A Lesser Evil - Lesley Pearse [124]
She was thirty-one when she met him. It was 1950, shortly after Reggie had run out on her. She had reverted to her maiden name of Amy Tuckett, because she wanted to forget she had ever been Mrs Reggie Soames.
A friend in Plymouth had put her in touch with the owner of the Starlight nightclub in Soho. He was looking for a mature and classy woman to act as his manageress, and her friend thought she’d be perfect for the job. John was the head barman at the club.
Despite everything Reggie had put her through, she was still a head-turner in those days. She was overweight now, and she dyed her hair to cover up the grey, but back then it was a rich glossy auburn, and she had a perfect figure. People used to say she looked like Ava Gardner, and she copied the film star’s famous hairstyle, swept back at one side with a cascade of waves down to her shoulders on the other.
Even in 1950, long before Soho became synonymous with vice and stripclubs, it still had a hardcore of criminal activity. But to Nora, who had spent almost all her life in Dorset, it was an exciting, sophisticated place and it was some weeks before she became aware of its seedier undertones. The club in Greek Street was elegantly appointed, with a clientele of aristocrats and very wealthy people. Her job was to greet them and make sure they had a good time, and to supervise twenty hostesses who kept the unattached men company for the evening.
Nora loved the job and took a pride in it. The hostesses got a fee for their entertainment services, and Nora got a proportion of each one. She went out of her way to know a little about all her girls, advised them on clothes, hair and makeup, and did her best to match the right girl with the right man. She was fair too, never singling out favourites who got all the work when the club was quiet, as she heard they did in other clubs. There was a rule that no hostess should go home with a customer, for the club could be closed down if it became a front for prostitution, and Nora was vigilant about this.
Released at last from all the anxiety and heartache Reggie had caused her, and earning around fifty pounds a week when as a secretary she would have been lucky to earn ten, her new life was good. Each night she met interesting, charming people, and she found a small, comfortable flat just a short walk from the club.
All the girls were half in love with John Bolton, the head barman. It wasn’t just that he was only twenty-five, lean and handsome, while most of the regulars in the club were portly and well past forty, but he had an irrepressible sense of humour and great charm.
Just his looks were enough, for he had magnetic dark blue eyes, black hair and smooth olive skin. On Nora’s first night he slipped her a double whisky with a wink, understanding she was nervous. It was he who told her which were the valuable punters and which ones were troublemakers. He also told her which girls needed encouragement, and the ones who were likely to give her grief.
For six months Nora was supremely happy. She stopped dwelling on her trust funds that had been plundered, the disgrace and shame Reggie had put her through. Sometimes she even felt strangely grateful, for she now had a far more fulfilling, glamorous life, and total independence.
But then one night three men came into the club. Big, tough-looking men with rough voices and faces that had clearly been moulded by fists, but wearing hand-tailored suits and gold watches. Such men were commonplace in Soho. They lived on the profits of vice, villainy or thuggery, but they were always big spenders,