Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

Martin gestured to the internal door. ‘I’ll use the bathroom, if you don’t mind.’

She dimmed the spotlights, and angled the blinds to exclude the yellow glare of the street light, then sat waiting on the sofa facing the window. Her chest filled with the same fluttery tightness as before. Shivering, she pulled her wrap tighter. It was cool in this room, and beneath the thin layer of silk she was wearing only her underwear. She lifted the cushion beside her. Underneath, two small plastic squares: Durex.

Laura put back the cushion. They could stay where they were, for now. She unclasped a small shoulder bag containing her cosmetics and examined her face in the compact mirror. Her lips were a cupid’s bow of vibrant red. Her hair, newly washed and sprayed into position, draped her shoulders. Her nails glimmered like butterfly wings.

Outside, a car alarm burst into a shrill warble then abruptly stopped, plunging the room into an uneasy quiet. She listened for the sound of the toilet flushing, or the tap running, but could hear nothing, just the tap of high heels on paving stones outside and a thudding down the corridor. What the hell was he doing in there? Why could he not hurry up and put her out of her misery?

At the same time, she was glad he was still in there. She didn’t want him to come out.

Laura looked around the room, dominated by its square of parquet floor. A plant languished in a ceramic pot by the wall. Its shiny, pointed leaves were interspersed with dull brown ones, shrivelled at the edges. On one wall there were framed, rather twee, sketches of girls pouting and preening in front of mirrors. She turned to the wall behind her. A large painting hung that she hadn’t noticed on her first visit – a striking impression of a young woman lying naked in long grass amid galaxies of tiny blue flowers. Her limbs were pale and ghostly. A clump of dark stems grew thickly from the V of her legs, part of the landscape.

Laura shivered. The bathroom door clicked loudly, making her jump. Martin emerged, unsmiling. He set his jacket over the back of the sofa and eased himself down beside her. He wore a light, inoffensive scent. She waited for him to say something, unsure of what ought to happen next. Noelle hadn’t given her any instructions about private dances, and Sam had been unhelpfully vague.

‘Um… would you like me to dance for you now?’

Martin nodded. ‘Good idea.’

‘I’ll put some music on.’ She went to the tower of CDs beside the stereo and selected Madonna’s greatest hits. Music filled the room. Laura took off her wrap. Her heart thudded. What was she doing here? She walked into the middle of the square of parquet and started to dance to ‘Material Girl’.

‘Come closer,’ Martin said. ‘I can’t see you properly.’

She moved closer. He leaned towards her, forearms resting on his thighs. His face gave nothing away.

A minute or so into the track she took off her bra, and then her pants, leaving only the G-string, stockings and platform sandals. She lay on her back and held both legs up then opened them wide. She glanced at his face. It was alert, waiting. There was a flash of impatience in it, like hunger.

Back on her feet, sideways on to him, she rotated her hips, moving her hands down over her breasts as she did so, and peeled off the G-string. Now she was naked except for her stockings and sandals. In that moment, she was as exposed as she’d been on her first night at the club. She had been naked in front of customers many times now, but in here it was different. She was alone with him and anything could happen.

The music was still playing. Martin’s hand was on his crotch.

‘Come here,’ he said.

She went towards him, swirling her tongue around her dry mouth.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, without concern.

‘I’m fine.’

Did Martin know this was the first time she’d been in private with a punter? Had Ken told him?

‘Sit down,’ he instructed, unzipping his flies.

She did as he said, repulsed by his coldness, his expectation, by everything about him. He reached out and squeezed her breast. She stayed still, didn’t object. But this wasn’t what she wanted at all. Something was compelling her to go along with him – just as it had all those years ago with her father.

Yes, her father had trained her well, hadn’t he? All his little gifts, all his unspoken promises that he’d be nice to her, so long as she did what he wanted and didn’t blab to anyone. Whenever he’d wanted to touch her or ogle her, she’d obliged. It had all come in so handy for this job.

‘You’re beautiful.’ Martin traced his fingers around her nipple.

She wanted to pull away from his hand and run. But she couldn’t. He was smiling now, the same cold smile. He was enjoying this.

‘Come down here and suck me,’ he said. ‘I need to get warmed up first.’

He was waiting – he expected her to obey, to do this as she’d done everything else. She only had to bring her head down and open her mouth.

Horror and disgust filled her. What the hell was she doing? She couldn’t go through with this. Everything about it was wrong.

‘No, I can’t.’ She stared at him, shocked at her own words.

‘What did you say?’ His face was uncomprehending.

She got to her feet. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest.

He frowned. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m going, I can’t do this. I’m sorry.’

‘No, you can’t go yet.’ He grabbed her arm and yanked her back.

‘Leave me alone!’ She pulled away from him, about to run for the door, but Martin was ready. He shoved her hard in the chest, sending her reeling backwards. She hit the floor with a thud, landing awkwardly, and cried out in pain. He crouched beside her and pressed down hard on her arms. His face moved closer. It showed the extent of his anger. His mouth was open. He wanted to humiliate her, to pay her back for refusing him. And he was far stronger than she was. She would have no chance.

Instinctively, she scratched his face. The soft flesh did not resist her nails. A trickle of red ran down his cheek. A strange noise came from his throat, not quite a gurgle, not quite a gasp. He tried again.

‘Bitch!’

Before he could retaliate, she’d covered herself with her wrap. Without looking back, without collecting her bag or her underwear, she yanked open the door and fled along the corridor.

The changing room was empty except for a scattering of food wrappers on the floor. Her bag was on the bench, below her outdoor clothes that were hanging on the peg. In seconds, she’d pulled on her jeans and jammed her arms into her cotton sweater. Her fingers stumbled on the laces of her trainers. She grabbed her jacket. She had to get out of here before Martin came after her, or Ken found out what she’d done.

Ken wasn’t in the reception area, thank God. There was no sign of him or any customers. Laura pressed the button to open the front door and slipped out. The street was deserted – no waiting cabs, no passers-by, no girls from the club. She began to run.

Five, ten minutes later she stopped and checked the road behind her once again. No one was coming after her. She could slow down now. For a few moments, she was overcome with relief. Nothing on earth would make her set foot in that place again. Her body felt light, as if she’d been released from a death sentence.

Suzanne pressed the buzzer to flat five and waited. The large communal bin against the fence was overflowing again, she noticed. It was surrounded by bulging garbage bags, sodden pizza boxes and a stack of empty bottles. An unshaven man, wearing sunglasses and a khaki jacket, got into a dirty BMW parked on the street outside the block of flats.