Working Girls By Maureen Carter
PROLOGUE
The one streetlight that had been working had just gone out.
“You and me both,” Shell muttered, words lost in a wide-mouthed yawn. She hadn’t had a punter for two hours and it was so cold she couldn’t feel her toes. Four creased and grimy tenners were lining the soles of her shoes. It was all she had to hide for opening her legs to two blokes she didn’t want to see again, let alone screw. She couldn’t go back with a puny ￡40. Her feet wouldn’t touch. Charlie had told her he wanted a monkey by Sunday, and he wasn’t someone you dared cross.
A flash motor turned the corner, cruised towards her. She was no good with car names but even Shell knew a BMW when she saw one. For a second she panicked, then told herself not to be stupid. They weren’t all pimpmobiles; loads of normal blokes drove Beemers. The car was almost at the kerb now. She took a calming breath, then another. She’d have this last john, then knock it on the head for the night. She licked her lips, hoped they weren’t blue.
Her white ankle-length coat was unbuttoned, her fists thrust deep in the pockets. She pulled it open even further as she approached the car. Long, blonde hair fell across her face as she leaned forward to look inside. The practised smile froze on her face. It couldn’t be? Why hadn’t she listened to Vicki?
“Get in.” It wasn’t a request.
Shell put a hand to her heart, scared its pounding would crack a rib. Her glance was everywhere but on the driver. She was looking for an exit; knowing there was no way out. Flight or fight?
Either way she was f*cked.
She sighed, opened the door, sliding across the seat. It was warm inside and apart from her body’s odour, she smelt rich leather and classy aftershave. They drove in a silence she didn’t dare break. They moved away from the back streets now, heading for the ring road, joining other traffic. There was a tall tower – all steel and glass – to Shell’s left. On top was a read-out in neon red. It flickered every few seconds, flashing through time, temperature, date. Shell followed it with her eyes: 20.19; 4oC. She had to crane her neck: 13.
“It’s Friday, innit?”
He responded without looking. “So?”
“Unlucky for some, innit?” she whispered.