Scarlet Women

Only now, more and more, it was reminding her of another ring, the diamond-studded one that Constantine Barolli always wore.

Ah, what’s the use?, she thought. It’s done.

He’d gone, and he wasn’t coming back.

Now she had a job to do, and that was good. She had to lose herself in getting the clubs up and running again. She was lucky to have an interest, a business that demanded so much of her time, because, if you were busy, you couldn’t think too much of how you had fucked up your chance of a great love affair by playing it all so disastrously wrong.

There was a tap at the door and Tony, her driver and her minder, poked his bald head around it. The crucifixes in his cauliflower ears glistened bright gold in the summer sunlight streaming in through the office window.

‘First of the girls is here, Boss,’ he said.

She was interviewing staff now. Bar staff, kitchen staff, cleaners, dancers. Not the dancers that had been here before, swinging their enormous naked tits about for all to see. No, these would be discreet go-go dancers, twirling and whirling in fringed white bikinis on tiny strobe-lit podiums around the new dance floor.

She didn’t want the dirty-mac brigade coming back in here. She wanted a better class of clientele, and she was going to make sure she got it.

Annie sighed. Tucked all thoughts of Constantine away.

He’s gone for good, she told herself. So forget it, okay? Move on.

She got her mirrored compact out of her handbag and dabbed away the shine from her nose. Then she applied a slick of scarlet lipstick and paused, staring at the image reflected in the mirror; the steady dark green eyes, the arched black brows and thick black lashes, the good olive-toned skin, the straight fall of thick, cocoa- brown hair, the wide, sensuous, painted mouth. It was a face that could, in fact, be called beautiful.

Then why didn’t he call?

She let out an exasperated sigh and closed the compact with a snap. Dumped it back in the bag, gave Tony a brisk smile.

‘Right. Send her up, Tone.’ She had fifteen girls to see this afternoon and opening night was just three weeks away. Best to crack on. Distract herself. Get on with it.

Annie sat at the kitchen table at the Limehouse brothel later in the day, sipping hot strong tea and looking at her friend Dolly, who was madam there—Dolly with her blonde bubble perm, her immaculate make-up and nails, wearing a neat lightweight powder-blue suit. Incredible to think that Dolly had once been the roughest brass in the place; now she was in charge and she looked the part.

‘Good trade today?’ asked Annie.

It was Friday—party day at the Limehouse knocking-shop. Drinks, nibbles, and floor shows on offer—everyone was happy. Young Ross was on the door to keep order, but mostly he didn’t need to—his sheer size and presence was all the deterrent to bad behaviour that was needed. There was music coming from the front parlour, and laughter coming from upstairs. The place was packed with eager punters getting massages, blow-jobs and other personal services. Annie thought this would be enough for anybody to contend with, but Dolly had started up an escort business too. It ran alongside her well-run brothel like a Swiss clock. Slotted in just nice.

‘Yeah, really good. Takings are holding steady.’

‘And the new girls?’

Dolly pulled a face. ‘Dunno yet. Rosie’s a good worker, when she can be arsed to bother. But Sharlene’s a bit of a bloody nightmare, the attitude on her. And Aretha didn’t show up.’

Annie looked at her. ‘Hasn’t she phoned?’

Dolly shook her head.

‘Well she will,’ said Annie.

Aretha was Dolly’s S & M specialist, their resident dominatrix. Her room was kitted out with punishment chairs, whips, chains, any quirk or fetish the punter desired; she could cater to any individual’s particular perversion. She was tall, black and beautiful, strong as an ox and the best friend Dolly and Annie had ever had.

‘Probably got pissed last night,’ sighed Dolly. ‘She was working. Probably overdid it on the bubbly. Bet she’s sleeping it off. If she hasn’t called by eight, I’ll call her. Punters have been asking for her, it aint good.’

Annie stood up. ‘Well, I’m off to pick up Layla from Kath’s.’

‘And how is Kath?’

Annie couldn’t stifle a smile. Dolly had already passed judgement on Kath—declaring that she was a dirty mare, and beyond hope. But Annie didn’t think so. Kath was her cousin; they were family. She was prepared to give the poor cow a chance.

‘Kath’s fine. Starting to shape up,’ she lied. ‘Hasn’t Ellie kept you up to speed?’

Ellie had once been one of Dolly’s little band of sex workers. Now she was working as a cleaner here, and helping Kath out too. Kath had suffered depression after her mother’s death, and her husband had knocked her black and blue; she’d needed help. Ellie was busy providing it. Whether Kath liked it or not—which mostly she didn’t.

‘Ellie tells me Kath’s place is getting tidy, but I think you’d have to explode a fucking bomb in there first to get anywhere near it,’ sniffed Dolly. ‘Hey—you heard from that hunky American yet?’

Annie stiffened. ‘No. And I’m not likely to.’

‘That’s a damned shame,’ said Dolly. ‘What happened?’

I killed it, that’s what happened, thought Annie.

She was mad at herself, mad as hell. Because hadn’t she done something very similar with Max? She’d gone after him with no holds barred, full throttle, even though he belonged to someone else, even though the consequences had proved to be dire.

She had no subtlety, not an ounce in her entire body. Damn, why couldn’t she just hold back a bit? Why couldn’t she play those delicious, teasing cat-and-mouse games that other women played? No kissing on the first date. No groping above the waist until the third. No touching anywhere else until there was an engagement ring on her finger. No fucking under any circumstances until there was a wedding band right beside it. Was that so difficult?

But no. Not her.

She went at the damned thing like a bull at a gate. She was either on or off. No half measures, no holding back. She was either totally committed, or utterly detached. There were no in-betweens—and she guessed that she scared men shitless.

‘Nothing happened,’ she told Dolly briskly. ‘Nothing at all. And it don’t matter. I’ve got the flat straight, the club’s being refurbed, I’ve got enough to think about.’

The flat was the one above the Palermo where she had first slept with Max. It seemed sort of fitting that she should be living there with Layla now.

‘You could have stayed here while the work’s going on,’ said Dolly. ‘You know it’s no trouble.’

‘Doll, ain’t we had this conversation? I can’t keep a child in a knocking-shop, it just ain’t right.’

‘Well,’ pouted Dolly.

‘It’s kind of you,’ said Annie firmly. ‘But no. And besides Layla, I’ve got to consider my position. This is Delaney turf, Doll. I can’t stay here.’

The Irish Delaney mob, who ran the streets of Limehouse and Battersea, were the Carter gang’s bitter enemies. And although Annie had once associated with them, and even formed a business relationship with the chilly and devious Delaney twins, Orla and Redmond, the things they had done had turned her against them.

However, Redmond still allowed her to visit Dolly here, turning a blind eye to the head of the Carter firm walking his streets, and that was good of him. But she knew that what Max had always told her about them was the truth. They were vipers, he’d said, and not to be trusted. She knew now that he was right.

‘Well, whatever you think best,’ said Dolly.

Annie stood up. ‘I’ll catch you later,’ she said, and went off down the hall, nodding to Ross. As a Delaney boy, it pissed him off to see a Carter here; but he’d had his orders from the top. Her presence was to be tolerated.

For now, anyway, she thought.