I quickly freshen up, wondering just what sort of a story Ellie has for us, and also, what she’s picking me up in. I’m assuming a car, but what sort? Knowing Ellie it will be something small, zippy and immensely colourful.
Waiting on the pavement downstairs, I watch all the people passing by, most of them on their way home from work at this time of the evening. The eighties really weren’t the best for fashion, I decide, looking at the mixed appearances as they walk by along the street. The hair, the make-up (on both sexes now!) and the clothes add up to a strange mix. It’s as if people are undefined about who they are in this time of change for the country. Androgynously dressed individuals walk along next to men defined by their sharp suits and power-dressing women defined by the size of their shoulder pads and hair, where big always appears to be better.
‘Yo, Jo-Jo!’ Ellie shouts, screeching to a halt.
I’d expected many things, but Ellie on a motorbike wasn’t one of them. ‘Here,’ she calls, holding out a helmet. ‘Shove it on quick, we gotta dash.’
I pull on the red helmet, and climb on to the purple and silver motorbike behind Ellie, glad I’ve changed into a black jumpsuit with a thin red belt and matching heels and shoulder bag, rather than the white and gold dress I was eyeing up in my wardrobe a few minutes previously.
‘Where are we going?’ I shout, grabbing hold of her and holding on for dear life as she pulls out into the traffic.
‘A private bar in Soho. Tip-off. They reckon Phil Collins is gonna meet Bob Geldolf and Midge Ure there to talk about Live Aid.’
Right, it’s 1985, so Live Aid was this summer. The music industry would be buzzing with gossip about who was going to appear at the concert, and what they were going to sing.
‘Yeah, Phil Collins performs in both London
and
Philadelphia on the day,’ I reply without thinking. ‘He gets Concorde over during the concert.’
‘What did you say?’ Ellie shouts over the noise of the traffic as we whizz along the street. ‘Couldn’t quite catch it, something about Concorde?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I call back, relieved. ‘Tell you another time.’
We arrive at the Karma club in Soho, whip off our helmets and try and shake out our hair in that glamorous way they do in movies. It doesn’t work, so we quickly pull out hairbrushes to rectify our helmet hair.
‘Where do we have to go?’ I ask as we dash down some steps and in through a doorway to a darkened club.
A large burly chap with a bushy, overgrown moustache suddenly appears to block our way. ‘Can I help you, ladies?’ he enquires.
‘We’d like to get into the club, please,’ I ask politely.
‘Are you members?’ he growls.
I look helplessly at Ellie.
‘Is Ringo here?’ she demands.
The man looks suspiciously at her. ‘He might be. Why, who are you?’
‘Just tell him Ellie is here.’
‘Ringo is busy.’
‘Look, Boyd,’ Ellie says, her eyes darting towards the bouncer’s name embroidered in purple on his suit lapel, ‘we’re not going anywhere until you’ve spoken to Ringo, so you may as well just take your pet rat there,’ she gestures to his moustache, ‘and go tell him right now. It will save us all a lot of bother in the long run.’ Ellie thrusts her hands on her hips, and all five foot of her is suddenly a mighty force I wouldn’t want to mess with, and by the look of Boyd he feels the same.
‘All right,’ Boyd grumbles under his moustache. ‘I’ll see what he’s got to say about it.’
‘Who’s Ringo?’ I ask as we stand in the foyer waiting.
‘The owner. I know him from old because he used to be mates with me dad up in Liverpool.’
‘Ellie, it’s not
the
Ringo, is it? As in Starr?’ This really would be taking my Beatles suspicions to the extreme.
Ellie laughs. ‘Course not! Ringo is his nickname. The lads round here called him that when he first came in the sixties because of his accent, and I guess it stuck. I don’t know what his real name is, actually.’
‘Ellie, love!’ A large bald man with a hairy chest appears from the depths of the club. ‘It’s great to see you again, but what you doing standing there on the doorstep? Come on in!’
Ellie tosses her hair at Boyd, who has now reappeared at the door, and marches through.
‘Thank you,’ I say to him as I pass. ‘We appreciate it.’
He nods at me, and his moustache gives an approving wiggle.
‘What can I do for you two girls?’ Ringo asks us, looking me up and down appraisingly with a pair of jet black eyes. ‘Have we met before?’
‘No, Jo-Jo is new to the newspaper, she’s just moved here from Norwich.’
‘Ah, country girl, eh?’ Ringo says, showing a shark-like set of teeth when he smiles.
‘Norwich is hardly country,’ I begin, but Ellie interrupts.
‘Ringo, have you got Bob Geldof in here tonight?’ she demands.
‘Ellie, you know I can’t divulge information about my private clientele,’ Ringo says, raising a bushy black eyebrow at her.
‘What about Phil Collins, then, or Midge Ure? Please, Ringo, it’s important.’
Ringo looks over his shoulder, from side to side, then leans in towards us. ‘Ellie, I would be absolutely delighted to entertain all the aforementioned parties in my establishment. But I’m afraid that sadly, no, I do not.’
Ellie bangs her fist into her other hand. ‘Damn!’
‘Have you been thrown what my American clients would call a curve ball, by any chance?’
‘Spun a pack of bloody lies, more like, to put me off the proper scent! Getting any scoops on anything to do with Live Aid is like trying to break through the Berlin Wall. It just ain’t gonna happen.’
‘Never say never, Ellie,’ I suggest knowingly. ‘You just never know what’s going to happen in the future.’
‘I know what will happen in my future if we don’t get some decent celebrity scoops soon – I’ll be out of a job.’
‘Aw, I’m sure that’s not the case,’ Ringo says kindly. ‘Look, why don’t the two of you stay, now you’re here – we’ve got some entertainment on this evening you might enjoy.’
Ellie, still sulking, makes a sort of humphing sound.
‘What sort of entertainment?’ I ask.
‘A cabaret – of sorts. Stay, please, my treat,’ he insists.
‘Free drinks?’ Ellie asks brightening.
‘
One
free drink,’ Ringo says wisely. ‘Or I’ll have your father to answer to.’
‘Deal!’ Ellie sings, already taking her jacket off.
We follow Ringo into the club proper, and I find myself inside what seems like, from what little I know of them, a swanky-looking gentlemen’s club. It has a mostly black interior, with the odd dash of purple here and there on things like the plush velvet seat covers, and the luxurious black and purple flocked wallpaper.
‘Here we go, ladies,’ Ringo says, showing us to a small booth tucked away in the corner of the club. ‘I’ll send Lucy over in a moment and she’ll take care of you this evening.’
‘Thanks, Ringo,’ Ellie says, ‘we really appreciate it. This is
cool
,’ she whistles, turning to me as Ringo wanders across to another table to talk to one of his customers. She snuggles down on the velvet settee. ‘I bet I can get more than one free drink out of Ringo if I sweet talk him, too.’
I look round the club at our fellow drinkers. They’re mostly older men in dinner jackets drinking spirits and smoking a mixture of cigarettes and cigars, either surrounded by similar-looking men, or accompanied by their trophy wives and girlfriends, who all look bored stiff by their company.
‘Good evening,’ our waitress says as she arrives at our table. ‘What can I get for you ladies tonight?’
I look up at the young girl who has come to take our order. She’s in her late teens, I’d guess, but it’s hard to tell because she’s wearing so much make-up. She has black, bobbed hair and is wearing a very low-cut, short black dress, with black high heels and a tiny purple apron.
‘I’ll have a peach schnapps, please,’ Ellie says. ‘Jo-Jo?’
Here we go, what did they drink in the eighties?
‘A glass of wine would be lovely,’ I venture, thinking I’ll be on safe territory with that.
‘Red or white, miss?’
‘Red?’
‘Beaujolais Nouveau, miss?’
Of course, the classic wine of the eighties. ‘Yes, that would be lovely, thank you – Lucy, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, miss.’ Lucy lifts her heavily made-up eyes to look at me properly for the first time. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes with your order.’
Lucy disappears to fetch our drinks.
‘Bit sleazy this place, isn’t it?’ I whisper.
‘Nah, these types of places are just like that, aren’t they?’ Ellie says, fiddling with one of the black plastic coasters. ‘Ringo’s above board ’n’ all that. Me dad knew him for years.’
‘Ah, all right then,’ I say, but I’m not too sure. There’s something not quite right about the place.
Lucy quickly returns with our drinks. ‘Here we are, a peach schnapps,’ she says, placing a glass down in front of Ellie, ‘and a large glass of the Nouveau for you,’ she continues, smiling at me. ‘Just give me a call when you’re ready for a top-up. I know Ringo said just the one free drink, but I’m sure he won’t notice – we’re pretty busy in here tonight.’ She winks at us. Loud, raucous laughter suddenly spills over from a large group of men filling two tables at the far side of the club. Lucy leans in towards us. ‘Just between the three of us, they’re a huge pain in my arse tonight,’ she says, looking over in their direction. ‘But I gotta make them think they’re the bee’s knees, that’s the job!’
‘Waitress!’ we hear bellowed across the room. ‘More drinks over here, now!’
Lucy rolls a pair of very pretty brown eyes underneath her heavy black fringe. ‘Back in a bit,’ she says.
Ellie starts downing her peach schnapps far too quickly, while I sip cautiously at my wine.
‘Great this, innit?’ Ellie says, helping herself from a bowl of peanuts sitting on the table. ‘I wonder what time the entertainment comes on?’
‘Do you know how many germs there are in a bowl of peanuts like that?’ I ask her, looking with disdain at the free snacks.
‘What?’ Ellie asks, still munching.
‘They’ve done tests on bowls like that in bars like this, and found more germs on them than on the inside of a toilet. It’s when people go to the loo and then don’t wash their —’
‘OK, OK!’ Ellie says, spitting out the peanuts into the napkin her drink was served on. ‘When did you become Dr Death? I’ve never heard that one before.’
‘I think I only read it myself quite recently,’ I say truthfully.
‘It’s disgusting! Who would have thought an innocent peanut could do all that harm?’
‘Indeed, but I believe it’s true. Look,’ I say, pointing to a small stage in the corner of the club, ‘apparently our entertainment is about to begin.’
We both look towards the stage and see Ringo standing under a small spotlight with a microphone in his hand.
‘Gentlemen and Ladies,’ he says, smiling at the few women in the bar in that leery way he has about him. ‘I would like to welcome to the Karma club this evening a new act that I’m sure you’re going to enjoy. They’re a bit shy,’ he winks purposefully, ‘so please give them a very warm welcome. I give you – Strawberry Fields.’
While the stage lights dim and Ringo exits, I roll my eyes.
Bloody Beatles, here they are again
. When the lights come up there are five women with their backs to us now on the stage. I can already see they’re not wearing an awful lot. But what little fabric does cover them is fashioned into a black silk corset with a single strawberry stitched pertinently in the centre of each of their pert little behinds. As they swivel around on their high heels and begin to gyrate to the music that pounds through the club’s speaker system, I see they have two more matching strawberries placed very prominently on each breast.
I turn to Ellie whose eyes are wide open.
‘See,’ I hiss. ‘I told you this place was sleazy.’
‘Bloody hell, I didn’t know Ringo had strippers here.’
‘They’re not stripping… yet,’ I point out, giving them the benefit of the doubt. ‘Maybe they just dance?’
But no, within a couple of minutes, long black gloves are being removed in unison, and then somehow corset tops manage to disappear, while strawberries remain intact, and soon the same thing happens with their lower strawberries too. I would actually be quite impressed by the complexity of it all, if I weren’t too busy being appalled.
Eventually they reach the end of their – even I have to admit – quite artistic routine, and disappear, strawberry-less, into the darkness with only their heels still on.
Enthusiastic cheers break out around the club and Ringo appears back on the stage.
‘Thank you! Thank you!’ he calls, taking the plaudits of the crowd as though he had performed himself. ‘I know the girls are thrilled at your appreciation. My girls are a very talented bunch as you’ve just seen, but their individual talents extend far beyond dancing…’ He raises his black bushy eyebrows suggestively. ‘If you’d like to find out anything further about any of them then please don’t hesitate to contact me and I will be happy to set up a private meeting for you backstage. But for now, enjoy your evening, gentlemen.’
‘What did he just say?’ I turn to Ellie, who’s nearly emptied her glass of peach schnapps already.
‘Something about meeting the girls backstage, but why would you want their autographs? They’re hardly famous, are they?’
I continue to stare hard at Ellie.
‘Oh!’ she says as the penny begins to drop. ‘You don’t think…’
‘I damn well do think!’
‘… Ringo’s running a knocking shop?’ she asks, her green eyes wide.
‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that. But yes, a call girl service maybe, that kind of thing.’
Ellie screws up her face. ‘Disgusting.’
‘More drinks, ladies?’ Lucy asks, arriving at our table again.
Ellie and I look at each other.
‘It’s on the house,’ Lucy adds. ‘Officially like. Ringo just said.’
‘Definitely then,’ I say, smiling at her. ‘I think we’ll make it champagne this time, if Ringo is paying.’
‘Nice one,’ Lucy grins. ‘I’ll make sure I find you a bottle of the good stuff!’