The Collector Ch. 03

Chapter Three - Shopgirl

Mary Pilson found that for a woman her age, living on her own was not easy. What little money she had saved she used to rent a dingy one-room coldwater flat. She managed to find a job as a shopgirl for minimum wages and long hours. She started at seven in the morning and finished at six in the evening. Mary had just enough time to catch a bus home, eat a small meal and change into her evening clothes before she went to her second job.

Mary's good looks had attracted many a young man where she worked in the shop or when she sat in the park eating her meagre lunch. She shooed them away, showing no interest in the young men who fancied her; she had her sights set engaging with an older man, a mature man, a powerful man, and most importantly, a rich man. She was far from naïve and knew that she was attractive and sexy and intended to use those attributes to ensure she was well kept.

During her lunch break one day a mature sophisticated woman approached her. Mary was sitting in the small park across from the shop where she worked, eating a corned beef sandwich. The woman was dressed in an expensive cotton and silk suit that clung to her curves, her hair was coiffured and her makeup perfect. Mary was very self-conscious of her cotton shift, scuffed shoes and laddered stockings that she darned each evening to save money.

The woman indicated the vacant seat beside Mary and Mary nodded demurely then looked away, ashamed of her obvious poverty. The miasma of the woman's perfume drifted to her nose and Mary began to wrap the remains of her lunch in greaseproof paper that she had carefully folded to be reused.

The woman lit a cigarette and Mary was surprised when the woman shook the packet of Park Drive in front of her.

Mary nervously took one and was visibly shaking when the woman flicked the flint of her gas lighter and offered it to the tip of Mary's cigarette. Mary cupped the cigarette to shield it from the wind until she noticed her chipped nailpolish and dirty fingernails and instinctively whipped her hands to her sides.

"Hard work being a shopgirl," Mary could tell the question was rhetorical.

Of course it was. Her appearance was reflective of her employment. She was not some glamorous ditz who served at the cosmetics counter of a posh department store; she hauled bags of spuds and root vegetables from the cellar and arranged them on display trays in the shop. She had to manhandle daily deliveries of meat, milk, and other perishables; she stocked shelves, swept floors and washed windows as well as manning the till and attending to customers.

"But I admire your chutzpah; your spunk. Most girls with your looks and sex appeal in a shitty job like yours would take up with the first decent bloke that came along," the woman tapped ash off her cigarette.

"But I've seen you turning down the steady stream of Lotharios who've made advances," she flicked a speck of ash off her silken-hosed knee with the back of her hand.

Mary looked at the woman and saw that she was smiling.

"You've seen me?" Mary whispered; her voice catching.

"Yes here in the park, in the shop, and here and there around town," the woman raised her brows.

"But why?" Mary looked down at the scuffed toes of her shoes.

The woman extended her hand and lifted Mary's chin.

"Because I know a smart, independent, hard working young woman when I see her," the woman smiled, her bright red lips framing brilliant white teeth.

"I have to ask again; why?" Mary searched the woman's eyes.

"Because I want to offer you a job," the woman smiled.

"I have a job," Mary replied indignantly.

"Indeed you do. I'm offering you a second job; a nighttime job," her smile widened.

"I'm not a brass!" Mary pulled her chin from the woman's fingers.

"Oh indeed you're not. I think you're a virgin. Are you a virgin?" the woman crushed out her cigarette with the sole of her black patent leather high heel.

"None of your business," Mary snapped.

"Well it is if you want the job; I only employ virtuous young ladies," the woman reached into her purse and pulled out her cigarettes again.

This time she did not offer Mary one.

"What is the job?" Mary said reticently.

"I am the manager of Chez Ami. It's a supper club in Soho. I'm looking for a new hostess," the woman said.

"No! Not that sort of hostess if that's what you're thinking," the woman extrapolated.

"I employ service people, table waitresses, cocktail waitresses, attendants, hatcheck girls and alike," the woman sniffed.

Mary perked up.

"In a real supper club? In Soho? Sounds wonderful," Mary allowed a smile to light up her face.

"You would start at the bottom of course; as a cigarette-girl," the woman placed her cigarettes back into her clutch.

"What's a cigarette-girl?" Mary asked.

"You cruise the club selling cigars, cigarettes, matches, lighters, sweets and alike from a tray held by a neck strap. You understand?" the woman appeared to be getting ready to leave, packing away her lighter, snapping her purse closed.

"My mother is an usherette in a big cinema and at the weekend sessions they have cigarette-girls in the foyer," Mary replied.

"So you have a family affinity for the job then; it's in your blood," the woman guffawed.

Mary blushed with embarrassment and then became indignant and made to get up from the seat. The woman gripped her wrist.

"Don't let your pride deny you of an opportunity," the woman said levelly.

"Look at it as a start. You can still work both jobs," the woman went on.

"I provide you with the uniform; you pay it off out of your wages."

"Ok. When do I start?" Mary's smile had returned.

The woman fished a card out of her clutch and offered it to Mary.

"Come to the club tomorrow as soon as you finish work," the woman rose from the bench and smoothed her skirt.

Mary rose too, brushed her shift and offered her hand. The woman looked at Mary's hand and sniffed.

"See you tomorrow then," the woman turned away.

"Wait! You don't know my name," Mary called.

"It's Mary Pilson," the woman called over shoulder.

Mary looked after the woman bewildered.

The woman spun on her heels.

"And you didn't ask how much it pays," she grinned.

"Two pounds a week plus tips," the woman's grin widened.

Mary sat down again flummoxed.

This time the woman kept walking.

Mary was very nervous when she arrived at Chez Ami and even more so when she went inside. The place was imposing and very old, very British; lots of dark wood panelling, a long bar, a sitting room, a huge dining room with a stage running along one wall. There was a grand piano and other musical instruments lined up on the stage and chairs for the musicians set up behind music stands.

The lighting was muted and she could see a series of stage and spotlights that were obviously used when the entertainment was in full swing. The area in front of the stage was cleared so it could be used as a dance floor.

Mary lingered in the foyer peeking into each of the rooms and taking in their ambience. There was a maître d'hôtel lectern just inside the door and behind that a hatcheck counter. Beside the counter was a small office. The door opened and the woman from the park strode out; she was talking animatedly with a man in an evening suit, giving him instructions. She looked at Mary and nodded towards her office giving her an unspoken cue to wait for her in there.

Mary went into the office and took a seat. There was a polished oak desk with a large comfortable leather chair behind it; the desk was barren except for a black antique telephone. Mary was sitting on one of three hard-backed chairs arranged against the wall adjacent to the desk. She figured the chairs were deliberately made uncomfortable so that whoever sat in them knew who was in charge.

The woman came into the office; she was once again impeccably dressed, this time in an evening gown. Mary was wearing her best and only suit.

"I'm dressed for work tonight; this isn't how I normally dress," the woman smiled as she sat down, easing herself into the chair in her tight dress.

Mary didn't know what to say; she had stood up when the woman entered and remained standing.

"That was supposed to be a joke Mary," the woman remained smiling.

Surprising Mary with the gesture she held out her hand.

"Millicent Varity; the staff here call me Millie behind my back. No one dares call me that to my face nor should they," she remained smiling but her smile was icy.

Mary shook Millicent's hand and sat down when she waved at the seat.

"Can you start tonight?" Millicent lit a cigarette, taking a large crystal ashtray out of the desk drawer.

Millicent didn't wait for answer.

"You need to sign these; see Victoria at the coat check counter and she will give you your uniform. You can buy dance tights if you like, some of the girls sew stockings to their knickers to save money. You can do either, so long as your seams are straight and there are no ladders. And you provide your own high heels; black of course. I pride myself on how my girls are presented," Millicent handed a piece of paper and a pen to Mary.

She did not expect Mary to read the contract before signing and nor did she.

"You get paid on Fridays. Cash; off the books. I deduct five bob from your first pay for the next four weeks and that pays for your uniform," Millicent put the signed paper in the desk drawer, butted out her cigarette and put the ashtray away.

Her desk was once again pristine.

She gave Mary a wan smile and made a shooing motion with her hands.

Mary stood but was a little confused.

"Is there any training?" Mary asked.

Millicent guffawed loudly.

"Show off your smile, your tits, your legs and your arse to sell as much as possible from your tray. Don't complain when the clientele pinch your bottom but don't let them touch your tits; they know that's not allowed. Don't let any of their wives and girlfriends see you flirting with the men. And whatever happens or whatever you are offered, keep your virginity!"

"Now fuck off; you're trained!" Millicent reached for the phone.

Victoria, the girl manning the hat and coat check counter, was very nice and welcomed Mary to her new job. Mary's uniform, what there was of it, was hanging in a cheap plastic suit cover.

"You can wear sheer dance tights if you like but they are expensive and they sometime ladder. I buy cheap stockings at Gimbol's on the high street, they come in packs of six pairs for two bob. Sew the welts to the leg-holes in a pair of nylon knickers and wear the frilly knickers that come with uniform over them," Victoria explained.

"I started off as a cigarette girl. I hope you've got a good back; you'll be lugging that tray all night."

"I better get home and get changed if I'm going to be here on time," Mary looked down at the cheap watch on her wrist.

"Yes you better. Good luck and call me Vicky when Millie isn't around but don't you dare let her hear you.

'Abbreviating one's name is common doncha know,'" Vicky did a pretty good imitation of Millicent Varity.

They both giggled and Mary took the suit bag and ran for her bus.

The costume left little to the imagination. It was basically a red and black satin and lace bodice that one stepped into, with a very short skirt attached.

Mary had painstakingly sewn the tops of the welts of her best sheers to the leg-openings of a pair of form-fitting nylon kickers then she put them on, rolling the stockings on like tights. She carefully arranged the seams along the middle of the backs of her legs and pulled the sheer knickers as tight as possible. Then she stepped into the bodice of the suit, which was stiffened and gave her a waspy waist and pushed up and supported her breasts without a bra. She pulled on the satin and lace knickers and smoothed them in place over her nylon full briefs so that it looked like she was wearing sheer tights.

She pulled down and adjusted the little lace-ruffled skirt that was attached the bodice. It hardly covered anything and was more like a ballerina's tutu than a proper skirt.

She had already fixed her makeup, lots of black eyeliner and mascara, mauve and purple hued eyeshadow, blushed cheeks and bright red lipstick. The makeup was very 'showgirl'. Her long red hair was brushed out and arranged around her shoulders to good effect. She stepped into a pair of black stilettos that she had been keeping 'for special'.

Mary looked at herself in the full-length mirror that she had found left out on the street for the rag and bone man. It was cracked and some of the silver had been scratched off the back but it was good enough.

She definitely looked the part. Then she realised that there was no way that she could walk to the bus stop, catch the number nine bus, and then walk to the Chez Ami dressed like this. Before panic set in she realised that she had an old, almost full-length Mackintosh that she could wear as an overcoat. Most of the buttons had come off it and she had no time to sew them back on so she tied the belt tightly around her waist and headed out.

The coat fell open when she was climbing the stairs to the top deck of the double-decker bus and she was rewarded with a wolf-whistle from a brazen youth. An old biddy with hair curlers under her headscarf gave the youth a scornful look and followed up with a withering stare at Mary.

"Shouldn't be allowed," she sniffed looking Mary up and down disapprovingly and then went back to her knitting.

At least Mary did get offered a seat by a middle-aged man in a suit and trilby who spent the whole bus ride looking down at her tits. Mary pulled the coat around her but she couldn't pull it too tight otherwise she would ruin her costume. She supposed that showing a bit of leg and tit on the number nine bus was a small price to pay for a well paying job.

Mary was thankful that the neck strap took most of the weight of the tray and she was even more thankful for the tray itself, which kept grabbing hands away from her breasts. Her bum though remained undefended and as the evening wore on and the men became more inebriated some them decided that her derriere was their private playground. Some of the men dropped their change in her tray and a couple of brazen types stuffed notes down her cleavage. Mary remembered the advice not to complain and she kept a painted smile on her face and took comfort that the tips she was receiving were likely to double her wage.

She spent the night walking between the tables and cruising the bar, the sitting room, the dining room, and the foyer trying to sell her wares. She was often summoned over to sell cigarettes or more often to light cigarettes for customers who obviously had their own lighters but wanted to ogle her.

By the time she finished her shift at midnight and handed her tray over to another young woman wearing an identical costume she was beat and she needed to be at work at the shop by seven in the morning.

Mary had been working at Chez Ami for a couple of weeks before she was approached by Victoria to see if she was interested in making some extra money on the side.

"I can't Vicky; I'm shagged by the time I get home around one in the morning and then I'm up at six to go to my shopgirl job," she and Vicky were standing in the alley at the back of the club during their one allotted fifteen-minute break having a cigarette.

"Oh pooh to your shopgirl! You won't need to work two jobs if you start doing extras," Vicky blew on the tip of her cigarette.

"Extras?" Mary was bamboozled.

"God you are a ditzy bint! Going with some of the punters from the club after work," she winked.

Mary paled.

"You mean prostitution? That's illegal and I bet Millie would have a fit!" Mary was aghast.

"What Millie don't know about, Millie shouldn't care about, and it ain't brassing if you're on a date," Vicky smiled wickedly.

"A date that ends with your knickers around your ankles and a man between your legs," Mary scolded.

"Half these blokes can't get it up; they're too old or too pissed or both. The younger ones are so excited you can fetch them off with your hand in thirty seconds or do it the French way and spit it out," Vicky sniggered.

"Oh my god Vicky; yuck!" Mary screwed up her face.

"Besides; I was told that Millicent only employs virgins," Mary countered.

"Who told you that!" Vicky looked disconcerted.

"Was it Millicent?" Vicky had paled.

"Yes. She was quite insistent," Mary replied.

"Jesus! You're one of them!" Vicky looked concerned.

"You're a candidate Novice for the Circle. For fuck sake don't tell Millie anything about what I've said to you," Vicky pleaded.

"What's an Novice? What's the problem?" Mary stroked Vicky's shoulder trying to soothe her.

"Well I've only seen one girl who was selected to be a Novice, but apparently there have been a string of them over the years. Millicent takes on young virginal girls and tests their integrity. If they can last out long enough without giving into temptation and losing their virginity or don't run away with some toff they meet at Chez Ami, they get to move onto somewhere incredible," Vicky said; her voice full of wonder.

"What a load of bollocks, you're making that up," Mary laughed.

"The story is she works for a rich geezer; a Lord or a Baron or an Earl or something; and that she provides him with beautiful young virgins who he schools in the arts of eloquence and seduction. Some sort of secret society called the Circle that only the hoi polloi can join; you know the aristocracy and that," Vicky said excitedly.

"Bollocks!" Mary replied again and punched her playfully in the shoulder.

"Well whatever; just don't tell Millie that I offered you job doing extras ok?" they finished their cigarettes and went back to work.

Mary saw 'extras' actually happen on the premises not one week later. Mary needed to replenish the stock on her tray; the stockroom was a small closet inside the hatcheck room which itself was pokey. She had to put down her tray and wriggle her way through all the coats, jackets and furs hanging from the tiered racks. She had joked to Vicky that she could hide in there half the night and sleep standing up and no one would find her. Vicky wasn't in attendance and Mary assumed she had gone to quickly use the toilet.

Mary was rummaging around in the stock room when she heard the door to the hatcheck station open and then muffled voices.

"Shh! Keep your voice down or you'll get me sacked and you will end up divorced," Vicky hissed.

"Come on Vick; give me a bit of a feel at least," an older male voice was pleading.

"Your missus is out there right now at one of those tables," Vicky chastised whoever was in the room with her.

"Come on darling; I haven't had a shag for ages; just give us a kiss a cuddle and a feel and I'll slip you ten bob," the man pleaded.

Mary opened a small gap in the coats hiding her from view and she could see Vicky talking to a grey-haired man wearing an expensive dinner suit. He had to at least sixty.

"You can have a quick feel up while I lean against the counter here but you have to stay behind the wall where you can't be seen. If anyone comes for a hat or a coat you bloody well stop it and stay hidden," Vicky snatched the ten shilling note from his hand.

The geezer grinned and sidled up to the wall beside the counter. Vicky leaned out and seeing the coast was clear she nodded at the man and stood leaning against the counter, just like she would normally do at work.

Vicky's uniform was a plain black cocktail dress with a very short skirt and open bodice; all the girls costumes were deliberately provocative in order to attract male clientele. The man reached out and lifted the back of Vicky's dress, her gauzy black stocking-tops, suspenders and her plump bottom clad in sheer tight black nylon knickers were perfectly presented and the man wasted no time in sampling her wears. He stroked her thighs, his fingers gliding along her sheer stockings and then feathering across the pale skin above the welts of her stockings.