Read Online Opportunity by Charlotte Grimshaw - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charlotte Grimshaw
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with you, Rania?' I asked.
Her expression went dark. 'Your father left me with nothing.
No money. How could I pay the bills?'
'So what did you do?' I could tell she hadn't had to scrimp
or save. Her face, her hair, her clothes, all bore evidence of the
costliest attention.
She smiled coldly. 'I have a business.'
'What sort of business?'
'Gentlemen's club.'
'A brothel?'
'Sauna, massage, brothel. Sure. Very good business. Ling
and I . . .'
'Mr Ling!'
'Ling is silent partner.' She hummed and looked out the
window.
'Oh really.' I told her why I'd been at the police station.
Then I regretted having told her, because I had to spend a long
time getting her to not throw me out.
'This is my house,' I protested, after a while.
'Not yet it isn't! Only when I die! I don't want trouble here!
Go away!'
'Don't be ridiculous.' I was weary. 'I want to go to bed.'
'No! Get out!'
'Oh, shut up, Rania,' I said. I went to my old room. I dragged
a chest of drawers in front of the door. I took out an empty
drawer and put it next to the bed, as a weapon. I crawled into
the cold sheets.
I dreamed Rania was coming at me, a satin cushion in her
hands. She said, intently, 'He's gone now. He's gone. There's
only you and me . . .'
For two days I hid in the upstairs room. In the mornings
she rattled the doorknob and threatened to call the police,
and told me to be out by the time she came back. When I
heard her convertible on the drive I went down to the kitchen.
In the evening we watched television together in the sitting
room. Rania lived on cigarettes and diet pills and sparkling
wine. On the third day I went out to the shops, and withdrew
some money from my bank account, slumping with relief
when they let me do it. I'd feared there might be some sort of
freeze on my funds. That night I cooked her a meal. She
watched me prepare it and waited for me to start eating, as
though suspecting I'd slipped in some poison. She had a few
mouthfuls and then lit a moody cigarette. I ate all mine and
then finished hers.
She stared at me. Then she drummed her fingers on the
table and said, 'So. Fatty boomsticks. You want a job?'
'In a brothel? No thanks.'
'Administration,' she said smoothly. 'Strictly no contact
work. Managing the girls.'
I thought about it. I was curious. 'Yeah, go on then. When
and where?'
'You come with me. Tomorrow.' She pulled her long black
hair away from her face. There were rich, raisiny shadows
under her eyes. Her eyes were black-lined and almond-shaped,
in the painted face. I looked at her: my Egyptian
stepmummy, with her hating eyes.
'And now I must go and watch Antiques Weekly ,' she
announced, and swept from the room. I heard the fizz and
crackle of the TV. Her mad scent hung in the air.
The next morning we stood outside her brothel. It was
called The Land of Opportunity. It was a grand old stone
house with stained-glass windows, at the end of a row of
shops.
'We are strictly upmarket,' Rania said. 'Lot of doctors,
lawyers. Judges. Pillars of community. Top civil servants,
policemen . . .'
She ran on. Like most people in this game, she liked to
make it sound as if everyone did it, they just didn't admit it.
Especially people of great talent and distinction. 'Politicians,
captains of the industry, artists, television executives . . .'
I followed her up the stairs.
'Actors, diplomats, visiting dignitaries . . .'
We entered a velvety bar, with couches and heaped
cushions.
'And no Maoris,' Rania finished.
'No Maoris ?'
'Customers maybe. If tidy. Girls, no.' Her eyes were slits.
'You can't do that. It's not . . . It's against the . . . Human
Rights Convention.'
'Is my place.'
'God. You're supposed to have left all that behind when you
came here. You can't go on like that.'
'Is classy place.'
'God, Rania!'
She told me what I had to do. I sat in a kind of nook up the
front and matched the girls with all the captains of industry
and diplomats and judges. Except of course there weren't any
of those. If you
Her expression went dark. 'Your father left me with nothing.
No money. How could I pay the bills?'
'So what did you do?' I could tell she hadn't had to scrimp
or save. Her face, her hair, her clothes, all bore evidence of the
costliest attention.
She smiled coldly. 'I have a business.'
'What sort of business?'
'Gentlemen's club.'
'A brothel?'
'Sauna, massage, brothel. Sure. Very good business. Ling
and I . . .'
'Mr Ling!'
'Ling is silent partner.' She hummed and looked out the
window.
'Oh really.' I told her why I'd been at the police station.
Then I regretted having told her, because I had to spend a long
time getting her to not throw me out.
'This is my house,' I protested, after a while.
'Not yet it isn't! Only when I die! I don't want trouble here!
Go away!'
'Don't be ridiculous.' I was weary. 'I want to go to bed.'
'No! Get out!'
'Oh, shut up, Rania,' I said. I went to my old room. I dragged
a chest of drawers in front of the door. I took out an empty
drawer and put it next to the bed, as a weapon. I crawled into
the cold sheets.
I dreamed Rania was coming at me, a satin cushion in her
hands. She said, intently, 'He's gone now. He's gone. There's
only you and me . . .'
For two days I hid in the upstairs room. In the mornings
she rattled the doorknob and threatened to call the police,
and told me to be out by the time she came back. When I
heard her convertible on the drive I went down to the kitchen.
In the evening we watched television together in the sitting
room. Rania lived on cigarettes and diet pills and sparkling
wine. On the third day I went out to the shops, and withdrew
some money from my bank account, slumping with relief
when they let me do it. I'd feared there might be some sort of
freeze on my funds. That night I cooked her a meal. She
watched me prepare it and waited for me to start eating, as
though suspecting I'd slipped in some poison. She had a few
mouthfuls and then lit a moody cigarette. I ate all mine and
then finished hers.
She stared at me. Then she drummed her fingers on the
table and said, 'So. Fatty boomsticks. You want a job?'
'In a brothel? No thanks.'
'Administration,' she said smoothly. 'Strictly no contact
work. Managing the girls.'
I thought about it. I was curious. 'Yeah, go on then. When
and where?'
'You come with me. Tomorrow.' She pulled her long black
hair away from her face. There were rich, raisiny shadows
under her eyes. Her eyes were black-lined and almond-shaped,
in the painted face. I looked at her: my Egyptian
stepmummy, with her hating eyes.
'And now I must go and watch Antiques Weekly ,' she
announced, and swept from the room. I heard the fizz and
crackle of the TV. Her mad scent hung in the air.
The next morning we stood outside her brothel. It was
called The Land of Opportunity. It was a grand old stone
house with stained-glass windows, at the end of a row of
shops.
'We are strictly upmarket,' Rania said. 'Lot of doctors,
lawyers. Judges. Pillars of community. Top civil servants,
policemen . . .'
She ran on. Like most people in this game, she liked to
make it sound as if everyone did it, they just didn't admit it.
Especially people of great talent and distinction. 'Politicians,
captains of the industry, artists, television executives . . .'
I followed her up the stairs.
'Actors, diplomats, visiting dignitaries . . .'
We entered a velvety bar, with couches and heaped
cushions.
'And no Maoris,' Rania finished.
'No Maoris ?'
'Customers maybe. If tidy. Girls, no.' Her eyes were slits.
'You can't do that. It's not . . . It's against the . . . Human
Rights Convention.'
'Is my place.'
'God. You're supposed to have left all that behind when you
came here. You can't go on like that.'
'Is classy place.'
'God, Rania!'
She told me what I had to do. I sat in a kind of nook up the
front and matched the girls with all the captains of industry
and diplomats and judges. Except of course there weren't any
of those. If you
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