Esther Baby

Martha Engleson, dresses, coats and skirts hung over her arm like the drooping neck of a swan, swished open the blood red changing room curtains, before saying, “Hey Esther baby, some guy’s just come in with a woman looks old enough to be his mother, she wants to see these pronto …”

Reluctantly, I stood up, carefully putting a bookmark into my book “In Cold Blood,” by Truman Capote, a new release just begging to be read, or so the reviews had said. I’d been flicking through the pages waiting for my turn for the shop floor. Jane, Julie and Pam were already out there strutting their stuff.

Martha hung the clothes on a rack and pointed backwards with her thumb like a hitchhiker, whilst shaking her head, “She’s gotta be his mother …but him Esther baby, wow,” And then without stopping for a breath whilst peering over my shoulder, “What ya reading? Hey, I’ve heard about that book, true story and all … wiped out a whole family … some people huh …”

I yawned and stretched, stiff after having been sitting for so long, “Yeah, I’m not sure if I’m gonna read it yet …”

“Yeah well, put the book down and get yourself motivated … this couple, they asked for you, the one looks like Grace Kelly they said … you know how popular you are Esther baby, you shouldn’t be working as a model in one of London’s top stores if you wanna sit and read all day …”

Yeah, okay, I knew that was true, “Attitude” boutique on Carnaby Street was definitely the place to go in swinging London for the best clothes that’s for sure, on a par with other boutiques like “Roxette” and “London Girl”, and even “Carnaby Clothing”. By no means cheap, yet in “Attitude” you could buy good and affordable quality, and the clothes are quirky too ranging from maxi to midi to mini, from jeans to woollen leggings, and from flip flops and Gladiator sandals to Go Go boots. The choice is amazing. All the best most sought after models work here, not just for the chance to wear unusual, well made items but the money too. “Attitude” pays more per hour than the average boutique or department store.

“What’s she thinking,” Martha muttered to herself, as she rifled through the clothes with stubby fingers, “None of these will fit her, she’s the side of a house! And I’m talking a big house here, a mansion, not a nineteen thirties semi,” And then louder to me, “Not like you, Esther baby, tall and willowy, and your beauty … well!”

Martha had come here all the way from New York hence the Esther “baby,” which I didn’t mind at first but now everybody, even the other models, are calling me it. How would they like it? Hey Jane baby, Julie baby, Pam baby, you get what I mean? There’d been a Jo baby but she’d been taken away by the police only last week for modelling exotic lingerie in the shop window. Oh yeah, live models are quite the thing nowadays and London a really exciting place to be.

“Yes, well,” I replied, touching the silkiness of a dress, and the weightiness of a skirt, sparkles hand stitched laboriously around the hem, before ducking behind the curtain and starting to take off my own clothes that slithered to the floor and pooled at my feet like water. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder …”

“Yeah and that’s just about every eye of every man that comes in this place …” She nodded emphatically knowing she was right, standing with her hands on her hips, her flowered pinny tight around her ample waist. Whilst Martha was there to help all the models with clothes changes and upkeep, she tended to stick with me which didn’t exactly help in the Esther popularity stakes, especially with Pam.

Jane and Julie didn’t seem to be bothered either way but Pam was definitely not a fan of Esther Chambers, that’s for sure. I told Martha not to make it so obvious that she did more for me than the other girls, but she said that the other girls could go hoot as far as she was concerned. Whatever that meant.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, Esther Chambers, aged twenty-two, blessed with thick ash blonde hair sometimes put up in a chignon a la Grace Kelly and large brown Bette Davis eyes, a pouty pink mouth, high cheekbones, smooth velvety skin and an hour glass figure. Yeah, okay, if beauty was measured in gold I’d be rich! No doubt about that.

“Zip me up, Martha,” I said, as I pulled on the first outfit, a really cool black shift mini dress worn with white tights and black leather knee high boots.

“There you go Esther baby, now go wow ’em …” She gave me a gentle tap on the back, pushing me forward, as I sashayed out from between the curtains into the shop to stand before our potential customers. She was, as Martha had said, built like the side of a house, with a face as round as the moon, her cheeks hanging in deep folds like a morose dog (hmm, what’s that phrase about a bulldog chewing a wasp?). She had a heavy figure with a large bosom stuck out like a shelf, and was clothed in black, a small hat perched on her head like a pea on a drum. He was sitting by her side watching me intently as I posed hands on hips, slowly revolving around like a wheel so they could see the outfit from every angle.

I had an overall impression of good looks and rich clothing and a man maybe a three or four years older than me. On peering from beneath my eyelashes, I saw he had red gold hair that sprang crisply from his forehead, a sprinkling of stubble covered his upper lip and chin like a young boy’s first growth and his blue eyes twinkled like lights, a real contender for that charismatic actor, Paul Newman.

I’d gone to the flicks a couple of years ago to see “The Hustler” and had stared at the screen with wide eyes the whole time. Wow! I caught a whiff of a sultry perfume and then something masculine and spicy making me catch my breath, “Old Spice” perhaps. He wore a tan overcoat and a fedora hat that he swung idly from his middle finger as he concentrated on me, watching with narrowed baby blues as I revolved like a beautiful carousel.

From the corner of my eye I got a glimpse of Jane and Julie modelling alongside me, prospective buyers ogling intently, Jane wearing a dress, long and blue with a high neckline and long transparent sleeves, a massive floppy hat on her head and Julie wearing a mini skirt a snug fitted polo necked jumper tucked in to show a thin gold chain belt around her tiny waist and gladiator sandals that curled around her legs to the thigh like snakes. All three of us wore heavy eye makeup, thick and black, with long curling false lashes and a slick of pale pink frosted lipstick, rosy brown blusher on our cheeks.

Martha was ready to help at every dress change, not only with her hands but her mouth as well, “Wow … you see him?” The pull up or down of a zip. “The Paul Newman look-a-like?” The straightening of a hem. “What’s he doing with her? “A vicious pull to expose more bosom. “She his mother you think? “The teasing of a pair of gloves over outstretched fingers. “He likes you Esther baby … I see the way he looks … oh yeah …”

“You say that of every man that comes in here,” I hissed, taking once more to the catwalk, clad this time in a maxi emerald green gown, sporting a huge decorative bow at the waist and set off by long white gloves to the elbow. I saw the “bulldog” woman nudge “Paul Newman” and nod her head as he made a note on a pad with a silver pen.

Several nudges and notes later and I was done for the day, changing out of the last outfit and shrugging on a loose robe, tying it tight at the waist, before sitting at the mirror to remove my heavy makeup with cleanser and cotton wool, Martha nattering at my elbow as she checked out the clothes for any tears or marks before hanging them back on the rail and then, after looking at her watch, announcing that she was going home now.

Jane, Julie and Pam, she of long red hair and cat green eyes, smoked as they wiped their faces, cigarettes hanging from the corners of their mouths or between yellow tipped fingers and smoke swirling above our heads like ghosts. I couldn’t abide the dirty habit and coughed loud and long despite getting enough snide glances to make myself unpopular for years to come, although I was already that anyway because of Martha.

“See you tomorrow girls,” I said as I finished getting dressed and prepared to leave the changing rooms. I’d already checked my locker but it was empty and as I barely used it, left it open, the key dangling from the lock. They all gave little wiggly waves, Pam taking an extra-long drag on her cigarette and belching out the smoke like a chimney stack in my direction. “Good night Esther baby,” she said sarcastically.

“Have a good evening,” I said totally unperturbed as I closed the door softly behind me.

“Who does she think she is?” I heard Pam say as I loitered at the door, “Just cos she’s more than average pretty …”

“Got a pretty bad cough though hasn’t she,” Jane smirked.

“Hey come on,” said Julie, “Esther’s okay … just a really proud person that’s all.”

Totally ignoring that comment Pam said, “What’s that saying? If you don’t like the smoke get out of the changing room?” They all laughed, loud and tinkling as bells ringing, and then Pam said, “Somebody needs to teach her a lesson!”

I didn’t care what they said despite my racing heart, I had to think of myself first. They were just there, background people, always judging me on my appearance, always making digs about my looks and wondering why, just because I was pretty, that I was timid and had no backbone and would be scared of a few choice words flung in my direction. I could stick up for myself but chose not to this time.

I clattered down the steep stone steps leading to the back door of the building, the staff door, sling backs barely on and legs clad in skin tone stockings, cream trench coat belted tight, my leather bag slung over one shoulder. I flung a scarf over my hair and tied it under my chin as I squeezed through the door and out into the cold dank air. A security light flared bright white, even though it wasn’t quite dark yet, showing a creepy cobbled lane to the side of the building rife with big silver bins and piles of rubbish. There was a scurrying and a pattering of tiny feet and I shuddered as the word “rats” came to mind. There was plenty of mouldy food in those bins discarded from all the high end restaurants around here.

Pulling my collar up tight around my neck, I held it there with a gloved hand as I walked, quickly approaching the building next door, a public house called “The London Pride.” Lights burned in every window and from the open doorway the strong smell of hops wreathed through the air. A couple of men stood outside smoking and making silly oohing noises whilst nudging each other as I walked past. A figure suddenly materialised in front of me, I got a swift impression of a tan coat and a fedora hat, whilst trying to side step him as if we were dancing.

“Hey, Esther baby?” he said, reaching out and holding my arm to still me. Even under the thick layer of jumper and coat my arm felt scorched from his touch. Who was this person?

Glancing up I saw with surprise that it was the “Paul Newman look-a-like” as Martha would have said, the man who had been sitting with the “bull dog” woman earlier today watching me as I paraded up and down in all those wonderful outfits. Even under the glow of a yellow street light, he was better looking than I remembered. His cheekbones were to die for, his lips full and kissable, and his eyes, wow, the bluest blue I’d ever seen. I was entranced by them and couldn’t stop staring, they were as blue and clear as a summer sky with the twinkle of stars in there too. I was mesmerised.

“I was hoping to see you, Esther baby.”

“Go on mate, go for it,” catcalled the two men who still stood outside sucking on their cigarettes as if they were life lines. “Paul Newman” immediately stepped towards them at which the two men hastily threw down their red tipped stub ends and hurried inside.

I gave him a wry smile and said coldly, “Esther Chambers actually,” coming to my senses and quickly averting my gaze from those baby blues that for some strange reason had the power to suck me in. What was going on with me? I didn’t even know this man.

“Ah, Esther Chambers, an intriguing name … is it your real name?”

“Of course,” I said quickly. “Why would I give a false one?”

He shrugged and said, “People do … Esther Chambers sounds like a name a girl would give herself who wanted, say, to be in films or … to be a model …”

“It’s my name,” I said icily, trying to move past him, but he moved too so we were right in front of each other, close enough to be almost touching.

He stared at me, his eyes raking my face as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. I said, “Please let me pass. I really must be getting home.” I pulled my collar up tighter and shivered. It was turning cold now and the paths frosted white and glimmering in the lamp light, the sky arching overhead, very black and sprinkled with stars and a sliver of moon.

“Do you know how extraordinarily beautiful you are?” he asked me. And before I could reply he chuckled and said, “No you don’t need to answer that, I suppose people, especially men, tell you that all the time don’t they?”

I nodded briefly and said, “Look, I really do need to go home, it’s getting dark and …”

“Yes … look … do you only model or would you consider office work?” He proffered a packet of cigarettes at me to which I shook my head. He took one and, placing it between his full lips, lit it with a tiny gold lighter. He took a deep drag and, turning his head away from me, blew out a long thin plume of smoke reminding me of Pam earlier and her cigarette smoke. I got a sudden whiff of his spicy cologne as he moved. A group of people walked past, laughing and chattering, and heading to the open door of the “The London Pride,” a man walking a dog on a lead shuffled past and a black cat walked nonchalantly across the road and disappeared with a yowl into the shadows.

Surprised at his question I said, “I’m a model, taking advantage of my good looks before they fade …”

He smiled showing teeth as bright white as his eyes were blue, “I need an Assistant, a Secretary, I suppose you’d say, to help me in my business.”

“I went to college,” I told him proudly, “I can type and take shorthand.”

He took another deep drag and turned his head again as he blew away the smoke, and then threw the stub down and ground it out with the heel of his smart black shoe, “Come and work for me then, Esther … I’ll pay you more than you earn now whatever that is, my offices are in London too … only a street or two away from here.”

“Are you crazy?” I said, “I already told you, I’m a model!”

“Yeah, but you said you can type and take shorthand! And maybe you fancy a change … what do they say? A change is as good as a rest?”

I smiled and said, “I don’t need a rest … and yeah, I got those qualifications in case I need them in my old age, like I said, when my looks are gone. After all, all models are beautiful and all secretaries are ugly right?”

He laughed, his blue eyes flashing, and once again raked my face with his gaze, “Your looks will never fade … you’re so beautiful it hurts …”

“Hurts?” I said, “Wow, you are really crazy!”

“Yeah, hurts my heart that I won’t get to see that face every day.”

I shook my head, wanting to go, to walk away and go home, but unable to for some reason. As if my sling backs were stuck to the pavement with glue.

“Here, take my card, my number’s on it, ring me if you change your mind?” He handed over a small business card held between the tips of two fingers. I took it from him, my hand letting go of my collar and revealing my lips that had been covered before.

“What’s that?” he said, to my surprise putting out the tip of a finger and touching the place just above my upper lip. “Not a flaw surely. I thought you were perfect.”

“Don’t,” I said, pushing his finger away, “It’s just a childhood scar.”

“It’s a tiny cross,” he said, gazing at it intently, “A tiny kiss.” And before I knew what was happening he leaned in close and kissed the scar. I felt the brush of his stubble as his lips grazed my upper lip. It was as soft and as gentle as the whisper of an Angel but I felt as if I’d been burned. Putting an arm around my waist he pulled me closer and, as if in a daze I put my face up to his, and our lips met and held and parted. An erotic shiver ran down my spine.

“How dare you?” I said, pulling back from him, breathing hard as if I’d been running, raising my hand, so tempted was I to slap his face, “I’m going home now, and don’t even attempt to follow me … or … I’ll … get the police on you …” He looked disorientated, drugged almost, his lovely mouth moist.

“Ring me,” he said as I began to walk away, “Any time, Esther, ring me …”

I hurried home through the darkening London streets, past tall houses where lamps shone brightly from large windows, past dark parks where trees clustered, outlined black like woolly blobs against the sky. Relief flooded through me as I turned into my road, Bleaker Street, where I rented a flat above a coffee bar called “The Milk Maid.”

I unlocked the back door and rushed up the stairs, my shoes clattering, and closed the door quietly, standing with my back against it, and my heart beating fast. After a while, I made my way into the sitting room and peered from between the curtains at the street below but there was nothing there, just a glittering empty path, a couple of sweet wrappers, a page of a newspaper, blown along by the breeze. There was nobody standing there staring up, looking for me, with those amazing baby blue eyes. I giggled a bit at what I’d said, “I’ll get the police on you …” I wondered what a police man would have said if he found out I was complaining about the guy I’d been kissing minutes earlier.

Later, sitting on the settee, the television on with no sound, the screen fuzzy with snow, “What was it with the aerial in this building?” I spread out the card he’d given me, the card I’d carried screwed up in my hand. It was smooth to the touch and black with flashes of blue at the corners, his name, contact details and profession clearly written in white lettering, “Jude Dunbar, Private Investigator, 3 Leadenhall Mansions, London W1, Tel: (01) 4389”

I stared at the card for a long time, my mind working overtime, before putting it with my bookmark inside the book that I was trying to read at the moment, “In Cold Blood” by Truman Capote. After that I went to bed but had trouble settling down and couldn’t fall asleep for a very long time.