Capital Sins (4 page)

Jessop went
through into his own office and Connie followed uncertainly. There was a heavy,
oak table at the far end of the room and striding around its expanse, he sat
down on the armchair behind it. Then he noticed Connie standing there.

'Don't you
have any work to be getting on with?' His tone gave nothing away.

What an
unfriendly-looking person, she thought, but replied, '
Er
,
yes, sir. I just wondered if there was anything I could do for you. Anything
you needed, that is.'

'No...
wait
, yes. Get me a cup of coffee.'

'Right
away, Mr Jessop,' she said promptly, and turned to leave, but stopped when he
said, almost as an afterthought: 'I hope you'll be happy working here.'

Connie
flushed – she couldn't help it. 'Oh, I'm sure I will be.' Then she fled.

She smiled
now, remembering her gaucherie. She had taken in his coffee, he'd thanked her
politely, and that was the last she'd seen of him that afternoon. Sheila had
told her that she should leave at five-thirty even if she wasn't back and, when
that time came, Connie had collected her coat and bag from the cloakroom, but
had paused as she had reached for the door knob. Should she go and say
goodnight to Mr Jessop? Connie had decided against disturbing him. He had
looked so
preoccupied,
she'd reckoned he wouldn't want
to see anyone.

Connie
stretched languidly on the bed and thought of all the lovely lolly she was
going to earn. It was so good to imagine the new clothes she could buy, and
maybe one day she would even be able to afford an apartment of her own, like
Miss Delaney's. And she had noticed some nice young men at Jessop House – it
would be marvellous to meet some of them socially. Her mind drifted and she
pictured herself being dated by one of them, being driven in a car to a classy
restaurant, and then perhaps seeing a show after dinner. It sounded good.

Connie
buried her face in the pillow, wriggled her toes in sheer delight, and laughed.
Then her thoughts wandered to Sheila Delaney, and Connie's smile was warm. They
were going to get on great; she could feel it in her bones. She wondered
curiously about her, whether she had a boyfriend. Connie tried to imagine the
kind of man that Sheila might date, but couldn't conjure up any image as she
could for herself.

Wonder if
perhaps she'd got a 'thing' about that grouch of a man, Samuel Jessop? Connie
turned her inquisitive and vivid mind's eye on him,
then
mentally shook her head. No, he wasn't the sort that gentle Miss Delaney would
go for – he was far too sullen and untouchable.

While Connie
was amusing herself in this fashion, in another part of town Sheila Delaney was
sitting at a bar downing her third double Scotch. Beside her sat a man. He'd
picked her up earlier and during their conversation she'd learnt that he'd come
up from the provinces on business, something to do with the furniture
exhibition showing in town. His appearance had reminded her of the young
soldier she'd known. He had the same rough manner and charm – which had
attracted her enough in the first place to allow
herself
to be chatted up. He didn't seem to mind that the girl beside him was now being
somewhat unsociable after a great start, or was suddenly morose and deep in her
own thoughts. Why should he, as long as she was willing?
And
certainly not while he had his hand on her knee anyway – and she didn't look as
if she cared what was happening.

Sheila was,
in fact, now barely aware of the man, or his groping fist. She had escaped from
her silent flat and thoughts to have a quiet drink among some human company.
She thought she'd go crazy if she didn't stop thinking about Sam Jessop –
always Sam, she thought with exasperation – and who cared if she had company
while she got herself soused? She didn't drink often, only resorted to alcohol
very occasionally when things seemed as if they were too much to bear. In the
office sometimes, Sheila wanted to scream at him, 'Look at me, Sam. I'm a
woman, not a bloody machine! I know you want a wife, so why in hell's name
can't you consider me for once?' But she couldn't do that, wouldn't shock him,
and now Sheila tipped the glass again to her lips, only to find it empty. Her
eyes were red from lack of sleep, too much smoke, the whisky in her brain – and
her vision was unfocused.

She banged
the glass on the counter. She felt very relaxed now, almost released by her
unnatural behaviour. She should let her hair down more often.

The man
slid his arm around her waist. 'Hey, baby,' he laughed. 'You
wanna
go easy on that stuff.'

Sheila
swivelled her head and concentrated on his nose, which was quite large and
slightly hooked, with black hairs sprouting from the wide nostrils. Her lip
curled in distaste, but he merely grinned broadly, increasing the pressure of
his arm meaningfully.

'You'll be
no good for anything if you carry on boozing,' he warned, laughing at her
indignant expression.

'
Wanna
get sloshed,' Sheila said indistinctly, leaning back
against his chest. '
Wanna
forget myself... be happy,
yes?'

'Sure,
sure, but don't pass out in here,' he man replied comfortably.
'
Lookie
here, why don't I buy us a bottle
and we'll take it somewhere cosy and drink it together like old pals.
What do you say to that, eh?'

She nodded
vigorously, her brown hair flapping against his cheek.

'Good,' she
declared,
then
backed away, looking suspicious.
'You're not him ... who are you? I don't know you,' she said accusingly.
'What's your name?'

'Harvey, sweetheart.
Just call me Harvey.' Without further ado, he lifted her off the stool,
pressing his hands indelicately on her breasts, and clicked his fingers to
summon the waiter.

'Where we going?'
Her speech was slurred as she wavered in his arms.

'
Your
flat?'

'Yes, my
flat ... that's another good idea,
Har
... Harvey.
You can ... can call me
Betty,
if you want... call me
anything you want... '

'Anything
you say, baby.'

'...
And...
and
I'll call you... call
you Sam.'

As they
made love in her bed later, the man thought the tears in her eyes were for him
because she was having such a great time, but Sheila was crying for herself.

Not too far
from there, in a penthouse suite, Samuel Jessop was lying in his king-sized
bed, brooding. He had just paid a high-class whore a princely sum to get him
excited but the whole thing had been a failure, an utter disaster; as usual. He
took a sleeping pill before he could drowse off.

Connie
looked at the alarm clock on the chair beside her bed.
Twelve-thirty,
and not even tired.
Too much excitement probably.
She heard noises suddenly on the landing outside her door and, pulling her
dressing-gown
closer,
she tiptoed stealthily across
the floor and opened the door slightly. She was confronted by a girl's back.
The girl was obviously searching in her handbag to find the key to her room,
opposite Connie's. She hadn't seen Connie but suddenly she turned around,
revealing a pretty, pert face smudged and blotchy with make-up.

''
Ello
,' she said chirpily. Just then, she produced the key
and inserted it into the lock. As the door opened, she looked back at Connie
again.

'New 'ere, are
ya
?'

'Yes.'

The girl
nodded knowingly.
'Thought I '
adn't
seen you about.
Did you want
somethin
'?'

'I heard
noises, I wondered what was happening.'

The girl,
who couldn't have been more than nineteen, giggled.

'Oh, that.
I were only kissing Arthur goodnight. He had to make a quick getaway, sudden
like, when we '
eard
Ma Withers coming, the old bat. I
think he must've fallen over
somethin
' on 'is way
out.
Didn't mean to wake you up, kid.'

'You
didn't, I wasn't sleepy anyway.'

As Connie
looked at her, the girl suddenly seemed to realise what she looked like. She
reached delicately up to her right eye and pulled a lump of clogged black
mascara off her eyelashes, bringing out two or three lashes attached to it.

'Better get
this
gunge
off,' she declared cheerfully.
'Bad for the skin.'

'OK, it was
nice speaking to you.' Connie had just turned, about to go back into her room
when she felt a tug at her sleeve.

'Listen,
kid, if you
ain't
tired, why don't you come into my
room and keep me company, we'll '
ave
a nice chat? I
can't never
sleep this early anyway ... that is, if you
wanna
.'

Connie
grinned at her. 'Sure, why not. My name's Constance, Constance Sands.'

The girl
led the way, speaking over her shoulder.
'Constance, eh?
Posh
kinda
name, that. What
d'yer
mates call you?
Con?'

'Connie.'

'Right,
Connie it is. And I'm
Tilly
... Matilda really, but
don't let on.' She gave a conspiratorial grin.

Connie
smiled, rather liking the girl.

'Park
yer
bum somewhere, kid, while I scrub
this lot off.'

Tilly
flung her bag carelessly on the bed, along with her coat, and Connie moved them
aside as she curled herself on top. She looked around. The room was the same
size as her own but, instead of the walls being bare, as were hers,
Tilly
had pinned up pictures and posters of pop stars.
There was a record player in one corner and stacks of records nearby. The room
looked
very
lived in, as if its occupier had been
settled there for years – and it was in a mess. Clothes and magazines were
strewn all over the place.

'I like the
way you've done it up,' Connie said, as her eyes wandered from one article to
another.

'Ta.'
Tilly
was intent on her face. The bin by the dresser,
already full of rubbish, was ignored by her as she dropped dirty pieces of
tissue paper on to the floor, where they lay black from the remnants of her eye
make-up and greasy with removing cream.

Then Connie
noticed a small gas ring in another part of the room.

'Are you
allowed to cook in here?' she asked.

'I make
meself
the odd
cup'pa
now and
then. When I got a bloke up here, I've found he usually fancies a coffee after
it.'

Connie
wasn't so naive that she had to ask was 'it' was.

'Do you
want me to make us a cup of coffee now,
Tilly
?' she
asked, wanting something to do besides stare at
Tilly
undressing.

'Great. The
jar's in the cupboard, there
... '

When Connie
had made their coffee,
Tilly
had finished and was
already in her
nightie
.

'Thanks,
kid.'
Tilly
took the cup. They sat on the bed and
eyed each other.
Tilly
spoke first. 'Tell me about
yourself, Connie.'

'Not much
to tell.'

'Go on,'
the other said scornfully. 'There must be
somethin
'.'

Connie
couldn't help laughing at the girl's expression, and suddenly
Tilly
grinned back at her.

'I know you
look like you're an angel,' she went on. 'But you must've something juicy to
tell about yourself. Everybody has.'

'Most of my
past is pretty boring. I've been shunted around from one foster home to
another,
and spent most of my life in an orphanage for
unwanted and cast-off kids. Nobody wanted to adopt me, guess they had enough
kids of their own. Oh, sometimes it wasn't bad, but I could never get used to
having other people's old clothes and toys.
Nothing to really
call my own.'

'Didn't you '
ave
any fun at all?'

'Occasionally.
It wasn't like we were at a convent, or anything like that.' Connie
laughed, interpreting
Tilly's
expression. 'We met
boys at dances, places like that, so I'm not quite as green as I look.'

Her eyes
had a faraway, distant look, and
Tilly
had the
feeling the girl had forgotten the present.

'I met this
boy ... Lucas his name was. All my mates envied me for getting him. He was really
something, you know? Well, in the middle of this dance, he pulls me to him and
suggests we go out for a walk...
'
Tilly
smiled knowingly, but didn't interrupt. '... It was a warm night, I remember,
it being the middle of summer like, so I didn't bother with my cardigan. We
took our cokes and slipped away to this empty barn nearby
...
'