Alek Popov - Mission London

“Is something wrong darling?” asked Chas worriedly.

“You try them on for size!” she hissed, throwing the clips at him.

“Hey, cool it! I already did, if you must know,” Chas said.

“Well, I’m not a masochist!” Katya shouted.

“Hurry up!” screeched Kamal Dalali once again.

“Come on, it’s only for ten minutes.”

“Not happening!” she snapped.

“Hurry up!!!”

“I’m not wearing them and that’s final!” she insisted. “They’re killing me. You’d better go invent something else!”

“Mr Dalali, we have a problem!” Chas whined loudly.

The Lebanese materialised instantly, wiping his face with a silk handkerchief. A still smouldering cigar drooped from his mouth, giving off a sickly smell. Chas brought him up to speed on the situation. He frowned, “Put the bells on!”

“Look what they did to me!” she said, holding her red nipples.

“There’s nothing wrong with your fucking nipples!”

“They hurt! Look how red they are!”

“Quit whingeing!” the Lebanese fumed. “Get on stage!”

Chas gave the clips back to her, waving them playfully in front of her nose. “Tinkle, tinkle!” Katya batted his hand away. Dalali slapped her forcefully.

“Bitch!” he ground out through his teeth.

“Arsehole!” screamed Katia in his face, rubbing her cheek. “Dirty butt-fucker! Pig!”

“Get out!” roared Kamal Dalali. “Get your arse out of here and don’t let me catch you round here again! Chas, see this whore out of here, d’you hear me!”

Katya stuck her tongue out at them and threw herself onto a chair. The girls busied themselves with their make-up once more, muttering discontentedly amongst themselves. Gunter Chas sidled up to her.

“Don’t let it get to you darling. He’ll get over it, you know how he is.”

“I’ve had it with the lot of you!” she sighed.

“Niina! Hurry up!” called Kamal Dalali from somewhere behind the curtains.

“Fuck you!” whispered Katya.

She shrugged sharply out of the slimy garment, not so much as bothering to pick it off the floor. She grabbed her rucksack and locked herself in one of the toilets. A notice was plastered on the door: ‘The smoking of weed is forbidden!’ She made herself comfortable and pulled out the mobile she had bought for just twenty quid two weeks earlier. She brought up Barry Longfellow’s number of and dialled. It was answered almost instantly.

“Hi, this is Kate,” she said hesitantly, “from Bailey’s. You offered me a part in your performance.”

“A part?!” The voice sounded strangely distant. “Oh, yes, I remember. I was beginning to think that you’d never call.”

“Well, I did.”

“Okay. Tomorrow evening, The Athenaeum, room 165. Come at 11 pm, sharp.”

“Okay.”

She had wanted to ask something else, but Barry put the phone down. That is what I call a business-like approach to things, she thought. Someone tried the door-handle without success. Katya chuckled. Then she dialled another number. This time she had to wait longer for a reply.

“Daddy?” she queried, once she heard a voice at the other end.

Usually, she phoned at the weekend when it was cheaper. Today was Thursday, and close to midnight at that. Her father started to fret, “Are you all right? Why are you calling?”

“I just felt like it. I wanted to hear your voice. How’s mother?”

“She’s sleeping. She’s well.” He sounded like a man counting seconds and pennies in his head.

“What are you up to?

“Television.”

“You’re watching telly?” she asked, bewildered.

“Well, yes! Look you’re blowing a lot of money….”

“Don’t worry about it. What’s on?”

“Rubbish.” He fell silent.

She also fell silent. The line hissed gently. Katya realised that her parents always spoke to her in that absurd and broken manner, no matter who was paying the bill. Most frequently it was herself, but to them it made no difference. The expense of the words seemed to paralyse their ability to talk. Silence, however, was no cheaper, and she sensed her father’s anxiety at the other end. She should not torture him any longer.

“It was good to hear you,” she said finally. “Give my love to mother, ciao.”

“Good to hear from you too, cherub.” Suddenly his tongue came unstuck, ‘Goodbye!’

The door-handle rattled once more.

Katya stared at the phone’s screen until it switched itself off. I’m never going back alive! she thought, grinding her teeth. Even the clips were preferable to the enduring humiliation of life over there.

Leaving Bailey’s Place, Katya felt a certain sadness. She had had some good times in that hole, but most importantly, she had gained her freedom. She had not only stripped clothes from her body, but also those odorous garments that wrap the virgin minds of the folk from the East. Here she had had a taste of financial independence for the first time. She had gotten to know her body and how to manage it.

She had felt mistress of her destiny.

On the way out, Samantha caught her hand tenderly — the memory of which stayed with her as she walked away down the streets of Soho. Drizzle hung in the air. The streetlights glared brightly, reflected by the wet tarmac. Katya crossed Shaftsbury Avenue, and continued down into China Town. She dived into one of the many little restaurants where one could stuff oneself to bursting for less than ten pounds, and ordered Peking Duck, her favourite dish. Whilst watching the small Chinese waiter dismembering the fowl with a spoon, she thought to herself, Life goes on, and should be lived to the full.

“Your Excellency!” Robert Ziebling exclaimed, from the very threshold of the office, “I cannot begin to express how delighted I was to receive this invitation.”

The Managing Director of ‘Famous Connections™’ seized the Ambassador’s hand and proceeded to shake it fiercely. He was of average height, slightly over forty, with thick, unruly ginger hair. A pair of fashionably thin glasses, with yellow lenses, were wrapped around his face. He was wearing a severely cut, single-breasted jacket, buttoned to the neck, which gave him a military air.

“Please, have a seat,” Varadin responded woodenly, nodding to the heavy leather suite that graced the forward half of his office.

He waited for Tania Vandova to serve the tea for his guest, and began warily, “I received an excellent recommendation for your agency from Dean Carver.”

“Oh, yes!” Ziebling nodded energetically. “He is one of our regularclients. Avery original man. Such a tireless imagination…!”

Varadin blinked bewildered. “Mr Carver let me know that your agency has connections at the highest possible levels…” He continued hesitantly, “I won’t hide from you the fact that that is precisely what interests me. As you can see, my own connections are purely official, which imposes certain restrictions…you understand, of course.”

“Of course….” Ziebling began to nod.

“The possibility of less formal ways of communicating has always interested me,” the Ambassador added. “Sometimes such connections can turn out to be far more fruitful than official ones.”

“That’s usually how it happens,” Ziebling agreed, and asked slyly, “And in which sphere do your interests lie exactly?”

“Excuse me?”

“Our network of connections is tremendously wide,” explained Ziebling. “That’s why they are grouped into different categories. For example, Show-biz stars: Spice Girls, Elton John, Boy George, Mr Bean, Benny Hill…”

“Wait a moment!” cut in Varadin. “I thought Benny Hill was dead?”