The Penance List Page 6

  Turning to the bedside table, she squinted to read the alarm clock. It was 8 pm already… fuck it! Time to get a move on, time to become Josephine.

  She grabbed at her hairbrush and pulled it through her freshly showered hair. Her makeup was perfect, thick, heavy, sophisticated bordering on slut, enough mascara to sink a battleship.

  Painting Josephine on took precisely one hour. The wig, a thick, black, shoulder-length, square-fringed bob began the look, very French. The little black dress, suspenders, stockings, and ‘fuck me’ stilettos with bondage anklet straps completed the look. A simple formula.

  God, men were so easy. It took more than packaging to turn her on, but then women were more complicated, they needed chemistry, something to take their breath away. A knowing look in a guy’s eye that said he understood her, could see right into her, and would just wait til she caught up with the fact that he was the one, confidence was a turn-on. He could be big, fat, bald, and ugly, but knowing and understanding a woman, how she ticked, how to make her feel safe, loved, was very sexy.

  Dream on, there were few out there.

  Whatever, the majority of men were jerks. In her line of work she’d lost respect for them. They were generally interested in their dicks and power, and how to enlarge both.

  She scanned the table top for her perfume. Stood up, sprayed the air in front of her, and stepped into the mist. The cheap smell settled on her clothes. She laughed; perfume should only be smelt when you were up close, a subtle sensual hit on your senses as you passed by or leaned in to kiss. Knowing the rule to be wasted on the men she had to deal with, she sprayed the length of her body, wearing enough to wake the dead.

  Her cold cynical side liked to rubbish her romantic side. With every starry-eyed dreamlike thought, came back a cutting crude remark. She’d developed into two people, two names, two lifestyles, two codes of conduct. Josie helped her through the shame of Josephine, helped to distance her from the disgust. Each had their own dressing table at opposite ends of her bedroom.

  Josephine was a hooker, a high-class hooker, but a hooker. She came expensive, so to speak. In fact, she never ‘came’ at all, only faked orgasm if needed to speed on a slow client to climax, time was money.

  Her two favourite things, orgasms and kissing, were kept for herself. She didn’t kiss clients, at least it was one part of her they did not invade; they normally had dreadful halitosis anyway.

  She also refused to do anything with animals, drugs, electricity, excrement, fists, multiple participants, sucking toes, ropes or anal (unless the guy paid treble the fee and had a very small dick), and she insisted on condoms. There were terms and conditions in all aspects of life, even prostitution.

  The worst aspect, apart from the dirty humiliation of being ‘used’ by complete strangers, was the loneliness. She couldn’t bring herself to share the burden of her secret. Her mum and friends thought she had a job in the city, dealing in stocks and shares, the type of work that didn’t encourage questions; eyes would glaze with over with boredom if she ever had to elaborate.

  She actually loved the finance business, kept up to date on the form, and soaked up the relevant daily papers and information sites. She cultivated a small group of city clients for inside information and tips. She’d invested a little and was not doing badly for a novice, even in today’s tricky climate.

  She bluffed her way through life with a fictitious day job and a dodgy night job. She wished she could tell Helen and Tara, but didn’t want to risk losing them. Her mother could never know; it would kill her, and what man in his right mind would ever marry her, knowing her history?

  She hated herself, more so for the weakness in not being able to give it up. She’d been a good student, worked hard, was brighter than most. As her mother did not have the finances to cover university fees, pole dancing in sleazy Soho clubs offered the key; it also offered an introduction to wealthier clients that wanted to see her on her back, not up a pole.

  Where had it all gone wrong? She’d promised herself she would stop once the degree had been paid for. Money! Money was too much of a pull. With it she’d been able to buy into a great lifestyle for her and her mum, she found it difficult to downgrade. Josie had fun spending Josephine’s hard-earned cash.

  Josephine earned £2,000 plus a night and £10,000 plus for a weekend (depending on what part of the world she was needed in). Where else could she earn that money in only a few hours a day? Office girls prostitute their mind and body for eight or nine hours a day for less than that in a month. Once they have worked their ass’s off, suffered the daily sardine rush-hour, sweated buckets of free overtime for an ungrateful boss; where are they left at the end of the day? With very little pay, arthritic typist hands, an unreliable pension, little thanks, and traded in for a younger prettier version once the fickle boss or HR (Human Remains) Department tired of them.

  It was hard to swap £2,000 a night for £30,000 a year. Not to mention holidays, twenty-five days a year, what the fuck was that? Slave labour!

  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she chided her mirror reflection,.“Get on with it, take the buggers for what you can. Build up your portfolio until you can be free; retire with mum in the sun.”

  She decided to finally tell the girls. Real friendship would surely survive the confession, knowing them, they may even find it a giggle and she would wonder what the hell she was worried about all these years, why she’d kept it from them.

  The doorbell rang, her taxi had arrived. Throwing the few essentials into her tiny cocktail bag, Josephine legged it out of the flat in a waft of cheap-smelling but very expensive perfume.

  In the back of the cab, she checked her little black book; tonight’s client was new to her. Her booking agency knew of him, his normal girl, Polly, had done a runner, disappeared overnight. She’d been called in as a replacement, as she and Polly were experts in the same fields. She read through his instructions for the evening’s entertainment. With new clients, she often took a driver with her, a ‘guardian’ that would sit in the car ready to pounce at the first sign of any trouble. But if he was a regular of Polly’s, he would be fine; she could handle it, so didn’t book one.

  She was having second thoughts driving through the streets of London, as the smart Chelsea address was actually becoming the rough end of Brompton Court Road. Borderline Chelsea… oh heck, what the hell, if he could afford to pay through the nose for sex, he couldn’t be too dodgy… could he?

  Chapter Ten

  Helen was bored, bored, bored.

  She had everything and nothing. She filled up her diary with beauty treatments, therapy appointments, training sessions, cocktail parties, gallery openings, memorial services (drinks parties for the old), and numerous mind-numbing dates with a string of unsavoury lovers. Anything to fill up her aimless empty days of doing absolutely fuck all. Anything to forget her fears of not being worthy, loved, respected, attractive. The more she sought affirmation, the more it evaded her.

  Even sex was beginning to bore her. The only things she enjoyed these days were accessory hunting expeditions (shoes and handbags) and Friday lunches with the girls, these were sacred.

  She’d shopped, shagged, and partied for England. Been pampered at every luxury resort and health spa known to man. Drank more champagne and ate more designer food than was good for her. Funded and dismissed enough shrinks to hold a conference. Had her body parts subtly reconstructed in most parts of the world. Could acquire any whim she desired and still wasn’t happy.

  The only thing she hadn’t yet tried was joining a cult religion, it was all the range amongst the Hollywood set, but she feared they may curtail her little luxuries: designer bling, champagne, oysters, extramarital sex, swearing, and surfacing from her bed at midday… or maybe yoga, that seemed popular, once you had got past a room full of sweaty ‘origami’ bodies farting… or hot yoga… what the hell was that?

  All this for what? What was the meaning of life anyway, for God’s sake? She surely couldn’t
just be here to shit, shag, shop, eat, wrinkle up, and fall off her perch? She craved a reason to be, an ambition, a reason to get up in the morning, structure to her day. Why was she here, what was the point? Her latest shrink said she needed to love herself before she could love others and have a fulfilled life… what was there to love about herself? She was lazy, ugly, worthless, bored.

  Since her parents had died, and she and her brother David had inherited a large amount of cash, she’d been through all manner of emotions: disbelief, sadness, anger at them leaving, joy at having so much money, guilt at having it, a hate of it, now she was just plain bored with spending it, bored with feeling empty.

  Her father had been a strangely quiet man, his feelings kept well hidden, more so since her mother had died in a car crash when she and her brother were still at school. They had always been comfortable financially, attended private schools and enjoyed expensive holidays, but nothing too extravagant; she thought her father had just got by. His wealth had been a shock.

  The siblings were sent to boarding school. Their parents, although basically good people, didn’t really want to be bothered with children. They were of the ‘old school’ where children were seen and not heard. Their father was often away working; he did not feature much in their lives. Their mother loved them in her own way, but was too much of a popular party animal to have to fuss with motherhood; it was far too tricky with a martini in one hand, and a cigarette holder in the other. In the Howard household, 6 pm could not pass without the clinking sound of ice being chucked into a cocktail shaker; the start of an evening’s drinking.

  Her oldest memories were of her mother leaning over the side of the bed to kiss her good night, jewellery clinking, mingling wafts of expensive perfume, cigarette smoke, and hairspray, long manicured nails stroking the side of her face. Alcohol breath kisses on her cheek. The swish of designer skirts as she rushed out of the room, late for some glamorous party or other.

  It was driving home from one of these parties that she lost it on a bend one night. A little too much to drink, the coroner had said. When she was alive, her husband hadn’t shown her, or anyone, much emotion; this was probably why she looked to the parties for adoration and company. After her death, they realized that he’d worshipped her.

  Since the day of the crash, he’d been dying of a broken heart. It took him three years to join her. He lost himself in his work, amassed a small fortune in the process, had a heart attack, and left everything to offspring he barely knew.

  The money made David even more eccentric; he’d become dark and introverted. He didn’t work and hardly bothered to see his sister, unless she tracked him down out of duty every now and then.

  They would meet for dinner; she would make small talk, desperate for some form of affection from him. He was her only family and she felt guilt at the way she’d relentlessly teased her little brother in their youth.

  Although she had had many boyfriends, especially since acquiring her money (funny that), none seemed to last. None felt genuine or gave her self-esteem, eventually she got bored with them and moved on to the next, except one. Seb Maloney was the one love that got away, the one she thought she’d have a real chance with. She managed to pretend it didn’t matter and remained friends with him. He was one of the girls’ gang; they all loved him.

  She’d a fling with him years ago, just pre-money, when she was a young naive runner in an advertising agency and he a lowly photographer’s assistant, both on a pittance wage, working long hours. They bumped into each other on a set for a deodorant ad. They had remembered each other from their school days, Seb and her brother had attended the same school. They got chatting and met for a drink after the shoot. She’d always fancied him, even at school, but now fell in love even more with his handsome bearlike scruffy looks and soft sexy Irish accent.

  They got on really well; he was so easy to talk to and very funny. They spent many nights at her tiny studio apartment, but he just didn’t seem to fancy her sexually. They would cuddle up and kiss through the night but he always had an excuse not to have full sex, too tired, too drunk, pulled a muscle playing rugby, match of the day was on TV. There were many aborted, embarrassing blow jobs.

  She had great panic attacks thinking she was not sexy, or he had someone else who he bonked ceaselessly during the day and was empty when he met her at night, or he was impotent, or she was too fat, or she was just not attractive. The list went on, spiralling her into lower and lower self-esteem.

  Candles, sexy music, naughty underwear; she tried it all. Even coming on to another guy at a party, in front of him, in an effort to make him jealous. Nothing, just the same old friendly, lovely, one of the girls, Seb.

  She wanted to ask him what the problem was, but worried that the minute you question a man about his sex it makes it worse, the spontaneity would go. He would lose his libido and they would have no chance of sorting it out. She just pretended that she was ok with it all in the hope that he would change. Day by day she lost a little more self esteem.

  Eventually, she broke down one night and told him everything she felt. An argument ensued, ending with him storming out. The following day her worst nightmare came true; he finished it. Using crass words to the effect that it was not her, it was him, he was not good enough for her, she should find someone better than him, and the classic… could they still be friends?

  He became the main topic of her therapy sessions; after time and many boyfriends, the pain dulled. He was now a successful, flavour-of-the-month photographer. She couldn’t help but be proud of him and assumed he now had his choice of a host of glamorous models and would be shagging for England, she never had felt good enough for him. He was out of her league.

  It was a great shame she didn’t know the truth, it had been staring her in the face.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sixteen years earlier, Heddington Hall Boarding School.

  Seb and David had been at the same school, Heddington Hall, for years. Although they were the same age, their paths hadn’t crossed as they were in different ‘Houses’. Each year of Heddington Hall boys was split into four Houses: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Houses would compete against each other through yearly exam results and sport competitions. Seb was in Matthew House, David in Luke House. Except for morning assembly, sports days, and end-of-year theatre productions, boys from each House would barely mix.

  Their personalities were poles apart: Seb was the popular, sporty, creative type, while David had turned from a fun loving little boy into a solitary, moody, science geek.

  Vivisection was David’s thing. He could often be found in the school laboratory, secretly conducting tests on the effects of chemicals on the bodies of rats, mice, frogs, earthworms, insects (any live creature he could get his hands on) before skilfully dissecting what was left of them, ‘playing God’ he liked to call it.

  David was a stunningly beautiful child. His gullible science professor had a crush on him and hailed him as a budding genius, naively imagining that, under his tutelage, his gifted pupil would go on to accomplish notable feats within the world of science. Consequently, David was given a key and free rein to use the science lab whenever he wished. This allowed him the privacy to move on to larger, unethical cargo: cats, dogs, and deer. He kept these illegal carcasses hidden from prying eyes. David knew it would be a matter of time before he practiced his honed talents on human flesh. He looked forward to it.

  Thus with the boys in different Houses, David living the life of a lab rat and Seb out on one games pitch or another, their paths at Heddington Hall did not cross. Until one night after supper, Seb, late from cricket practice, was chasing through dormitory corridors to fetch a book he needed for homework. To save time, he’d bravely taken a short cut through the dorms of ‘the enemy’, Luke House, to get to his dorm in Matthew House. Illegal territory; he would be fair game for a beating if caught. But Seb could move fast, and was one of the beefier guys in the school, which gave him the cockiness to believe he could fi
ght off anyone, and he normally did.

  He passed an open door to a Luke boy’s dorm; on hearing faint sobbing noises followed by a dull thumping sound, curiosity got the better of him. He skidded to a halt and cautiously backtracked to look inside. Was someone getting a hiding? It was not uncommon for boys to take a beating, especially if they were new, small or simply gained the cowardice attentions of a bully. Maybe he could help out, take the interest off the victim for a bit, his crazy Irish madness fancied a bit of a chase, a bit of a punch-up… bring it on!

  Peeking around the door, he saw the dorm was in darkness, large bay windows ran the length of it. The curtains were open, allowing the sun of the evening sky to bathe the room in a beautiful orange red glow; windowpane shadows crisscrossed the floors, walls and orderly rows of beds.

  The sobbing sound came from the other end of the dorm; he had to peer further around the door to source it. Adjusting his eyes to the light, he quickly scanned the room. A row of sinks lined one end and narrow wardrobes the other, small wooden bedside cabinets separated the beds, a large wooden crucifix hung on each wall. The normal decor for a Heddington Hall dorm, stark and cold.

  He couldn’t spot movement, but he could hear laboured breathing, where was it coming from? Finally, he saw it, the silhouette of a boy, covered in the orange red glow of the setting sun. He was alone, standing, facing the back wall, head bent, resting his forehead against the brickwork. It took a moment to realize that the boy was naked. Seb took a sharp breath.

  Apart from Rugby, Seb loved photography. It wasn’t considered a macho subject to take, there were very few in his class, and he was teased mercilessly by his mates, but he cared less. He’d always been fascinated in the magic of light and the ever-transforming ways it hit surfaces. It was a passion.