The Betrayed (4 page)

Rosie mumbled some excuse about being ill, and put the phone down. Her head was spinning.
This is just what I need
… Deciding not to dwell on things, Rosie set up the ironing board. She wanted to get through at least half the pile before she went to pick up Ruby.

Ruby let out a jubilant cry when Rosie handed her a cheque for the remaining £400 she needed for the Switzerland trip. She hugged her daughter, gripping her in a tight bear-hug, and told her they were going shopping for some ‘retail therapy’. If felt good, spoiling Ruby, for once. Dear sweet Rube – she never complained about not having as much as the other girls at her school, or that her school blazer was worn, or that she was wearing last season’s fashions.
Bless her
. Ruby always made do, and never grumbled. And, God knows, Rosie needed to do something to take her mind off things.

As they wandered around the shops, helping Ruby pick out some new outfits to impress her latest crush, Rosie knew that what money she had left from her sordid night at the Keyhole was not going to last long… it certainly wouldn’t fill the gaping hole in her mortgage payments. And what would happen if they needed to get away for a few weeks, until the situation with Johnny had died down? With things the way they were, they just didn’t have that luxury.

Rosie wrestled with her conscience about doing another night at the club and, although she had sworn to herself just the night before that she would never to do that again, she knew, in her heart, that it made sense. One more night, just
one
more shift at the club – if she really went for it – would enable her to pay enough of the mortgage to keep them off her back for a few months. She had to get herself straight and sort out their money worries… in the short term, at least. Could she face another night at the Keyhole?
Just one more night
? After all, she told herself, it wasn’t real. It was only acting. It was her alter ego, ‘Luscious Lena the Hoochie Momma’. As she stood in the queue with Ruby, waiting to pay for a new pink top, she made the decision to do one more shift.

So, that evening Rosie found herself back in the club, working the floor. She steeled herself before greeting the first arrivals: four Arabs, over from Dubai for a three-day conference, and one smartly-suited businessman.

Rosie waited for them to sign in, then escorted them to the Foxy Dining Rooms. A drop-dead sexy Polish girl, by the name of Ola, opened the door dressed as a sly fox.

With a lick of her lips, and a swish of her bushy tail, she purred, ‘Good evening, gentlemen.’

By 12.30 the Keyhole Club was buzzing. It was hectic and, Rosie thought, much busier than the previous night. Nearly all of the private dining rooms were occupied, with the parties in full swing. Rosie went over to Reception and didn’t have to wait long for the next punter to arrive. A large, thespian-looking man, his face almost totally obscured by his wide-brimmed hat, signed himself in. Obviously a regular, he walked right up to Rosie and, with a dramatic and exaggerated wave of his hand, theatrically demanded, ‘Take me to the Hard-On Room!’

The Hard-On Room was a magnet for gay men from every walk of life. If you have the compulsion – and more importantly, the money – then anything goes. It was, for a certain sector of society, an extremely fashionable, fun and funky place to spend an evening. With its contemporary, subterranean feel, and live stage acts, it was always busy.

Rosie ushered the man and his enormous hat into the room and saw that tonight was no exception, it was packed. Strewn around the plush interior, like disregarded, damp towels on a bathroom floor, lay half-naked men, ogling the special stage act. Rosie averted her eyes as she led the excited toff to the bar for a glass of champagne. The bar was four-deep with flouncing revellers, with handsome young men in leather thongs, serving the vastly over-priced champagne to rich closet queens. A handsome, dark-skinned, twenty-something Adonis, Mikey – one of the regular club boys – handed a glass of champers to the man in the hat, who then disappeared off to watch the action on the stage.

‘How’s the new job?’ said Mikey, flashing a pearly grin.

‘Don’t
you
start,’ Rosie said, half-shouting over the blaring music. ‘This is my last night, so make the most of it.’

‘Do me a favour, Rosie darling,’ said Mikey, nodding over at the end of the bar. ‘Take that bottle of Cristal to booth number five. I’m run off my feet here.’

Rosie gave him a wink and took the tray, with the champagne and four, tall-stemmed glasses, and made her way down the dimly lit corridor to the booth. She paused for a moment at the door, and reminded herself that whatever she felt about what was going on inside, she mustn’t let it show on her face.

‘Champagne’ she called, knocking gently at the door.

After knocking again, there was still no reply, so she eased the door open, being careful not to upset the tray. On entering, despite her little pep talk, Rosie couldn’t stop a gasp from escaping. It was a sight so shocking, even by the standards of the Keyhole Club, that she felt the blood drain from her cheeks.

In the room were five men. She recognised one of them instantly – Pascal, one of the pretty boys who worked at the club. He was no more than a boy, really. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. He had a ball strapped in his mouth, and his eyes were wide with pain and fear.

One of the other men was holding Pascal’s arms, two others held his legs outstretched, while the fourth man, who was stripped to the waist, was having his fun. The floor was littered with empty bottles and a variety of sick sex toys. And, on the mirrored table were thick lines of cocaine, rolled up bank notes… and a hat. A familiar hat, in fact. A leather, pork pie hat which Rosie instantly recognised as the exact same sort of hat that Hate-’em-all-Harry always wore.

If the hat was all that Rosie had seen, she might have left the booth and dismissed it as a coincidence. But then she noticed something else. The man with his back to her, having his fun, had a large Celtic cross tattooed on his massive, hairy back. Johnny had the exact same Celtic cross – with ‘Eddie’ written underneath it – on
his
back. Rosie had often thought it was a shame that Johnny had chosen to have the name of his psychotic twin-brother needled into his flesh.

A voice inside Rosie was screaming at her to get out of the booth, but curiosity got the better of her. She leaned forward and, peering into the dim light, she saw, tattooed under the Celtic cross, one word: ‘Johnny’.

There was no doubt. It was Eddie, her own brotherin-law, Johnny’s twin. Quietly, and as quickly as she could, Rosie placed the champagne on a side table and left, mentally praying that none of the men would look up as she left. She held her breath until she gently closed the door behind her.

Rosie was in total shock. She couldn’t make sense of what she had witnessed.
How could this be
? Eddie was married to his posh wife, Sylvia. Their two daughters were in an expensive school. And they had an elegant, expensive house in Millionaire’s Row in St John’s Wood.
The ideal home! The perfect marriage
! What the hell was Eddie doing?

As she made her way back to the Reception, Rosie’s mind was racing. A million questions rushed through her brain. She knew that she had to compose herself, try to think straight and act normal.

First off, she knew that she couldn’t risk bumping into Eddie or any of his friends. She found Roberto near the entrance, and told him that she’d spotted an old schoolfriend and didn’t want to embarrass him. Could she avoid Reception and the Hard-On Room for the rest of the night? Roberto smiled and replied that she could work wherever she liked.

Rosie kept a relatively low profile in the Smack Room until the Keyhole closed. Kristina had stayed on until the end, too, so she gave her a lift home. During the journey back through the dark, dank streets, they sat in virtual silence. Rosie’s head was spinning. She glanced over at Kristina. She so wanted to say something, to share what she had witnessed in booth number five, but she couldn’t find the right words.

Before she knew it, they were outside her house. Kristina leaned over and kissed Rosie goodnight.

‘You okay?’ she asked.

‘I’m just tired. Thanks for the lift,’ said Rosie.

‘Any time. See you,’ Kristina said, pulling the car door shut and giving her a wave through the window before driving off.

Rosie shivered. It was a cold, autumn night. The rain was coming down in buckets, and the air smelt of wet leaves. She pulled her coat collar and ducked her head to guard against the chill wind as she scurried up the garden path, fumbling for her front door keys.

Once inside, she headed straight for the kitchen and put the kettle on, to make herself some tea. As she waited for the water to boil she sat at the table with her head in her hands, knees pressed tightly together. Her eyes were heavy with fatigue. There were no real thoughts in her head, only vague whispers of what needed to be done tomorrow… or today, as it already was. She tried to push the image of what she had seen in the club to the back of her mind. She had to focus on
her
life.

She counted the money from the club.
Only £470
?
How can it be worse than last night
? The mortgage payments would eat up all of that money in a flash and still be hungry for more. She made the tea, trying to forget about it all. It was a desperate situation. Even if she worked a hundred shifts at the club, she still had no idea how she was going to deal with Johnny’s threats.

She went over to the sink and poured away the remaining half of her tea. Right now, she was just so tired, so exhausted, she just needed to sleep. Wearily she made her way up the stairs and tried to convince herself that she would be better able to deal with her problems tomorrow.

four

I
t was lunchtime when Rosie finally got out of bed. After tipping a can of tomato soup into a saucepan and putting it on to heat, she switched on the computer, intending to look for a new job. The night before had made it obvious that she was just not suited to that sort of work. Surely she’d find
something
she could do… something to replace her income from the club.

She got as far as the Google homepage when her phone started ringing. She jumped up, lowered the gas on the stove, and grabbed the receiver:

‘Hello, Rosie Mullins speaking.’

‘Oh, I’m so glad it’s you, I was afraid I might get the answerphone, again,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘How are you?’ Realising who it was, Rosie was hit by a powerful wave of emotion.

‘Stevie!’ she gasped. ‘Oh my God! It’s so wonderful to hear you! How are you? I’m sorry I haven’t called but… but…’

‘Don’t worry, we’ve both been busy and emails are fine… up to a point. I needed to hear your voice, though, and to see you.’

‘You mean you’re coming over?’ said Rosie. At that moment, she could hardly imagine anything better.

‘Actually, it means if you go to the front room window and take a peek, I am standing right outside.’

Rosie’s heart contracted as a deluge of tears surged into her eyes. Without wasting another moment, she ran across the sitting room and tore open the door, almost afraid that she was dreaming.

Stevie was standing there with open arms.

‘Oh my God… my God,’ she sobbed. ‘You don’t know how happy I am to see you!’

‘Wow… you look it,’ Stevie grinned.

Stevie looked incredible. Her auburn hair was long and sleek; her make-up applied perfectly; the rest of her was all wrapped up in winter furs and long leather boots. She was as slender and elegant as the ideal American housewife. In their day, they had been quite a twosome, but Rosie was under no illusions about who the real beauty was – Stevie was in a class of her own.

‘When did you get back to England?’ Rosie demanded, holding her cousin at arm’s length to get a good look at her. ‘And why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’

‘It was all rather last minute. I was going to send you an email, and then I took it into my head to surprise you.’

‘Well you certainly have,’ Rosie assured her, cupping Stevie’s beloved face in her hands.

‘Look at you! You’re more gorgeous than ever. So sophisticated. So… so…
Americanised
.’

Stevie stared back, her warm eyes filled with love, and with a growing smile on her face.

‘I’m as English as black cabs, double-decker buses, and red telephone boxes,’ she laughed. ‘And I’m
freezing
. Any chance of a cuppa? Or, if you fancy it, we could crack open a bottle of champagne.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m all out of champagne,’ said Rosie, as they went inside.

Stevie swung a large Louis Vuitton bag from off her shoulder and pulled out a bottle of Bollinger. ‘You surely don’t think I’ve come empty handed!’

‘Let me take your fur coat,’ said Rosie, closing the door. ‘It’s amazing. Did you get it in the States?’

‘I did. And if you like it, you can have it.’

Rosie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh no, I didn’t mean that.’

‘I know you didn’t, but I have another one almost the same. So consider that one an early birthday present, or belated, or whatever,’ said Stevie. She pressed the bottle of champagne against the back of her hand. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t as cold as it should be, but it will have to do. Glasses in the same place?’