Camellia (24 page)

'Let me kiss your pussy,' he whispered hoarsely as he began to buck fiercely. 'Don't stop Bee, I'm nearly there.'

Camellia came again seconds after she heard Bee shout out and then there was just wild grunting from Aiden as he finally came too.

Three damp, sticky bodies lay entwined, Camellia sighing deeply and Bee giggling.

'That's just about the rudest thing I've ever done,' she said. 'What on earth would my mother say?'

'Brazen hussy, get to bed without any tea.' Aiden's voice seemed extra deep, his laughter directed only at himself. 'I suppose I shall have to confess this too. "Father I have sinned. I took two young ladies at the same time and it exceeded my wildest dreams."'

They had tea later, the three of them sitting up in bed laughing at everything and anything.

'I must go,' Aiden said eventually, turning to kiss both of them in turn. 'If I live to be ninety you two will always be my favourite dream. Look after one another.'

Camellia slipped on her dressing gown and went with him to the door.

'Come back soon, Aiden,' she said, reaching out to hold him one last time.

'Remember me fondly,' he said, stroking her hair back from her face. 'I wish,' he stopped short and just held her.

'What do you wish?'

'You know,' he said softly.

She knew. That he was younger, that he was different and that tonight didn't have to be the last.

'I love you, Aiden,' she whispered.

'Watch out for that devil on horseback,' he said, faltering for a moment, then turned away.

She watched as he bounded up the stairs to his car, biting back tears.

A sigh behind her made her turn. Bee stood in the doorway in her pink dressing gown, her hair rumpled, her face sweet and girlish.

'Now there was a man!' she said. 'He'll be a hard act to follow.'

Chapter Nine

May 1970

'Hi! I'm Camellia. Would you like some company?'

'Sure, honey!' The fat American's shoe-button eyes swept down her silky dark hair, lingered at her breasts bubbling out of her red chiffon cocktail dress and came to rest on her long slender legs. 'Sit down why don't ya. Let me buy you a drink.'

Camellia's professional fixed smile concealed dejection as she slid into the seat beside him. She'd drawn the short straw. It was only eight in the evening, the club wouldn't fill up for hours and this guy looked awful. It could be the longest night in history.

Camellia put her forearms on the table and turned towards the man as if he was the most important person in the whole world. 'Now what's your name and what part of America are you from?'

'Hank Beckwith, from Detroit.' He held out a podgy hand. 'Sure is swell of you to spend some time with a lonesome American.'

Camellia was repelled by the wet handshake, but fluttered her false eyelashes from force of habit. 'You do understand I work here as a hostess and I have to ask for a fee?'

He didn't reply and for a moment Camellia hoped he'd refuse. Instinct told her he wasn't a regular nightclub punter.

Then to her surprise he pulled out his wallet. 'How much?' he asked.

Twenty pounds,' she said quickly, doubling the normal charge. It wasn't ethical of course, but Bee was at home in bed with the flu, and somehow Camellia felt justified in taking her share too.

The American frowned as he pulled out two new ten-pound notes and put them on the table.

That's the worst part over.' Camellia folded the money and slipped it down the front of her dress. 'Now let's have some fun.'

Fun was the last thing she expected to have with this Hank Beckwith. He didn't look like he had it in him. Fat, red-faced and balding, his forehead was already glistening with perspiration. His big splayed-out nose, his wet, sloppy mouth and his loud checked suit appalled her. Without looking under the table she knew he was wearing her other pet hate: white socks.

'So tell me all about yourself,' she asked once the drinks he ordered arrived. Her first vodka and lemonade was real and she sipped it appreciatively, knowing the ones that came later would be just lemonade. 'Are you on holiday or on business?'

'Holiday? Do you mean vacation?' He stared stupidly at her. 'No honey, I'm here to work. My company makes packaging machines. I'm over here checking out your factories.'

In eighteen months of working in clubs, Camellia had met men in almost every line. But what could she say about packaging machines?

Unprompted, Hank began to reel off facts and figures: the targets he'd soared above and how much his company valued his expertise. Camellia fixed her eyes on him and pretended to listen avidly, letting her mind wander off.

She didn't want to work as a hostess anymore, it was becoming a drag. The thick carpeting, the chrome rails, plush booths and intimate lighting couldn't disguise the inherent sadness of nightclub life. How many more potted family histories would she have to listen to? If one more man told her his wife didn't understand him she felt she might just kick him in the balls and tell him he was lucky to have one at all!

It was all very well having nice clothes and plenty of money, but where was the romance, the thrills?

Aiden was partly responsible for this change in Camellia's outlook. His words about getting married and having babies seemed to have stuck in her head. Since the New Year everything had seemed a little phoney: the dressing up, the showing off, the so-called 'good friends' who came round to their flat for meals, but rarely bothered to ask her and Bee back to their place. Even the Beatles had disbanded back in April. Their songs had charted her life and emotions right through her teenage years and it seemed vaguely ominous that they should split up just when she was feeling it was time to move on.

Camellia was tired of one-night-stands, of hearing the same old glib chat-up lines. Aiden had made her want a real, meaningful relationship with a man, someone who just wanted to be around doing ordinary things.

There were no regrets about Aiden. He had given her what she wanted at the time, a lightweight romance with heavy duty sex, a caring friendship with no strings. He was a lovable rogue, the kind of charmer a girl only meets once in a lifetime, and he'd left her with something more than a few vivid memories.

But now Camellia felt she and Bee should plan for the future. They had become closer still since that night with Aiden, and they often talked of learning to drive, buying a car and travelling. Merely talking about it wasn't enough, though. Unless they made a concrete plan to save money, they would go on drifting.

'Tell me about your family,' she suggested when it seemed Hank had finally run out of steam about his damned machines. 'I'm sure a handsome man like you has one?'

He fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out the inevitable plastic concertina of photographs.

'This is Fern, my wife.' He pointed out a studio-posed picture of a moon-faced blonde in soft focus. 'She's put on a few pounds since then, but she's still a looker.'

Another snap of Fern gave Camellia a greater insight. Here she was wearing Bermuda shorts which looked as if they had a couple of cushions stuck down them, arms round two buck-teethed all-American brats.

'That's Marlene,' he pointed to the girl. 'She's eight now and as smart as her daddy. Buck's nine and he's gonna be a doctor.'

Every aspect of his life in Detroit was there: the white painted clapboard house, the Chevrolet, even the pet poodle called Misty.

'You're a lucky man,' Camellia said. 'You've just about got it all!'

'I'm luckier than most.' He snapped shut his pictures and stowed them away next to his heart. 'Fern ain't too strong on the intimate side, if you know what I mean, but she's a good wife.'

'Shall we have another drink?' Camellia knew from experience that such lines were usually an opener to an outpouring of a man's heart. She didn't want to know how Hank Beckwith supplemented his sex life. Getting him drunk and packing him off home early was a far better idea.

'One more maybe.' Hank put his wet fish hand over hers. 'Why don't we go on somewhere, maybe grab a hamburger and go back to my hotel?'

It was the first time he had managed to surprise her.

'I think you've misunderstood what a hostess is,' she said in her best starched voice. 'I'm here to keep you company, nothing more.'

He gave her a sharp look. 'I paid for you, honey. I call the shots.'

She looked at his bloated face, and three chins, the quivering belly straining his shirt buttons and the wispy ginger hair and thought of having him thrown out by the bouncer. But the club was quiet. He might insist on having his money back and they'd discover that she'd asked for double the fee.

'You paid only for my company,' she said firmly. 'I don't know how it works in America, but here a hostess is a lady, not a prostitute. If that's what you want, please go and look elsewhere.'

'I didn't mean to insult you.' He looked confused now and a little embarrassed. 'Aw hell, honey, you're mad at me!'

'I shall forget what you said as long as you don't repeat it,' Camellia said crisply. 'Now let's have another drink.'

The club's income depended on making men drink heavily but it was clear to Camellia that this man resented paying the high prices. Begrudgingly he bought another round, but he sipped it painfully slowly.

He was such hard work. He answered questions briefly, never once bouncing spontaneously onto a new subject. Minutes seemed like hours and time and again she had to stifle a yawn.

'Would you like to dance?' she asked desperately. Two of the other girls were out there on the floor with a couple of businessmen. Sometimes the girls could engineer it so the groups joined together, that way making a lone male more affable.

'I don't dance,' he said firmly. 'Never saw no sense in it.'

There was no answer to this and Camellia racked her brain to think up some new ploy. 'When are you leaving London?' she asked. If he had an early flight booked, maybe she could nudge him into an early night.

'Maybe tomorrow,' he said. 'Got a few people to call up first.'

Camellia's desperation had almost reached screaming-point, when she heard his stomach rumbling. 'You're hungry,' she said solicitously. 'Haven't you eaten tonight?'

'No,' he admitted somewhat reluctantly.

'I could order you a snack here,' she said quickly. 'It's a bit expensive though.'

'I'm okay till later,' he said. His stomach rumbled again.

'The trouble is most of the restaurants near here close by midnight. There's nothing worse than going to bed on an empty stomach. Why don't you pop out now and get something?'

She saw suspicion on his shoe-button eyes. 'Trying to get rid of me?'

'Of course not.' She forced herself to pat his arm maternally. 'You can always come back afterwards. I don't like to think of anyone being hungry, it spoils the evening. Now there's a good, inexpensive steak house up by Marble Arch.'

She hoped he would gorge himself then think better of returning. At half past ten in the evening all restaurants would be packed and he'd have a long wait to be served.

He licked his lips, as if already smelling the steak. 'You won't run out on me?' he asked.

'Of course not.' She moved nearer to pat his cheek, but recoiled quickly as his breath smelled so foul.

When he stood up she realised he was even more enormous than she'd thought. He had to weigh eighteen stone.

'See ya later then, honey,' he drawled and walked away to the door.

'Hard work, eh?' Denise, the bar manageress, smiled in sympathy as Camellia came over to her.

'The pits,' Camellia grimaced. 'Let me have a real drink, Den. I need it after him.'

Denise was thirty-five. Her bleached-blonde dizzy style, and low-cut dresses, concealed a knowing, hard-headed woman. Divorced, with a son at boarding school, a rich lover and a beautiful flat in Notting Hill it seemed to Camellia she had everything. She ran the club for Napier, had her spangly evening dresses made specially for her, and yet was caring enough to listen to all the hostesses telling her their troubles.

'He certainly wasn't prince charming,' Denise smiled. 'But you got rid of him early. How did you manage that?'

Camellia told her.

'Well, have that drink and shoot off home,' she laughed. 'By the time he's stuffed his face with steak and chips he'll be too tired for nightclubs, even with you as a lure.'

'But what if he does come back? He might complain about his fee,' Camellia said weakly. She didn't want Denise to know she'd overcharged him.

'I'll tell him your mother was ill or something,' Denise said helpfully. 'You can't really be expected to wait for hours for anyone. Give it half an hour, then go.'

Camellia agreed to this and sipped her drink.

'He was such a drag,' she burst out a few seconds later. 'Imagine being married to someone like that!'

'I was,' Denise said wryly. 'Promise me you won't ever be tempted by a loaded wallet alone. It's like being in purgatory.'

Denise often entertained the girls on quiet nights with tales of her ex-husband, his quivering belly, his belching and his insatiable appetite for kinky sex. Fortunately for her he met a nineteen-year-old model and left Denise to live in Florida.

Camellia smiled, but she still felt miserable.

'When's Bee coming back?' Denise asked. 'You seem lost without her!'

'I hope by the weekend. It's fun when we work together, even if the men are old farts. She's got this knack of bringing out the best in almost everyone.'

Denise nodded, but not exactly in agreement. 'You two should start to think about saving some money.' Her tone was almost maternal. 'I know you both think tomorrow won't ever come, but it does, sooner than you expect.'

Camellia smiled. Denise often used this line with them, but they usually laughed at her. Tonight however Camellia was beginning to come round to the older woman's way of thinking.

It was well after twelve when Camellia finally left the club. She had felt compelled to stay just in case Hank the Horrible did come back and she'd spent the time talking to Denise over another couple of drinks.