Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

‘Sarina, before you go, will you go and see Ken in the office?’ It was Zoe.

Had she done something wrong? Or was there something else she had to do, before Ken would let her come back? Half of her hoped he wouldn’t want her to come back.

She hurried down the passage to the small room where Zoe had interviewed her. The door was open. Ken leaned back in a swivel chair, puffing on a cigarette, his legs stretched out on the desk. An angle-poise lamp cast a harsh circle of light on papers strewn over the desk, leaving Ken’s face shadowed, without pockmarks. But his forehead was too narrow and his cheeks too sunken for his face to be anything other than ugly.

‘So, how did it go, your first night?’ His accent sounded like he was from a rough part of town and he was trying to pretend otherwise. Despite his smooth manner, neatly cut hair and expensive suit, his voice had a harshness to it and a slightly mocking tone. He’s a bully , she thought.

‘Alright, I think.’

‘You seem to have got the hang of things. If you stick with it, you’ll be making good money soon.’

Ken took a long pull on his cigarette, his eyes raking her body as he exhaled. It would have been an insolent look, were he not the club’s manager. She waited for him to speak again.

‘Zoe’s put your name down for this Saturday.’ He flicked through the pages of a large diary on the desk. His voice became brisk and businesslike. ‘And for next Tuesday and Thursday. If there’s any problem, please let Zoe know as soon as possible. Otherwise I’ll expect you here Saturday, at seven sharp.’

He was shooing her away. She nodded, grabbed her bag and flew down the hall, out onto the street. The cold air stung her cheeks and ears. She thrust her hands inside her pockets. Sam was climbing into a cab with Heather and another girl.

Sam thrust her head out of the window. ‘Are you coming back?’

‘Yes, Saturday.’

‘See you then!’

Another cab pulled up soon afterwards. There was no one else waiting, fortunately. Laura climbed into the back seat.

‘Where to, love?’

She met the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. He was studying her expectantly, like a blackbird observing a tasty worm. He knew she had been working at a lap dancing club, of course. He could see what sort of girl she was. She looked down at her hands resting on her bag, suddenly ashamed. Yes, she was Sarina the lap dancer now, a girl who flaunted herself in front of a roomful of men in return for a few quid. She had become a thing for men to drool over.

Suzanne put down the article with a yawn, went into the kitchen and switched on the coffee machine. Sunshine glinted from the cooker and the neat row of stainless steel containers lined up on the worktop. Through the open window she could see the trees in the garden, their branches puffed up with blossom. It was a glorious day, not a day to be sitting indoors.

She took her coffee outside to the patio. At last, spring had arrived. This winter had been surprisingly mild, yet lately, the bare branches and dreary, sodden days had weighed on her more than usual. As the sun warmed her skin, the aroma of coffee and damp earth mixed deliciously, removing all nagging thoughts about Paul and Emma. If only one could rein in the days as they galloped towards autumn. On days like this, the sun and the earth seemed to work their magic, turning lifeless twigs into supple shoots and flower-filled buds. She leaned her head back and basked, feeling a rush of contentment. It wasn’t just the sunshine, or the quiet greenness of the garden. Once in a while, it was as if something new and vital was unfurling inside her, too. Something beyond words, something she couldn’t explain to herself, let alone anyone else. As if the real Suzanne Cunningham was waiting to come out of hiding – not Paul’s wife, not a mother of two, not the woman who edited articles in obscure magazines, but another woman altogether.

She sipped her coffee slowly, examining the garden. The fence was invisible under a deluge of yellow forsythia. Further down, the apple trees were a mass of white frills. Wedding dress frills. Suzanne smiled. Weddings, that was all she’d thought about these past few days, after Sunday’s conversation with her son – along with much of the country, given the upcoming Royal splurge.

‘Mum, brace yourself,’ Daniel had greeted her when she answered the phone. ‘I’ve got something to tell you. Can you guess?’

‘I don’t know. Tell me.’ He’s going to work overseas , or he’s in trouble with the police . Which scenario would be worse, she wasn’t sure. ‘Have you got another promotion?’

‘Karen and I have got engaged. We’re going to get married.’

‘Married?’ It was the last thing she’d expected.

‘You know – a wedding, in a church.’

‘Daniel! I’m surprised, that’s all. I didn’t realise. I’m so happy for you, darling.’

‘I know I’m young, we both are. But I love Karen. I want us to have kids together.’

‘She’s not pregnant, is she?’

To her relief he had laughed for about a minute, and the conversation turned to his wedding plans – it would have to be the end of summer, probably, or there wouldn’t be enough time to organise the event. She avoided saying what was in her head – that the end of summer was only a few months away and he was quite young to be getting married, that it would be better to wait and get some experience of life first. There was plenty of time for that conversation.

But afterwards, she tried to reconcile her son’s planned marriage with the mischievous, irresponsible Daniel she’d always known. He had never talked of love. He’d always seemed disinterested in marriage, joking about older work colleagues who had succumbed to children and resented losing their former carefree lives. She’d always pictured him marrying in his thirties, after he’d had time to accumulate property, status and experience. Not at twenty-four, in his first job, to his first serious girlfriend. Then again, if he were willing to give up his freedom to marry the woman he loved, how could she argue with that? He’d known Karen longer than she’d known Paul when they got married.

She sighed. If she’d known Paul for several years, long enough to see all aspects of him, would she still have married him? A wistfulness drifted over her. She got up and walked across the lawn, her shoes sinking into the dew-soaked grass. Every blade had been daubed in a glossy overcoat, except where a trail of dark paw prints led across the lawn. She scanned the rockery and the patio wall, half expecting to see a familiar flash of fur. But Marmaduke wasn’t in any of his usual places. No doubt he was hanging out with Toby, next-door’s noisy Siamese.

At the beech tree, she stopped and looked up to the tree house. The rope ladder hung down limply, its lower end frayed. Paul had built it for the children, years ago. Back then, it was the perfect hideaway, for Laura especially. She loved going up there and having tea parties with her dolls, and when she was older, she spent long summer days up there with a book or sketchpad, deaf to all pleas to come down.

Suzanne walked past the apple trees to the end of the lawn. The grass was long and straggly underfoot. She took a large step to avoid the half-consumed remains of a bird – Marmaduke’s doing, no doubt – and reached the semi-circular platform backing on to the fence, below an overhanging horse chestnut. Worn steps led up to a statue of a mermaid. Her tail was flecked with moss. The structure was draped in shadow, apart from a shaft of sunlight that tickled the mermaid’s back. There was something mysterious about this part of the garden, the way it was shielded by trees on all sides as if it had been purposefully hidden. A breeze stirred in the leaves above, putting goose pimples on her arms. She turned and walked towards the house, past the banks of rhododendron. Time was getting on.