Sin City (27 page)

No, it's not okay. I know I don't fancy him, but to be dismissed like that, rejected … I was the one who was meant to say “No, thanks”. All right, he's ill – I'm sorry – I'm not feeling all that wonderful myself, but does he have to just crash out? Couldn't we be ill together, swap sympathy and symptoms, chat a while, at least? I can't just switch off like that, settle down to sleep in a strange bed with a strange guy, and with these hurt and angry feelings curdling in my head. Who does he think he is, for heaven's sake, in those unspeakable pyjamas and so boorish and insensitive that he can simply shut me off? I should have stuck with Wayne, or be safe in bed with Norah. More fun to sleep with her than some insulting hypochondriac. I mean, the way he calls me “kid”, as if I'm some silly little chit.

I stalk into the bathroom for a pee, stay sitting on the toilet-seat, trying to calm down. The guy's old, unwell, harried by his doctors, just swallowed half a chemist's shop of pills. Why should it surprise me if he can't or won't perform? I didn't want him anyway, should feel sheer relief. I'm let off, reprieved, rescued from a tight spot, maybe even rescued from my grave. So why be so upset?

“Victor”, says a voice inside my head. That's the reason, isn't it? The fact that Victor didn't want me either, the feeling that I'm just not – well – desirable. Oh yeah, the guys all chat me up – Wayne, Milt, Vic himself, but when it comes to the crunch, the real nitty-gritty, they don't seem to want to know. I glance in the mirror, half-expect to see some hideous old frump, the sort of draggy bore men yawn out of their beds. Or a brat in socks and pigtails, with braces on her teeth. In fact, I look my best: super-sexy outfit, hair just washed and blonded, clever bra which pushes up my breasts. Yet Victor ran away and Milt couldn't wait to get to sleep – alone. There must be something really wrong with me. Or them.

Yeah, why not them? They're probably just incapable, Milt as well as Victor, can't get it up at all. Men make such a thing about their pricks, see everything as cock-shaped – buildings, sports cars, rockets, even lipsticks – and all those girls in the commercials licking lollipops and cornets, who are really sucking
them
. Yet, half the time, their tower-blocks have collapsed, their rockets crashed to earth, their Ferraris out of juice, their raspberry ripples melted. If we girls had pricks, we'd make much better use of them. Girls are just as sexy – it says so in the textbooks – but most men can't accept that, keep trying to deny it, or belittle it with words like nymphomaniac. There ought to be a transplant scheme: all idle half-cock pricks lopped off and grafted on to females.

I jump up from the toilet. Who wants a prick at all? I'd rather have a cigarette – another phallic symbol, according to the men. At least Marlboros don't go limp. Or yawn.

I grope into the bedroom. It's pitch dark now, all the lights put out. My voice sounds loud, intrusive, in the gloom. “Milt, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm dying for a smoke. Can you tell me where you keep your fags before you go to sleep?”

Too late. He is asleep, breathing very hoarsely through his mouth. He's not a snorer, not in Norah's class, just a shuddering sort of wheeze. That's the bloody limit, to switch the lights off, fall asleep before he's even said goodnight, or asked if I'm all right or want a drink or something. I'm going, walking out. I haven't got my cab-fare, but I'll have to help myself, take it from his wallet, leave an IOU. I won't take much, just one five-dollar bill. That should pay the taxi. No, two – enough for cigarettes as well. He owes me cigarettes. After all, it's his fault that I'm stuck here. In fact, why should I pay him back? If he'd been a normal sort of guy, well-mannered and attentive, he'd have put me in a cab himself, laid a hundred kingsize on the seat beside me, told me where he'd pick me up tomorrow …

I'll take twenty, damn it. What's twenty mingy dollars when you've just won twenty thousand? Peanuts. I check that he's still sleeping (the breathing hasn't altered), creep back to the bathroom. I know he left his clothes there – saw them in a crumpled sweaty pile. Yeah, there they are: a pair of paisley boxer shorts, a limp and off-white vest and those unspeakable green trousers. That green should have been a warning to me right from the beginning. Any guy who could choose a shade so vile, so utterly uncouth …

I make straight for the back pocket. Empty. Flat. Deflated. Damn! He must have moved his wallet, put it somewhere safe. I suppose that's only natural. He'd hardly leave all his precious money spilling on a soggy bathroom floor. It's in here somewhere, must be. That bulge was still in evidence when he went to have his bath – the last thing I saw of him, in fact. He returned without it, in just his dressing-gown.

I check all the bathroom cupboards, find a whole dispensary of pills – pills for heartburn, constipation, travel sickness, insomnia; pastilles for sore throats, a spray for stuffed-up noses, a salve for aching joints. I replace a carton of glycerine suppositories, try the larger cupboard. It's full of towels, hotel towels. I rummage through them, looking for a lump. All smooth. I go down on my knees, crawl around, peering under everything. Senseless. High rollers wouldn't stuff their winnings behind a toilet seat. They'd have a safe, a proper one, and probably concealed. That painting, for example, may swing out from the wall to reveal a hidden cache. No. It's hanging on a simple picture-hook and there's nothing behind it except a little dust. So Milt's outwitted me, stowed his cash away in some foolproof hiding-place where I wouldn't think of looking in a hundred years. He didn't trust me. I was just a pick-up, some brazen little floozie on the make. He couldn't even leave me with a pack of cigarettes in case I nicked those too.

He was right though, wasn't he? I mean, here I am, rifling through his cupboards like a petty thief. I grab the basin to steady myself. I'm shaking, really shaking. I
am
a thief. I'd planned to take a twenty-dollar bill. That's stealing. Even twenty cents is stealing; even one cent. My father taught me that; my father, who was so genuinely good he never filched a penny in his whole sad and saintly life – not a safety-pin, not a rubber band. I remember once, one of his customers left a biro on the counter – not a Parker or a silver one, just a cheapo plastic thing which anyone else would have nicked or thrown away. Not Dad. The trouble he went to trying to trace the man and give it back.

“Stealing's stealing, sweetheart. Okay, so it's just a needle, but why not two next time, or the whole packet, or the scissors, or that solid-silver thimble, or … ?” He's right. I pocketed a mini-pack of Kleenex and now look where I am – trapped in a room in the early hours with a guy I hardly know. My father would be doubly shocked. He was never prudish, always welcomed Jon, but he taught me to be careful. Not for silly reasons like what the neighbours thought or obvious ones like the fear of getting pregnant, or catching something ghastly, but because he told me I was precious and should save myself for a man who'd value that.

Precious! If he could see me now, see the miles and miles I've fallen. I stare at my reflection in the glass. Who cares if my hair's clean or I'm wearing sexy clothes? Underneath, I'm foul, and men can probably sense that, see beneath my clothes, see how mean I am, how money-grubbing, selfish. My mother was like that – avaricious, crawling around influential people, never satisfied. It's her genes I've inherited, not my darling father's. I'm even like her in the way I criticise. Pitching into Milt when he'd already wined and dined me, drowned me in champagne. He didn't owe me anything, didn't even know me, yet he let me join his party, share his celebration. Okay, so he went to sleep a little prematurely, but I didn't even want sex, and anyway, he's probably really ill. I just shrugged off his symptoms, cared more about my own hurt, didn't give a damn. And – oh, Christ! I want a fag.

I sink down by the dressing table. I'm stuck here now, with neither cash nor transport, and no hope of cigarettes. Serve me right. I'll just have to make the best of it, think of Milt for once, instead of only me; pay him back as night-nurse rather than as call-girl. He may need me in the night, wake up feeling worse, want me to ring room service, call a doctor, send out for more pills. I'll stay until the morning, make sure he's in good hands, then bugger off – for good. And after this, I'll give up men completely. If I need cash or kudos, I'll have to earn them for myself, take the Women's Lib line. Or perhaps I'll find a different sort of man. I'm not quite sure how different, but I'll know when he turns up. The rest have all been wrong. Jon was just too young and immature, Victor far too old. Jake was quite unspeakable, Milt …

I start as he turns over, pray he won't wake up yet. No, the wheezing's still quite regular – those steady snuffling in-breaths, followed by the little gasping moans. I envy him his sleep, his comfy bed. I'm dead tired myself, and these chairs are really hard, covered in some wet-look stuff which feels clammy underneath you. I could just lie beside him, keep my clothes on, but make myself more comfortable, try to get a bit of kip myself.

I ease my shoes off, take off just my skirt, tiptoe over, peel the covers back. Milton grunts and murmurs. I wait till he's quite still again, then slip between the sheets. I close my eyes, try counting sheep. Sheep are hard to picture in Las Vegas, so I switch to counting dollars – all those swiftly mounting hundred-dollar bills showering into Milton's outstretched hand. It doesn't work, just reminds me what a gold-digger I am. Would I chat up Jack the Ripper if he won enough? I feel rotten about Norah, too, keep hoping she's asleep and not waiting up and worrying, with a painful swollen leg. I should never have dragged her to that restaurant, kept her up so late.

I start counting cigarettes next, packs and packs and packs of them. Soon, my head is like a giant tobacconist's, every shelf and display-rack piled with kingsize, yet not one mingy roll-your-own between my lips. I'll never get to sleep without my bedtime smoke. It's become a sort of ritual, a soothing lullaby, and without it I'm a screaming fractious baby. My bra's too tight as well, impossible to sleep in. I push my sweater up, fumble for the hooks, let my breasts spill out. Milton wheezes on. I wish he'd turn the other way, to face me. He said back to back's unfriendly, but breasts to back is not that marvellous either. His back is like a barrier and his heavy breathing only makes the silence worse.

I touch my breasts, sort of vaguely and for comfort, keep my hand nestling there between them. It must be strange to be a call-girl, the kind that Milton's used to – in and out of different beds all week. Do they ever sleep at all? Feel guilt, or self-disgust?
“Angie Ample, the girl your mother warned against, Mistress Marilyn, experienced in bondage.”
Victor even mistook me for a call-girl. I shut my eyes, see myself in a black lace corselette and matching g-string, like those pictures in the escort magazines. I'm brandishing my whip, snaking a feather boa between my thighs. I turn my fingers into feathers, stroke them very lightly up and down, in and out. It's nice. Except I'd rather it were someone else's fingers, some gentle loving guy who really cared for me, wasn't ill or rude; knew my name.

A tear runs down my face. Sheer self-pity. I slap it off, use the other hand to jab between my legs. The tears keep coming, the hand keeps jabbing. I can't stop either of them. My face is wet; Abigail is wet. Soon I'm really sobbing, yet heaving and jerking to the rhythm of my sobs. Milton shifts an arm, mutters in his sleep. I tense. It's agony to stop when I want to just let go, let go of everything – tears, fears, remorse, and Abigail. But that's selfish, isn't it, waking Milton up, disturbing him when he's ill and needs his rest.

I creep out of bed again, back to that damned bathroom. My legs feel shaky and my eyes are blurred with tears, so I'm stumbling like a drunk. Once I've got the door shut and am stretched out on the carpet, I let them fall unchecked, use my hands to comfort Abigail. Great shuddering sobs shake through my whole body. I'm scared – scared of all these feelings. How can I feel sexy when I'm crying; or change so suddenly from dead beat and drooping to feverishly on heat? I should never have come off those pills. They've changed my mood, changed my personality, so every feeling's far too strong and wild. I'm insatiable for everything: men, thrills, money, booze. Yes – booze. Had I forgotten that my mother likes the drink? That's probably in my genes as well. I've hardly stopped tippling since I've been here. If I'm not careful, I'll become another Kitty – drying out, relapsing, shaming all my friends.

I'm swallowing my tears now; salt taste in my mouth, eyes swelling up and smarting, and that glutton of an Abigail still throbbing and demanding. Perhaps it's not the pills, but all those aphrodisiacs. The whole meal was awash with them, or so the waiters claimed: honey and shellfish, garlic and
cilantro
, hot and lethal spices. I shut my eyes, slink back to the restaurant. Wayne's stretched out beside me, trickling olive oil between my legs, tonguing softened apricots from his mouth into mine. It's wonderful. Fantastic. Oh, Wayne, oh, Wayne, I …

Shut up, you fool. You can't shout Wayne, when it's Milton who's next door. I turn over on my stomach, use the carpet as a gag. Even now, I can't lie quiet. The soft brown pile is touching up my breasts, tickling against my bush, starting all the feelings off again. I half-kneel up, use my hands more roughly. Wayne has disappeared; Snake Jake just slipped in – well, part of him, a disembodied python's head with a flickering ruby tongue. I can feel that tongue forcing deeper deeper into Abigail, the scratchy rubies hurting, the wild wet tip scouring round and round. She's shuddering and gasping, heaving up and down. She's coming, but it's awful – sort of shaming and too violent, and the sobs are cries of pain now. I bite my hand to stop myself from yelling. I mustn't wake Milt up, let him see me like this. He'd be horrified, despise me. I despise myself, especially when I glimpse my sweaty face grimacing in the mirror, features all screwed up, as if I'm being tortured on the rack. I go on wanking, watch myself with fascinated horror – teeth bared like an animal's, lips stretched back and open; fingers tensed, then clutching at thin air; even my toes sort of splaying out and jerking. I'm sure other, normal girls don't go through such contortions. Men would hate it; jeer, or walk away.