The Sister(75)

In keeping with the Marilyn theme, they pretended to be Frank Sinatra and Tony Curtis. There was a running joke between the three of them; that Tony sang better than Frank and Frank was funnier than Tony was. Sometimes Tony would joke. ‘Can I be Frank with you tonight?’ I wish you'd be someone else. At times, he scared her witless. Tony loved them to undress together, then he’d put her clothes on and tie her up with her own stockings, stark naked. That was the part she found hardest to cope with, she felt so vulnerable; he could do anything and she’d be unable to prevent it. He’d whisper threats into her ear, which he never carried out, but the deviancy of the acts he described to her clearly turned him on. She began to fear he might cross the line and escalate things to a level of kinkiness she couldn’t deal with.

She wondered who he was pretending to be, but he paid well and it was all over in an hour. Usually she charged a thousand pounds a session, but he got her down to nine hundred and fifty pounds and then always gave her a fifty pounds tip on top anyway. She guessed it made him feel generous and at the same time; it didn’t cost him any more than it would have originally. It was a power thing; Tony just had to have a deal. Working it out, she managed to get by on around five thousand a week and to do that, she needed six or seven punters a week. She had two special clients she never charged for her services. She’d rather not have been in that situation, but in any business you have insurance to pay. This business was no different, except her insurance came in the twin guises of a detective and gang boss.





That afternoon, Max had booked her to open a retro fashion store near Carnaby Street. The appearances he was arranging were getting too much like hard work and she dreaded it. He’d told her she needed to put a reasonable amount of her engagements through the books or she’d have the taxman after her. She suspected the real reason was that he didn’t want to lose his cut of the booking fees.

It was the first appearance she’d done since the opening of Lynch’s new nightclub earlier in the week. She didn’t consider herself outside the law, but Lynch most definitely was and boy, was he making it pay.

She showered and dressed.





That evening, once Tony had come and gone; she was relaxing in the bath listening to Enya playing in the background, she loved mood music. Her flat was spotlessly clean; she kept herself spotlessly clean. Taking a shaver, she neatly trimmed herself, carefully preparing for the arrival of Lynch. He loved her smoothness. She told him she didn’t mind if he decided to stay on at the club, after all; it was the first Friday after the opening, but he’d told her, ‘That isn’t me, all that showing off. I wouldn’t miss a tumble with you, babe. I’ll be round later.’

He would stay the night; he treated her like a proper girlfriend when he was with her. He knew what she did for a living, but he never talked about it and for her part, she behaved as any normal girlfriend would do. They talked of his plans, the things that bothered him. She listened. He never asked her anything much, how she felt or anything at all. He never asked any normal questions. It was a strange relationship, but then, with you girl, they all are.

Melissa dressed all in white; the satin dress, the gloves, the whole ensemble and applying the finishing touches, she dabbed on a little of the perfume he’d brought her and settled down for his arrival.

She kept two mobile phones, one in a white case for everyday use and another in a red case. Only two people had the number for the red-cased telephone. One of those people was Danny Lynch; he’d given her the phone as a gift so he could have exclusive access to her. When it rang, she’d know it was him, and if she didn’t answer, she’d better have a legitimate excuse. The other was JFK; he wasn’t supposed to have the number, but he’d called himself on it and saved the number while she was in the bathroom one evening.

The first time he called her on it; she thought it was Lynch. ‘Mr Lynch,’ she said. There was silence for a moment. ‘Danny?’ she said, thinking he was playing a game with her.

‘No, it’s not Danny, it’s me. Are you seeing Danny Lynch at the same time as me?’ He sounded hurt.

‘Why no, sugar,’ she’d assured him. ‘I only see you one at a time.’

Later, when he arrived at her front door with a scowl on his face, she saw it through the viewer. He was such a child. Opening the door, she smiled seductively and dragged him off to the bedroom; within a minute or two, he didn’t care anymore. After that, he never mentioned Lynch’s name again. She wondered why he’d chosen the bachelor life and asked him directly once. He’d said it was to keep the people at work guessing; there were rumours circulating that he was gay, but he did nothing to dispel them.

‘If only they knew,’ he said.

‘Would the truth be less acceptable to them?’ she asked.

‘What do you think?’ he said sarcastically.

‘I think that you’re such a contradiction, a hypocrite—’

He interrupted. ‘I don’t pay you to think!’

You don’t pay me at all. It irritated her, but she kept her thoughts to herself, him using that phone number meant she had to guard herself whenever she answered it. If Lynch knew someone else had the number, there would be hell to pay. So when he was round, she kept both phones switched off.

The red phone was ringing.

Think of the Devil! He’s going to tell me he’s staying at the club. She was actually relieved at the thought.