Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

‘Noelle, Laura’s here to try out.’

Noelle glanced at her without interest.

‘Noelle checks out all our new girls,’ Zoe explained. ‘She’ll show you some moves up on stage. Watch her then copy as closely as you can.’

Laura followed Noelle up the steps beside the stage.

‘OK, I’ll do an easy one first.’ Noelle sat down with her legs straight out in front of her, spread them, and lowered her stomach onto the floor, as if she’d got into that position every night for the past ten years.

This was an easy one? She tried to coax her body into something vaguely similar, but her legs wouldn’t open as far as Noelle’s and her stomach was still miles from the floor. As she strained her body further, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, a man looking up at her. He slouched against the door at the far end of the room. His face was pitted with small craters and his lips were set in a narrow line. He was examining her as you might check apples for bruises.

That was the whole point of it though, wasn’t it? Men came here to be entertained. They didn’t care how undignified you felt.

The man went up to Zoe, said something, and walked away.

‘That’s Ken,’ Noelle murmured to her. ‘He owns the club. OK, Laura, watch this.’ She sprang to her feet, fastened one leg to the pole and spun herself around.

Laura took a deep breath. She managed to copy the move, sort of, and awaited the next instruction. But Noelle was nodding to Zoe.

‘Thanks, Laura, that’s all.’

She pulled on her shirt and buttoned it up quickly. Sweat stuck the fabric to her back. She glanced over to where Zoe and Noelle were talking, without acknowledging her presence. After a good two minutes, Zoe beckoned. She didn’t look pleased. Noelle left them to it.

‘You were a bit stiff, Laura, you need to loosen up a bit. But I think you’ll be OK with practice.’

Laura let out a long breath. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’

‘I’ll ask Jade to put you down for this Thursday. If you can come in for a couple of hours tomorrow, Noelle will show you some routines on the pole. You’ll have to commit to at least two nights a week.’

She nodded. ‘That’s fine. When will I get paid?’

Zoe raised her eyebrows.

‘I’m a bit short of cash, you see. And how much will I get?’

Her cheeks warmed. Zoe would think she was desperate.

‘I’ll explain how it works, Laura. You pay us an entry fee for the night – that’s forty pounds – and at the end of the night you take away whatever you’ve earned from your dances. There’s no wages as such.’ Zoe smiled frostily. ‘You should do OK. You’re young, good-looking. Most girls are taking home a reasonable amount by the end of their third week.’

‘How much?’

‘At first you’ll probably take home around a hundred pounds a night. In a few weeks, after you’ve got the hang of things, it could be two hundred. Three hundred if you’re really good.’

Two hundred pounds a night, twice a week. It would be worth putting up with this sleazy place for that. At this rate, she had a chance to make the money she needed in time.

‘Some make more than others, of course. That depends on how much the customers like you, and how far you’re prepared to go.’ Zoe paused. ‘But you’ll find out for yourself, soon enough.’

‘Where the hell did I put the damn thing?’

Suzanne slammed shut the last drawer in the kitchen. This was the second time in a month she’d managed to lose her gym membership card. Her brain seemed to be more of a Swiss cheese than ever. She had better find it soon, she needed to leave the house in fifteen minutes for her weekly 4pm yoga class.

After searching once again in her raincoat, her purse, her gym bag, the bedroom and everywhere else it could possibly be, she found herself entering the small room facing the garden that Paul used as an office. It had been her office too once; she liked to work there in the late afternoon, when the sun flooded that side of the house. Paul had started complaining that the desk was his, and wasn’t practical to share, so these days she worked at the desk in Daniel’s old room instead. But it was possible that Paul had picked up the card by mistake, without paying it much attention, and put it away with his stuff.

Everything in the room was neat as usual and carefully ordered. Paul’s National Geographic and sailing magazines, as well as a host of business, marketing and management books, were stacked in bookcases beside the filing cabinets. The desk was clear apart from an extra-wide computer screen, paperweights of varying sizes, a paper knife, a jar with a collection of pens, and a box of his business cards.

She opened the top drawer. It contained a calculator, a ruler, two staplers, a leather-bound desk diary, and a pile of assorted papers. She shifted through them: vehicle registration papers, a half-completed passport application form, a bundle of credit card receipts tied with an elastic band, an old newspaper clipping about a yacht for sale, and a brochure listing special offers on wine.

She started on the second drawer. Her membership card wouldn’t be inside it, she was almost certain. But, now she had started looking, it was hard to stop. If she didn’t find the card, she might find something else that had gone astray. There was a guilty pleasure, too, in looking at what you weren’t supposed to see. She checked the top compartment, full of small items of stationery – more pens, paperclips and so on, then pushed it back, exposing the section below. There was a tear-off notepad, its top page full of Paul’s handwriting, and below that, various letters and documents relating to his job.

The bottom drawer was fuller than the others, and less ordered. She lifted up some of its contents: old theatre programmes, maps from overseas cities that Paul had visited on business, a guide to hotels in Bangkok, business cards from cab firms and building contractors, leaflets that had come through the letterbox, and a humorous birthday card showing a drawing of a man with a fishing rod straining to haul out a giant fish. She opened it, and read, in large, childish letters: To Daddy, With Love From Laura. After replacing the items, she groped at the back of the drawer. Snuggled into a corner was Paul’s Nikon inside its case. She fished it out. It was an odd place for him to put it, she thought. Hadn’t he always kept it on the shelf behind the desk? Without hesitating, she unfastened the case and switched on the camera, curious to see what photos he’d taken. Clicking the button, she reviewed the photographs. There were several of herself and Paul with their friends, Andy and Fiona, on board Andy’s yacht. A couple of close-ups of a small scratch on the rear of the Porsche, scarcely visible, and another of its wheel, and a photograph of Emma.

The girl was putting on an exaggerated pout for the camera, her bottom lip stuck out, hands on hips. Suzanne drew the camera closer. The picture had an intimate quality, as if Emma and the photographer had entered their own private world. Emma had on a sweatshirt and pink lip gloss with a streak of eyeliner. There something rather flirtatious about the way she was looking at the camera, wasn’t there? Where had Paul taken it? Indoors, somewhere. The background was white, and didn’t look like anywhere associated with a swimming pool. Could it have been taken here, inside this house? The date – March 12, nearly three weeks ago – was shown in white at the bottom of the picture. She did a mental calculation. The twelfth had been a Saturday. That must have been the day he’d taken Emma swimming for the last time; the day she was away at the retreat.