UNTOUCHABLE
and published by Corgi
Kitty Sweet is unlike anyone you’ve ever met before.
She’s an infamous porn star, imprisoned for double murder – as damaged as she is charismatic, as dangerous as she is charming.
But she was once no different from you or me.
Kitty’s past is full of heartbreak and desperation, of adulation and glamour. Of ruin. She has descended to an underworld most people can only imagine, and has lived to tell the tale . . .
This is her story.
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Corgi Books
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Ava Marsh 2016
Cover photography: model © anneleven/Getty Images; prison © Shutterstock.
Design by Sarah Whittaker/TW
Ava Marsh has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473509559
ISBN 9780552171212
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1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
To J. R.
Where the fuck is Maxine?
There’s no one left in the queue. Everyone’s already seated, stripping off scarves and coats, hanging them over their chairs. I glance at the clock on the far wall of the visiting room.
Nearly half past two.
She should’ve been here thirty minutes ago.
I sit back, legs sprawled, trying to look like I don’t care, but catch that new girl – the one in for benefit fraud – smirking in my direction. Ash, I think she’s called. A sassy little cow with an annoying face. The kind who reckons she’s much hotter than she is.
We lock eyes for a second, then she turns back to a ratty bloke with a pigtail. Her boyfriend, presumably. For now. A few more months in here, and he’ll be her ex.
Lovers and friends are lost causes; only blood ties survive the separation of prison. And sometimes not even those.
Hardly a surprise, then, that my best friend is a no-show. Clearly she’s had a change of heart.
I get up, raising a hand to let Janice know I’m leaving. Nod at Rita, who’s sitting at the next table with her teenage daughter, tossing me a look of sympathy.
Don’t bother, I want to tell her. No skin off my nose.
But as I head for the exit, I notice a large woman lumbering towards me, dressed in tight black leggings and an ugly navy puffa jacket. For a second I assume she’s here for someone else. It’s not till she gives me a hesitant smile that I realize.
Maxine?
Jesus. What happened to her?
I sit down again, trying not to stare as she waddles up to my table.
‘Hi, Leanne.’ Maxine glances around, taking in the other prisoners and their families. ‘Sorry I’m late. Roadworks on the motorway.’
‘No problem,’ I mumble, doing my best to disguise my shock. At least her voice is familiar, though I barely recognize anything else about my oldest friend. Her hair, once long and full of auburn highlights, is now a dull brown. She isn’t wearing a scrap of make-up, her skin red and blotchy, eyes piggy without mascara.
But it’s her size that really has me thrown. Maxine has put on weight – a lot of weight. Her features lost in the bloat around her face, neck hidden under several folds of fat.
‘Wow,’ she asks, ‘is it always this hot in here?’
I nod, studying her as she strips off her jacket, exposing a short-sleeved T-shirt and arms swathed in pale mottled flesh. My gaze drops to the swell of her belly, and I feel a tightening inside.
She’s pregnant. At least seven or eight months gone.
‘You OK?’ Maxine sinks into the seat opposite, sighing with the effort.
I clear my throat. ‘Fine. How about you?’
My friend forces a smile. ‘Not fabulous, actually. Gestational diabetes,’ she adds, like that explains the extra five or six stone she’s carrying. ‘They’re thinking of inducing me early.’
‘Sorry to hear it,’ I say, though honestly I’ve no clue what she’s on about. ‘Anyway, it’s good to see you.’
Her mouth twitches, but Maxine doesn’t respond. She shifts her weight on the seat, obviously uncomfortable, and I wonder again what’s brought her here; have been wondering since she put in for the visit four weeks ago.
I’ve not seen Maxine since my court appearance, and even then she sat at the back of the public gallery, keeping her head angled towards the judge, like I wasn’t in the room. Which was weird, given I was the reason everyone was there.
So now I’m really curious. Travelling in her condition, all the way from Stevenage, can’t be fun. I wonder how she got here. If Gary is waiting in a car outside.
‘You haven’t changed,’ Maxine says, eyeballing me.
Jesus. It’s only been eight years – what did she expect? I’d be all shrivelled up? Covered in scars or cigarette burns?
Mind you, those years have worked quite a transformation on her.
‘The Taylor Swift of Brakehurst,’ Maxine adds, with a laugh that doesn’t sound genuine and wobbles the flesh under her chin.
‘Who?’
‘You know, the pop star.’
‘No idea what she looks like,’ I mutter, though I remember that chirpy ‘Shake It Off’ song. Someone’s always got the bloody radio on in here.
There’s a pause while I consider what to say. Even ‘you look well’ would be an out-and-out lie. Not that I’m averse to the odd fib – far from it – but Maxine would surely know it was insincere.
‘So you can wear your own stuff in here, then?’ she asks, before I come up with anything convincing.
‘Six tops and six bottoms. That’s the allowance.’
My friend smiles, like this confirms something, though fuck knows what. Then uses my own line on me. ‘You’re looking well, Leanne. Seriously.’
‘Thanks. It’s the organic food they give us.’
‘Really?’
Maxine’s frown makes me grin. How gullible can you get?
‘So they let you have make-up, do they?’ she asks. ‘And have your hair done.’
Actually I’ve made a bit of an effort. Borrowed blusher and mascara off Nadine in the opposite cell. God knows why. The best thing about being banged up is not bothering with all the crap I had to do outside to keep my fans happy, keep people buying my stuff.
‘We’ve got trainee hairdressers,’ I explain. ‘You know, learning skills for when they get out.’
‘Handy.’ Maxine adjusts her weight on her seat again, her eyes flitting around the room. She seems exhausted, her chest rising and falling like every breath is an effort. Uneasy – and not just because she’s in a prison.
She isn’t here for small talk, I sense, or to check how I am. She’s here to tell me – or ask me – something.
Something important.
I drop my gaze to the floor, giving her a chance to screw up the courage. And see it scuttle past my foot – not your standard cockroach, but a tiny silverfish. Heading for the tip of Maxine’s shoe.
‘Don’t move!’ I bend to scoop it up, but it scoots round my hand, streaking away in the direction of Ash and her boyfriend.
At that moment Ash looks up, follows my gaze. Spots the little creature scurrying towards her. Her lips twitch into a smile as she lifts her foot and, with one decisive movement, crushes it into the floor.
I glare at her, my fingers curling into fists. Not now, I tell myself, pushing it down. Later.
‘Leanne? You all right?’ Maxine is watching me, her forehead creased again.
‘Never better,’ I lie.
She studies me, clearly deciding how to broach whatever brought her here. Another twinge of emotion – sadness? nostalgia? – as I remember how once we filled our days with talk, gossiping about teachers and other kids at school. Moaning about parents, or homework.
My best friend.
The only one left – at least on the outside.
‘So, why are you here?’ I prompt, losing patience.
Maxine swallows. Her eyes drift from mine. ‘I have to tell you something, Leanne.’
She stops, waiting for me to ask. But suddenly I’m not sure I want to know. Whatever it is, it can’t be good – the look on her face tells me that.
Pity.
Under the table my fists clench tighter. In the corner, standing against the wall, I see Janice watching me carefully.
Does she know what this is about, I wonder? Do all the screws?
‘It’s your mum,’ Maxine says, and I swing my gaze back to hers.
‘Mum?’ I repeat, the word foreign in my mouth. ‘What about her?’
Maxine clears her throat. Swallows again. ‘It’s bad news, Leanne. I’m sorry. She’s ill . . . cancer.’
I force myself not to move a muscle. Give nothing away. ‘OK,’ I say, though of course it isn’t.
‘Breast cancer,’ she continues. ‘Very advanced.’
Very advanced.
My breathing shallows. The air in the visiting room thickens into something difficult to breathe. ‘When?’
‘The tumour? They found it last year, but it had spread to her liver. So that means . . .’ Maxine stops.
‘That means she’s dying?’ I make myself say what she can’t.
My friend nods.
‘How long?’
‘A month or two. Maybe three.’
I try to picture Mum’s face, but all that comes is the way she looked at me that last time I saw her – back before it happened. Anger distorting her features, turning them hard.
I barely know who you are any more, Leanne. Impossible to believe you were ever any part of me.
We haven’t spoken since. She didn’t answer my call when I was arrested. Never showed her face in court.
‘Why didn’t anyone tell me?’ I whisper.
Maxine fidgets, her mouth shifting around as if uncertain what expression to adopt. ‘You know how it was, Leanne. How your mum . . . Mike, felt about it all.’
‘Only now she’s changed her mind?’ I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice.
My friend shrugs. ‘Not exactly. They don’t know I’m here. I just thought you should know . . . I don’t think it’s right not telling you.’
A whimper escapes my throat. Heads swivel, then Janice appears, placing a firm hand on my shoulder.
‘You OK, Leanne?’
‘Yes,’ I manage, though my breathing has shrunk to gasps. Like I’m on the verge of something. Something bad.
‘Perhaps we’d better call it a day?’ Janice glances at Maxine.
‘No,’ I say quickly, forcing myself to get a grip. ‘I’m all right.’
Janice eyes me for a moment longer. ‘If you’re sure.’ She retreats to her post by the wall, her gaze still trained on our table.
I lean across so only Maxine can hear me. ‘Does she . . . Mum want me to visit? I could put in a request. They might let me come and see her.’ Unlikely, but you never know – maybe Drew, my pet screw, could swing it.
Maxine’s face flushes. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Leanne.’
I laugh. A bark of a laugh that isn’t about anything funny. ‘No deathbed reunion, then? No last-minute forgiveness?’
My friend doesn’t reply. I turn away. You chose this, I remind myself. You knew how it was going to be.
The price you’d pay for hiding the truth.
‘I’m sorry,’ Maxine says, looking like she means it.
‘Yeah,’ I snap, before I can stop myself. ‘Like you give a fuck. It takes a terminal disease for you to drag your sorry arse to see me.’
Maxine goes even redder. Two bright hand-slaps appear on her cheeks. ‘Actually I think about you all the time, Leanne. I lie in bed at night, when Gary’s asleep, wondering how it ever came to this. You in here. What you did . . . I go over and over it in my mind . . . wondering.’
‘Wondering what?’
‘If we somehow drove you to it.’
‘How do you mean?’
Maxine inhales. Releases it as a long sigh. ‘I don’t know . . . if there was anything we should have said, could have done that might have changed things.’
I close my eyes for a second or two. Compose myself.
‘It had nothing to do with you, Maxine,’ I hiss, low enough to stay under Janice’s radar. ‘Or Mum or Mike. Nothing to do with any of you, all right?’ She flinches at my tone, though I’d have thought I’m doing her a favour, letting her off the hook.
Not that she was ever on it.
But I’m insulted by what she said. Like my life wasn’t my own. Like I couldn’t screw it up all by myself.
A chirp from Maxine’s bag. She opens her legs to make space for her stomach as she bends to retrieve her phone. I watch her read the text. Probably from Gary, asking how long she’ll be. Or whether he should get something in for supper.
Jesus.
Snapping the case shut, Maxine glances at the clock. ‘I should go.’
A pain in my chest. Out of nowhere, I’m engulfed by a tidal wave of panic. I lean across, grab her arm. ‘Wait, Maxine, please. I’m sorry. Give me a minute.’
Suddenly I’m desperate for her not to leave. Like she’s everything I have left, my last connection to the outside world.
To my old life – before it all got screwed up.
‘How is Mike?’ I ask quickly. ‘And the twins.’
Maxine stays put. I release her arm. ‘Not great, Leanne, to be honest. Mike’s finding it hard, what with keeping the pub going and looking after your mum. And the twins, though they seem all right. You know what they’re like.’
A spasm like a kick to the stomach. I don’t know, actually; have had no news of my half-brothers for ages. I want to tell Maxine that I miss them, even more than Mum and Mike. That I send them a card – one each – every birthday, every Christmas.
Nothing, of course, ever comes back.
Oh God, how will they cope with Mum gone? Tears prick my eyes. I should be there, I think. Should be helping take care of them.
Maxine checks the time again. ‘I’m sorry, Leanne. I really have to go.’
‘Gary waiting?’ I ask, trying to keep the sarcasm from my voice. Good old Gary. I imagine him sitting in the car, radio on, tuned into the football. Older now. A bit paunchy, I’ll bet, hair receding at the temples.
‘It’s a four-hour drive. We’ve got to get back for the babysitter.’
‘Babysitter?’ I drop my eyes to her stomach again. ‘So this isn’t your first?’
‘Second. Alex is nearly three.’
A dull ache in my belly as I remember my own child. The one I lost. Probably my only chance; I’ll be getting too old by the time I’m released – for men, or babies.
I watch as Maxine heaves herself to her feet, shrugging her jacket back on. It’s not hard to imagine, her little family. The road I could have chosen: marriage, kids, an ordinary life. I picture a starter home in Stevenage. A neat patch of back garden, swing in the corner. Collages decorating the walls of the nursery. Oven chips and fish fingers for tea.
We might as well be from different planets, Maxine and I. Hard to believe we were ever friends.
‘Why didn’t you bring him?’ I ask, stalling. ‘Your son. I’d have liked to meet him.’
No mistaking the look that flits across her face. She doesn’t want him anywhere near this place.
Anywhere near me.
She doesn’t want to be here herself, I realize, only doing this out of a sense of duty. Maxine wants nothing to do with me.
No one does.
Suddenly this feels so terrible I barely know how to survive the next minute. I want to cry and scream. I want to punch myself in the head, pull out my hair. Smash, kick, claw myself into oblivion.
They hate me.
They all wish I was fucking dead.
I reach over, seizing Maxine’s hand this time. See her fight the impulse to snatch it away.
‘Listen,’ I say quickly, before I can change my mind. ‘It’s not like you think. None of it. I didn’t do what . . . what you imagine.’ All at once I’m desperate to blurt out the truth.
Keeping it hidden is killing me.
Maxine pulls her hand from mine. ‘Leanne . . .’ She bites her lip. Pushing down her own emotions. ‘Leanne, I—’
Her eyes slide away. She doesn’t believe me, I can see that. And there’s not time enough to convince her. To explain why I said what I did in court.
Too late.
‘I can’t do this.’ Tears glint on her fat cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Leanne, but I can’t do this any more.’
She turns and heads for the exit, hips rippling with the effort of movement. I watch her disappear, back to her husband and children and cosy little life.
Without so much as a kiss goodbye.
‘You going to tell me what happened?’
We’re sitting in the broken shower in B block, backs against the tiled wall, Tanya’s hand still fondling my breast. Clearly she’s missed me while I’ve been in isolation.
Drew too, no doubt.
I shrug. ‘Nothing much. Ash got on my nerves, that’s all.’
Tanya scissors my nipple, pinches it till I twist and swat her away. ‘C’mon, Leanne. You don’t usually let a silly little bitch like that bother you. What was it all about?’
I consider what to say. What I told the governor, I guess, when I was hauled in front of Harding. After they took Ash off to the medical unit.
Mind your own fucking business.
But I was upset then – a week ago – still reeling from the news about Mum. And Tanya’s different. She’s been there for me ever since I arrived at Brakehurst.
‘I dunno,’ I groan. ‘I just wasn’t in the mood for her crap.’
Ash’s face flashes up again, the cut on her lip bleeding heavily. That stupid whining sound she made as she crouched on the floor.
OK, maybe I went a bit too far.
But like I said, I was upset. And she kept goading me. ‘Kitty Sweet,’ she intoned, drawing out my last name with a sneer. ‘Kitty fucking Sweet. Think you’re really something, don’t you, cos your name’s always in the papers.’ She got her face up close to mine. Right in my space.
‘Sweet as shi—’
That’s when I hit her.
‘I heard you were in quite a state, after that visit,’ Tanya says, not about to let the matter drop.
I feign a blank expression. ‘What visit?’
Tanya narrows her eyes. ‘Don’t fuck with me, Leanne. You told me your friend was coming to see you.’
Did I? I can’t remember now. Find it hard to keep track of all the things I’ve said.
‘Rita reckons you had an argument, with your friend. Said Janice made her leave. That she was crying.’
I don’t reply.
‘She heard you call her a silly cow, Leanne.’
I grit my teeth. ‘Tell Rita she needs a fucking hearing aid.’
Tanya eyes me steadily. For a moment I think she’s going to push it further, but she changes her mind. ‘Anyway, Ash won’t bother you again. I’ve had a word. Told her to stay out of your way.’
That pisses me off too. I can take care of myself, when push comes to shove. Not that I often have to. When you’re in for double murder, your reputation goes before you; most people steer well clear – except psycho wind-up merchants like Ash.
‘Thanks.’ I force myself to look grateful. I’m not daft. Tanya’s well connected, and I need her onside, watching my back. So I hold my smile and let her believe she’s done me a favour.
‘You at least going to tell me how it went with Harding?’ she persists.
I sigh. Try to come up with some fib to fob her off, then decide it’s not worth the bother. ‘She wants me to see that new therapist.’
‘Therapy?’ Tanya raises an eyebrow. ‘Wouldn’t have thought that was your thing.’
‘She reckons it will do me good. You know, to talk about stuff.’
‘Like what?’
I hesitate, tempted to confide what Maxine told me about Mum. But the golden rule in here is keep everything that matters to yourself – never give anyone leverage over you, a way to press your buttons.
Not even the people you think you can trust.
‘I’ve no idea.’ I shrug. ‘I’m not a therapist. Probably the usual crap on anger management and so on.’
Tanya sniffs. Gets to her feet and pulls on her jeans. I check out her expression, worried I’ve annoyed her. Now Harding has put me on basic, cutting all my privileges, I need to keep her sweet.
Drew too.
‘You OK?’ I get up, touch her cheek.
She smiles. ‘Sure. It was nice.’
‘It was,’ I agree, though to be honest I wasn’t really in the mood. I’d had to fake it, my mind busy grappling with Harding’s implication that I was a headcase.
‘It’s in your interests, Leanne,’ she’d said, all solemn and serious. ‘Any more of this kind of incident and you’ll seriously damage your chances of early release. You need to start thinking. You could be up for parole in six years – that’s not as long as it might seem.’
Isn’t it? I wondered. As if Harding would know. A day in here can feel like a year, a year like a century.
It’s like being fucking immortal.
‘Give it some thought.’ Tanya runs the tap and splashes water over her face. ‘Therapy, I mean. Might do you good.’
Jesus. She sounds just like Harding.
‘Well, it’s not as if you haven’t got the time, is it?’ she adds, catching my expression.
That makes me laugh. One thing we have in here is plenty of time. Sure, we’re supposed to spend twenty-four hours a week on ‘purposeful activity’, but it never works out that way. There’s still long spells in lock-up, sitting around your cell. Hours on your hands to remember. To brood.
On how you ended up here, and your hopes of ever getting out.
What will be waiting when you do.
Tanya turns and I study her face – plain, square-jawed, brown eyes surrounded by a spider’s web of wrinkles – and feel a sudden rush of affection. I like Tanya. It’s not just the sex, nor the other perks of being on her good side. She’s kind, softer than she looks.
A real friend, perhaps – a rare commodity in this place.
‘Do it,’ she says. ‘What have you got to lose? Maybe she can get you to open up a bit, let people in.’
She leans in to hug me. ‘God knows I’ve tried, Leanne, but always the closed book, aren’t you?’
I answer this with another smile.
And this time it’s genuine.
Most times when people smile at you in prison, you can read anything into it. They’re taking the piss. It’s a warning, a put-down, a come-on, a challenge.
But sitting here today, staring at Yvonne Conway, I know it’s sincere. And my heart droops. She’s one of those do-gooders who come into the prison thinking they’ll be making a difference; watching their inevitable disillusionment is painful, if amusing.
Give me the seen-it-all, fuck-you types any day.
‘So, shall we start with you telling me a little about yourself, Leanne?’ The therapist flashes that smile again. You can trust me, it says. You’re safe here. I won’t judge. I won’t use any of this against you.
Yeah, right.
‘What do you want to know?’ I ask.
Her eyes lock on mine, gazing at me with an earnest expression, the kind clearly meant to encourage you to spill your guts. The kind that is never going to work on me.
‘Whatever you’d like to tell me, Leanne. This isn’t an interrogation. The idea is that you have space to talk to someone in confidence about some of the events in your life.’
‘In confidence?’
She nods. ‘Nothing you say in these sessions will be passed on without your permission.’
I run my tongue over my teeth, look around. We’re in a room at the end of the admin block. A pair of worn armchairs, and a large, stained coffee table. Nothing to see here, so I peer out the window at the February landscape. Nothing much to see there either: dull skies and bare trees, the grass around the compound providing the only lift of colour. And even that looks washed out in the low thin fog that settles around this place in winter.
‘OK, so let’s discuss what you’re hoping to get out of our sessions together,’ Yvonne says, searching for another way in.
I turn back, pretending to mull this over, but really I’m studying her faded jeans and baggy purple top, the bottle-dyed hair clipped back at each side. She’s not wearing much make-up, beyond a smudge of mascara, a clumsy sweep of blusher where her cheekbones should be – if her face weren’t drooping with age.
She must be fifty if she’s a day.
‘I dunno,’ I say eventually. ‘Harding said it might help.’ And as Tanya reminded me, one-to-one therapy isn’t something on offer every day. I should make the most of it, she said, so I figured the least I could do is turn up and play along.
‘Yes, Sharon Harding mentioned there’d been an incident a couple of weeks ago. That you were very upset following a visit from a friend. Do you want to talk about that?’
No, I fucking don’t, I think, but keep the words in my head. What the hell is the point of this anyway? It’s like the psychologists I saw before my case went to court. Always prying and probing, trying to get to the heart of you. All the way to why.
They could fuck off too. I had nothing to say to any of them.
‘OK, Leanne.’ Yvonne smiles and sits up straighter. ‘I can see you’re finding this difficult. Let me go over again what I’m hoping we might do together over the next eight sessions. I’m keen for this to be an opportunity to explore some of the things that have happened to you. What’s brought you to this situation, and your hopes for the future. How I might help you achieve some of your goals.’
The usual bullshit, in other words. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard this kind of well-meaning ‘positive framing’ crap.
I give Yvonne a nod, and she seems pleased, like it’s some sort of breakthrough. She glances down at the file on her lap, and I wonder what’s in there, what she’s read up on me.
Wonder too if she’s seen the stuff that came out after my arrest. The pieces in the papers, most of them using pictures nicked off my website; a few of the racier tabloids including stills from my videos – tits and all. The descriptions of me in the courtroom, ‘stony-faced and unrepentant’, as one of the headlines said.
If only they knew. Grief leaves you numb . . . sort of vacant. It only appears like a lack of emotion.
‘Can I make a suggestion, Leanne?’ Yvonne says, and I notice she’s looking at my hands. I’m clenching them again, I realize, thumb tucked tight beneath my fingers.
‘Go right ahead.’
‘Would it be easier if you were to get things down on paper? If you find talking hard, I mean. You could write whatever you like and give it to me before the next session. It might take the pressure off when we meet.’
‘Write what?’ I ask, hoping it won’t be one of those tedious lists of ‘goals’ we’re encouraged to set ourselves. Like ‘work on our response to stress’ and ‘develop problem-solving skills’.
‘Anything you want,’ Yvonne suggests. ‘You could start with what brought you here, to prison.’
‘I’m assuming you’re aware of that already.’
‘Only the official side. The court reports, assessments and so on. I’d be interested to hear it from your perspective.’
I’ll bet, I think, remembering better offers for ‘my story’. The interview requests that came in the early days, reporters wanting my ‘perspective’ on the industry. No doubt with a view to turning it into more wank fodder.
‘I’ll give it some thought,’ I say.
‘Great.’ Yvonne looks pleased. Puts the folder into her bag, an ugly fabric sack of a thing. Not even leather. ‘Well, I’ll see you next week, Leanne.’
She gets to her feet. Hesitates. Seems about to hold out her hand for me to shake, but evidently changes her mind, remembering the injunction never to touch a prisoner.
I should remind Drew of that one, I think, as the guard comes to usher me away.
Give him a good laugh.
‘Got you these.’
Drew drops a pile of goodies on the end of my bunk. A notepad and blue biro, half a dozen books. ‘Picked up a selection from the library,’ he adds, knowing I can’t get there while I’m stuck on basic. ‘Wasn’t sure what you liked.’
Not this rubbish, I think, studying the paperback on the top. A woman in a black corset and fishnet tights draped across the cover, wearing stilettos so high even a porn star couldn’t walk in them.
Christ, the shit people read in here. Stupid stories about damaged men and the women who ‘redeem’ them; clearly they haven’t met a proper arsehole yet or they’d run a mile. And that real-life crap about people’s miserable childhoods – if that’s all you need for a book, pretty much every woman in this place is sitting on a bestseller.
But I know Drew’s gone out on a limb to bring me these, so I offer him my sweetest smile. ‘Brilliant. Thanks.’
He studies me for a moment then retreats to the door of my cell, careful not to act too familiar with the other screws around. He looks tired and harassed, his belt pinching at his waist the way it does when his stomach’s playing up.
‘So how did it go?’ he asks.
I keep my expression blank, though I know perfectly well what he’s referring to.
‘Your session with that new therapist,’ he adds, with a trace of irritation.
I pull a face. ‘All right.’
Drew gives me a long look. ‘You should make the most of it, Leanne. You never know, it might help.’
Jesus. Why does everyone keep saying that? Like I’m some sort of nutter.
And help how? Get my privileges back? Get me out of this shithole? I’d have thought that was the last thing Drew would want – unless he thinks we’ll carry on outside. Set up a love nest together.
In his fucking dreams.
Drew lingers for a minute, one hand on the door frame, the other fingering his keys. Peering at me like he wants to ask something. Like there’s something he doesn’t understand.
I pretend I haven’t noticed and he gives up, closing the door to my cell, locking it behind him. I lie back on my bed, stare at the ceiling, at the four walls that contain what’s left of my life.
Sod this.
I sit up and grab the notepad, folding it open to the first page, pen hovering.
Still hovering two minutes later.
My mind wanders back to Mum, brooding about her illness. Is she at home or in hospital? Will anyone tell me when she dies? I should try one last time to make contact, I think. Let her know that I know. I could send a card, ask Drew to rustle up some stamps.
But what’s the point? Mum’s ignored everything else I’ve sent. I’m pretty sure she won’t make an exception just because she’s dying.
One thing we have in common, at least – once our minds are made up, nothing will change them.
I push the thoughts away, smoothing my hand over the first blank page. That therapist made it sound so easy, like it was simply a question of picking up a pen, and off you go.
But where to begin? When I was born? While I was growing up?
Why bother? My childhood wasn’t fucked-up, or pervy in any way, though that’s what everyone assumes: that women like me were abused, or had druggy parents or whatever.
Not in my case. All in all, my past was fairly ordinary. Happy – at least most of the time. Especially after my father left, and Mum met Mike.
I gaze around my cell, searching for inspiration. The sink, the desk with its single chair. The gap where my TV used to be till Harding had it removed. Then my eyes settle on that passport photo, Blu-tacked on the wall by my bed. Taken that day on the pier in Brighton, when everything was ahead of me, and nothing was spoiled.
Your face grins out at me, reaching across the years. Your brown eyes and dark hair. Those high cheekbones and the little creases that bracketed your mouth.
I’m seized by a stomach punch of sadness.
Joe.
I miss you more than ever, especially without the telly to distract me. You’re the only thing stopping me going insane in the endless boredom of lock-up. I go over and over it, savouring our time together. Every instant. Every word. Every glance. Looping from the beginning to the last time I saw you, in that car park in France.
A lift in my heart as I grab the biro, knowing now where to start – at the moment the compass of my life first pointed in your direction.
I’ll tell it all, I think, the story of us. Write it down exactly as it happened, from beginning to end. Maybe, if I put it into words, see it there in black and white, I can conjure you back into my life.
And I’ll let that therapist read it. Why not? She can’t tell anyone, can she? I can say what I like and she has to keep it to herself.
But she’ll know the truth – and perhaps even one person knowing will make it easier to bear.
So I turn to the inside cover of the notepad, the bit Yvonne Conway will never see, and write out a dedication in neat capitals.
FOR YOU
‘Knickers.’
I looked up at the man holding the camera. ‘What?’
‘Knickers off, darling.’ He nodded at my crotch.
‘But isn’t this just topless?’ A pathetic note of protest in my voice. ‘That’s what the guy at the agency said.’ Darryll Crocker. That was his name, wasn’t it? Hardly one you’d forget.
The photographer gave me a weary look. ‘Darryll’s a cunt, sweetheart. I’d have thought even you could work that out.’ He grinned at the guy in the baseball cap fiddling with the lighting, who raised his eyebrows in a ‘not again’ sort of way.
Both of them, naturally, were fully clothed.
I stood there, arms over my breasts, shivering. Though it was warm outside, a day full of blue sky and sunshine, inside this studio it was freezing. There were no windows anywhere, nor any heating.
‘Look, Lara, it’s the full monty, OK?’ barked the photographer. ‘If you’re not up for that, then fuck off. There’s plenty of other girls happy to take your place.’
I remember when I described this to you, my first nude modelling shoot. Your expression. Like you wanted to travel back in time and deck the guy. You, needless to say, never spoke to me that way. You never spoke to any of the girls that way. It was one of the things I loved about you.
But I’m jumping ahead of myself now. This was still months before you came into my life. And back then I was only nineteen – young and green enough to think that this was something I had to take in my stride.
‘So you going to take them off or what?’ The photographer had his hands on his hips, his camera hanging from the strap around his neck. He was nice-looking, with curly brown hair and pale blue eyes. I might have fancied him if we’d met in any other situation; but somehow, in this one, it only made me feel worse.
I stared back and the tears in my eyes made him go all swimmy. I mentally rewound what Darryll Crocker had told me. A couple of hundred quid for a topless shoot. I’m sure that’s what he said.
I thought about my ex-boyfriend Ross and the almighty mess he’d left me in. The unpaid rent. Those minus signs on the statement from our joint bank account that made Darryll’s advert in the local paper catch my eye.
I’d shown it to Donna, the girl who shared my shift at the wine bar. ‘Why not?’ she’d said. ‘I know a friend at school who did glamour modelling. Made a packet.’
She looked me up and down, smiling. ‘OK, you’ve not exactly got the biggest tits in the world, but your face more than makes up for that.’
All the same, I was surprised when Darryll Crocker had taken me on. And even more surprised when he’d got me this gig a week later, and told me how much I’d earn – just for taking my bra off.
Easy money, or so I’d imagined. Right now, staring back at the photographer, it felt like the worst mistake I’d ever made.
Besides trusting Ross.
My stomach burned at the thought of him. I gritted my teeth, trying to make up my mind what to do. Just this once, I told myself. I’ll pay off my debts and be free of him for ever.
I bent down and slipped off my thong. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Sit there.’ The photographer indicated a cream leather sofa in the centre of the room. I perched on its edge, still clutching my arms against my breasts. It was so chilly my skin was rough with goosebumps.
‘Right.’ The man picked up the camera and pointed it in my direction. It felt like an accusation.
‘Can we have more light over here, Tom?’ He kept looking through the lens then back at me, like something was wrong. Waved a hand at the other man, who pulled a strip of lights to the left.
‘OK. Um . . . what’s your name again?’
‘Leanne,’ I said. ‘Leanne Jenkins.’
‘Right, Leanne. Can you lower your arms and lean back a bit?’
I did as he asked, trying not to look down at my boobs. I could feel my nipples hardening in the cold.
‘Not like that. Put your arms up, by your head.’ He let go of the camera to give me a demo. ‘That’s it. Hold it for a moment.’
A series of machine-gun clicks. The photographer circled me, twisting the camera into different angles. ‘Raise your left arm more. That’s right.’
I tried to relax but I felt stiff and unnatural. My mind was whirring. What were these pictures for, exactly? Darryll Crocker had said they were going in some magazine, but he didn’t say which. He’d been pretty vague about it, now I thought back. I wondered if I dare ask the photographer.
‘Relax your mouth, Lara. No, don’t smile. I want sultry, a little pouty. Sultry, I said, not sulky.’
I felt a rush of panic. What if Mum saw these photos? I imagined Mike flicking through one of those top-shelf magazines, coming face-to-face with my . . . I shuddered. Tried to push it from my mind.
Just get through this, I told myself. Take the money and never do it again. If Mum ever found out, I’d say it was a one-off.
‘OK. I want you to lie back, right leg on the floor . . . that’s it.’
More gunfire from the camera. The lighting man stood watching, his expression blank. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. If anything, he looked slightly bored.
How many girls did he see like this a day? I wondered. Two? Five? A dozen?
‘Right, Lara, lift your other leg and lean it against the back of the sofa.’
I hesitated. It was obvious where this was going. Even to me. He was already lining up the camera to take in the length of my body. Seemed to gaze right into the heart of me.
‘Yoo hoo? Hello?’ A hand waved in front of my face. ‘Anyone there?’
I lifted my leg.
‘Hands caressing yourself . . . that’s right. Try to look like you’re enjoying this. Imagine I’m your boyfriend . . .’
I scowled. If it weren’t for Ross, I wouldn’t be in this mess. I wouldn’t be lying here, freezing my tits off, a camera peering between my legs.
‘Wider, Lara . . . that’s good. OK, now use your fingers to spread yourself.’
I sat up, my face a question mark.
He sighed. ‘You know, sweetheart. Show me some pink.’
A flush of heat in my cheeks. I lowered my hands, but only to cover myself.
That was it. That was when I should have got up and left, walked out in a cloud of anger and disgust, and then nothing would ever have happened.
Though of course, if I had stormed off, I would never have met you.
The photographer dropped his camera, stood hands on hips. ‘Lara, for fuck’s sake, shift your fingers out the way. Widen your legs.’
‘It’s Leanne,’ I snapped, but did as he said.
The camera moved in. The lighting guy carried on staring at me vacantly. I’d never felt so exposed in all my life.
I closed my eyes, squeezing back tears, longing for this to end. I just wanted my money so I could leave.
‘A bit wider . . .’
I spread my legs as far apart as they would go. A click in my left hip, followed by a hot little flair of pain. The camera edged even closer, like it was trying to get inside me. Like the doctor who used that speculum thingy to look at my cervix, then told me it was only a bad case of thrush.
Darryll Crocker, I thought with a shiver that was either cold or anger. Why didn’t he warn me I’d be doing this? I only needed a chance to think about it. A chance to prepare.
Though now I was thinking about it, he had asked me to shave – you know, down there. Said they didn’t want any ‘stragglers’ ruining a shot.
Christ, I was naïve.
‘Open your eyes, Lara.’
The photographer was standing right in front of me, holding something out. I recoiled. It was a giant dildo, as thick as my wrist, and a lurid shade of pink. It quivered slightly in his hand. Seemed to leer at me it was so obscene.
‘Fancy giving it a try?’
I shook my head vigorously.
He smiled. ‘An extra hundred quid in it for you.’
I glanced at the lighting guy, arms crossed and openly smirking.
Enough. I got up, grabbed my clothes. ‘Fuck you,’ I said, marching out into the hallway and pulling them on. I could hear the pair of them laughing back in the studio. I was crying now, trying to squeeze my leg into my skinny jeans, but I kept getting my foot stuck.
‘You forgot this.’
I looked up to see the photographer holding out a bunch of twenty-pound notes. For a second, a split second, I was tempted to tell him to stuff them up his arse.
‘Your first time?’ he asked, studying my face. I must have had mascara tracked halfway down my cheeks.
I nodded.
‘Listen, you need to make it clear to Darryll exactly what you’re prepared to do and what you’re not.’ He stuffed the money into the top of my handbag. ‘Don’t let him push you around.’
I shut my eyes briefly. Then raised my head to thank him, but he’d already gone.
They say the first time is the worst, and it turned out to be true. I went home, shaken and stirred, but with that bunch of twenties in my bag. Enough to take a chunk out of the debt Ross had left me with. And after a few days, the humiliation and shame of that shoot began to fade, so when Darryll Crocker called the next week with the offer of another job, I only hesitated for a moment.
Once more? How could that hurt?
More money too. Another hundred on top of what I earned before.
This time when I got home, the embarrassment, the sense of self-disgust that made me jump straight into the shower, only lasted a few hours. Amazing, the power of a thick wad of banknotes to soothe the soul. So when Darryll called again, the ‘yes’ wasn’t far from my lips and one shoot led to another, and soon taking my clothes off in front of a camera was second nature.
Weeks went by, then months. A gig a week turned into two then three. I fell into a routine. I’d turn up at whatever address Darryll gave me, strip off, work through all the poses, get dressed again and go home.
Simple as that.
And it was certainly a money-spinner. In six months I’d paid off all the back rent Ross left me with – and even managed to stuff some into a savings account. I was just getting used to being more flush with cash when Darryll called me into his office.
‘I’m afraid you’re all shot out,’ he said, sitting back in his chair and gazing at me with a mournful expression. On his left cheek the place where he’d cut himself shaving was still oozing, a small bright red bead of blood.
‘How do you mean “shot out”?’
‘Too much exposure, darling. You’ve done most of the mags now. You’re old news, love – people want fresh faces.’
Mine must have fallen because Darryll laughed, revealing the nicotine stains on his teeth. ‘I’m not saying you look old, sweetheart. Quite the contrary, you look barely legal.’
He smoothed a hand over the large oak desk between us, caressing it. Clearly he imagined it gave him a bit of class. Otherwise everything about Darryll’s office in Kingston was dull and ordinary. A couple of grey filing cabinets. A chunky Sony laptop. White walls, brown carpet, a small window overlooking a supermarket car park.
Like Darryll himself. All a bit worn, over-stuffed.
‘What I’m saying is, sweetheart, we’ve saturated the market. It’s harder to find the gigs for you now.’
‘Already?’ My disappointment caught me off guard. How could Darryll be telling me it was all over? Right when I was getting into the swing of it. ‘Everywhere?’ I added, frowning. ‘Surely there’s other places that want pics?’
In truth, I wasn’t entirely sure where my images had gone, apart from some of the larger monthlies. I’d sign the release forms at the end of the shoot and that was the last I ever heard of it. I hadn’t been paying much attention, to be honest; if I didn’t see the pictures, I could pretend to myself no one else had either.
‘What about ordinary modelling?’ I asked hopefully. ‘You know, catalogues, that sort of thing?’
‘You’re too short for catalogues.’ Darryll sniffed, thought for a moment. ‘We could always take you downmarket, I suppose, but I wouldn’t recommend it.’
‘How do you mean?’ Hard to imagine what could be more downmarket than exposing everything I’d got for a load of leery lad mags.
‘Phone sex adverts, pictures for escort agencies, stuff that ends up in the small ads at the back of titles. I can get you a few jobs, sure, but I reckon you could do better.’
Christ. Escort agencies? That’s all I needed, Mum and Mike thinking I’d gone on the game.
‘Of course, you might consider other work.’ Darryll leaned forward, eyeing me carefully. I got a heady whiff of aftershave. Something cheap and heavy.
‘What other work?’
He inhaled, spreading his hands on his desk like starfish. Considering what to say next. ‘Well . . . there’s other options.’
‘Such as?’
‘Video, rather than stills.’
‘What kind of video? You mean, on my own?’ I imagined myself prancing around, like those girls you see on catwalks. Maybe even dancing a bit. Only naked.
Darryll sighed. Ran his fingers over his scalp, where the hair had receded. ‘Not on your own, no. Though we could kick off with masturbation, I suppose. But there’s not a huge demand for that, not unless you do it live.’
I frowned. ‘Live?’
‘Webcam. For clients. Men who want to watch you get yourself off.’
I stared at him open-mouthed. ‘I can’t do that . . .’
‘Which is why I’m suggesting video.’
This took a second to sink in. ‘You mean porn? Sex on camera . . . with other people?’
Darryll shrugged. ‘You’re already halfway there, love. Shown everything off. What’s the difference?’
I thought about this for a moment or two. It seemed to me there was a difference, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
Amazing, now, to think I was ever that stupid.
‘You’d do well.’ Darryll’s chair creaked as he leaned back. ‘You’re pretty, with that whole fresh-faced cute thing you’ve got going. The point is, you look young. Jailbait, that’s always a draw.’
I almost laughed, remembering all the times I’d been ID’d in pubs and clubs. Never occurred to me looking underage could be a bonus.
‘So what would I have to do?’
I couldn’t believe I was actually considering this. But I’d become used to the money. And I had plans. Moving out of the flat in Hounslow I’d shared with Ross, with its dodgy boiler and draughty single-glazing, and finding somewhere nearer the centre – Ealing, perhaps, or Brent. Get myself a car. See if Maxine wanted to go to Ibiza for a week.
Not to mention Xmas. I was going to get Mum, Mike and the twins something really nice. One of those games consoles maybe, something they could all play on.
I’d assumed the money would keep on flowing in; never imagined it would dry up so quickly.
But porn. No way. The shame of that first photo shoot loomed up again. I shivered, remembering the sensation of standing naked in that studio, under the cold eye of the camera.
This would be even worse, wouldn’t it?
And there’d be no going back. Not from that.
‘Listen, it’s up to you.’ Darryll exhaled loudly. ‘But I’d suggest starting out slow. Soft core first, build it up gradually. Go for a longer shelf life.’ He sucked at one of his teeth, sizing me up. ‘We can spin it out even more if we stick to girl/girl for now.’
‘Girl/girl?’ I looked at him in horror. ‘You mean sex with another woman?’
He nodded.
‘But I’m not gay.’
Darryll shrugged again. ‘Gay for pay, darling. Not the same thing at all.’
‘But you said soft core. How the hell is lesbian stuff soft core?’
His mouth lifted into a leer. ‘No dicks, darling.’ That’s how Darryll addressed me back then – always luv, sweetheart, honey – though now he knows better. ‘It’s only hardcore when you can see actual wood.’
I considered this. It seemed insane that sex with another girl could be thought tamer than sex with a guy. But it wasn’t about me, I realized. Not about how I felt.
It was all about the people watching. The men. What they wanted to see.
So easy to forget where all this was going. The bloke at the end of it, getting himself off to some image of me. Not me, I reminded myself, just pixels on a page. Though thinking about that made me feel weird, like I’d been replicating myself till there was nothing left of the original.
I swallowed and looked back up at my agent. Allowed myself to ask the question.
It was only a question, after all. Not a yes.
‘How much?’