Entertaining at Large Ch. 06

'What ho.'

'Why do you always say that?'

'I don't always say that. I've been saying it for a few weeks. Blame Mr J. He bought me a book.'

'No one's ever bought me a book.'

We were a bit sullen with each other. I let her in and asked her to make some coffee before taking my bike round to the garage. I found her a few minutes later rifling my cupboards looking for instant. I silently filled the machine and spooned in grounds; she huffed in the background and crashed two mugs onto the table. I turned to look at her.

'Don't stand on ceremony. Take your coat off.'

'You sound like my mum.'

'I was quoting mine.'

She shrugged out of her coat and draped it over the back of a chair before sitting down and leaning her chin on her hands.

'The hat?'

She hesitated before taking it off, then shook her hair to partially cover her face. Being a sharp cookie, it was at this point I began to suspect something was wrong. I sat down opposite her and placed my hands, palms upwards on the table. I was sympathetic and tried to get my face to forget the morning and get in line.

'What's up?'

'Nothing.'

'Don't believe you. Come on.'

She started to cry. That I wasn't expecting. I went round and crouched to put an arm round her shoulder. She buried her head in my neck and let rip. I could feel her shaking and could feel warm tears. It seemed to go on for ever. My knees started to ache and my shoulders cramped as I tried to keep my position. I eventually had to give up and pulled myself upright. I took her head in my hands and looked down at her. There was a livid bruise covering her right eye and half of her face. I tried to suppress my shock, but failed.

'What's happened? How did you get that?'

She tried to answer, but none of the words she used had vowels in them. She shook as she brought her sobbing under control. I grabbed a box of tissues from he counter and placed it beside her before getting a glass of water and pouring coffee. By the time I returned to her side the table was littered with soggy paper. It took a full hour for me to prise the story from her.

Christmas at Scarlett's had not been good. Her mother and siblings, it seems, went for a traditional breakfast of egg nog, with a lot more nog than egg. Rows had started mid-morning and continued through a trip to the pub, the burning of Xmas dinner and into a monumental fight over which offering of family entertainment they were going to enjoy together. Scarlett had fled to what she had hoped was the relative peace of her boyfriend's house.

He, she reported, was in a foul mood when she arrived. It was something to do with the inadequacy of the games console his single-parent mother had bought for him. Scarlett sided with his mum, the two of them had previously discussed at length the problems of matching modern technology with her income from her minimum wage job in a local supermarket. That, it turned out, was a bad mistake. Trying to explain her reasoning just made matters worse. He had stoked himself into a fury and attacked her. At first verbally.

'He called me a whore because I strip sometimes.'

'Stupid bastard.'

'Then he accused me of sleeping with his friends.'

'What? Why?'

'He said all strippers did. He said we wouldn't do it if we didn't want to fuck the customers.'

I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach myself. It took another bout of crying and patient coaxing on my part before she would show me the full extent of her injuries. Her pale skin made the bruising look truly horrible. As well as her face, her arms bore clear marks of grabbing and punching. She said he had kicked her in the stomach and her legs were patched with purple where he had continued with his feet. The most shocking thing was the bite marks on both breasts. She said she eventually escaped and went round to Mandy's house where she spent the night.

I was seething. Angry at him and at my own impotence. I wanted to call the police there and then, but Scarlett begged me not to. She looked genuinely scared when I insisted and I eventually relented. She refused to let me take her to the hospital as well, so I stroked her hair and held her in my arms for about an hour. Eventually some semblance of the Scarlett I knew began to return. I made her breakfast and then made her some more; she ate like she hadn't seen food in two days.

She eventually laughed for the first time when we unpacked the clothes Mandy had sent over. I did an impersonation of Justin as I looked the suit over and we vied with each other in our criticism of seventies and eighties fashions. She laughed so much she almost wet herself when I put the garments on over the cycling gear I hadn't had a chance to change out of yet. I flounced around the kitchen giving a camp, Justin-style commentary on the clothes and my own modelling skills. Scarlett clapped her hands.

'I needed that, thanks.'

'My pleasure. What's in the other bag.'

'I'm not sure. Mandy just asked me to bring both. She said you could give it back if it didn't fit.'

We unzipped the stiff nylon cover together. Inside was a French maid stripper outfit. But this was not one of those cheap satin things I had seen in fancy dress stores or on the internet. The dress had a tight bodice and flared skirt; there was a frilled underskirt made up of about ten layers of lace; a pair of real silk panties which tied at the waist as well as a small black cap trimmed with real lace And a short, cotton apron with long ties and button holes for attack meant over the breasts. As I pulled them from the hangar a note fluttered to the floor.

"Hope this fits. If it does, Merry Xmas. Mandy xx"

'I'm not putting this on over these sweaty clothes. In fact, come on. I'll run you a bath and take a shower myself.'

We trooped upstairs. I noticed Scarlett winced once or twice as she climbed despite her attempts to hide her pain. I put every bubble bath and lotion I owned into the hot steaming water and helped her undress. I was caught between admiration of her pale beauty and anger at the thug who had marred such perfection. It was sadly touching the way she tried to cover, not her nakedness, but the souvenirs her boyfriend had left her. I tested the water with my elbow before offering her my hand to help her into it. She sighed and groaned as she lowered herself through the steam and bubbles into the warmth of the water.

'You needn't have done this, Susan.'

'Rubbish. You're a friend and obviously in need. You would do the same.'

'Only with bubble bath from Aldi though.'

We laughed and I turned on the shower and stripped off my cycling gear. At last.

'You touch the cold tap while I'm in there and you'll definitely be needing the hospital.'

When I got out of the shower and dried myself I felt relaxed and alert. Scarlett, on the other hand, was almost asleep in the bath.

'Come on. You look like you haven't slept for a week. You can have a nap here. You'll feel better for it.'

She made a few vain protests. I had dug out an old pair of flannelette pyjamas. When I got her into them on the pretext of washing the clothes she had been wearing for the last two days and shoved her into my bedroom she collapsed on the bed and was asleep before I could pull the duvet over her. I tucked her in and tiptoed from the room. Downstairs I rang Mandy.

'Its Susan. I'm just ringing to say Scarlett's here. She's asleep at the moment. I didn't want you to worry about her.'

'Thanks love. I knew you'd look after her. This place is a madhouse at the moment.'

She broke off to shout instructions to someone else.

'Our Tracy's lad. Just trying to shave the cat with his granddad's new electric razor. She tell you what happened?'

'She did.'

'I'll kill that bastard Barry when I get my hands on him.'

'Barry?'

'Her so-called boyfriend. Little shit.'

'Not the Barry from the pub?'

'That's the one.'

'The one who was fucking Tracy after Scarlett was taken to hospital?'

'Yes.'

I was literally speechless. My mind was almost overwhelmed as I juggled images of Barry, Tracy, Jason and others from the extended family I knew. I was filled with an overwhelming sense of pity for the woman asleep upstairs.

'Welcome to my world.'

It was as if Mandy was reading my mind. I pulled myself back to the conversation.

'I'll try and persuade her to stay here tonight. She can stay as long as she likes.'

'Thanks darling. She needs quiet. And love. We never get the two together down here.'

I could hear Tracy in the background now. She too was berating her son.

'It's not too late to change your name to Sweeney Todd you little bugger. Have you seen what he's done to my hair?'

'I've got to go before world war three breaks out. Did you like the dress?'

'Loved it. Thanks Mandy. Speak to you soon.'

I made two immediate decisions on hanging up. The last thing I wanted to do was sit down and start trying to untangle the knots of the relationships in Scarlett's life. I took the goose I had bought for tomorrow's lunch out of the fridge and started peeling vegetables. Half an hour later I had the bird in the oven, a tray of veg in a baking tray ready to join it and a pudding beginning its four-hour steam. I made myself a celebratory coffee before sitting down with a notepad and my phone.

The woman from the domestic violence help line sounded exhausted. She listened sympathetically to my story about Scarlett and the injuries she had sustained only interrupting me when I started asking how to get agencies involved.

'Sorry to butt in Susan, but those decisions have to be Scarlett's.'

'But she's in no state. She doesn't want to do anything.'

'I know, I know. I understand how difficult it is for you as a friend to see her in this condition and impotent to do anything.'

'It is. Couldn't the police?'

We were talking across each other so I decided to keep quiet and listen. She suggested I talk to Scarlett about taking photos of her current injuries in case they were needed in the future. I was sceptical Scarlett would agree. She gave me a list of numbers of the local agencies which had survived government cut-backs and referred me to a few web sites. I had called hoping for a quick solution to the problem. We concluded with me understanding the whole issue was much more complex than I had at first thought. I surfed the net and made myself more depressed.

I went up to wake Scarlett about dinner time. She started to come round slowly then started awake looking scared. I put a hand on her shoulder and smiled down at her. She slowly focussed on me and realised where she was. The beam which split her face was enough to brighten the whole day. Her nose twitched,

'What's that smell.'

'Xmas dinner. It will be ready in about ten minutes.'

'But that was yesterday.'

'Not from the way you describe it.'

I directed her to my chest of drawers and told her to get dressed before rushing back to he kitchen. Gravy called.

I was stopped in my tracks when Scarlett came into the kitchen. Her spare frame made an old pair of my jeans and skinny T-shirt I had bought on a day trip to seaside -- slogan: "Bridlington, ten million miles from the sun" -- look as if they had been designed in Paris. None of my bras would fit her and her breasts and nipples were mounded by the thin fabric.

'Do I look OK?'

'Gorgeous.'

She grinned shyly and sat down looking at the feast in front of her. Miraculously, it was all perfect and the aromas of crispy-skinned fowl and the vegetables I had cooked in a rosemary and oil marinade mingled seductively. I was starving, I realised, not having eaten at all that day. Scarlett's two servings of bacon and eggs that morning seemed to have done nothing to dull the edge of her own appetite. We demolished the meal in about half-an-hour during which time we barely spoke.

I tentatively raised my conversation with the domestic violence line as we stood on the patio. Scarlett said she needed an inter-course cigarette. She used the term innocently, I forced myself not to make the obvious comment, but was a bit surprised that a girl who hung round with George would speak so without thinking. She reacted warily, but accepted the list of numbers I had copied out for her and eventually agreed to let me take photos of her injuries. We ate the Xmas pudding and brandy butter in near silence. I cleared away the dishes and put on more coffee which we took through to the front room.

'So you're going to do a nude photo spread for Mr J.'

I was a bit flummoxed by the non-sequitur, but realised she must have started thinking about the possibility of doing her own, very different, photoshoot.

'Yes. He loves those old magazines. I thought it would make the perfect present.'

'He's made a big impression on Mandy. And Tracy for that matter. Do you think that sweet-old-man thing is just an act to try and get them naked?'

She sounded cynical. I thought about my answer.

'I think he is a sweet old man, a sweet old man who likes looking at naked women and is not embarrassed to talk about it.'

I could see her thinking about my answer. She nodded to herself and then turned to face me full on.

'Let's do it.'

I knew what she was talking about and went to get my phone. I have a camera somewhere but frankly, these days, felt much more comfortable using a portable device. I closed the curtains and turned on all the lights in the room. We cleared a space in front of one of the walls so that there would be a blank background to shoot against.

'Will you put some music on?'

'Why?'

'I don't know. It just feels a bit clinical doing this.'

She crossed her hands across her chest.

'I'll feel more comfortable, I suppose.'

Distraction is never more than a couple of clicks away and I put my playlist on shuffle and set it to work. A singer I liked belted out a standard about unrequited love as we prepared to shoot.

I started with a full face photograph and then a couple of close-ups of the bruised eye. I had her turn sideways to complete the set.

'Feels like a police mug shot.'

'Not something you have experience of, I hope.'

We smiled weakly at each other.

'Just pull up the sleeve of the shirt so I can get all the bruising.'

She winced as she tugged the shirt over her shoulder. I grimaced as I looked at the livid marks again. Familiarity did not make them less horrible. I helped her ease the shirt up over her breasts so that I could take images of the bite marks. I was at a loss to understand what would make a man do such a terrible thing to such an attractive girl; each tooth mark was clearly outlined in red against the white skin. I worked quickly and nodded for her to cover herself up.

When Scarlett unbuttoned the jeans she made a move to pull her panties down with them.

'There's no need. This is for evidence, not arousal.'

We both started laughing and Scarlett went through a series of mock glamour poses, angling her hips and and boobs in a parody of the models in one of Mr J's collections. With the jeans hanging round her knees they looked anything but sexy. I finished as speedily as I could and we went back to our coffee. It was then "The Stripper" came over the speakers and we laughed again. I turned it off.

Once I'd downloaded the pictures to my laptop and then onto a data stick for her to keep, we spent the afternoon watching seasonal episodes of soap operas. It was an education for me. I had, of course, heard of the programmes and many of the leading names. But I had never had to work my way through so many hours at one sitting. Scarlett was an excellent guide. She named each vaguely familiar face as they appeared and gave an expert synopsis of each of their previous marriages, affairs, past criminal offences and sordid motives for whatever they were up to in the current episodes.

Over the course of four hours, we trawled through inner city slums, up-market wine bars, leafy suburbs and isolated rural communities. In all of them adultery and corruption seemed to be the main pastimes. But only the poor ever got caught. When the marathon eventually ended Scarlett stretched and yawned before giving a little cry and clutching her ribs.

'Still sore, eh?'

'Yes. I really should be going home. They'll be wondering where I am.'

I looked at her trying to assess whether she really wanted to go. I couldn't read her expression.

'Stay here. It's quiet and you still need your rest. You can call your mum if you think she'll be worried.'

'She'll be too pissed to care by this time. I was thinking about Mandy and George.'

'Ring them. Let them know you're OK. Tell them you'll see them tomorrow.'

'You're sure you don't mind?'

I faked a bored yawn; she punched me playfully in the arm and brought up Mandy's number. From the ensuing conversation I gathered young Tyson had managed to set fire to some of the furniture that afternoon and was currently trying to batter his way out of the bedroom to which he had been banished; Tracy and Jason were in a separate room screwing; George was semi-conscious on the sofa and Mandy had just turned off all the lights at the front of the house to deter any more of the neighbours paying unwanted visits.

'She said it was OK.'

Was the understatement of the year. I accepted it unquestioningly and we started discussing plans for the evening. We caught the corner shop just before it closed; Scarlett needed fresh knickers and very tactfully pointed out that my bottom was slightly larger than hers. Ahmad, the proprietor, clearly had a shrewder assessment of his neighbourhood than I did. There were obviously enough women around here unexpectedly stuck without fresh underwear of a morning to make stocking all sizes from small to extra-large a commercial viability. I would look at the women I had taken to be out on an early-Sunday stroll with different eyes in future.

I picked up a six-pack of alcopops for my guest and juice and lemonade for myself and the evening was set. We had a great time. And like all female-only great times it consisted mostly of making fun of men. I told her stories of some of my early relationship disasters; she topped every one. We shared tales of screwing up against the outside walls of night clubs; bad for the wardrobe, we agreed. I laughed myself silly at Scarlett's description of trying to give someone she'd met in a pub a blow job in the smoking area on a sub-zero night.

'He was pissed so getting him hard was difficult enough, but every time I pulled his cock out of his jeans it would shrink in the cold.'

There's nothing like a limp-dick anecdote to open a flood gate and we regaled each other with stories of getting ourselves off next to snoring blokes after unsatisfactory, and usually exhausting, attempts to get them to perform. I tried to estimate the number of pairs of tights I'd ruined trying to get them off in the backs of cars.

'They should start yoga classes to make screwing in the backs of Minis easier.'

'We could do that. We'd make a fortune.'

Things sobered a little when Scarlett said she was going to give up men. I found it hard to be entirely discouraging. Her recent experiences were no advert for heterosexuality. I tried to steer the conversation onto a more positive track. That soon deteriorated into a best-fuck-ever competition. I thought my admission of a five-way would win the prize but Scarlett topped me with a blow-by-blow description of the holiday session which ran for five hours straight she had enjoyed with a Spanish lad. Made me think of the Costa Brava in a whole new light.

As she opened her fifth bottle and I made myself another juice and lemonade we moved on to stripping. She had started on her eighteenth birthday when Tracy had taken her out on one of her gigs; it was at an out-of-town pub.

'She filled me with vodka and then told me I was going on. I was too drunk to argue.'