Fishnet (17 page)

‘You want to know if I'm working as an escort to make extra money?'

‘I – Fi –'

‘What would be the problem if I was?'

‘What? Fi, come on–'

‘I'm serious, Heather. What would be wrong with it, if I was?'

‘It's… It's
prostitution
. Fiona.'

‘It's not against the law. It doesn't hurt anyone.' This is marvellously clear to me, for the first time ever.

‘You're hurting
yourself
.'

And here they come. I couldn't have scripted a better entrance point. English accents, bald patches.

‘Alright girls? We noticed you was running a bit empty there, so we got you another bottle of vino. Mind if we join you?'

Heather says: ‘No, sorry mate, we're having a private conversation here. Not a good time.'

I say: ‘Thanks so much, guys! That's so sweet. Pull up a seat!'

We say these things at the same time and then she's shocked all over again, doesn't know what to do.

‘Fi
ona
,' she's hissing over the noise of stools being dragged to our table.

‘So, you ladies local, then?'

Off

‘This is good,' Anya says. ‘This is really great stuff. So, we will need to get in there before them. It'll probably mean organising some sort of occupation, but we can use this, definitely.'

I could have dropped the minutes of the weekly review in to Suzanne directly, at Sanctuary Base, but that way lay danger, I'd explained. I could have been spotted by a co-worker. Much better to hand the info over to Sonja, disguised as two friends meeting for coffee. Safer that way. Safer.

I'm trying to imagine what she's like on her university course, in a context where people knew her as ‘Anya', where her body didn't matter, locked behind clothes. I'm trying to work out whether she's wearing makeup. Just a trace, I think.

‘Well done. Thank you. I know this must have been difficult for you. I appreciate it and I'm sure Suzanne will too. You did not have to help us and you did.'

In her smile I get briefly bold.

‘Can I ask something? Why does all this mean so much to you? Personally, you. I mean, you aren't affected by the new legislation or the closure. You don't volunteer there. And the risks of putting your head up, becoming known for this sort of thing. Aren't you worried they'll find you out?'

I keep expecting her to slap me down, that at some point I will have gone too far. Why on earth she continues to tolerate me I'm not entirely sure. There is nothing about me that could appeal, I'm sure. She's never seen the person I can pretend to be, the sparky one, inspired by her. Whenever we meet I fluster, make porridgy conversation at her.

Her smile gets tighter.

‘Shall we just say that I like the fight? Things get boring otherwise.'

‘Things get boring for
you
? Don't try living my life then.'

That clanks, so I try and add a laugh on, making a joke of it.

She nods.

‘No.'

Nothing more to say on the issue. It glances off my cheek like a bruise, her honesty. Why would she want to live my life? Of course she wouldn't. Perhaps I am just tolerated because I can provide information. Only that. With white hot clarity I realise I don't really exist in either of her worlds, the academic or the other. This was always a transactional relationship. And I should ask for something back now.

‘Listen. I've got you all this. And it's good. Could you – about my sister. I know some things. She was working with a girl called Camilla, in Edinburgh. An English girl, must be about my age. They, ah, they serviced – worked for – they did a lot of work for nightclub promoters, and I thought that this girl might, might know something, if I could find her. If you knew how to find her.'

She tips back in her chair and looks bored, blank.

‘I cannot help you find your sister. We do not have a full, proper network – it is one of the unfortunate byproducts of an unregulated industry, huh? The girls who really need the support, they sometimes just slip away. And you know, if she doesn't want to be found, it is not my place to betray another working girl's identity. That's something I can't do.'

‘Okay. Sure. Of course. Even, the girl Camilla, I thought, maybe. But, sure. Sure. Okay.'

A tall man is knocking on the window we're sitting beside. T-shirt ripped at the sleeves, spiked, messed hair, and an absurdly beautiful face. Anya breaks into a smile at the sight of him.

‘So. My ride is here.'

She reaches across the table and pats my arm, one, two.

‘We appreciate this. Thank you.'

There is no mention of another meeting. ‘See you later,' I call out, and she pretends not to hear me as she leaves, a move she must have had to practise, for persistent clients. I'm raw nothing, and they walk off together, down the street. She gets up on tiptoe to kiss him on the jaw as they go.

On

I've always had problems making small talk; never been able to fully relax into the weightlessness you need, the gaiety. Tonight it's easy, though, pretending to be just as oblivious as these two lunkheads, Andy and Dave, in town for work for the one night, staying at a Travel Inn round the corner and thickskinned enough to butt into what is clearly a very serious conversation between two women on the merest sniff of sex. I giggle and chatter to compensate for Heather saying nothing, and her mounting disbelief gets me badder and bolder. I'm only able to be this thing because she thinks I already am, but it's a pure, lovely high of the sort I haven't felt in years. She and Claire will commiserate over me, and Claire will feed her statistics; perhaps they will work out how to rescue me from myself. The men are smiling, unfurling, telling rough-edged jokes. Dave strokes an enquiring finger up the outside of my thigh, almost accidentally. Andy goes to top up Heather's glass, and she puts a firm hand on top.

‘No. Thanks guys, but no. It's getting late and both Fiona and I have work in the morning.'

‘Oh, go on Hedge, have another drink! Heather just got married,' I tell Andy and Dave, ‘but she's not an old married lady yet. She used to be wild at school, didn't you?'

‘Did you girls go to school together?' Andy asks.

‘That must have been about a year ago, right?' says Dave, and I preen for him.

‘Fiona. Can I talk to you for a minute, please?'

Heather has pushed her stool back and is clutching her coat. She steps away, towards the door.

‘What the hell are you doing?'

‘Just having fun. We didn't all get married this month, Hedge.'

‘I was trying to have a very serious conversation with you. Can we go somewhere else, get this sorted out. I'm worried about you, Fi. I want to help.'

‘What about the Travel Inn bar round the corner? I'm sure
Dave and Andy would get us a residents' discount.'

‘What are you doing? What are you – this isn't you, Fi. This isn't you. Come on, let's go. Not with them. Come on.'

This isn't you. I said that to Samira less than two weeks ago. How would you know, she said. This
isn't
me, though. Poor Heather. She's just trying to care. Her eyes are huge and hurt; for a second it flashes through my head that I must be a very hard person to love.

‘I'm going to stick around for a bit,' not-me tells her, bright smile. ‘Seeing as I arranged Mum to babysit and everything. Might as well make the most of it, eh?'

‘I really think you should come home with me, Fiona. It's not safe. It's not.'

‘Heather. I'm a big girl. Come on. Thanks for the wine, and it was lovely to see you. You're looking great. We should do this again some time soon.'

I've hugged her off and out of the door before she knows what's happening, and somehow, she absolves me, takes all the worry with her. This isn't me. Not me who strides back up to the table and says, sorry about that boys, she's just had a wee bit too much to drink. You two don't mind if I stay around for a little while? Not me who likes the genuine relief on Dave's big red face when he says hey, gorgeous, thought we'd lost you there; not me who likes being called gorgeous, who laps it up, who shares her attention out equally between the two of them when she senses Andy getting bored. It doesn't have to be me, not tonight, not even when we move to the shamingly bright lights of the hotel bar, and the jokes get uglier, the speech slurs and both of their hands fondle my kneebones with almost anthropological interest.

And it's not me that makes a decision to go back to their shared room, flouncy green valances on its twin beds, to actually feel myself getting off on having two big, drunken men trying to explore my body at once, beer breath on my coat collar, fingers in my knickers and my blouse unbuttoned to let a mouth get at my nipple. They're not really attractive at all, either of them;
there's very little to tell them apart. It's not about them being attractive, though.

Two guys, in a Travel Inn.

I watch her in the mirror, being felt up and kissed, clothes still on, and feeling that surge again, I wonder if it's possible to stop all of this, to just say, no, that's enough now.

‘Boys. Boys. Have either of you got protection?'

Neither of them do.

‘Well, I would very much like to fuck both of you, hmm?' Kiss, kiss. ‘There was a machine in the little girls' room by the bar – it'll take me two minutes. Will there be two big hard cocks waiting for me when I come back?'

‘Andy can go, can't you mate?' Dave is a little irritated. Andy takes a couple of seconds to work out what's going on.

‘Why can't you go,
mate
?'

‘No, no, I'll do it. Really. This is a fantasy of mine, yeah?' I kiss them both again. ‘And I need you to make it come true. Hard cocks, okay?'

And I've slipped out, just like that, into the air-conditioning. Leaning up against the lift, breathless from running the length of the corridor, I contemplate actually going back up there, actually doing it. I'm horny. I could. It might feel good.

It feels even better to have been able to stop it, though. To know that that was possible. I sneak quickly past the receptionist, convinced I can feel his disapproval, out into the night. There's a taxi rank just round the corner with only two cabs at it, the drivers both reading their papers, and I'm sure they think they know what I am too, a girl by herself in this area, leaving a hotel at this time of night. My driver says nothing, though, just takes me home.

In my bathroom mirror I come back to my body, inky wine stains on my lips and crazy eyes, and I don't mind at all.

Heather spends the next morning on Facebook, changing her surname to Buchanan and posting a flood of honeymoon photos. Ross, grinning, lobster pink in his trunks. The two of them by the pool with their arms round each other.

Off

Just the hush and hum of computers. If anyone calls from the papers I am to say RDJ Construction are unable to comment at this time, and take a number for a callback that won't happen. There have been three already this morning, bloodhounds blindly following scents.

Norman, bristling with the importance of himself, was in the office to brief me.

‘It's like they'd anticipated our every move,' he said. ‘Bunch of lunatics. They've been in there since god-knows-when, and they've barricaded themselves in. Some people. Some people.'

Norman doesn't understand that people could care this much, I thought, cruel, hard to him on the inside. And then I looked at him properly, his genuinely baffled face, and I realise I've hit it exactly. He's been forced up against a whole way of being that simply doesn't make sense to him, the company man, doing his time in the Territorials, driving home to the family every night and earning his World's Best Dad mug. He'd never expected to encounter
these sorts of people
beyond scare stories in his favourite newspapers. And in a way, it was me that did this to him. I'd enabled the sit-in; I'd enumerated every possible tactic for them. Hell, I'd even given them the names of the RDJ staff most likely to be involved in any break-ins.

I felt a bit sorry for the poor fucker. Just for a second. He sensed it.

‘Just because we're all out, that's no excuse for you to be prancing about on the internet all day, remember. We're a steady ship and it's staying that way. There's work to be done. Ian says to carry on as planned – he'll still need the blue files couriered there this afternoon.'

It must be comforting to be Norman. To have everything you'll ever say or think already scripted for you. That's why he's struggling to cope just now. I did the finger at his retreating back, pulled up my browser almost as a reflex. The words were
already forming around my fingers.

Holly's blog

OMG, bad day today. A lot of shouting in my head and I feel like I can't breathe

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Scandi Sonja

This weekend, the Jackson Group will begin demolition and reconstruction on a Victorian warehouse space in the so-called International Finance District. Their plans are for a huge leisure complex: bowling alleys, three bars, chain restaurants. The council spokesperson commenting on this transfer of property – oh yes, this was a council property – said that they felt the development would “bring new leisure investment into the area and open it up for regeneration”.

Now, as I am sure a number of my regular readers are more than aware, there is already a considerable amount of leisure activity in the area. It's not really the sort that the council want to encourage these days, of course. And that particular Victorian warehouse currently houses the Sanctuary, which is a shelter for street-based sex workers of all genders, run by a team of people who are basically volunteers at this stage. The Sanctuary team have been served a notification of eviction for tomorrow. The council claims to be replacing the Sanctuary with a “mobile unit” (a bus, in case you don't speak bureaucrat. Maybe a people carrier) from which they will practise their new Ways Out scheme. Ways Out, right now, is only available to female sex workers.