Dream On (32 page)

Leila grabbed the only bottle of genuine champagne in the club, that she had told Gloria to cool for her behind the bar, and took it through to the dressing-room.

‘You were wonderful! The governor's going to be thrilled with us.'

Yvette was about to question the ‘us' when she spotted the champagne. ‘I'm so pleased,' she said pleasantly.

Leila popped the cork with a theatrical flourish and poured three glasses. ‘And you, Ginny? Are you pleased?'

Ginny, glowing with the adrenalin rush of performing in front of an appreciative audience, threw her arms round Leila and kissed her. ‘I'm not only pleased, Leila. I can't tell you. I loved it. It was like being someone else. Like being a film star.'

Leila picked up one of the glasses and raised it in salute. ‘I'm absolutely thrilled, Ginny. Thrilled to bits. And just wait till you hear what you're going to do next!'

AS GINNY SAT
at the mirror, fixing a sparkling rhinestone tiara in her hair, Leila bobbed down behind her and looked over Ginny's shoulder at their reflections.

‘It's wonderful out there, darling,' she raved. ‘Just wonderful. The club is simply full to bursting.' She took a box of Passing Clouds from her bag and offered the pink packet to Ginny.

Without a word, Ginny took one and waited for Leila to light it for her – at one time, such an exotic item as a deliberately flattened cigarette would have fascinated Ginny, but now it didn't merit the lifting of an eyebrow.

‘How many of those
gentlemen
out there', Leila continued in a happy, encouraging trill, ‘do you suppose have come up to the West End
supposedly
to buy Christmas presents for little wifey and the kiddiewinks, but have actually come here to see you instead?'

Ginny drew on her cigarette and shrugged. She couldn't give a bugger about lying husbands or their phoney Christmas shopping trips, all that interested her was trying to figure out why on earth she had ever let Leila talk her into doing this. The static tableaux were one thing – they were easy, just standing there like a statue, posing under the coloured lights, looking unseeingly into the middle distance as though you were a bit missing, while the band played a suitably cod-classical accompaniment. As Yvette always gleefully reminded her when they were counting their wages at the end of the week, it was actually
more
than easy, it was all a bit of a doddle, especially compared to hostessing. Admittedly they were stark naked up there on the stage – well as good as – but Ginny found it oddly soothing, pretending, as she stared at some imaginary vista, cloaked by the velvet darkness of the club, that she was all alone, that she was someone else, even somewhere else.

But this . . .

Ginny stared into the mirror at the exaggerated greasepaint mask she painted on nightly; the mask that the real Ginny hid behind as she posed in front of the punters. But a lot of good a bit of slap plastered across her chops would do her tonight.

Leila and her big ideas. Where did she think they were, the sodding Windmill or the bloody Moulin Rouge?

Ginny groaned and dipped her chin to her chest. Knowing that with the new act she was actually expected to look directly at the punters; to flirt with them with her eyes; to smile coyly but provocatively at them, as she wiggled, and strutted, and . . .

‘Something wrong, sweetie?'

Ginny lifted her head and looked hard at the still beaming Leila. She had a way of sounding so innocent, so plausible, but there were times when Ginny could have sworn it was all an act. Times like now, for instance, when Ginny was so nervous she could barely stop trembling, yet Leila was yattering away as though it was something to look forward to, a real treat. But she must have known how Ginny was feeling. Just as she knew that she, Leila, was holding the trump card. Because, when it came down to it, it was this or hostessing. And if Ginny didn't want to do either, how else would she pay off her rent arrears? And rent arrears were certainly what she had.

Like all the other girls, Ginny was still living in a bedsit owned by the governor and had been only too pleased to accept Leila's kind offer of the occasional opportunity to put off paying for it for a week or two. Also like the other girls, Ginny had soon found herself with substantial debts.

She knew now that she shouldn't have delayed paying, but at the time it had seemed like a godsend. The trouble was, her money just seemed to go nowhere. After she'd sent her weekly envelopes – stuffed with half her wages between them – one to Dilys for her and Susan, and the other to Nellie, there was barely enough to live on, let alone to pay her bills. She had, once or twice, determined not to send them anything – Nellie and Dilys were probably both laughing at her anyway, while she ran up bigger and bigger debts – but just the thought of little Susan in that big old brown hand-me-down coat, and the guilt she felt at the state Nellie would probably be in without her help, had her sending off the envelopes by the next post.

She supposed it would have been different if Dilys had been a better mother, or if Nellie had had someone else she could depend on. But what was the point of supposing? All Ginny could hope was that Susan actually saw some of the money she sent to the prefab and that Nellie got hers before Ted had the chance to nick it.

If he was still around.

Ted. There was another worry. Had he thought to send his little daughter a birthday card last month? Ginny really hoped so.

Even though it still felt as though she was being slapped in the face just to think of Susan being Ted's child, Ginny couldn't stop caring about her. She loved her. It was as simple as that.

Ginny'd sent her a pretty lacy card and a baby doll in a cellophane-wrapped box, although she had no way of knowing if Dilys would even let Susan see it. Maybe Dilys had pretended that the gift was from her; knowing Dilys, she probably had. But, whatever happened, Ginny could only hope that Susan had had something on her birthday. And that she was happy.

Ginny shook her head, trying to clear the images from her mind of the smiling child she missed so much, took another drag on her cigarette, then ground it out with slow deliberation.

For the moment, she had more immediate things to concern her. ‘Look, Leila,' she asked, twisting round to face the stylishly suited woman, ‘are you honestly one hundred per cent sure about this? Are you positive I won't get in no trouble?'

Leila touched a gloved fingertip to Ginny's chin. ‘I promise with all my heart. As long as you don't show anything actually moving, it's all completely legal. And let's face it, if
you
get in trouble, we all get in trouble.'

She had a way of making her words sound like a reassurance, but they could so easily have been interpreted as a threat.

Five minutes later, with Leila blowing her a final kiss of good luck from the wings, Ginny stood, quivering with fear, waiting for her cue.

And there it was: the band striking up the opening bars of the slow, sensual rumba she had rehearsed endlessly with them during the past nerve-racking weeks.

The curtains drew back to show Ginny, centre stage, lit by a single pink spotlight, with everything but her high-heel-shod legs hidden by two enormous pink feather fans.

As she took her first voluptuous steps to the left and let one of the fans drop a tantalising fraction, showing the merest hint of the creamy slope of the top of her breast, a loud cheer of approval went up and suddenly Ginny was no longer scared. Everything was going to be all right.

No, it was better than all right, it was wonderful.

Ginny was in a cocoon of soft feathers and sumptuous pink light, and lusciously flamboyant rhythms washed over her, urging her body to thrust and sway with the music. It was like being in a dream where there were no rent arrears, no worries and, best of all, no Ted Martin to hurt her.

As she gyrated behind, peeped over, and smiled coquettishly around, her provocatively swirling and dipping fans, she knew that the audience loved her.

Actually, not all of the audience was watching her. Carmen for one was too busy trying to get Patty's attention to care about what Ginny was up to.

When Patty failed to respond to Carmen's agitated waving and flapping, she reached across her punter – who was totally mesmerised by Ginny's bumps and grinds – and tapped her urgently on the arm.

‘What?' Patty mouthed, angry at Carmen's interruption; she'd been enjoying a bit of peace, even letting her eyes close for a moment, while her punter goggled at the stage, his mouth half open like a drooling puppy.

‘Look who's in tonight,' Carmen hissed, jerking her head towards the bar.

Patty lazily checked out the occupants of the tall bar-stools. Now her mark wasn't the only one with his mouth open.

She twisted back to Carmen. ‘It's the governor!' she squeaked. ‘So he
ain't
inside.' She dabbed at her hair to make sure it was tidy – although it would have taken a gale-force wind to have damaged Patty's teased and lacquered creation – and sat up straight, hitching her dress further up her thighs.

‘Tits up and all, Carmen!' she giggled, sticking out her chest and adjusting her circle-stitched bra with a determined two-handed grab. ‘You never know, he might take a shine to one of us and whisk us off into the night in that big fancy car of his.'

But despite Patty's and Carmen's best efforts, the governor was oblivious of their attractions; all he was interested in was Ginny's performance up on the stage.

As he sipped his drink and listened to Leila telling him about all the hard work she had put in rehearsing the fan dancer and the band so that the evening would be a success, he didn't take his gaze off Ginny for a single moment.

At the end of the number, the curtain dropped and the audience went wild. Their whoops, cheers and applause were so rapturous that even the resolutely morose Gloria, standing in his usually joy-free domain behind the bar, couldn't help but grin.

While Ginny further teased her audience by peeking around the edge of the curtain and flashing just a glimpse of her naked thigh – supposedly to acknowledge the appreciation, but actually because she was so high on the rush of performing that she didn't want it to end – the governor rose from his bar-stool and flicked a glance towards Johnno, his minder whom he had left over by the doorway.

Moving surprisingly swiftly for someone of his size, the huge man was almost immediately by his side, carrying his boss's Crombie and trilby hat with as much care as if he were a handmaiden offering up a delicate casket of precious jewels.

‘Very impressive, Leila', the governor said, shrugging down into his overcoat. ‘Very impressive indeed. As good as you said.'

‘I'm glad you approve,' Leila said, smiling broadly in an effort to cover her disappointment that he seemed to be preparing to leave without her. ‘You're off now, are you?'

He nodded. ‘Business before pleasure, you know me, girl.'

With that, he treated Leila to a friendly wink and left the club flanked by Johnno, his oversized bodyguard.

Shirley, who had spent the whole of Ginny's act with her eyes fixed firmly on Leila and the governor, was convinced she'd just witnessed something worth temporarily abandoning her punter for. And anyway, there was no risk of him going off with someone else, not tonight; there wasn't a spare girl left in the whole place. The titillation up on the stage had put them all very much in the mood and eager hands had grabbed for the nearest bit of female flesh to pull down on to their laps.

Shirley whispered something suitably lewd into her punter's ear – just to make sure she kept his interest – then sidled up to Leila, who was hovering by the bar staring into her glass of tonic water, trying to summon the enthusiasm to go and congratulate Ginny on the success of her solo début.

‘It's enough to make a girl totally jealous, if you ask me, Leila,' Shirley rasped, her voice harsh with sly nastiness and insinuation. ‘The way all the men in the place couldn't take their eyes off her. It was bad enough when she was just doing the tableaux with Yvette. But that fan dance. Well . . .'

Shirley paused, waiting for Leila's response. There was none, so Shirley continued dripping her poison. ‘I don't think I've ever seen the governor so captivated by a girl before.'

Leila turned to Shirley and said very slowly and deliberately. ‘I'd watch my mouth, if I were you Shirley. Because no one likes a stirrer, especially a sad old stirrer who is coming very close to being a has-been.'

With that, Leila finished her drink, smiled sweetly at Gloria as she handed him her empty glass and swept off to the dressing-room to see Ginny.

Shirley was left standing at the bar, with Gloria staring at her with his usual mixture of undisguised contempt and camp disapproval.

‘Don't say a fucking word, you skinny-arsed old queen,' hissed Shirley.

‘A few days' time and it'll be Christmas. Can you believe it? I can't. Before we know where we are it'll be Easter again.' Carmen peered over the top of the late edition of the
Evening Standard
that she had been flicking through absent-mindedly, while she waited for the other girls to finish getting ready. ‘What plans have you got for Christmas then, Gin?' she asked. ‘Gonna give your feathers a few days off?'

Ginny said nothing.

‘You must be due a break. You've been up on that stage every night for weeks, flapping them fans about
and
still doing the tableaux with Yvette. You must be knackered.'

Ginny, not wanting to become involved in any conversation that had anything to do with Christmas – and especially not one that was about families and Christmas – bent forward and started fiddling with the silver-sequined garter on her thigh.

‘Well?' Carmen persisted.

‘I don't know yet,' Ginny muttered.