“Kiki! How the devil are you?”
“Hmm...” Holding her mobile in one hand, Shelley used the other to push herself upright on the sofa on which she’d fallen asleep. “Who is this?”
“Sorry if I woke you, sweetie. I—”
“No, no, it’s okay. I didn’t realise it was you.”
“You’re not ill, are you? Or were you out partying last night? I want to see you. I’ll be staying in London tonight.”
How could she see a client when her arms were marked so badly? She selected the ‘out partying last night’ option, then told him she was booked for the evening already. Unsure what she wanted to do, she said she’d try to cancel the booking or send a friend in her place.
The driver and the blindfold business would be off-putting under most circumstances, but that job was worth feeling sick for a while in the back of a Rolls-Royce. Like quite a few of her clients, he had erectile dysfunction. His ED perhaps caused, or at least worsened, by consuming copious amounts of cocaine. And like most clients with ED, he didn’t even attempt intercourse. But there was more to him than what Nicole referred to as a Resident Limp Dick. He also fitted the profile for a Resident Fucked Out My Box – a client who paid them to take drugs. That was Shelley’s second preferred category. The Limp Dicks were the first. Those that fell in both camps topped the lot, or they had done until she met him. Resident Dicks All the Boxes was coined by Nicole because he ticked boxes Shelley previously thought couldn’t exist within the mode of time-in-exchange-for-money transaction in which she partook.
It was fortunate they’d exchanged numbers. Otherwise, she’d never have had the opportunity to see him again. After what she’d done with her SIM card last night, Marianne was no longer in the position to give her any work. But it wasn’t some amazing foresight that had led her to do it. The reason had been the same as it had for every client before him: to cut out the madam’s take on her future earnings.
Although she preferred dealing with her clients directly – and not sharing her fee after the initial introduction, or the first few visits – it wasn’t standard practice to share her number with every client (and most didn’t share theirs until they were regulars). Dishonesty wasn’t the issue; she felt working this way could be justified by the Golden Rule. The reason she had to be selective was for survival, both in terms of her personal safety and in continuing to work for the madams whose clients she effectively stole. Each situation had to be analysed on a case-by-case basis, which wasn’t easy when she was with a Fucked Out My Box. She had to weigh up the risks: consider the existing client/madam relationship; their closeness to her compared to each other; the length of time they’d known each other compared to how long they’d known her; their personalities and character traits. Various factors had a bearing on her judgement, but her rule was that whenever it seemed safe, she’d deal with the client direct.
***
Wrapped in her duvet, she sat on the sofa, cooking up her first hit of the day. Once the heroin had released her from the pain in her bones and in her head, she started writing a list on the A4 pad she’d left on the coffee table last night.
Looking at what she’d come up with, none of the reasons seemed plausible for explaining the bandages she might wrap around her arms. If a dog had attacked her, wouldn’t it be strange the dog had bitten both her arms and nowhere else on her body? Spilling a cup of tea wouldn’t be enough to scald both arms. A hot bath, now that was a ludicrous idea. It would burn one hand or a foot. What idiot would lower both arms into a boiling bathtub? A drunken one, and she didn’t want Resident Dicks All the Boxes to think she was a drunk. The best option was a skin condition. She had eczema or psoriasis of which she was so embarrassed she kept it covered whenever it flared up. That way he would be unlikely to insist on seeing the damage, though he might choose never to see her again.
“Hi, it’s Kiki,” Shelley said, playing nervously with the diamond in her necklace.
“Hello sweetie,” Resident Dicks All the Boxes replied.
“I’ve eventually managed to get another girl on my booking, so I’m all yours.”
“Splendid,” he said. “I’ll send my driver. He’ll collect you from the same place. Say eight p.m.?”
The rendezvous was set but looking at the clock, she realised there was only a little over two hours in which to get ready. She threw on an old tracksuit and ran down the road to the shops.
When she arrived at the chemist’s, they were pulling down the metal shutter and she was refused entry. However, after the staff heard the details of her dire situation, she was granted access and given one of her four boxes of bandages free. The grey-haired shop assistant identified with Shelley’s story of a hypercritical boyfriend. Apparently, she’d married the one she’d been with as a teenager. Still married, forty years later, he was still hypercritical of everything about her, everything she did, everything she wore, everyone she spoke to and everything she said.
“It’s been lovely talking to you, but I need to get back.” Shelley took a step farther away from the cash desk and the lady standing behind it.
“Don’t take up with anyone who won’t take you exactly as you are,” the lady said. “If he wants to change you then it’s not you he wants to be with.”
Shelley took another couple of steps backwards and reached for the handle on the glass door. “Thanks for the advice,” she called out behind her.
After her shower, she straightened her black hair using a large bristle brush under the hairdryer. Then with her steaming hot curling tongs, she curled under the ends of her bob. Shorter hair took longer to style; she couldn’t leave it to air-dry as she had done when her hair was long.
She studied her face in the mirror. Little white bumps had infiltrated her once clear complexion. Worse, there were a couple of angry red spots on her chin. Taking concealer, she covered them over and applied a thick powder foundation, which she hoped would last the night. Her eyes, she made up heavy with purple to draw attention away from her damaged skin. The blush on her cheeks gave the illusion of health, as did the lilac gloss she spread on her lips.
On opening the bandages, she questioned if she could really pull it off, but it was too late to cancel now that she had committed. Having bandaged her left arm, she inspected it in the mirror. Sexy was not a word that came to her mind. Suddenly, she remembered a dress that she could potentially keep on all night and that would mean the client wouldn’t come face-to-face with the bandages.
From her wardrobe, she took out the Moschino mini dress. After bandaging her second arm from the wrist to just above the elbow, she slipped her mummified arms into the long sleeves of the black dress. Gold buttons ran the short length of the dress. She fastened them, bearing in mind that she could keep her arms in the dress all night and just unbutton the front when, and if, access was required.
For distraction from her covered arms, she rolled lace top stockings over her legs and attached them to a black lace suspender belt. With the combination of her stockings and her come-fuck-me high heels, she convinced herself she’d get away with keeping the dress on, regardless of the unhelpful comments from the board.
She took a chase of heroin to be sure she left the flat on time. Then she whizzed round the flat counting aloud in fives as she patted, twisted and rattled, the oven knobs, taps and window handles respectively.
She drove the short distance to Belsize Park from where she was being picked up outside her old working flat. Concerned the landlord might see her if he was around, she pulled up outside a row of terraced houses farther down.
At exactly eight o’clock, she stepped out of her car. She completed the ritual that ensured her car’s security. Then she walked up the road.
Noticing the Rolls-Royce was already there, she picked up her pace and approached the blacked-out windows. Out of habit, when she opened the door, she was mindful of her nails, but sitting down in the backseat, she realised they were unpainted. Her weekly visits with Nicole to Final Touch had slipped and she’d forgotten to paint them herself.
“Hello again,” Shelley said, as a hand reached through the hatch, exhibiting the silk blindfold.
Grateful that she could take her eyes off her unkempt fingernails, she tied the blindfold at the back of her head. Whether it would help take her mind off them too was another matter.
“I nearly didn’t recognise you, miss. Is that a syrup on your head?” the driver asked.
“No. Does it look like one?” As the car sped off, Shelley’s body was sent flying backwards into the seat. Her Tiffany necklace slapped against her open mouth and the diamond whacked her front teeth.
“I didn’t mean no offence, miss,” the driver said, as if he hadn’t witnessed the collision in the rear. “It’s just the boss only usually sees blondes.”