Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

Her face and back were soaked in sweat. She was chilled to the core, her heart galloping in irregular bursts. She gripped the arms of her chair. She wasn’t strong enough to withstand this; it was going to overwhelm her. The landscape of her world was going to change forever. What had once been solid ground was now giving way beneath her feet. How would she face the devastation that would ensue? Once again in her life, she was utterly lost.

‘You sit quietly for a while,’ Paul said, handing her a glass. ‘I’ll fix dinner.’

They ate in silence. Then Paul said he’d had doubts from the start, about whether he should be helping Emma, and that events had proved him right. She’d struck him as a flaky kid with the potential to be destructive. He thought Jane had always spoiled her daughter, but neglected her real needs, and her instinct now was to defend her.

Suzanne said little in reply. She couldn’t think clearly. Could all this be a trick to make her believe him? But, she too had seen another side of Emma. As a little girl, she had often been selfish and attention-seeking, and worse. At one birthday tea, the girl had been spiteful towards one of her friends, pulling away her plate and making her cry. And Jane had complained often about Emma stirring up trouble with her brother, breaking one or other of Toby’s toys.

After they’d eaten, she went to sit in the living room. Paul cleared the plates then put on some Vivaldi. Later he turned on the Ten O’Clock News ; Gatwick had been closed for several hours because of the threat of a terrorist attack.

She couldn’t take any of it in, something vital inside her had shut down. All she could do was stare at the flickering screen.

Laura hung her jacket on the corner peg as usual and put her bag on the bench. The changing room was empty. She sat down and opened her purse, took out the slip from the cash machine, and read the balance again: £350.37 CR. It was more than she’d had in her account for ages.

Not quite three weeks in this place, and she’d earned over a thousand pounds. Her rent was paid in full and the landlord wasn’t going to kick her out. She’d done what she’d come for. She could look for another job now, one that didn’t involve taking off her clothes and being inspected by leering men.

Then again, she could stay on a bit longer… just in case. To make sure she’d have enough money to live on in case it took a while to find another job.

She sat on the bench. A thought was tugging at her.

This place had become a habit. Two, sometimes three nights a week. She was getting used to men ogling her as she shimmied about in next to nothing in front of them. She was learning to put her feelings aside and focus on the money she would take home at the end of the night – two hundred pounds most nights, sometimes more.

But the money wasn’t the only thing, was it? Wasn’t it a tiny bit exciting, dancing for these men, these strangers who came here to watch and weave their fantasies?

She unlaced her trainers. Sometimes she did get a buzz out of it, yes, when the men were young and nice to look at. She was being appreciated for what she did and there was a sense of power almost – now she was getting more adept at the job – from being the one in control.

At other times, showing herself off to whichever guy happened to ask made her feel uneasy, cheapened. Deep down, she knew this place was wrong for her. It was hurting her, bit by bit, taking something vital away. It was as if she’d given up on making things better, so they could only get worse. To make things better would require too much effort – too much hope, for a start. It was easier to just let things carry on as they were.

‘Hi, Sarina, how’s it going?’

Sam dumped her bag on the bench, fished out a red corset and held it up for her to admire. It had come from a lingerie shop in Covent Garden, where the day before she’d spent over three hundred pounds. Laura fastened the straps of her platforms and looked in the mirror. A dab of concealer to hide the dark circles forming under her eyes, then a slick of frosted eyeshadow.

The remaining girls arrived. Heather brought out a new pair of strappy work sandals, leading some of them to discuss where they had bought shoes lately and how much they’d spent. Lucy rushed in, out of breath. She’d got pissed on cocktails the night before and slept through her alarm, she said, frantically pulling off her street clothes.

Minute by minute, the chatter grew louder. It was a Wednesday evening. Tomorrow evening would be the start of a four-day weekend for many. Some of the girls had plans to go away for the Easter weekend with husbands, boyfriends or lovers. Not her, though. She’d be working Saturday night, earning whatever she could.

As soon as they were let out onto the floor, Laura headed to the bar. She caught Danny’s eye and nodded as he pointed to the bottle of Jack Daniels. The place was getting busy but no one seemed to be getting any dances.

The first girl was called up on stage for her pole dance. Laura looked around as she downed her drink. It was her turn next.

‘And now, the lovely Sarina!’

She adjusted her G-string and walked into the glare of the spotlights. She began to move in perfect time to the insistent beat. The pole first, then the floor. Each part of her routine flowed smoothly on to the next. Her body knew what to do. Her legs could stretch further than last time, her back arched higher. She would make every man in here want her to dance for him.

The music ended. She spread her legs, pinged her G-string and smiled as raunchily as she could. The punters liked you to look as though you couldn’t wait to shag them, Sam said.

Once the club got going, she was busy for a long stretch with no time to even go to the toilet. A group of men in their twenties began to yell at each girl going up on stage, cheering and heckling as they guzzled bottles of beer and champagne. The security guy did nothing. As long as the customers didn’t make an obvious nuisance of themselves – fighting or spilling their drinks, trying to leave without paying, openly kissing or touching a girl, or trying to get up on stage with them, as had happened the week before – he didn’t seem to mind how they behaved. Lucy was grabbed in the crotch once, and had reported it to Zoe, according to Sam, but Zoe had said that Lucy must have provoked it. Sam said you had to look out for yourself, to always be prepared for the worst.

After her eighth dance, Laura sat on a stool and swigged from her bottle of water. She hadn’t checked her money yet but it would have to be over two hundred pounds, tips included. She looked across the room to the booths along the wall. A lone, middle-aged man in designer casuals, overweight with thinning hair, was beckoning her over. She drained her glass and slipped down from the stool.

‘Hi, honey. My name’s Pete.’ His voice was loud and had a nasal twang. The accent was American, from a part she couldn’t determine.

‘I’m Sarina.’ She sat down on the sofa beside him. He had a pudgy face and his breath smelled of cigar smoke.

‘How are you, Sarina? You seem to be enjoying yourself.’

‘Not bad, thanks.’ She wasn’t in the mood for another inane conversation.

‘Going away for Easter?’

‘No, I’m working Saturday. How about you?’

‘I’m in London on business. I fly home tomorrow. Back to the wife and kids.’ She felt his hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re gorgeous, babe,’ he said, close to her ear. ‘I’ve been watching you all evening. I love the way you move. You give me a warm feeling in my dick.’

She looked at him, repulsed. He was looking her up and down with relish.