looked from the woman to Lorna and then turned on his heel, stalking off down Piccadilly, muttering darkly to himself. The woman winked at Lorna. She resumed her humming as she continued on her way.
Mollyâs hand touched Lornaâs arm. âThe Lady ,â she said.
The Lady afforded herself a smile. She was aware of how her fellow women of the street regarded her and how this was down to the way she projected herself, the attitude she kept at all times â sheâd had a little training once, for the stage, and it had served her well. If only those two girls had known that the name on her ID card was Phyllis Rosemarie Lord.
There was nothing showing at the vast Deco picture house she had just passed that Phyllis was eager to see. Next of Kin , One of Our Aircraft is Missing â all those propaganda films left her cold. The figures that danced in her head belonged to the era that preceded the war, top hats and tails twirling under the Klieg lights to swooping strings orchestrated by Irving Berlin. That was where Phyllis had always pictured herself, dancing in the arms of Fred Astaire.
She took another long drag on her cigarette as her mind returned to more mundane concerns: the percentage of the nightâs earnings she would need to put by for her daughterâs schooling at St Gabrielâs in Southend-on-Sea, for clothing, food and other provisions, the rent on her small flat in Gosfield Street. Phyllis had been something of a businesswoman once, when she had run the Beach Bazaar, her husband Fredâs fancy goods shop on the seafront. She had more nous for it, being an avid reader of Vogue and The Queen , and had always cut a stylish figure who knew exactly what cut-price copies of the goods displayed in those magazines would lure her customers into parting with their LSD.
But Fred had been stuck in his ways. Fred had his friends whom he always did business with, in the shop, and at their afterhours card games. Up to his neck in hock to them, Fred had popped his clogs from a massive heart attack by the time their little Jeanie was ten. The only way to keep herself afloat after that was for Phyllis to sell the shop and everything in it, enrol Jeanie in the best school she could afford on the proceeds and turn to the streets of London for a way of making money that she found less distasteful than scrubbing floors.
The one image she could not abide was that of herself on her knees in a pinafore, reflected in another womanâs eyes.
Phyllis passed a couple of constables as she crossed into Shaftesbury Avenue. There were a lot of them about tonight and their presence brought briefly to her mind the headlines on the Daily Herald :
SEX MANIAC LOOSE IN LONDON!
NO WOMAN SAFE FROM LEFT-HANDED
KILLER, SAY SCOTLAND YARD
EXCLUSIVE REPORT BY HANNEN SWAFFER
Under her tailored coat and her freshly pressed skirt, her silk blouse and lambswool jumper, Phyllis bore the scars of the trade she had taken up. The Lady had come to Lornaâs aid tonight precisely because she shared her views regarding servicemen. Those types always felt that there was something owed to them. Those types could rarely get aroused without becoming violent. After the last pounding she had taken from that Canadian, she wanted nothing more to do with them either.
It was funny, though, how they had all deferred to the sound of an upper-class voice, the Guardsman and those girls. Yes, she mused, as she stopped in a doorway, a safe distance from the bogeys, to light another cigarette. When it came down to it, all her life had been some kind of act or other. It was the only way she knew how to get through it, pretending it was all a dream.
âPardon me,â came a voice beside her in the dark. A voice that purred like a well-oiled Bentley. âBut I canât help admiring your style. What say you join me for a drink?â
Phyllis turned her head slowly, parrying her torch towards a face with high cheekbones and
Mollyâs hand touched Lornaâs arm. âThe Lady ,â she said.
The Lady afforded herself a smile. She was aware of how her fellow women of the street regarded her and how this was down to the way she projected herself, the attitude she kept at all times â sheâd had a little training once, for the stage, and it had served her well. If only those two girls had known that the name on her ID card was Phyllis Rosemarie Lord.
There was nothing showing at the vast Deco picture house she had just passed that Phyllis was eager to see. Next of Kin , One of Our Aircraft is Missing â all those propaganda films left her cold. The figures that danced in her head belonged to the era that preceded the war, top hats and tails twirling under the Klieg lights to swooping strings orchestrated by Irving Berlin. That was where Phyllis had always pictured herself, dancing in the arms of Fred Astaire.
She took another long drag on her cigarette as her mind returned to more mundane concerns: the percentage of the nightâs earnings she would need to put by for her daughterâs schooling at St Gabrielâs in Southend-on-Sea, for clothing, food and other provisions, the rent on her small flat in Gosfield Street. Phyllis had been something of a businesswoman once, when she had run the Beach Bazaar, her husband Fredâs fancy goods shop on the seafront. She had more nous for it, being an avid reader of Vogue and The Queen , and had always cut a stylish figure who knew exactly what cut-price copies of the goods displayed in those magazines would lure her customers into parting with their LSD.
But Fred had been stuck in his ways. Fred had his friends whom he always did business with, in the shop, and at their afterhours card games. Up to his neck in hock to them, Fred had popped his clogs from a massive heart attack by the time their little Jeanie was ten. The only way to keep herself afloat after that was for Phyllis to sell the shop and everything in it, enrol Jeanie in the best school she could afford on the proceeds and turn to the streets of London for a way of making money that she found less distasteful than scrubbing floors.
The one image she could not abide was that of herself on her knees in a pinafore, reflected in another womanâs eyes.
Phyllis passed a couple of constables as she crossed into Shaftesbury Avenue. There were a lot of them about tonight and their presence brought briefly to her mind the headlines on the Daily Herald :
SEX MANIAC LOOSE IN LONDON!
NO WOMAN SAFE FROM LEFT-HANDED
KILLER, SAY SCOTLAND YARD
EXCLUSIVE REPORT BY HANNEN SWAFFER
Under her tailored coat and her freshly pressed skirt, her silk blouse and lambswool jumper, Phyllis bore the scars of the trade she had taken up. The Lady had come to Lornaâs aid tonight precisely because she shared her views regarding servicemen. Those types always felt that there was something owed to them. Those types could rarely get aroused without becoming violent. After the last pounding she had taken from that Canadian, she wanted nothing more to do with them either.
It was funny, though, how they had all deferred to the sound of an upper-class voice, the Guardsman and those girls. Yes, she mused, as she stopped in a doorway, a safe distance from the bogeys, to light another cigarette. When it came down to it, all her life had been some kind of act or other. It was the only way she knew how to get through it, pretending it was all a dream.
âPardon me,â came a voice beside her in the dark. A voice that purred like a well-oiled Bentley. âBut I canât help admiring your style. What say you join me for a drink?â
Phyllis turned her head slowly, parrying her torch towards a face with high cheekbones and
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