Kitabı oku: «Confessions of a Lapdancer», sayfa 4

Chapter Five

The morning sun streaming into my bedroom window helped me to jump out of bed on that crucial Saturday. In just a few hours, I would be taking my first steps towards becoming a professional lap dancer.

Declan had gotten down to business straight away. He told me there were no guarantees – I’d have to go through the training programme and audition like everyone else. I’d have to impress Jackie, who had been working at the Pearl for years, and if she thought I couldn’t hack it, I’d be out.

That didn’t frighten me – I was in good shape and wasn’t afraid of hard physical work. Declan didn’t seem to have any doubt I’d get through because he had already booked me in for a costume fitting at the suburban Pearl in north London, where I would be dancing.

I got up and switched on the TV to take my mind off the audition. I surfed the channels and found MTV and laughed out loud when the first video I saw was ‘Lap Dancer’ by NERD.

Maybe it was a sign that I’d found my calling.

I did a bit of a shimmy while I watched the lithe, tanned, surgically-enhanced LA chicks on the video and tried to pick up a few tips before jumping in the shower and then slathering myself in cocoa butter to make my skin feel soft and gleaming.

I’d been told to turn up in shorts, a vest top and trackie bottoms – with a pair of high heels – hardly a glamorous combination, but I knew it would be quite a workout.

I rolled out my yoga mat and did a few sun salutations and recited my mantra: ‘Geraldine, you have all the resources you need to succeed.’

I grabbed my gym bag, took a deep breath and shut the door behind me. Arriving in my BMW Z4 Roadster would only have aroused suspicion so I got the bus to the address Jackie had given me.

It turned out to be a nondescript-looking place in a grubby part of town. I rang the bell and someone buzzed me in. At the top of a short flight of claustrophobic stairs five other girls were sitting on plastic chairs outside a dance studio.

They all looked as apprehensive as I felt, so I clearly wasn’t the only beginner. A couple smiled and nodded but didn’t say anything. I wondered what had brought them to this point, whether they’d had an agonising choice to make.

I turned to the girl next to me. ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I’m Geri.’

‘Hello. My name is Irena,’ she said in halting English. ‘I am from Poland.’

‘Oh right, have you done this sort of thing before?’

‘Yes, I have danced, yes, but not in club like this. This scary, no?’

‘To be honest, I don’t know yet. I’m waiting to find out …’

Ten minutes went by. And then fifteen. I didn’t know what to do with myself. After all, fiddling with my BlackBerry or reading The Economist was out of the question.

I decided to repair some chips in my nail polish while I waited. The others watched me in silence. It didn’t seem the done thing to strike up a conversation, so I kept quiet.

Before long, the familiar riff of Beyoncé’s ‘Crazy in Love’ came wafting into the corridor and the studio door opened.

A ball-breaking brunette in her mid-thirties, with the ramrod posture of a classical dancer and a hard, good-looking face, strutted in. She was dressed in skinny jeans, knee-high boots and a hip-hugging, roll-neck grey sweater, which she whipped off to reveal a leotard beneath.

Ignoring us, she stood at the side of the room, stretching.

She had a natural presence and there was no doubting that she was top cat.

So this was Jackie.

Finally she turned to face us, hands on each slender hip. No matter how much horse-riding I did I could never dream of having a figure as svelte, yet still curvy, as hers.

‘Ladies, welcome to the Pearl boot camp. I’m Jackie and I’m here to put you through your paces. Please strip down to your shorts and vests – no shoes at the moment, please – and take off any jewellery.’

I took the lead and wandered into the studio – a small space with polished wood floors and four metal poles placed at regular intervals.

‘OK, when you’re ready, please come and join me, standing in a circle,’ said Jackie.

There were six of us, plus Jackie.

‘Right, then,’ she continued. ‘Before we begin, I want to tell you a story. In the bad old days, you would all have been called strippers and you would have been paid by the owner of a strip joint to wiggle your ass and take your clothes off for a few dirty old men nursing cheap beer.

‘You will be pleased to hear that we have progressed since those dark days. Now we have much more upmarket clubs that are professionally run, you will be called a pole dancer or a lap dancer and you will pay the club rent for the privilege of wiggling your ass. But the customers will be businessmen, guys on stag nights and, if you’re lucky, celebrities, who will hopefully give you generous tips.

‘If any of you survive this first session, I’ll go into more detail about the various club rules. You’d better leave now if you have a problem about taking off all your clothes in public. If you’re squeamish about men seeing your clit, then this is not the job for you.’

The sound of nervous laughter echoed around the room, and I felt my heart beat a bit faster as I realised what I was getting into, but I – like everyone else – stayed put.

‘Good, that’s the spirit, ladies,’ said Jackie, smiling for the first time. ‘Now, before we start moving, I’d like you all to introduce yourself to the group – your name, where you’re from, and why you want to work at the Pearl.’

‘You with the long dark hair, please start,’ she said, pointing at the olive-skinned girl opposite me.

‘Um, hello everybody, my name is Gabi and I’m from Brazil,’ she said in a lilting accent. ‘Back home I loved to dance the samba so I have good rhythm. I want to work at Pearl to earn money to pay for my study. I learn English and study law.’

‘OK, thanks, Gabi – I’ll be tapping you up for free legal advice,’ laughed Jackie. ‘Next, please.’

‘Good afternoon. My name is Irena and I am from Poland.’

‘Speak up,’ said Jackie. ‘There’s no room for shyness in this business. Be loud and proud.’

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ said Irena, notching the volume up. ‘Sorry, Poland. I want work at Pearl to pay my bills and also send money home to my parents. I also love to dance.’

‘Thank you, Irena, no need to apologise,’ said Jackie. ‘But you need to toughen up. OK, next please.’

A long-limbed black girl with a great-looking Afro stepped up to the plate. ‘Hi everybody, my name is Makani. My family is originally from Ghana but I was born in London. I want to dance at the Pearl in the evenings so that I can spend my days painting.’

‘Thanks, Makani, good luck. Let’s move on … OK, you with the spiky black hair,’ said Jackie, pointing at me. ‘What’s your story?’

I had to think on my feet; there was no way I could tell the truth.

‘Hi guys, I’m Geri,’ I said. ‘I’m from Surrey. I work as a temp secretary in the City but the pay’s not great. I want to work at the Pearl so I can buy some Jimmy Choos!’

That broke the ice a little and everyone laughed, except Jackie.

‘Well, Geri, I hope you’re not the kind of girl who’s a slave to her credit card. What makes you want to be a lap dancer?’

‘I’m reasonably fit and I’ve been told I’m a sexy mover,’ I answered. ‘So I thought I’d try my hand at lap dancing because it beats working behind a bar.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Jackie, but I could see my joke hadn’t gone down well with her.

The other girls said their piece and Jackie moved to the CD player and put on some relaxing music.

‘OK ladies, listen up. Welcome to Jackie’s Boot Camp. You don’t do the talking here, you do the listening. If you screw around I won’t ask you to drop and give me twenty, I’ll just get some friends of mine to very politely escort you from the building. When I’m here, you take your orders from me. If I say “any questions” then you can ask questions, otherwise shut up and listen. If you need to pee do it in your own time.

‘Now before we begin, everyone is always curious to know how we get into a business like this. Well, you’ve told me a little of your stories so I’ll tell you a little of mine.’

Chapter Six

JACKIE’S STORY

I’ve always wanted to dance. When I was a girl I dreamed of being a ballerina. And yeah, yeah I’m sure you all dreamed that. But I was good. I auditioned at 15 and won a scholarship to the Royal Ballet. Surprised? Well don’t be. There’s more. My mother didn’t want me to be a ballet dancer, she didn’t think there was money in it. She wanted me to be a hairdresser. So I ran away from home when I was 16.

I studied at Barons Court for a year or so. The course was tough, but I could handle it. The reasons I left … well. Let’s just say it involved a well-hung ballet teacher called Guy, a bottle of gin and the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. Guy and I woke up naked on a mat on the floor of studio two surrounded by twelve teenage ballerinas and a furious Madame. The teacher was fired and I was asked to not come back after the summer break.

I was gutted of course. But I had more immediate concerns than losing the love of my life. I had nowhere to live for a start. I couldn’t go home. Mum wouldn’t return my calls. I had no idea where my brothers were. My father was long gone and all my grandparents were either dead or senile. I was 17 and faced with a life of poverty and despair. Then I remembered my Aunty Linda. The only woman in our family who wouldn’t judge me. She was a black sheep herself, you see. Aunty Linda ran a lapdancing club in Whitechapel.

Suffice to say my Aunty Linda made a better mum than my real one ever did. I came out the other end still alive but it could have been a lot worse. Plenty of homeless girls end up on the streets as hookers, thieves or both. I was still determined to make it as a dancer. I knew I had the talent, and I was young. I just needed a place to put down some roots while I sorted out my life.

When I was reasonably straight in the head Linda put me to work behind the bar, mixing drinks, keeping an eye on things. I took tips from the punters but wasn’t allowed to dance. Aunty Linda wouldn’t let me. I was desperate to do it though. I wanted to keep in practice for a start. Dancing takes a lot of strength and the best way to keep your muscles trim is to dance. It’s not a coincidence that pole dancing has been taken over by the fitness clubs these days, though back then respectable women wouldn’t be seen dead near a pole.

I’ve never been respectable and don’t want to start. I didn’t mind taking my clothes off. In Auntie Linda’s the girls stripped down to nothing on stage and in the private rooms – Lord knows what else they got up to in there, but officially they weren’t supposed to fuck the punters. I was proud of my body. There’s not that much between a sheer pair of tights and a snatch open to the elements. I’d watch the other girls dance. Twisting, spinning, sliding up and down. Wrapping their beautiful bodies around the golden poles. I saw the boozy lads, or the quiet single men tucking notes into the g-strings or between a couple of pressed-together tits. I wanted it all.

I liked it there. I lived in a little flat above the club with one of the girls, a shy type called Melinda, or Marinda – I could never remember – and she was hardly ever there to talk to. I would sleep late, then make myself a coffee and look out the windows across the sea of chimney-pots and TV aerials that made up the East End skyline. I liked it behind the bar too. It felt safe. I was cut off from the action, the fights and the slaps when the punters got too fresh. I was immune from the drunken brawls that occasionally broke out. I watched it all, soaked it up, took it all in. I felt at home.

Linda didn’t own the place, that was some shady guy called Col who we hardly ever saw. He had ‘interests’ all over London so left the day-to-day running to Linda.

The clients we had were a mixed bunch. This was the East End and there were office blocks nearby but we weren’t close enough to the City to attract the really high rollers, though that was just as well for me. We all know how lairy they can get around bonus time. We got a lot of stag-dos, market vendors and even a few students from the college up the road. But the group I saw the most was Fat Desmond’s crew, a gang of middling-violent gangsters. They were apparently ‘associates’ of Col’s, which is why they were basically allowed free run of the place. They paid up, usually, but refused to tip, and often tried to cheat the girls. Linda had had to pay them out of her own pocket from time to time when they were left short by some crooked-nosed gangster.

Fat Desmond took a shine to me soon after I started working there and he was forever pestering Linda to let me dance for him. For once I was grateful for her refusals. I didn’t want to dance for that fat slug. ‘Her mother’d never forgive me,’ she’d say. I shrugged at Desmond’s raised eyebrows.

Now Desmond wasn’t the only one of these gangsters who tried to make eye contact with me. There was another guy, Tony. He was good-looking, though a real rough diamond. He was the sort who’d terrify you half to death just by asking for a drink, then he’d smile, walk off and you’d find he’d left you wetter than the Little Mermaid.

Fat Desmond was in charge of this crew, but I could see Tony was hungry for power, and maybe for me too. I found him intriguing and exciting. I began to look forward to the gangsters’ visits and found myself hoping Tony would make his move soon.

My friends were the dancers, I learnt a lot from observing and talking to them. I learnt about pole dancing and lap dancing of course, but more importantly I learnt about people, and how to make money from them. How to spot the difference between a mark, who you could fleece, and a customer that you should look after so he’d come back. My best friend was named Jen, though her stage name was Alicia. She was a beautiful African girl, with a lovely round bottom and a heavy lower lip that men never failed to try and kiss, only to have her turn her head away as they lunged.

I watched her, entranced, as she languidly swayed around the pole. Jen hardly seemed to do anything, but every angle, every pose, showed her assets off to their best advantage. Though undoubtedly attractive, she was far from the best-looking girl in the club, but she regularly pulled in more money than the others, however blonde and thin they were. She did it by picking her punters carefully and working them until they gave everything they were prepared to give, then leaving them wanting more, so they’d ask the bouncer on the way out when Alicia would be dancing again. Sometimes when watching her, I’d yearn to be up there, with her. I wanted to be her.

One night she showed me part of the magic that enabled her to extract so much money from the punters. She’d been entangled with a group of noisy suits all night. They’d been trying to get her to let them touch her and she’d been trying to get them individually into the back room where the real money was made. They were upping the stakes. ‘I’ll go into the room if you kiss my mate’s knob in front of everyone. I’ll pay you £25 if you let me touch your pussy.’ They were determined not to go back there, aiming to keep it all public, probably to cash in on some bet.

I was keeping half an eye on this as I stacked the dishwasher and eventually saw Jen look over at me and say something I couldn’t hear. The boys looked over at me, interested, and I wondered with trepidation what she was suggesting. Then she walked over to me. She leaned across the bar and whispered, ‘They think you’re my girlfriend. Would you mind playing along? I’ll give you a quarter of the tip I get.’

I nodded dumbly, thinking I should probably have asked for more, but too keen to see what she had in mind. Then she leaned further over the bar, grabbed hold of my top and pulled me over to her. Then we were kissing. That soft, inviting lower lip mashed into mine and I felt her tongue slip softly into my open mouth. The boys erupted into cheers and I felt Jen, no Alicia’s, hand inside my top, fondling my right breast.

Then she pulled away, but kept her huge brown eyes locked on mine for a few moments, a look of hunger on her face. She licked her teeth and walked back to the boys. She made a lot of tips that night and duly gave me a quarter of what she’d got from the suits.

What I’m saying, ladies, is in this business, you’ve got to roll with what comes your way. There’s no room for prudishness here.

I found out more about the gang as time went on, including the fact that Fat Desmond was under suspicion of murder. Apparently his brother Mike had been found floating face-down in a canal. ‘This ain’t EastEnders,’ Linda had said, ‘and Mike’s not ever coming back to Walford Square.’

‘Why do the police think Desmond killed him?’ I asked.

‘Because he’s as good as admitted it. They had a row over some bird and Des swore he’d kill him. Heard by a dozen punters in The Fox two weeks ago. Plenty of grasses around all too happy to put Fat Desmond away,’ Linda replied. ‘Too cocky for his own good, that Desmond, won’t be long before someone knocks him off his perch. He won’t go to jail though I reckon, he’ll end up in the canal next to his brother.’

As she said this, I was watching Tony across the room. He was looking back at me. He smiled and winked, sending a thrill, or possibly a chill, down my spine.

One night it came to a head. The gangsters showed up late, just as we were about to close. It had been a long night and we’d had some trouble with a group of businessmen. One of the bouncers had a split lip from the fight that followed and was in a foul mood. The other one had already gone home. Desmond’s crew came barging in, four of them, loud, half-drunk and triumphant. There had been some job go down that day and by the looks of it, they’d come away with whatever it was they were after and were in the mood to celebrate.

The bouncer tried to stop them and ended up on the floor, curled up and gasping for breath. He’d had a rotten night, I thought. As the gang made their way to their favourite table, Linda shrugged and asked a few of the girls to stay on, telling them they could waive their club fees for that night if they did.

I made my way over to the bouncer. Everyone called him Dublin, on account of his accent. God knows what his story was, he never told us anything about his background, but he’d certainly learned to fight somewhere, and the scars on his face showed it. He was a lovely bloke though, if you ignored the vicious beatings he gave to out-of-order punters from time to time. He loved the girls like an uncle and would do anything for them. I brought him a stiff drink and helped him back on to his feet. It always paid to keep the bouncer sweet.

Dublin thanked me and raised the glass to his lips to take a slug when a hand appeared from nowhere and slapped the drink to the ground.

‘I think you should serve your customers before you serve the fucking heavies!’ Desmond spat. ‘Or we not good enough for you?’

He was drunk, and high on something perhaps. I was scared but didn’t let him see. I stood straight-backed and looked him in the eye. ‘What can I get you, sir?’ I asked gently. Remember, ladies, the punter is always right. Especially when you know he has a switchblade in his boot.

‘Get us a bottle of champagne. Bring a glass for yourself too.’ I looked at Linda. I was allowed to accept drinks from the customers. Though not to dance, of course. She nodded, tonight was not the night to say no to Desmond. Dublin watched, eyes like gimlets, ready to take action should it come to it. I desperately hoped it wouldn’t, as Dublin wouldn’t have stood a chance against these four. I brought over the bottle and Desmond patted the banquette beside him. I sat down. Tony watched me from across the table, his face unreadable. I saw he had a cut over one eye. A big night for everyone.

Desmond poured five glasses, overfilling them and finishing the bottle, which he tossed over the back of the banquette. ‘A toast,’ he said, eyes fixed on mine. ‘To getting what you want.’

‘To getting what you want,’ the gangsters chorused while I mouthed the words. I knew too well that getting what you wanted wasn’t always the best thing for you. I sipped the champagne and stared back at him coolly. He didn’t seem to like the fact I wasn’t simpering like some grateful, first-time hooker.

‘Dance for me,’ he said.

‘I’m not a dancer,’ I lied. Though, strangely, this time I wanted to do it. Not for him, but for myself, and maybe for Tony.

He laughed. ‘Oh, I think you are, Jackie. I think you’re quite the little ballerina.’ He watched me react to this, champagne dripping off his double chin.

I gasped in shock, despite myself. How on earth did he know that? My eyes flicked over to Linda, who shook her head slightly, as bemused as I. Desmond had obviously been doing some research. Hardly anyone knew about my past. But why would he take the time?

‘Now dance, Darcey-bloody-Bussell!’ he roared. For the third time I looked at Linda who nodded.

I stood as someone put ‘You Can Leave Your Hat On’ on the stereo. The opening bars thumped out as I walked to the pole and I closed my eyes, feeling the music in my muscles. I stretched languorously as I leaned back from the pole, imagining I was in Guy’s arms in the studio. As the music warmed up I spun and lifted a long leg up against the pole.

Then the chorus hit and I took off my top in one swift movement. There was a sharp intake of breath. No one had asked me to take off my clothes but to me it was all part of the act. I opened my eyes, and as I swivelled around the pole, humping it languidly, I saw Jen and one of the other girls – Amber – watching me, open-mouthed, that hungry look back on Jen’s face. Linda was watching too, perhaps wondering if she should have let me dance before. Then the gangsters’ table swung past my vision. Desmond’s fat face leered at me, along with two of his minions, but Tony’s attention was focused on his boss, a look of pure hatred on his face. Then as I flipped around and hung back off the pole, I saw Dublin, who winked at me. I smiled back. I was dancing. And it felt like I was floating on air.

The future was uncertain, the atmosphere in the place heavy and oppressive. Things were set to change, I knew that, but just at that moment, I felt free. I felt in control, and I felt as happy as I’d been since Guy and I’d been thrown out of the Royal Ballet.

It didn’t last of course. Desmond summoned me over and asked me to give him a lap dance. I hesitated while he waved two fifties at me. Ultimately, it wasn’t the money that persuaded me. I didn’t doubt that he was the type of man to punch out at a woman if she didn’t comply. I climbed on his lap as ‘Danger Zone’ from Top Gun started up. I loved dancing to this song and I knew exactly what to do. I’d watched Jen and the other girls do it often enough. I tried not to grind too hard on him but he kept shoving his pelvis up at me and eventually I just rode him, trying to think of something else, but feeling his dick jabbing into me. I pushed my tits up together and brushed them across his lips. I watched in thinly-disguised contempt as he drooled down his chin.

‘In the back room,’ he grunted.

I froze. Don’t know why but I just hadn’t expected this. What else was he going to ask me to do? Linda spoke up. ‘No, she’s not going back there. She’s my niece, for Christ’s sake.’

Desmond swivelled and shot her a sneering glance. ‘She may be your niece, but she’s also my employee. And I say she goes into the back room with me.’

Linda looked gobsmacked.

‘Oh, didn’t I mention?’ he added, laughing now. ‘I own this place now. Part of our little “business transaction” earlier involved the deeds of this place changing hands. Poor old Col won’t be needing it anymore, not where he’s going.’ Desmond grabbed his drink in one hand, and my wrist in the other. He started to drag me off to the back room.

‘She’s not going,’ Linda said firmly. Dublin stood and moved towards us. Desmond snapped his fingers and his two goons rose to their feet and moved towards Dublin menacingly. He stood firm. As the crooks came near, he unleashed a massive round-house kick that sent one of them sprawling and took the other completely by surprise, unsettling him and leaving an opening. Dublin punched him once, twice in the face and the goon staggered back. But by that stage the first one had recovered and leapt on Dublin, bringing him crashing to the sticky carpet. One of the girls screamed. Jen raced up and began trying to pull the thug off. But the second stepped up and backhanded her across the face, before kneeling down and punching Dublin repeatedly in the face as the other held him down.

‘Stop!’ a voice called out firmly. The goons stopped their punching and turned to look at the owner of the voice. Tony.

Desmond looked at him in surprise. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t stop. Give him a good working over.’

But the goons hesitated. And Tony must have realised this was his opportunity. Tony walked over to Desmond, his eyes flicking over to me for just an instant, and said calmly, ‘Let the lady go, Des.’

Des stared back in amazement. He hadn’t seen this coming. ‘Lady?’ he sputtered. ‘This ain’t no lady. This …’ But he never got to finish as he was suddenly lying on the floor with one of his own teeth in his windpipe, choking him. He coughed and turned a dark shade of purple. Tony merely walked up to him and kicked him hard in the solar plexus. The tooth shot out and rattled across a nearby table.

Tony made a signal to the goons, who seemed to have been expecting this. Maybe, like me, they were just waiting for Tony to make his move. They lifted the dazed Desmond, still struggling for breath, and hauled him out the back door.

‘What’s gonna happen to him?’ I asked.

‘You don’t want to know,’ Tony replied, rubbing his bruised knuckles. ‘He wasn’t a very nice man, but then again, neither am I.’

I eyed him up and smiled. ‘You rescued this lady, you can’t be all bad.’

He thought for a minute, wondering if I was flirting, then smiled, almost shyly. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to chat to Linda for a bit. You gonna hang around?’

‘I live here,’ I said coolly, and walked away, swinging my behind. I could feel those piercing eyes watching me go.

I picked up my top and went back behind the bar, where I felt more comfortable. Maybe I shouldn’t ever have stepped out from its protective embrace. I realised I was still shaking and poured myself a stiff drink. I got one for Jen and Amber too who wanted to know what Tony had said to me.

The goons came back, without Desmond, and joined in the chat with Linda and Tony, who I guessed was our new boss.

Later, Tony came over to speak to me. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

I shrugged. ‘No broken bones, just a slightly bruised wrist.’

He gazed into my eyes, but I felt ready to meet that gaze. I had nothing to be ashamed of. Did I? What did he want from me?

‘Let me buy you a drink,’ he said. Now ladies, from the look of you, you’ve probably heard every chat-up line devised by man. Some of you look like most of them might have worked, too. But as far as I’m concerned, ‘Let me buy you a drink,’ is all it takes. It’s simple, it’s forceful without being creepy and it gets the message across.

You might think I should have grabbed that drink with two hands and without a second thought. I fancied him, and he had money. He could have rescued me, taken me away somewhere and installed me in a nice house somewhere, maybe Epping.

But I didn’t. I stood and looked back into those eyes for a long time, thinking it over. I didn’t mind the fact he was a gangster for myself, but I had other … concerns, shall we say?

‘Trust me,’ I told him. ‘You wouldn’t be interested in a girl like me.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ he said. But just then Linda asked me to help her with the till – it was forever sticking – and with a last, sad smile I left Tony standing in the middle of the bar and walked away.

And that’s storytelling hour over, ladies. Now those of you who think you can handle the ride, in more ways than one, stick around and we’ll audition you. Those of who ain’t up to it: leave now.