Charity (46 page)

Haltingly Dorothy explained.

‘I wanted to ignore him when he beckoned for me to come outside for a minute,’ she said, tears running down her cheeks. ‘He was a bit difficult, but eventually I said to meet me back here around two.

‘I thought you and Rita would be here,’ she sobbed. ‘We had a few drinks, then he started telling me his marriage was over and he needed me. He raped me too.’ Dorothy covered her face with both her hands. ‘He hit me first, then he pulled off my clothes and raped me. When he’d finished he threw a ten-pound note at me.’

‘Oh Dottie,’ Charity said as she helped her friend out of the bath and wrapped a towel round her. She didn’t know whether the man was a maniac or just another sad, lonely person who’d looked for Dorothy hoping she could offer him comfort. Many men had been on the receiving end of her friend’s sharp tongue, but she’d picked on the wrong one this time.

She toyed with the idea of calling the police, but that was quickly dismissed. Girls like them wouldn’t get police protection, and if the neighbours got wind of any of that they’d soon lose the flat too.

Charity got her own warm dressing-gown and led Dorothy into her bedroom, pulling back the bedclothes for her.

It was a miserable, grey October day outside and in an effort to shut it out, Charity drew the curtains and switched on the bedside light. Then she looked down at her friend.

She wanted to confess her own prostitution more than anything in the world. It would be good to sob out her pain and they could find consolation in one another. But she forced herself to sound cold. If she was sympathetic, Dorothy would have no hope.

‘I haven’t got a great deal of sympathy,’ she said coolly. That man shouldn’t have hit you, or raped you. No one can condone that. But you play fast and loose with people’s feelings, Dot; you had this coming.’

‘Where are you going?’ Dorothy looked round at her friend as she walked towards the door.

‘To clear up before Rita has to see all this,’ she said sharply. ‘But I’m not cleaning your room. You can do that yourself later. Your face will mend, Dot, but if you go on like this you’ll destroy yourself. Now, for once in your selfish little life, think about other people. Think about how lucky we were to get this flat, to have one another. Laziness and self-pity are slowly choking you. I’m ashamed of what you’re becoming.’

In Dorothy’s bedroom as she cleaned up the mess, despite what she’d said, Charity sobbed her heart out. They were both emotional cripples; they just used different crutches. Money and beautiful clothes wouldn’t bring back their babies, or compensate for lack of love. Both had gone right down to the gutter last night and perhaps the memory of it would prevent them ever rising up again.

Rita phoned later to say she was going over to see her parents after work and wouldn’t be home. She asked why Charity sounded so odd, but all Charity could offer as an excuse was that she was tired.

She was tired, too. Tired of being an adult, when inside she wanted to be a little girl again. Tired of hoping that one day everything would be perfect. Tired of other people needing her when she had no one. Her brothers and sister lived in the lap of luxury, but even though they were old enough to know the truth about why she was exiled, they didn’t care enough to phone, or write. Even Lou and Geoff told her half-truths.

As she heated up some soup for Dorothy and cut fingers of crustless bread and butter, tears trickled down her cheeks.

‘Sit up Dot,’ she said as she carried the tray into the bedroom. ‘I’m sorry if I wasn’t kinder when you needed it.’

Dorothy hauled herself up and leaned back against the head of the bed.

‘You were right in what you said.’ She shrugged her shoulders and tried to smile. ‘I’m glad to see you being a bitch at last.’

Charity let Dorothy eat the soup, silently watching her. Even with a cut lip, black eye and bruised cheek she was still beautiful. She remembered all they’d been to one another at Daleham Gardens, sharing the birth of Samantha, the laughter and tears, and she knew that the bond between them was indestructible.

She could feel how much she had changed in the last twenty-four hours and knew too that she was never going to be the same again.

‘I think I qualify for the title of bitch on all counts. I’ve stopped being a doormat. I’ve gone behind your back and bought the agency from Carmel. I’m even going to refuse to clean up after you again.’

Dorothy’s one good eye opened in surprise.

‘Welcome to the bitches’ club,’ she said, holding on to her cut lip with one hand as if afraid a smile would open it again. ‘Come into bed with me and give me a cuddle.’

Charity slipped in beside her friend and it was a moment or two before she realised it was Dorothy cuddling her, not the other way round.

Dorothy’s voice was husky with emotion. ‘I won’t let you down again, Chas, promise.’

It was the strangest thing to find her friend acting as comforter to her for once. But perhaps that was what friendship was all about.

Chapter Twenty-One

Charity climbed down the stepladder as the phone rang and wiped her paint-covered hands on a rag.

‘Chelsea 9367,’ she said. ‘Yes, you do have the right number, this is Carmel’s agency. I’ve taken over her clients …’

Charity smiled as she put down the phone. That was the third booking she’d made today. Only one man had cried off when he found that Carmel had retired.

She jotted down the details on the booking sheet, then went back to her painting.

Carmel had moved her bulging old files out last Friday, and Charity had been working on the office all weekend. It had been a daunting, filthy job. Although the old wallpaper had been peeling off, beneath it the plaster came away in places too. Only the friendly intervention of the man in the sandwich bar next door had saved her, when he gave her a packet of Polyfilla and explained what was needed. But now it was nearly done: the ceiling and woodwork were white, the walls palest pink.

Later today the sandwich bar man had promised to send in a friend of his to put up some new lights, and a contact of Rita’s was bringing round some old exhibition carpet which he said would be as good as new.

As Charity finished off the last bit of wall through to the tiny kitchen at the back of the office, her mind was on money.

By the time she’d paid the electrician and the carpet man, she’d be cleaned out. But providing the men who wanted escorts did actually turn up tomorrow with their fees, she’d have enough to tide her over. She had to get the place straight by then. She couldn’t expect anyone to take her seriously, unless it looked like a proper office.

It was only now she was nearly finished that other problems were presenting themselves, things she hadn’t even thought of before. She didn’t know how to work that duplicator. She couldn’t even type!

‘Hi busy bee!’

Charity turned quickly at Rita’s voice. She had been cleaning the paintbrushes and hadn’t heard her friend arrive.

Charity grinned. ‘What a nice surprise: someone to admire my handiwork. Just don’t look too closely, the finish is hardly professional.’

‘I brought you a sandwich.’ Rita put a bag down on the desk, gazing round appreciatively. ‘It looks marvellous, Chas. I didn’t realise this office was so big.’

Charity dried her hands on a towel. She wore an old shirt and jeans and they were daubed with paint.

‘It’s only because it’s empty,’ she said. ‘It’s still tiny, really. Fancy some tea?’

‘I’ll make it,’ Rita offered. ‘You look worn out. I can’t stop long, I’m only on my lunch hour, but I wanted to see if you needed any help. I could come back after work.’

‘Bless you,’ Charity said, touched by Rita’s interest. ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about duplicators?’

‘A bit.’ Rita took the cover off it and peered at it. ‘We had one like this at college. You cut the stencils on the typewriter, wind it round, then –’

‘Stop,’ Charity said in alarm. ‘I don’t understand any of that!’

Rita shook her head in disbelief.

‘Sit down,’ she ordered. ‘I’ll make the tea and then you’d better tell me what else you don’t understand.’

Half an hour later, Rita had made Charity even more anxious. She spoke of invoices, bookkeeping and contracts and the importance of making things look professional. Charity had forgotten that her friend had been to secretarial college before Daleham Gardens.

‘Perhaps you’d better become my partner,’ Charity suggested as Rita talked of accounts books and keeping proper records.

‘It won’t support two of us for some time,’ Rita said. ‘Besides, I wouldn’t want that. But I’ll help you when you get stuck and type stencils and things for you.’

Two weeks later Carmel came in to see how Charity was getting on, and found her sitting at her desk looking despondent.

‘Why so glum?’ she asked. ‘It looks wonderful.’

Charity smiled weakly. The office did look good, if a little bare. The new lights and the grey carpet, a secondhand filing cabinet and a large plant on her desk all created an aura of success. But the new pink lettering on the windows reading S
TRATTON
P
ROMOTIONS
didn’t mean clients were beating their way to her door.

‘I haven’t got one promotion job yet,’ Charity admitted. ‘I’ve rung dozens of companies I’ve worked for, but all of them use Central Promotions. Rita typed out a circular and I spent about twenty quid on postage sending them out, but not one reply. Other firms I’ve rung just say they’ll be in touch if anything comes up. If it wasn’t for the escort service I wouldn’t be earning a penny.’

‘Rome wasn’t built in a day,’ Carmel said. ‘Keep at it. Maybe you ought to change tactics and think up some scheme to put to companies.’

‘Like what?’ Charity said wearily.

‘Well, Christmas for one.’ Carmel shrugged. ‘Look at a few store advertisements and consider how one or two of your girls might enhance sales over the Christmas period. How many girls have you got on your books?’

Charity gulped.

‘None, really,’ she said. ‘I mean I was relying on getting the offer of jobs before I rang some of the girls I know. Rita and Dorothy will do them like a shot, and then there’s the escort girls to call on.’

‘Put a card in your window, now,’ Carmel said firmly. ‘Girls wanted for promotion work. Good wages, etcetera. They’ll come in, there’s hundreds of pretty girls walking up and down this road. Get them to fill in an application form and submit a photograph for your file. Meanwhile use your imagination.’

‘When’s this car coming then, Chas?’ Dorothy shouted out from behind the screen hiding the kitchen. ‘I’m dying to show off in this outfit. Maybe we could do a bit of carol singing outside the office?’

‘Come out and let me see,’ Charity shouted back.

Dorothy pranced out first, closely followed by Rita. Jane and Wendy, two newly recruited girls, were less enthusiastic and hung back.

‘You all look marvellous!’ Charity exclaimed.

All four girls were dressed as lady Santa Clauses in short fur-trimmed costumes with fishnet tights and hats worn at a jaunty angle.

Charity had taken Carmel’s advice and at last she’d landed her first contract. The girls had been hired to add a touch of seasonal glamour to a new garage and car showroom opening this weekend in Tottenham Court Road. They were waiting now for the car to take them to the grand opening and Charity had been assured that the press would be there taking photographs.

‘Do we really look all right?’ Jane said nervously. She was one of the escort girls and she’d never done a promotion before.

‘You all look beautiful.’ Charity smiled. ‘Sexy, gorgeous and utterly delectable. You’ll stop the traffic in the Tottenham Court Road. But mind you behave properly. There’ll be a lot of booze there, and randy salesmen. But I don’t want any of you getting pickled. This job might lead us to many more if you charm everyone in the company.’

‘Message received and understood, boss!’ Dorothy clicked her heels and saluted. ‘We’ll behave with the utmost decorum.’

Dorothy had been very quiet and broody since the night she’d been beaten up and raped and Charity had been very concerned about her. But Dorothy was resilient: she’d taken on a promotional job as soon as her face was healed and she’d even insisted on Charity finding her escort dates, just as long as she was paired with Rita.

This Santa Claus job was the tonic they all needed. For Charity it meant she’d cracked the ice and launched her business; for Dorothy and Rita it meant three weeks of fun and a chance to show off in their brief and sexy costumes.

‘Here’s the car now.’ Charity jumped up as she saw the limousine draw up outside. ‘Now remember too that I have dozens of contracts,’ she said with a wink. ‘Stratton Promotions is
the
agency, with the brightest, best and most beautiful girls.’

But by the middle of February, things had got worse. Charity sat at her desk studying the paper, idly ringing round advertisements for companies who looked like prospects. She couldn’t use the phone: it had been cut off that morning because she hadn’t paid the bill, and she was trying to quell the panic rising inside her.

It was a bitterly cold, grey day and she didn’t know where to turn next.

The Santa Claus job at the car showrooms had given her a false sense of security. Although she got a hefty fee and some free publicity from it, the escort business had gone quiet at the same time.

Carmel was right when she said girls would come into the office looking for work. They had. But what good was a file of girls’ application forms without the jobs to send them to?

An electricity bill would plop through the door any day, the rent was due, and all the money she had was gone. Without the phone she was lost.

Charity had five bookings for escorts, but when the men found the phone wasn’t working they’d assume she’d gone out of business, and although she was anxious to drop that side of her agency, at the moment it was her only lifeline.

On top of all this she was so lonely. She spent long days sitting in the office with little to occupy her other than practising two-fingered typing, with an even longer empty evening ahead of her.