Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

About seven or eight girls were already in the changing room, smelling of perfume, sweat and hairspray. She took her gear out of her bag, along with a water bottle, an apple, and a muesli bar. There hadn’t been time to cook anything. Anyway, she wasn’t hungry, she hadn’t been hungry all day.

Sam stood in front of the mirror in a silk camisole, brushing her hair vigorously, a sour expression on her face.

‘My period’s due, I’ve been like a grizzly bear all day. I’m bloated and fat and horrible.’

‘You don’t look it, dear,’ Heather replied beside her, imprinting red lips on a tissue.

‘I really didn’t want to work tonight. Ken asked me to do a job later, but I said no.’

Laura squeezed in front of the mirror. Her face was pale and her eyes stared out from dark sockets. She frowned. No one would want her to dance for them, looking like this. She smeared foundation into the dark patches and dabbed blusher onto her cheeks.

Sam greeted her. ‘Hi, hun, how’re you?’

‘Alright, I suppose.’ She followed Sam to her spot at the end of the bench. ‘I told Ken I’d go to the private room tonight.’

‘I thought you didn’t want to.’

‘I’ve changed my mind.’

Sam shrugged. ‘It’s up to you. But you might regret it afterwards.’

‘Maybe.’ She rummaged in her bag for her dangly jet earrings and looked into the mirror. ‘Do I look alright?’

‘Ten minutes, girls! Stop yakking and get a move on!’ Zoe placed a bowl beside a washbasin. ‘And help yourselves to Easter eggs.’

‘You look simply stunning, darling,’ Sam said, in a mock upper-class accent. ‘I so wish I had your looks. The guys’ll be queuing up for you.’

Laura sat at the bar with the others and asked for a Diet Coke. Everyone was waiting for the place to fill.

Heather looked into her glass and sighed. ‘I hate all this waiting around. I wish we didn’t have to come in so early on Saturdays.’

‘Easter weekend is always slow at first,’ Lucy said, in a know-it-all tone. ‘It’ll pick up.’

Sam said nothing, fiddling with her bra so her breasts stuck out more. Her silver bracelet glinted in the mirror ball’s dancing beams. Zoe strode past the bar in skin-tight black leather trousers, turning a wary eye on them.

After about half an hour, the music went up in volume. Right on cue, three youngish men in jeans and casual jackets appeared at the entrance door. They sauntered in, had a good look around then sat at a table in front of the stage.

Lucy nodded to Noelle and the pair of them went across to join the new arrivals.

They returned five minutes later, Lucy shaking her head. ‘They just want to talk.’

The minutes crawled by. Another girl got up on stage, and another. Laura looked around the club. More customers were arriving, but there still weren’t enough men to go around. No one was getting any dances anyway, she had talked to everyone at least once with no luck. As usual, Lucy and Noelle rushed over as soon as anyone new sat down, determined to get picked first. Some of the others, less confident, or more calculating, preferred to hang back then pounce at precisely the moment the guy would be ready to part with his cash.

Eventually, after lots of fruitless conversations, it was her turn to go up on stage.

She grabbed the pole and began to twirl and slide, trying to keep an alluring smile on her face. But inside she felt uncomfortable. Someone was trying to have a word with her, her old self perhaps; the Laura who would have died rather than show herself off like this.

What are you doing, Laura? Why are you doing this to yourself?

Three men sat at the table nearest the stage. They were big-framed, sporty types, guzzling a bottle of Dom Pérignon. One of them – the leader of the pack she guessed, the loudest and the best looking – gave her an exaggerated smile.

After her performance she went up to him. Before she could say anything, he grabbed her and sat her on his knee. They weren’t supposed to do this, and she didn’t like it, but she said nothing to stop him. The security guard was nowhere to be seen – they occasionally went to the toilets to snort cocaine, she’d overheard Noelle saying to Lucy – but this guy was harmless, just out of it. His eyes shone as he told her about himself, rocking slightly from side to side and slurring his words.

His mates looked on in wry amusement.

‘He’s celebrating his divorce,’ one said loudly. ‘He’s not been to one of these places before.’

She danced for him when he asked and he tucked another clutch of tenners into her garter. The sense of discomfort deepened, turning into a physical ache in her chest. A thought kept on at her, like a buzzing fly.

This isn’t the real me.

The club got busy for a while and then quietened again. Minutes dragged by. Girls stood around looking bored, moaning that they wanted to go home.

Laura went to the bar and asked for a Jack Daniels and Coke. It had to be after 1am; she was tired, and anxious about what would happen. When was the ‘special customer’ going to arrive? How much longer was she going to have to wait? She could change her mind, tell Ken she didn’t want to do this after all.

‘Don’t forget to use a condom,’ Sam hissed in her ear. ‘Sometimes they offer you extra not to.’

She nodded with a stab of alarm. Of course, condoms. She’d not given them any thought.

‘Heather keeps some under the cushion of the sofa in there, if you haven’t got any.’

It was another half an hour at least before Ken arrived, followed by a tall, well-built man, aged forty or so, with a leather jacket slung over his shoulder. His neat brown hair was greying at the temples. He walked with a slight swagger, looking straight ahead. Not the friendly type.

She watched from a nearby table as the two men approached the bar, the out-of-the-way one that she would sit at when she didn’t want to dance anymore. They ordered drinks, then Ken beckoned her over. He shouted over the music.

‘Martin, this is Sarina.’

‘Hello there.’ Martin smiled briskly. A trace of an East End accent. His eyes, cool and unwavering, appraised her in a second. Something about him made her uneasy.

Ken turned to Laura. ‘I’ll leave you to entertain Martin. The room’s ready, when you want it.’

She sat at the table with Martin. He took a swig from his shot glass. She wished she had some of her drink left.

‘So,’ she forced a smile, ‘how are you?’

‘Fine, thanks. It’s been a busy day, as usual.’ He spoke quietly, not meeting her eyes.

‘Are you a regular here, Martin?’

‘You could say. I’ve been here enough times, over the years.’

Neither spoke. Martin tapped his thigh. Then he drained his glass and got to his feet.

‘Ken said you could dance for me in private.’ He jerked his head towards the unmarked door leading away from the main club. ‘Can we go over there now?’

She contemplated making an excuse, she could say she felt unwell – something about him unnerved her. But it was too late now. He was expecting her to be available for him. He wasn’t the type who’d appreciate being let down. She led him down the dimly lit passage, past the nude drawings, the dance music fading to a dull throb of bass.

They stopped at the door of the private room.

So, Laura, you’re a hooker now, are you?

Martin stepped inside and she closed the door behind them. She noticed that the key had been removed – might someone come in and check up on them? It was a horrible thought. She sniffed the musty air, a combination of faded perfume, a leathery, old car smell, and sex. She tried to open a window for a blast of fresh air, but it wouldn’t budge.