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