give me to get stuff together for you…’ She muttered on, sweeping round the piles of clothes that lay heaped everywhere, picking things up seemingly at random. ‘Here you are. This lot should fit.’

I inspected what she’d given me – a black brassiere, a pair of harem pants in black also, and a long gauzy veil. My face must have expressed my bewilderment. ‘What are these?’

She was already turning to go. ‘We’ve got a party in tonight – Turkish is the theme. Where in the name of the holy saints did they find
you?
Get the stuff on and don’t look so bloomin’ shocked.’

I got changed quickly, but my fingers were shaking.
There was no sign of Cora, but perhaps it was her evening off. Or perhaps Beatrice had been lying again – that was more than likely. Oh, God.

Mr O’Rourke came to lean against the door while we were still changing; no one else seemed to care that he was there, but I clutched my veil tightly over my breasts as his eyes rested speculatively on me. ‘We’ve got a party of rich folks in tonight,’ he announced to everyone. ‘So you know what’s expected. What’s expected, girls?’

‘Entertainment, Mr O’Rourke!’

‘Fun, Mr O’Rourke!’

‘That’s the idea. Lots and lots of saucy fun. Oh, and get your tits on show, all of you – don’t be shy.’ He was looking at me again; he was smiling, but I thought he had a sharp face, a mean face, like a ferret.

‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Welcome to the Club Paradis, Sophie.’ Suddenly he turned back to his dancers. ‘Come on, girls, you’ve just had your tea break! Twenty minutes to go, then you’re on stage – and kick those saucy legs of yours for the punters, or I’ll break ’em for you.’ He turned to Sal, then pointed at me. ‘Sal, get this newcomer looking a bit less like she’s just come from a convent, will you? She’s taking Cora’s place.’

‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ Sal told me curtly and hurried off, but I stood there, frozen.
Taking Cora’s place.
So Beatrice hadn’t lied. But had Cora left? Or was she still here somewhere?

Sal came back to me to pull down my harem pants so my stomach was exposed, and tighten my black brassiere so my breasts were shamelessly thrust up, like those of the other girls. Then she shoved a sort of belt at
me – it was made of silken cords, with small silver bells sewn into it that jangled at the lightest touch. An empty pouch, like a small purse, was attached to it. I silently vowed to loosen the brassiere and pull up my harem pants again the minute she was gone and I held the belt at arm’s length. ‘What’s this for?’

‘Gettin’ fussy now, are we? It’s for tying round your middle, of course.’ Sal was clipping some cheap gilt bangles on my wrists. ‘And the purse is for the coins the gents’ll give you when you dance for them.’

My pulse faltered. ‘When I…?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Put the thing on, for Christ’s sake, or Mr O’Rourke will have your guts for fucking garters. Believe me, darling, no one else objects.’

I tied the girdle and purse round my waist with a sinking, sinking heart.

Within twenty minutes I was lined up with the others, on stage in the Club Paradis in front of those tables full of eager men.
A private gentlemen’s club
, Beatrice had said. Just as Mr O’Rourke had implied, the dance routines were simple to the point of absurdity. I’d learned them all in my first week at Cally’s, and I had no trouble at all in following the music played by the small band at the side of the stage. After our act was over, I accosted one of the other dancers as we went off stage. ‘Look, I heard there was a girl called Cora working here. Is she still around?’

She looked at me sideways. ‘Cora, eh? Friend of yours, is she?’

I didn’t answer; I repeated, ‘Do you know where Cora is?’

Before she could reply, O’Rourke roared at her and she hurried off, following his voice. I saw that he was about to climb some stairs at the far end of the room and the girl was going after him, so I pulled the Turkish veil over my face and quickly followed. They were out of sight by the time I’d got to the top of the narrow staircase, but I saw a half-open door, from which faint light gleamed.

Making my way towards it, I edged inside and found myself in a softly lit room with a low stage that was curtained off. Twenty or so men were already seated at tables, with plenty of drinks – champagne bottles mostly, and whisky – set before them. I saw O’Rourke moving amongst them, talking and smiling, and I noted how these men kept glancing at the concealed stage expectantly. I pressed myself back against the wall in the shadows, realising at the same time that the band from below had moved up here also, and were starting to play some sultry jazz music.

In a corner, some of O’Rourke’s dancing girls were collecting trays of drinks from a barman, so I picked up a tray of drinks and wandered round too, offering them to the customers with my face veiled. The curtain was still drawn across the stage, but the lamps were being dimmed, as though something was about to happen.

I jumped as a fat man sidled up to me and put his hand on my arm. I’d noticed him watching me earlier, when I’d danced downstairs.

‘So,’ he said. He was swarthy, with oiled black hair. ‘New at Danny’s, are you?’

‘Danny’s?’ I breathed.

He put his hand on my arm. ‘Danny O’Rourke. The
man himself,’ he grinned. ‘Good pal of mine, is Danny. And my, he’s got an eye for the girls…’

Mr O’Rourke –
Danny.
Oh, how could I have been so stupid? Poor, poor Cora! I almost pushed the man away; his eyebrows shot up. ‘Picky little bitch, are you—’ He broke off. His eyes were on the stage.
Everyone
’s eyes were on the stage. The jazz trio had started playing some music with a Turkish rhythm, and the curtain was gliding back. The main part of the room was cast completely into darkness now, but a soft yellow light shone on the centre of the stage.

And… Cora was there. She wore a harem outfit just like the rest of us. Beneath her veil her face was ghastly pale despite the rouge and lipstick.

The music was erotic and dark. She began to dance, sliding off her veil while undulating her hips, and it was pitiful to see, because she was so clearly drugged. I wanted to run to her and stop her, but someone was behind me; I swung round, and Danny O’Rourke’s hand was round my wrist like a vice.

‘You. Who invited you up here?’ he hissed.

I pushed him away and darted to the other side of the room; he glared at me, but could do nothing without interrupting the show.

Cora.
Oh God, she had stopped dancing. There was a silk-covered settee at the back of the stage, and she went to recline there, in her brassiere and harem pants, with one hand behind her head as she smiled hazily down at her audience. Apart from the jazz trio, still playing that low, pulsing beat, there was a hushed silence throughout the room.

The next few minutes were so hateful I could hardly take it in. Some athletic-looking men had come on stage dressed as Turkish soldiers; they wore red waistcoats, loose trousers gathered at their ankles, and turbans. They danced well; their naked chests and arms were powerful and muscular. Then one by one they danced with poor Cora; they passed her from one to the other, while she smiled dazedly at them. They kissed her, each of them, with slow, deep kisses.

Then they laid her on the settee again.

And while the people at the tables sat in the dark drinking their champagne and whisky, and watching with avid interest, those men used her, one by one; unlacing her brassiere to cup her naked breasts, pulling down her harem pants to reveal the jewelled thong she wore, then opening their breeches and fondling themselves into full arousal before quite calmly using her in turn for their pleasure.

Cora didn’t protest. I guessed she must have been ordered before she went on to smile and look happy. She sighed, she played in turn with her own breasts and with their erect male members; she took one of them in her mouth and let another man rub himself against her nipples until he ejaculated over her; all the time she was dreamy and hazed. The music played on.

London’s a big, dark place, Sophie, once you lose your way.
She’d said that to me, when I first moved into her little house. I remembered something else she’d once said:
All I wanted was love.

Cora had lost her way. Oh, God. I couldn’t watch any more. But I couldn’t leave either; this was my fault, all
my fault. I’d let her go from the safety of Ash’s house in Hertford Street, and in my selfish joy at being at last with the man I loved, I’d dismissed her from my mind, when I should have been out there searching every street in London for her. Blindly I started to make my way to the stage, having, I think, some ridiculous notion of stopping all this, of rescuing her. But Danny O’Rourke had been edging gradually closer, with two of his men close behind.

‘Hold her,’ he rapped out to them.

‘No. No.’ I struggled. ‘You’ve got to stop this. I’m taking Cora with me—’

‘I’m the one who gives orders around here,’ he cut in. ‘And you’re neither of you leaving yet. I’ve had an offer for you. Someone’s paid a lot of money for you for the night.’

I thought with horror of the fat man. ‘
No…!
’ I fought hard.

He nodded to his men again. ‘Take her.’

I struggled all the way as they dragged me to the foyer. And there, waiting for me, was… Ash.

He simply stood there as I was brought to him. He looked relaxed and spectacularly handsome with his thick brown hair and smooth-shaven, sculpted features. He was wearing a long dark overcoat that hung open, and beneath it he wore an immaculate white shirt with a tie as usual and black trousers.

But when he looked at me, I saw something that utterly chilled me in his blue eyes. I stammered a little as I began to say, ‘I came for Cora. How did you know…’

He spoke to me so O’Rourke couldn’t hear. ‘James was following you.’ Then he swung round to O’Rourke and said with authority, ‘I’ve told you, I’ll take both of them. This one here and the other one – the girl who was on the stage.’

O’Rourke almost laughed. ‘The other one? Cora? Oh, no, no, sorry. She’s in the middle of her act still.’

‘I want both of them,’ Ash said with deadly emphasis.

‘But—’

‘Believe me,’ said Ash, ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’