Dream On (34 page)

‘Am I allowed a proper drink?' Ginny asked quietly, feeling that she needed something more than the usual tonic water to steady her nerves.

‘When you're with me you're allowed whatever you fancy, blondie. But full marks for asking first. Shows you're using your loaf, that you ain't stupid.'

‘Thanks. I'll have a Babycham then, please. And my name's Ginny, by the way.'

‘And I'll have a glass of champagne.'

Ginny twisted round to see who had spoken; it was Leila, sitting stony-faced on the stool behind her.

‘Don't mind if I join you, do you, Billy?' she asked.

Saunders laughed. ‘Frightened you might miss something, Leila?'

‘Don't be unpleasant, Billy,' she replied, forcing herself to show her teeth. ‘I just thought you might enjoy the company, that's all.'

‘You should know my routine by now, Leila. It's not company I'm after; I'm here on business. But I've got nothing to say that you can't hear.'

‘Shall I go, then, Mr Saunders?' Ginny asked, not understanding what was going on.

‘No, blondie, the business I had in mind is to do with you.'

‘So, you reckon Yvette could do the dancing then? That she's up to it?'

Ginny nodded miserably. She had misunderstood Leila when she had said they were happy with the show – she'd never mentioned that they were happy with Ginny's part in it. Only the show. She was such a fool. Now here was Saunders taking her job away from her and she was helping him do it. ‘Yvette could do it if she practises.'

‘Good.' Saunders sniffed and tapped the ash from his cigar. ‘And you'll be free to run the new club for me.'

Ginny turned round to look at Leila to wish her well – even if her own luck had just disappeared down the chute, she didn't wish Leila any ill will. But Leila wasn't sitting there any longer, she was disappearing into the dressing-room with Shirley close on her heels.

‘I meant
you,
blondie.' Saunders grinned.

‘Me?'

‘Yeah. You're from the East End, ain't you?'

She nodded dumbly.

‘I've been keeping an eye on you. The blokes like you. And you're bright. Bright as a button. But there's no old toffee with you, not like with some clever girls. And no slyness. That's rare in a bird.'

Ginny was too stunned to know whether he was paying her a compliment or insulting her.

‘I've been developing me interests down your way for a few years now. I've already got one or two places up and running. All with women in charge. It was an idea I had and it seems to be working. It keeps the atmosphere calmer for some reason. Classier too.'

Ginny opened her mouth but Saunders raised his hands to silence her. ‘Don't worry. You'd be the front, but there'd be plenty of back-up. Like Gloria's got muscle in this place and Leila to sort out the cash side for him.'

He paused to blow a plume of smoke in the air. ‘Gloria's a right old Soho queen. Been knocking about this area for years. Knows everyone and anyone. But in the East End . . .' Saunders shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘He'd be lost. Now this place I've got in mind for you . . .' He winked and grinned at her, showing even white teeth. ‘You'll fit in just nice.'

Ginny knocked back the rest of her Babycham in a single swallow and slapped her glass down on the bar. ‘Can I have another one d'you think, Mr Saunders?' she gasped through the bubbles. ‘But before you say yes, I think you should know something. I reckon you must have heard what I said to Leila, back in the dressing-room. But I didn't mean I
really
wanted to run a club. I was sort of explaining . . .' She threw up her hands and shook her head. ‘I just ain't up to a job like that.'

Saunders, obviously amused, grinned even more broadly. ‘We'll see, blondie. We'll see.'

Back in the dressing-room, Leila was pretending to do one of her spot inventories of the clothes rail – the dresses had a habit of going missing and reappearing on the second-hand stall in Berwick Street market – but all she really wanted was to be left alone.

Shirley either didn't understand, or she didn't care. She was hovering over Leila like a hawk eyeing a vole. ‘Didn't I tell you to keep a watch out for her, Leila. You know what the governor's like when he gets set on a girl.'

‘Shirley—'

‘But maybe you should be relieved rather than upset.'

Leila spun round to face her. ‘Why would I be either of those things, Shirley?'

‘Well, maybe Ginny in a manager's job rather than fan dancing would be a good thing. The governor would see her differently.' Shirley smiled slyly. ‘Plus he wouldn't see quite so much of her, if you get my meaning.'

‘I don't think I do get your meaning actually, Shirley, but maybe you can get mine. Things have become very slack lately. Girls are smoking dope and drinking while they're meant to be working.'

She leaned very close to Shirley and sniffed, her face showing her obvious distaste. ‘Is that booze I can smell on your breath again, Shirley? Because if it is, I'd be very careful if I were you. It would be terrible, you losing your job at your age, now wouldn't it?'

‘
NOT THE LAST
one to leave
again
?' Gloria sighed melodramatically, wagged his finger angrily at Ginny, then switched off the overhead light in the dressing-room, plunging the place into semi-darkness. All that was left illuminating the cramped little room was an intermittent flashing from the red neon sign advertising the club across the street and a feeble glow from a string of fairy lights draped round the scrawny little Christmas tree that the girls – in a moment of seasonal sentimentality – had set up beside the cracked sink.

‘Well?' Gloria demanded.

Instead of saying anything, Ginny just flopped down on to one of the rickety chairs and let her arms dangle carelessly by her sides.

‘Come on, this isn't good enough. Will you please move yourself? Now.' Gloria flapped his hands about, as he lisped at her in his affected, slightly northern singsong of a voice. ‘For Gawd's sake, girl, shift, will you?'

When Ginny showed no sign of moving, he minced across the room towards her, flicking disapprovingly at the shadowy, discarded heaps of clothing and shoes that formed a scented and stained obstacle course across his path.

‘Well?' Gloria persisted, leaning over her, his fists stuck into his waist. ‘Are you going home or what?'

With her eyes still directed at the floor, Ginny exhaled wearily and said in a tiny, pained whisper, ‘D'you know, Gloria, I sometimes feel like this
is
my home.'

‘This dump? Home?' Clearly horrified that anyone could even entertain such a ghastly thought, Gloria snapped upright and clenched his hands protectively across his skinny chest, as if warding off the contagion that might just cause him to start thinking the same way.

‘It's like a palace compared to the pigsty of a room I'm meant to live in,' she said. ‘And it's not so lonely.'

‘What the hell are you going on about?'

‘Even when this place is almost empty, I still get the feeling that there's a bit of life going on out there. Somewhere.'

‘I really do not know what you're talking about, but I reckon you must be going a bit soft in the old head department, dearie.'

Lethargically, Ginny raised her eyes to meet his, although in the strange half-light she couldn't quite make out his features. ‘Yes you do. You know exactly what I mean, Gloria.' She stabbed her thumb absent-mindedly over her shoulder in the direction of the window. ‘There's the stall holders setting up before they go into the coffee shop for their breakfast; the milkman rattling around with his crates; the early papers being sorted out for the stands. People laughing and talking. It's a real little community out there. One people really belong to. Feel part of.'

‘Not at nearly half past bloody three on a Christmas morning they don't, darling.'

Gloria might have sounded his usual dismissive self, but from the security of the shadows he was frowning with concern as he watched Ginny's troubled face glowing first red, then disappearing, then glowing red again, in the on-off light of the neon sign. He wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, but he felt genuinely moved by the anguish he heard in her voice. She was a sad one, all right, and an odd one too, there was no denying it. While it was obvious to Gloria how most of the girls had wound up working the clubs – sometimes it was what they had been brought up to expect they would do; or they had run away from some man; or they'd been tempted by what they thought would be easy money; or any one of a hundred other all too inevitable reasons – Ginny . . . He could never make up his mind which of the categories she fitted into – if she fitted any of them at all. Despite the way she drove men wild when she got up on that stage, swooping her fans and shaking herself about, Ginny was, at other times, very reserved, keeping herself to herself and just getting on with her job. She spoke to Yvette sometimes, but Gloria would never lower himself to ask that little madam what Ginny had to say about herself; it would have affected his authority and Lord knows he had little enough of that, what with the girls running around as if they owned the place.

Still, whatever he felt, or thought, or wondered, Gloria didn't intend letting Ginny cotton on to the fact that he was in the least bit concerned about her. She might just use it against him one day. Experience had shown him, very early on, that people were like that. You let them see a soft side and they pounced on you. They chewed you up and then spat you out. His long days and nights in Soho had taught him to be self-protective, and presenting himself to the world as a sour, spiteful old queen, rather than the rather contented old one that he actually was, was as good a protection as any.

‘Come on, Ginny,' he whined impatiently, stamping his patent-clad foot, ‘I've got to lock up. So stop being such a stroppy tart and get yourself shifted.'

Before Ginny had the chance to open her mouth in reply, a hand reached round the door and flicked on the lamp in the corner.

Feeling he might faint, Gloria covered his eyes, gasped like a dying cod fish and flattened himself against the wall, uttering a silent prayer.

Ginny was more curious than scared. Shading her eyes from the light, she squinted across the room and made out the unmistakable silhouette of the governor filling the doorway.

‘All right, Gloria?' Saunders enquired affably, as he threw his hat on to one of the tables, then folded his arms across his muscular chest and leaned against the door jamb.

‘I said, are you all right?' Saunders repeated, clearly amused by Gloria's camp exhibition of fluttering and swooning.

‘Never better, Mr Saunders,' he trilled, ‘I'm just finishing off in here, then I'm off home. I told Ginny, didn't I? Five minutes, then we're off, I said. Both of us. Out of this place. Gone. And, aw yeah' – he paused to catch his breath, patting himself delicately on his chest – ‘a very merry Christmas to you.'

Then, with a simpering approximation of a smile spreading unnaturally across his narrow lips, Gloria scuttled over to the door and waited politely for the governor to let him pass.

Saunders did so, and Gloria slipped out to the bar and began busying himself counting the bottles in a crate that just happened to be close to the dressing-room door.

Ginny stood up, ready to follow Gloria out of the room, but Saunders had positioned himself back against the doorpost, blocking her exit.

‘I was waiting outside for you in the motor,' he said. ‘I wondered where you'd got to when all the others left just now. Thought maybe you hadn't been in tonight for some reason.'

Ginny shrugged, unnerved by the directness of his gaze and unsure what she should say. ‘I was in tonight,' she began hesitantly, ‘but I stayed behind because I had a little bit of tidying up to do in here.'

She immediately realised how ridiculous she sounded. Not only was it obvious she was in tonight – she was bloody well standing there, wasn't she? – but seeing as they were surrounded by what looked like the tragic remains of a direct bomb hit on a make-up, clothing and fag-end factory, the idea that she was doing ‘a little bit of tidying up' was an even more stupid thing to say.

Saunders laughed, a loud, booming sound that had Gloria straining his ears and moving as near as he dared to the still open dressing-room door – what the hell was going on in there?

‘I think it's gonna need a bit more than a tidy up,' he heard Saunders say.

This time, Ginny too saw the funny side of what she'd said. ‘Maybe a flame thrower might be the answer.'

Saunders laughed again and touched Ginny lightly on the shoulder, easing her down on to one of the chairs.

It had been a long time since a man had touched her so gently. She'd forgotten how it could feel . . .

She watched as he shifted his hat carefully to one side, perched himself on the edge of the debris-covered table and held out his hands in a sweeping gesture of what might have been pleasure, or could have been one of control. ‘It's Christmas,' he said simply, taking out a packet of Players Navy Cut from his jacket pocket. ‘Cigarette?'

Ginny nodded dumbly and took one. Why had she done that? Why hadn't she just shaken her head and left?

‘So,' he said, squinting at her through the smoke he'd exhaled from his first deep lungful, ‘what're you doing over the holiday?'

‘I'm not sure if I'm doing anything,' she said automatically, although she knew exactly what she would be doing.

She would be alone in her bedsit; a place that, despite all her efforts to make it something like a proper home, would never be anything more than a disgusting little room, full of rusting, dripping pipes and wet, peeling wallpaper, three flights up from the shared lavatory that made her gag just to think about it.