Dirty Aristocrat(47)

Sometimes I feel I got to run away.

Holding onto the pole I circle it with a prowling gait and sinuously rub  myself against it. I snake my hands above my head and grabbing the pole  jut my ass out and swing it from side to side. I sneak a look at Mark  and he is leaning forward. Approval.

Yeah, I can definitely do this.

I grip the pole hard and with all my might I fling myself into the air.  It should have been an energetic and impressive one-handed swing around  the pole, but instead my sweaty palm starts slipping off the metal. In a  blind panic I try to right myself by catching the pole with my other  hand but it is too late-I am flying into the air. I end up hitting the  stage floor hard with my knees. For a few seconds I sit stunned in the  position I have fallen in. My adrenaline is pumping so hard I do not  feel any pain. Then my brain kicks into gear. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. With my  legs still twisted underneath me I turn toward Mark.         

     



 

He has slid off the table and is bounding up to the stage.

'Let me try again,' I plead, and putting my palms on the floor I attempt  to push myself upright. A sharp pain shoots right up my legs. Wincing, I  persist and right myself to a standing position.

Mark is standing in front of me, looking concerned. 'Are you all right?'

Around us Marilyn's raspy voice screams, Tainted love, tainted love.

'I really need this job,' I beg, humiliated by my graceless fall and annoyed with myself for being so careless.

He eyes my knees and rubs his chin thoughtfully, and I know just by  looking at him that he is going to ask me to take more lessons or  something in that vein.

'Please,' I urge. 'That was my first time. I was just nervous. I can do this.'

'Look,' he begins more firmly, but he is interrupted by his mobile  ringing. He takes it out of his pocket, glances at the screen and looks  surprised. He lifts one finger at me in a gesture that tells me to wait,  presses his thumb on the answer button, and puts his phone to his ear.

'Yup,' he says after less than a few seconds of listening to someone speak, and terminates the call.

He turns his attention back to me, but his eyes are now speculative and  assessing. 'Good news. You've got the job. You can start whenever the  swelling'-he nods toward my knees-'goes down. Arrive at five thirty p.m.  with a photo ID, proof of address, and your National Insurance number  and report to the House Mother. Her name is Brianna.'

For an instant I stare at him speechlessly. My knees are throbbing like crazy by now. 'I've got the job,' I repeat stupidly.

'Looks like it,' he says with a grin.

'Thanks, Mark. You won't regret this.'

'No problem,' he replies casually, and losing interest in me turns toward the blonde Barbie. 'Want to show us what you've got?'

As I hobble away from the stage, a slight movement in the far shadows  catches my eyes. I turn my head and at the dim edges of the club I see  the glint of snakeskin as Jake Eden quietly slips out of the black and  gold doors. And I know without a doubt: North London's most illusive  gangster, Jake Eden, has just hired me.





TWO


For two days I hobble around my flat, eat junk food, and endlessly  replay my disastrous reaction to Jake Eden. Could it have been some sort  of freak overreaction caused by nervousness about my impending  audition? On the third day I convince myself it must have been, and  slapping a bit of concealer on my knees I make my way back to the club.

To my surprise the House Mother is a female version of my bank manager:  forties, a sleek helmet of strawberry blonde hair, and a dark blue suit  with a classy fitted top underneath it. Then she goes and does what my  bank manager never does: she flashes a genuinely warm smile and I know  we are going to get on just fine.

'Hi, I'm Brianna.' She extends a hand. 'Patrick told me to expect you.'

Her grasp is warm and soft.

'We're all known by our stage names here. Thank God. I'd go bonkers if I  have to remember two names for all my girls. Do you have one?'

'Jewel.'

'Jewel. It's been a long time since I've heard that stage name.'

'Really?'

'Yes, I've been in this business for twenty years, you know. And I danced for the first ten.'

She was so respectable and 'establishment' it was hard to imagine her on a pole. 'You did?'

'I sure did. A part of me still misses the attention and the money, but  I'm married with kids now and I wouldn't exchange that for the world.  Besides I love being House Mom here.' She smiles charmingly, but her  next words are a smooth shift into her business mode. 'About a hundred  and twenty girls work at any given time and it is my job to ensure that  just the right amount of redheads, blondes and brunettes are on the  floor, so that all my girls make good money.' She looks at me curiously.  'You have a very exotic look. Unusual. Your eyes are slanted, but so  blue.'

'My grandmother is from China and my grandfather was Nordic,' I offer  reluctantly into the expectant pause. I don't ever want to talk about my  personal life to anybody here.

'Ah! That will explain the amazing cheekbones too.'

'Thank you,' I accept politely, but my stiff expression closes off that avenue of conversation.

'Right. I expect all my girls to be able to do at least three shifts a  week. If for any reason at all you can't make it, you're ill, you've got  your period, or you've got a mother of a hangover, just let me know so I  can cover my ass. Be honest with me. I expect straight talking from all  my girls and I'll do the same with you. Understand?'         

     



 

I nod quickly.

'It is also my job to act as the buffer between the customers and the  dancers so no matter what troubles you find yourself in you can always  come to me.'

'OK.'

'Good. Let's get the house rules out of the way. The most important one  is: the punters aren't allowed to touch you and you aren't allowed to  touch them below the waist. Break that rule and you're out. If the  security cameras ever pick up a girl touching a man's groin with any  part of her body that girl never dances here again. Understood?'

'Understood.'

'Now, it's pretty standard that while you are dancing for a guy he will  have a semi happening in his pants. At that point it is exactly the same  with all men. They'll look at their crotch meaningfully and ask you to  touch them.'

My belly churns with disgust, but I fight hard to keep my face neutral,  and I must have succeeded because she carries on without batting an  eyelid.

'They'll plead with you, offer you money, and some of them will even  tell you they are friends of the management, and that it'll be OK for  you to "help" them. But if you do touch them and they turn out to be  undercover officers from the licensing department at the Council or the  police, the club will be closed down within the hour.'

'So what does everybody do at that stage?'

'Tell them you'd love to, but it could be seen as soliciting and that  would be in breach of the club's license. Point coyly to the security  cameras.'

'What if they insist?'

'If anybody behaves in a perverted way, is rude or aggressive to you,  simply signal one of the security boys and the chancer will be escorted  or dragged out, depending on the situation, by the back way where there  are no security cameras.'

It is hard to imagine that simply the sight of a pair of breasts will  make grown men gladly drop thousands of pounds from their wallets, but I  do start to feel better about the job.

Then she explains the financial set-up. For the first three days I will  not have to pay house fees, but after that all dancers have to pay a  house fee of ninety-five pounds-sixty-five at the start of the evening  and thirty by midnight. Use of the VIP rooms costs thirty pounds an  hour, but the men get charged two hundred so my profit is a hundred and  seventy for that hour.

Then she tells me the interesting part: money does not change hands  between customers and dancers. Instead dancers and punters use plastic  chips called Eve's Currency or ECs. The club adds twenty percent to  whatever the customer converts into ECs and deducts twenty percent  commission from the dancers when they change ECs back into cash at the  end of the night. It seems incredible to me that the dancers can make  any money at all with all these charges. My thoughts must have showed in  my face.

'Most of the men who come in here know the deal. They understand that  the girls aren't here for free and they keep the lovely stuff flowing.  Don't worry-a girl with your looks will make money-lots of it. And when  you do always remember to show your appreciation to the finely tuned  invisible grapevine circulating intelligence around the club.'

'Invisible grapevine of intelligence?' I thought this was a gentlemen's strip club!

'Let's say a customer pulls up in a Lamborghini. The doorman will radio  ahead to reception that someone who needs looking after has just come  in. Reception might decide to waive the entrance fee, which will make  him feel special and put him in a good frame of mind. While seating the  prestige customer the waitress will ask him what kind of mood he is in  or if he has any special requests.'

She stops to smile cheekily. 'If he says, "Tonight I'm feeling exotic,"  she will pass that information on to the DJ who will instantly call you  or the other exotic on the floor up to the stage. By the time you sashay  over to the big spender to ask if he wants a dance, he will think Eden  is the most brilliant place in the world. All he has to do is think of  the flavor of girl he wants and lo and behold, by a beautiful  coincidence, she is everywhere. He'll never know that it is well-oiled  cooperation at work.'