Lovers and Liars (48 page)

‘I don’t know. But I know there is one. I think it has something to do with women - and the different ways in which you can hire them, for sex.’

When Appleyard had given Nicholas Jenkins the original idea for the story on telephone sex lines, he had produced the names of three companies whose primary business this was. The first two of these were just as Gini had imagined them: small holein-the-wall affairs. One operated from a backstreet in Hackney, the other, which doubled as a mini-cab firm, appeared to be a mother-and-daughter operation. It functioned out of one-room premises behind King’s Cross Station, in the red-light district

re. The mother, a hard-faced woman, said little. The daughter, t girl unwisely encased in Lycra leggings, explained in an gonistic way that this work was easy money, that it was to find women to recruit.

k/ she said to Gini, ‘which would you prefer? Sitting at e with a tape recorder and a script, or turning tricks with e fat slob in a car behind the gas-works up the street?’ She tured out of the window to the wasteland that covered several s to the north of the station.

Which would you ratherT The girl’s voice took on a derisive e. ‘Five quid for a hand-job up a back alley - or this? We look r our girls, Mum and me. And since you’re asking - I write scripts.. All legal and above board. Now, piss off.’

i obeyed. She moved on to Appleyard’s third company, and she saw its premises, in a smart, bright terraced house Fulham - Sloane Ranger territory - her hopes increased. If

evard’s tip could be trusted at all, if there were some more -scale operator behind these businesses, this was the kind of for it she would expect.

nd the kind of front-man she would anticipate too, she thought, en the door opened on a sharply dressed, gold-braceleted youth. name was Bernie, and Bernie proved to be the perfect interee - garrulous, knowing, flattered to talk to a reporter, and used to dealing with the Press.

It was lunch-time, and Bernie responded favourably to the ggestion that she buy him a drink.

‘What have I got to lose, right?’ He eyed her. ‘I mean, the stories could tell … And the beauty is, Gini, this is a one hundred per nt kosher operation. Like, who gets harmed, right? We have a

nce for this.’ He winked. ‘A licence to print money - don’t ote me on that.’

He led the way to a wine bar around the corner in the Fulham ad; it was filled with the kind of women who still wore velvet .ce baiids and whose habitual tone of voice was a strangud shriek. Gini ordered champagne and Kir at five pounds a ss - Bernie’s choice. A few questions, just to kick-start him, d Bernie was off. He explained a few of the market-forces rinciples behind his work.

‘The *%,av I look at it, Gini, is this … What makes the world round?‘Sex. What’s the one commodity you can always flog? What’s the new, nice, clean, guaranteed AIDS-free way to ense it? Down the telephone line. This is a growth industry

we’re looking at here, Gini, and you can quote me on that … ‘ He talked on, and Gini listened with only half her attention.

She had worked on stories before which took her into this twilight zone. The needs catered for there were intense, and the methods used to salve those needs were many: street girls, call-girls, escort agencies, models, magazines, strip-clubs, peep-shows, phone lines, books, videos. An empire for the unsatisfied to explore, an empire that could cater to every permutation of sexual taste. As Bernie was only too happy to explain, growth industries required dedication; some of the amateurs involved in the phone-line business failed to understand this.

‘What you need, Gini/ he said, sipping his second champagne and Kir, ‘what you need is market identification - and we’ve got that. You have to understand the punter’s specialized taste. For instance, our company - we do rubber. We do bondage. Spanking - we’ve got three spanking lines, don’t ask me why, but spanking’s big. Black girls, Swedish girls, French maids. OK it’s predictable, Gini, I’ll say that before you do. But our callers don’t want surprises. They want what triggers them, if you get my point. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. We do gay lines, obviously. We do virgins - or sluts. Sluts, well, they mouth off a lot, they verbalize, right? So they’re always in demand. Plus, mentioning mouths, a lot of clients are what you might call anatomically demanding. So we do leg4ines and bum-lines. And then there’s our number one bestseller-2

‘Which isT

‘Breasts.’ Bernie rolled his eyes. He made generous gestures with his hands. ‘Big breasts.’

He sighed. The predictability of his clients’ desires seemed to disappoint him.

Gini said, ‘How many lines do you personally supervise, BernieT ‘Me? Eighty-six. And it’s rising each week.’

‘That’s impressive, Bernie. Let me get you another drink .

As Gini had hoped, the third drink relaxed Bernie quite a lot. He grew more garrulous still. Gently Gini steered him in the direction she wanted: who was behind his company, and were there perhaps other aspects to their empire besides telephone sex? On the question of his employers, Bernie became cautious.

‘No names. OK? Let’s just say I work for one smart operator, yesT

On the question of this operator’s other activities, Bernie was more inclined to be drawn. Discretion fought a losing battle with

desire to boast. He first hinted, then confirmed, that telephone lines were just the tip of this iceberg, and that for an up-andg man - Bernie grinned - there were career opportunities Promotion beckoned. His company also had an escort agency

- a high-class escort agency, he added hastily, top girls and t-card facilities. Finally, a recent diversification this, there was

company’s video arm. Not sleaze videos, he wouldn’t want her think that, but the new sex education videos, one hundred per t legit, very explicit, fronted by doctors and therapists, on sale in high street, on sale in ultra-respectable shops. His company’s t recent offering, Married Love II, had sold seven hundred and thousand copies within six weeks.

ini looked suitably impressed. ‘That’s fascinating, Bernie,’ she d. ‘I’d really like to know more. Especially about the escort ncy. Would they talk to me, d’you think?’

‘Course they would. If I’m with you. Hazel runs it. She and ., we’re like that.’ He held up two fingers crossed. ‘You want go over nowT

‘Can you spare the time, BernieT

‘Sure I ca n. That’s cool/ he said in a magnanimous way, and rched to h is feet.

th the escort agency and the video film studio proved to be in epherd’s Bush. The agency, Elite Introductions, was surprisingly h. To the right of its entrance, another door, unmarked, led n to the video studio in the basement. Bernie jerked his thumb its direction.

‘The equipment they’ve got down there/he said, ‘you wouldn’t eve. Three camera set-ups, top-of-the-range sound equipment, volve — three-quarters of a million at least. They’re filn-dng now, it’s off-limits. Pity. It’s artistic. You’d be impressed.’

e opened the door to the escort agency, and led her in. zel, a tall, brassy redhead, was sitting flanked by filing cabinets, phones and expensive flower arrangements. She was painting r nails at her desk. She was aged about thirty, with-green s and a green dress. She was painting her nails cerise. She med pleased enough to see Bernie, who gave her a hug and iss.

.‘Ooh,’ she said, ‘Ben-tie, you really stink. You been at them mpagne cocktails again? Fancy a coffee? I’m parched myself. , Gini? It’s no trouble.’ She made a face. ‘Tuesdays business alwavs a bit slack.’

Like Bernie, Hazel seemed unworried at talking to the Press; it turned out she was a regular reader of the News, and her main interest, initially, was the identities of famous people Gini had interviewed in the past.

Gini fed her a few names. Hazel, having dispensed coffee, settled again at her desk. She winked at Bernie.

‘One or two of them are familiar to us, Bernie - yes? We get them all in here, you know, Gini. Movie-stars, Arab princes, top businessmen - well, I mustn’t say more. We have to be discreet. Of course,’ she went on, her eyes narrowing slightly, ‘we’re an escort agency, Gini. All above board. What you see is what you get. Our girls - and we have some very lovely girls are there for company, light conversation, dinner on the town. No extra-curricular activities. We’re strict about that.’

‘Of course/ said Gini. ‘What are your ratesT

‘It depends on the girl. Eight till midnight, that’s two hundred and fifty quid. After midnight, we charge by the hour. For our very special ladies, there’s a premium. Our two top girls can make five hundred a night, easy.’

‘That’s a lot of money.’

‘Eighty per cent to the girls, twenty to the agency She paused, and gave Bernie a glance. ‘And then, if they’re enjoying themselves, and they want to make a private agreement with the client - well, that’s up to the girl concerned, right?’

Gini decided it was time to push. She said, ‘What interests me is the clients. Bernie was telling me earlier, with the phone lines, how he has to cater to very specific tastes. I guess you find the same thing? Some men will always want a blonde, others a brunette - do you find thatT

‘And how.’ Hazel reached for a large directory on her desk. She flipped it open, and beckoned Gini to look. ‘That’s how we classify the girls, see? By hair colour. We’ve found it’s the best. Sometimes we’ll get a punter with more specific needs - remember that one, Bernie, who liked Irish girls? He was sweet. I liked him. Said it had to be Irish, he liked the lilt in the voice … ‘

Gini turned the pages of the directory in front of her. It resembled the model agency brochures she had borrowed from Lindsay, and many of the women pictured here might almost have made it as models. Neither Hazel nor Bernie had been exaggerating: the women pictured were all young and attractive; none looked in the least cheap. There was a section on blondes, on redheads, on brunettes. Beneath the photographs there were details of the

women’s height and vital statistics as well as their names - noms guerre presumably. Most seemed to end in a ‘y’. Among the ndes alone there were Nicky and Lucky and Vicky and Suzy. zy, in particular, had a beautiful face.

‘I wonder/ Gini said, ‘you have regular clients, I guess. Do me of them like to see the girls on a regular basis? Every k, say, or every month?’

Bernie laughed. ‘Every week? At our rates? You must be joking. ot too many of those, Hazel, right?’

‘No. But plenty of once-a-monthers.’ She made a face. ‘Regular the moon, some of them. Have to have their little monthly at.’

‘Maybe it’s like a ritual for thern,’ Gini said. ‘Do you ever feel e that? Like, they have to see a girl on a certain day of the week. at a certain time. Or in a certain place. That adds to the thrill, ybeT

Hazel gave her a sharp look. ‘Hey, you’ve got the right instincts, say that. You want a job hereT She sighed. ‘There’s lots of them e that. There was one last year - I won’t mention specifics, but Is a household name, put it like that. He had a thing about red,

ry girl we sent, she had to wear a red dress. Then there was Jap, Bernie, remember him? Had a thing about feet. Didn’t about the hair colour, the figure, the face - just the feet. One

I we sent over, she wore varnish on her toenails, and this guy, threw a fit.’ She raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘Men. They’re Ily weird, I’ll tell you that.’

This was not helpful. Gini persevered.

‘What about days of the week/ she said. ‘Do they ever insist on certain day? Always on a Monday? Always a Sunday, anything thatT

‘Not that I recall.’ Hazel shrugged. ‘Maybe, if I went through d checked. It’s feasible - like it’s the one day a month their wife’s t of town, something like that? Mind you,’ she smiled, Isome of

you wouldn’t believe how brazen they are. Couldn’t give a who knows what they’re up to. You remember that one last ar, Bernie - that yank who got his secretary to make the call? I t so sorry for her, though I say it myself. You could tell she was ely brought up, she had this really posh voice–2

.1 ‘Really? Gini leaned forward. ‘She was EnglishT

‘Oh yes. Very la-di-da, but nice with it. I mean, I could hear r blushing down the phone, poor kid. Three times he made r go through that … I’ve got it here.’ She flipped the pages

of the appointments book. ‘There you are, October, November and December. A once-a-monther - and specific! I wonder he didn’t send the secretary round with a measuring tape. They had to be blonde. They had to be at least five feet nine and no more than five ten. Long legs, young - he liked them young. Big tits … Well, nothing so unusual about that. But can you credit it? Making some poor secretary spell that out on the phone? That’s why it sticks in my memory. Usually, they’re cagey. They always call themselves. What a creep.’

‘Extraordinary,’ Gini said. ‘So what happenedT

‘Well, it was weird, actually.’ Hazel lowered her voice to a confidential tone. She began to flick the pages of her appointments book. ‘Let me just check back … Ah, here we are. When she first calls, this poor girl, she says her boss will be, flying in from the States the next week, and she has to set him up with a date. Then she goes through all these specifics, the way I said, then she says she’ll call back, and then the next thing I know I have to send round a whole lot of pictures. This guy’s made a short-list, would you believe? So, I send the pictures round to some hotel off Albemarle Street. Three times I do this. October, November, December. Christ knows why. He chose Suzy every time. So the secretary calls back again, and makes the booking and

- oh, what do you know? How weird. He booked a Sunday, now I come to look. I’d forgotten that.’

‘He did?’ Gini felt herself tense. She looked down at the brochure in front of her. Suzy’s pensive features gazed back. She had thick blond hair which reached to her shoulders, and a very young, somewhat vulnerable face. She was wearing a white high-necked evening dress, with long sleeves. She looked like a beautiful schoolgirl, out on her first date.

‘I’m not surprised at his choice,’ she said carefully. ‘She’s very pretty. She looks terribly young, though … ‘