Dangerous Liaisons

Pixie knew her talented sister was set for stardom – but surely a seedy club wasn’t the place to follow her dreams?

It’s the start of our new serial on page 54. Set in the Swinging Sixties, sisters Jenny and pixie are sure to keep you on the edge of your seat for the next four weeks.

The flat’s fab – dead trendy, and central, too, her sister Jenny had written. I’m sure I spotted Julie Christie walking past my window the other day. She’s not the only actress living round here, either, so I’m sure

I’ll make more contacts. There are great views across the park, continental restaurants nearby, and it’s handy for the Tube – although, at the rate my career’s taking off, I’ll soon be catching taxis everywhere…’

Number 14 Sorrento Road was a four-storey house in such a state of disrepair that Pixie imagined all that was keeping it upright were the houses on either side. She checked the address on her sister’s letter.

Yes, the number matched the one she was looking at here.

She’d imagined a front door like that of 10 Downing Street, which she’d seen on telly – wide, freshly painted and crowned with a gleaming, brass knocker. But this door was nothing like that. For a start, most of the paint had flaked away, and there was a trail of sticky prints all round the knocker, as if a colony of small creatures had

crawled all over it. There was even a dent halfway down, as if someone had tried to kick it in, and the number 4 had lost a screw so that it keeled over, drunkenly, to one side.

Pixie peered at the panel on the wall where, for each occupier, there was a name and flat number listed alongside a corresponding doorbell. Most of the names were illegible. She sped past several until her eye glimpsed a more familiar one – except that it was only an appropriation of the name her little sister had been given at birth, and the one Pixie had always known her by. ‘Jenna’, it said. Could that possibly be their Jenny?

The day was hot and humid, and Pixie, who’d been travelling for hours, was dead on her feet. She needed air, but there was none – or, rather, what little there was, trapped inside this scruffy, narrow street, was squeezed out by traffic fumes.

She’d so looked forward to springing this surprise visit.

For the last few weeks, she’d thought of nothing else but this trip – her first to the capital. She’d spent hours thinking about what to pack. Jenny was so stylish, so fashionable, compared to herself.

Jenny had the figure for a start, as well as the youth. The new mini-skirt length wasn’t intended for curvier women like Pixie, who, next birthday, would be halfway to her three-scoreyears-and-10. What a blessing tent dresses were!

Pixie read the letter yet again, willing herself to believe she’d come to the wrong place. But, in her heart of hearts, she knew this was no mistake.

She had a choice. She could turn away and find a cheap hotel somewhere she could go to ground for a week – surely that couldn’t be difficult in a place as big as London? Then, once her holiday money had run out, she could return home and tell Mam she had no need to worry – that Jenny was doing fine, and her transition from Miss Bickersworth Colliery

1965 to upcoming star of London stage and TV screen was evolving as rapidly as Jenny – or the more glamorously named Jenna – had always maintained it would.

Or she could ring Jenny’s doorbell until she answered it, and demand to know what the hell was going on.

When Pixie cried it wasn’t just her eyes that turned red, but her whole face. It was a different story with Jenny, whose limpid eyes now shone with tears, rendering them even more lustrous, and adding a luminous quality to her already perfect complexion as they slid down

her cheeks. From an early age, she was the apple of Mam and Dad’s eyes, and had always used tears to get her own way.

There was a gap of 14 years between them. Growing up, Pixie had been more of a second mother to Jenny than a sister. But Jenny was a grown woman herself now. Pixie must have been mad been mad to think she could just push her way in and order Jenny to pack her bags and return to Bickersworth with her on the next train.

‘My life’s here now, Pixie.’ There was a tremor in Jenny’s voice that would’ve melted the heart of a monster. ‘And even if I wanted to, I can’t go home. That would be admitting I’ve not made it yet.’

Fixing Pixie with a look of grim determination, she added, ‘But I will make it, whatever you think.’

Pixie steeled herself for a confrontation. No way was she letting Jenny get away with this, no matter how many tears she shed. She thrust the letter at her. ‘Why the lies, Jenny?’

Jenny flinched. ‘I don’t know,’ she sobbed. ‘I guess I just wanted it to be true.’

‘And how long did you intend keeping up these lies?’

‘Stop calling them lies. Anyway, you’re not to call me Jenny any more. It’s Jenna now.’

Jenna, apparently, was more modern, more exotic. And, in any case, everyone at work called her by that name.

‘You’ve got a job, then?’ Well, that was something. ‘Is it an acting job?’

Jenny was looking decidedly ill-at-ease. ‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘Though my acting skills do come into play.’

So what was it, then, this job? Pixie demanded. She’d a funny feeling that whatever it was, she wasn’t going to like it.

‘I work in a bar – more of a nightclub really – as a hostess. I have to charm the customers. It’s great fun, actually. And the money’s OK.’

Her smile was bright, but there was a flicker of something else behind her eyes. What wasn’t Jenny telling her?

Pixie longed for a cup of tea, but, looking around her, she couldn’t see the wherewithal to make one. Her sister had claimed the only chair that wasn’t buried under a heap of clothes, so she’d been forced to perch on the arm of it, where there was no support at all for her aching back.

She was so preoccupied with her need for refreshment that Jenny’s words ran past her.

She only caught snippets. Everything, it seemed, was rosy – the customers, management, the other girls, the perks.

But Pixie had already been fed one bucketful of untruths, and right now she didn’t have the appetite for another. How she wished she was the fly-by-night instead of the sensible one. Those labels, given to them in childhood, had stuck so fast, they were impossible to peel off.

‘When’s your next shift?’ she asked, once Jenny had finally run out of words.

Her sister hesitated before answering. ‘Tonight. I expect you’ll be gone by the time I have to leave the flat.’

Pixie shook her head. Oh, no. Jenny wasn’t going to get rid of her so easily. If she was so determined to stay here, then someone needed to keep an eye on her. It might as well be her.

‘Do they need any barmaids at this club of yours, do you think?’ she asked. ‘I might as well at least make myself useful while I’m here.’

The Knave of Spades was approached via a litter-filled alleyway, down a steep flight of steps into a basement, dimly lit and veiled in a pall of cigarette smoke. There was a constant hum of conversation that grew louder with each step down, and, in the background, jazz music was playing, lending an atmosphere of mellow sophistication to the place.

The clientele was mostly lone men, eyeing up the hostesses with what her mother would have described as a ‘leer’.

That night, the angels must have been on her side when she walked in with Jenny at the start of her evening’s work. Earlier, one of the bar staff had been caught with her fingers in the till, and had been summarily dismissed. If Pixie could get through the shift to the manager’s satisfaction, then the job was hers, she was told.

So here she was, gritting her teeth and getting on with it, doing her best to play the role of affable northern barmaid while still managing to follow Jenny – or Jenna – around the room with her eyes. Her sister certainly seemed popular with the men as she flitted from table to table, flirting like crazy – although, not once, Pixie was relieved to see, did she allow physical contact, other than the glance of a hand on a shoulder.

Like the other girls, Jenny was wearing far more make-up than she needed. Like them, she was dressed in a low-cut, tight-fitting, black dress and heels. It was regulation wear, apparently, for which money was taken from their wages even before they got paid.

When Pixie had remarked that it would take Jenny the next 50 years to earn the money for the mink jacket hanging in her wardrobe, Jenny had blushed and told her not to be so silly, and that it wasn’t real

‘You’re not to call me Jenny any more. It’s Jenna now’

mink anyway. An exhausted Pixie decided not to pursue her suspicions for now, though she couldn’t help feeling uneasy. It’d looked real enough to her. And, if it was, then what had

Jenny had to do to get it? It didn’t bear imagining.

Now, two hours into her shift, in an attempt to impress the boss, she was keeping herself busy by polishing glasses during a sudden lull. As she went about her task, she thought hard about what she was going to tell Mam tomorrow afternoon when she rang her from the phone box on the corner of Mam’s street, just like she’d promised to.

How was she going to explain that she’d caught Jenny out in a lie, and that there was no agent or any upcoming audition for a TV advert either? That they were both part of another yarn she’d spun them, and that, far from persuading Jenny to come home, she’d joined her in the den of iniquity where she was actually employed, and gone and got a job there herself? ‘Penny for them.’

She glanced up at the man who’d spoken. He was perched on a bar stool, where he’d been sitting for the last half hour nursing a whisky and soda, which he’d finally drained.

He was the sort of crumplesuited man she seemed to attract; the kind with a lived-in face who cared little for show. He certainly bore none of the accoutrements other men in the room took obvious pleasure in showing off: the gold cigarette cases, the rings and the showy timepieces. When he’d paid for his drink earlier, he’d taken a note from a shabby, much-used leather wallet, and there’d been no flash of gold on his wrist, just a plain, leather watchstrap.

He didn’t even seem that interested in the girls, though she thought she’d noticed him clocking Jenny once or twice. But then who wouldn’t want to look at her? She was by far the most attractive girl in the room.

‘Same again – and one for yourself,’ he said, taking out his worn wallet again and handing over a 10-bob note.

‘Thanks very much.’ Pixie smiled pleasantly. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘From the sound of your accent, you’re not from around these parts,’ the man said, once she’d handed him his drink and his change and pocketed the price of a gin-and-orange in her tip box. It wasn’t a lot of money, but if she was going to be staying at Jenny’s place she intended paying her way.

‘You’ve got me bang to rights, sir,’ she said, affably.

He was probably lonely, doubtless too shy to chat up the hostesses, she decided. Maybe he thought he’d have better luck with the curvy bird behind the bar. She must’ve looked to him as out of place amongst all those slim, sexy girls as he did to her.

‘No need for the “sir”,’ he said. ‘Name’s Harry. Harry Stone.’

‘I’m Pixie.’ She waited for the inevitable response.

‘That can’t be your real name, surely?’ he said, bang on cue.

‘Nickname,’ she explained. ‘Bestowed upon me by my darling parents at birth on account of how tiny I was. I’ve grown a bit since, of course.’

‘Nothing wrong with that,’ he said. ‘Girls are far too skinny these days.’

‘That’s exactly what my mother says,’ she replied.

‘Your mother sounds a very wise woman.’

‘She likes to think so, though I’m not sure my little sister would agree.’ She must have unconsciously glanced over in Jenny’s direction because he followed her gaze.

Jenny was deep in conversation with a young man, one of a group Pixie’d noticed arriving earlier. They’d swept in, him at the head flanked on both sides by his friends. He may have been the youngest in the group, but he was definitely in charge. There was a swagger about him, a self-confidence that she could imagine some women would find attractive – Jenny, for one, from the flirtatious tilt of her head and the narrowness of the space between them.

‘She’s your sister?’

People often reacted that way when they found out that Pixie and Jenny came from the same stock. She’d long since learned not to take it personally.

‘I know, right?’ she said with a smile, as if his obvious show of disbelief hadn’t hurt her.

To give him credit, he recovered quickly.

‘I can see the likeness.’

‘What? Even from here?’ ‘Same mannerisms. You both do that thing with your head.’

His gaze seemed fixed on Jenny. She wanted to tell him that that was enough, but it was important she kept this job. Here it came again, that overpowering need of hers to take on the role of Sir Galahad whenever she saw men devouring her sister with their eyes, like she was a juicy steak served up on a plate just to assauge their hunger.

‘This is only a temporary job for her,’ she said, struggling not to sound defensive. ‘She’s an actress. In fact, she’s waiting to hear from her agent about an audition she was up for earlier.’ ‘Is that so?’

‘Wouldn’t be surprised if she gets it. She’s a very talented girl.’

Less than four hours ago, she’d been berating Jenny for telling lies. And yet all it’d taken was for her to open her mouth to a complete stranger for a lie as big as any Jenny could invent to drop from it.

Was this what London did to a girl?

‘And what about you? Do you share her talent?’

Harry had stopped looking at Jenny, his full attention back on Pixie. She felt suddenly shy.

‘Me? No. Well, I sing a bit. Mainly jazz.’

‘Really? Have you ever sung professionally?’

The bar was getting busy again. It was a relief in one way and a pity in another. Harry Stone seemed like a good listener, the kind of man a girl could open up to about always feeling second-best to her sister – the one with the looks and the self-confidence to stand up and perform in front of an audience.

The only time she’d tried, it she’d been 13 years old, the first act on at the church talent show. She’d opened her mouth to sing and nothing had come out. She’d stood there, rooted to the spot, allowing the guffaws of the audience to wash over her for far too long. She had a vague memory of the vicar’s wife scuttling onto the stage, grabbing her arm and dragging her off into the wings. Nowadays, she confined her singing to the bathroom.

She’d have liked to tell Harry Stone all that, but she hardly knew him. And, anyway, she was here to keep an eye on Jenny, not to fall for a stranger.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, aware of the manager’s eyes on her. ‘I need to show willing. This is my first shift and I can’t afford for it to be my last.’

‘Take it from a regular, there’s no danger of that,’ said Harry. ‘It’s obvious you know what you’re doing.’

A regular, was he? The news was a real comfort. Right now, Jenny might not be happy with her, but at least she had one friend. Though, knowing her luck, tomorrow night when he dropped in for a drink he’d be taking out his wallet and showing her photos of his wife and kids. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He was the sort of crumple-suited

man she seemed to attract

Pixie had done a lot of bar work in her day, and she could spot a villain a mile off.

Unless she was very much mistaken, Danny Kirby was a villain. So it worried her that he seemed to be showing rather a lot of interest in Jenny. Worse, every time she glanced up between serving punters, Jenny was in his orbit.

She realised her sister was being paid to be nice to the customers, but, whereas she kept her distance from most of them, she seemed to encourage Danny Kirby, tossing back her hair and smiling at him through half-closed eyes whenever she caught him staring at her – which was far more frequent than Pixie thought appropriate.

She’d brooded on it for five nights on the trot until, now, back at the flat, Pixie decided to confront Jenny. Weary after hours spent on her feet, she lay on the bed in the room Jenny had grudgingly offered her until Linda, her flatmate, came back from her visit home. The longer she lay here pondering where to start, the less likely she’d say anything at all, she decided. With that in mind, she heaved herself up from the bed and headed for Jenny’s room.

Jenny sat at her dressing table, vigorously wiping off the night’s make up, dressed in a pink, nylon, baby-doll nightie and matching housecoat and a pair of fluffy, pink slippers.

Everything was a performance for Jenny, Pixie couldn’t help thinking. It was as if she was on stage all the time.

‘Who’s that chap I keep seeing hanging round you?’ she said.

Jenny stopped what she was doing and looked at Pixie through the mirror, bottle of cleanser in one hand, cottonwool ball in the other.

‘Which chap?’ she said.

‘The one with the long hair and thin lips.’

The description must’ve been one that resonated with Jenny, because she recognised the man Pixie was referring to instantly.

‘I guess you must mean Danny,’ she said. ‘Danny Kirby.’ ‘What does he do?’

Jenny went back to her task.

‘I’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘Businessman, probably.’

‘Dodgy business, if you ask me,’ her sister retorted.

‘Why do you think that?’ Jenny rubbed at her face more vigorously. ‘Honestly, sis, you can be such a prude. Just because he wears a nice suit and obviously takes care of himself, that hardly makes him a villain.’

Men in London were different from the men back home, she said. They tried harder with women, and that meant they made more of an effort with their appearance.

‘Well, I don’t like him,’ Pixie snapped. ‘And I don’t trust him, either. I wish you’d just stay away from him.’

There, she’d said it now. So much for the vow she’d made herself earlier, to avoid confrontation at all cost.

Jenny tossed the cotton-wool ball into the waste bin and turned round.

‘Oh, you do, do you?’ she hissed at Pixie.

‘You don’t have to work there, Jenny,’ Pixie said, adopting a more conciliatory tone. ‘There must be other places you could get work while you’re waiting for your ship to come in…i n a shop, for instance.’

‘Shut up!’ Tears welled up in Jenny’s eyes. ‘Do you think I want to work there? I have no choice!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You need to have a word with your boyfriend.’

‘Boyfriend? What boyfriend?’ Jenny shot her sister a look of utter contempt.

‘Oh, don’t give me that Miss Innocent look. I’ve seen the two of you canoodling at the bar– you and that Harry Stone.’

Pixie felt the colour rise in her cheeks. It was true she’d spent a lot of time chatting to Harry whenever he came into the bar. But canoodling? No way.

‘That’s nonsense,’ she said. ‘And anyway, what does he have to do with anything?’

‘Because he’s the only reason I’m working there!’ wailed Jenny. ‘Harry Stone is blackmailing me.’

Continues next week Geraldine Ryan, 2018