‘No, no. This is dreamland. This is where men come when they’re tired of what’s going on out there, and need to connect with fantasy.’
‘Can I get you something…?’ asked Layla, stirring her noodles, trying not to gawp.
‘No, it’s OK. Just having a herbal tea,’ said Precious, reaching up to one of the cupboards and taking down a packet. ‘That’s all I ever drink, apart from a sip of bubbly when the punters are in.’
‘Right.’ Layla carried on stirring, still staring.
‘Ellie said she had a guest staying,’ said Precious, putting the kettle back on.
‘Oh! I’m Layla,’ said Layla, belatedly.
‘Layla. That’s your real name? That’s pretty.’
‘That’s me. Layla Carter.’ Layla took up a fork, leaned against the worktop and determinedly started in on her evening meal. ‘What’s your real name?’ she asked, curious.
Precious held up a manicured finger. ‘House rules. We don’t use those here.’
‘Oh.’ Layla felt rebuffed. And wrong-footed, somehow. Not only that, she felt plain. She didn’t wear make-up, she never had. Her fingernails were short and unpolished, and her hands were covered in paper cuts. And here was this apparition, so beautiful and bedecked in bright jewel colours, like a celestial being.
Precious poured boiling water on to her camomile tea. Her movements were delicate, very feminine. Layla watched her. She was almost mesmerized. She’d never even been inside one of her dad’s clubs before, in fact she’d avoided them. They were all part of that dodgy underworld her parents seemed to operate so comfortably in. She’d certainly never seen or spoken to any of the girls who worked here.
‘Layla Carter?’ said Precious. ‘Hang on a minute. Are you Max Carter’s daughter? The Max Carter who owns these clubs?’
‘Guilty,’ said Layla. ‘So… you dance for money then.’
Precious turned to look at her; she was smiling. ‘Yep. It’s good, too. Well paid.’
But isn’t it embarrassing? Layla wondered. Writhing about half-naked with men watching you?
She couldn’t ask her that.
‘You enjoy doing it?’ she asked delicately.
‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that.’ She picked up her cup. ‘Look, I have to go. Catch up with you later, yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ said Layla, and Precious left the room, trailing a waft of Giorgio strong enough to stun a bull.
Layla stared at her half-eaten noodles. Again the image rose in her mind – Orla Delaney, lying dead at her feet, killed by her own hand. She’d never set eyes on a dead body before. Her stomach clenched queasily and sick bile rose in her throat. With a shudder, she slung the rest of her dinner in the bin.