Knaves Over Queens by George R. R. Martin
Constance knew she could give it all up and go and live with her mum and dad in Bethnal Green – they’d have her back in a minute – but she didn’t want to be a burden. They had a lodger now and they’d have to throw him out and lose the rent money. And Constance couldn’t have that.
Besides, she wanted to stay where she was. Admit it, Constance thought to herself. You like the excitement, but you also like screwing musicians. It was a bad habit she knew she ought to shake.
Brushing her hand across her eyes, she swept her tears away, rubbed her knuckles hard against her cheeks to get rid of the last of them, grabbed her handbag, and stepped out of her room. As she turned her key in the lock, she heard the toilet flush. A rush of smoke followed her neighbour, Alice, as she exited the loo.
‘Good Lord, Alice, you dolt,’ Constance said, walking to the loo and stepping inside. ‘Don’t smoke joints in the loo. Go up to the roof like everyone else. Now I’m going to smell like reefer for the rest of the day.’
Alice gave her a doped-up smile, and Constance rolled her eyes. She would ring Glory from the telephone box on the corner. Even this early in the morning, Glory would help her work out what to do.
Glory met Constance at the Paris Café. It was tucked into one of the little side streets in Soho. They were regulars, and it was a place where Glory wouldn’t have to deal with people staring at her – or doing and saying terrible things to her.
‘Hello, luv,’ Glory said as Constance sat down. They kissed each other’s cheeks, and Constance inhaled the sweet scent of the blooms on Glory’s head – today a tight cap of violets, though she might change them to some other flower as the moment suited her. Her joker brought her as much fame as her photography did. She wore a micro mini-skirt with a peasant shirt and sandals. Her legs were long and tanned from a recent trip to Biarritz. She put her ever-present camera on the table.
‘So, you got the sack,’ Glory said after the waitress brought their beers. She took a sip of her pint. ‘Bit early to be drinking, yeah?’
Constance followed Glory’s lead, but with greater gusto. She shrugged and then took another swig. The beer stung in her throat, but in a good way. ‘Yeah, bugger him, sodding prick.’
‘I wouldn’t bugger him with someone else’s prick,’ Glory said. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Constance replied. ‘Right now, I’m planning on getting pissed as fast as I can.’ She took another long pull on her pint. ‘I could always try Savile Row. Handsome Harry says there will always be a place for me with my talents.’ The last thing she wanted was to go to Savile Row to work.
A warm golden glow suffused Constance. It started in her gut and spread throughout her body. Her lips went a little numb. She took another drink. ‘I wish Frances were here,’ she blurted out, suddenly feeling weepy, nostalgic, and remorseful. Frances, Glory, and Constance had been schoolfriends together, but only Glory and Constance were left now. Constance had tried to save Frances, but she hadn’t been able to. She’d been told no one could, but it didn’t matter, she still felt guilty. ‘Frances would know exactly what I should do,’ Constance said. ‘She was always good at knowing what everyone else should do.’
‘She was a better friend to others than she was to herself,’ Glory replied morosely. ‘Remember when you nicked that necklace and Frances took the blame when your mum saw it? She said she’d given it to you as a present. But your mum knew Frances couldn’t afford it either. She made Frances take it back to the shop and Frances got into so much trouble. But she never told.’
Constance started crying harder. She fished a handkerchief out of her handbag, blew her nose in a very unladylike manner, then said, ‘That was pretty bad, but she also put your parents off the scent when they were about to catch you with your knickers down and your arse in the air shagging Jimmy Whe—’
‘Hush!’ Glory exclaimed. ‘I never want to hear his name again.’ Her blooms turned the same bright pink as her cheeks.
‘To Frances,’ Constance said, raising her pint. ‘Always willing to help a mate out.’
‘To Frances,’ Glory said as the violets on her head turned to white chrysanthemums.
‘To Frances,’ they said in unison.
It had been a shitty, rainy, grey day when they buried Frances. Constance and Glory had stood next to the grave with Frances’s mum and da, her brother Frankie, and her husband, Reggie Kray. Frances’s brother-in-law Ronnie stood next to his twin. Reggie wasn’t even trying to hide his tears. Ronnie looked miserable as he watched Reg, but he didn’t shed a tear.
Later, at Glory’s mum’s house, Glory – her head adorned with lilies – took Constance’s hand and squeezed it. Constance squeezed back.
‘Slit ’er wrists,’ Glory’s mum said. ‘Blood everywhere. In the tub, on the floor, there was even some on the wall! Never would I have expected such a thing from her. She seemed so happy when she and Reg finally got hitched. Well, it wasn’t like he hadn’t wanted to. She certainly kept him dangling for years. Poor thing, she only just got out of the sanatorium after her last suicide attempt.’
Glory and Constance looked at each other with dismay.
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ Glory’s mum said. She bustled out of the kitchen, then came back with a medium-sized cardboard box. ‘Frances’s mum said she wanted you to have this. Frances gave it to her three weeks before she killed ’erself. I forgot …’
The girls stared at the box as if it were a snake.
‘Well, ain’t ya going to open it?’ Glory’s mum asked.
Constance and Glory shook their heads in unison. ‘Can’t,’ Constance said with a hitch in her voice. ‘I just can’t.’
‘Me neither,’ Glory added. ‘It’s too soon.’
Glory’s mum shook her head. ‘You girls will want something of hers soon enough.’
‘I don’t think so, Mrs Greenwood,’ Constance replied. ‘Don’t think I’ll ever want to look at it.’
‘Well, I’ll put it away, and when you girls decide you want it, you let me know.’
Glory and Constance glanced at each other and then grimaced. ‘There’s nothing but misery in there,’ Glory said. ‘I don’t know why she killed herself with a razor. Last time she tried, it was pills. She never could stand blood.’
‘She didn’t have much luck with pills the first time,’ Constance said, and then hated herself for saying it.
‘Girls, you’re being morbid,’ Glory’s mother said. ‘Go on with you.’ She shooed them out of the kitchen.
They went to Glory’s old bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. It was covered with a mint-green floral patterned chenille bedspread, and Constance started picking at one of the tufts. There was a bright brown-and-orange geometric wallpaper on the walls. It was horrid.
‘I still can’t believe it,’ Constance said softly. It was shock. And dismay. And shame. She felt a sharp pain in her chest every time she thought about Frances in that cold white bathroom turning everything red.
‘Let’s go and get pissed,’ Glory said. ‘It’s what Frances would do.’
Constance gave a quick, sharp laugh. ‘No, she wouldn’t. Frances didn’t get pissed. She got tipsy.’
‘Then let’s get pissed for us.’
‘You rat-arsed yet?’ Glory asked.
Constance was indeed rat-arsed and very proud of herself for not having vomited. ‘Yes,’ she allowed with a loud belch. Her stomach roiled, and she reconsidered the whole vomit issue. ‘What’s the latest on the man front? Reggie still won’t leave you alone? Mick still screwing everything in sight?’
‘Reg invited me to a party he and Ronnie are throwing at Esmeralda’s Barn tonight,’ Glory replied, ignoring the question about Mick. ‘Very posh. Come with me. I’ll be bored to tears without you.’
Constance brayed with laughter. ‘Why on earth would you go to a party them Krays are throwing? Reg won’t leave you alone. I thought you hated him.’
‘Lord, all I’m asking you to do is go to a fancy party
Constance rolled her eyes and took another swallow of her pint despite her stomach’s rebellion. ‘I may be pissed, but doesn’t mean that I’ve gone soft in the ’ead.’ She peered at Glory and found her a little blurry.
Then Constance had a sudden realization. ‘Good God,’ she blurted. ‘Is Mick going to be there? Of course he is. Those Kray boys like nothing better than to get every high-profile bloke and bird at their parties. And you want to see Mick without it looking like you’re wantin’ to see him.’
Glory glared at Constance. ‘That’s a right awful thing to say. I broke up with Mick months ago.’ Her flowers changed again. This time foxgloves sprouted.
‘Oh, my girl, you should know better. Mick will fuck anything with a pussy. That’s the reason you sent him on his way. Remember?’
There was a long pause. Then Glory said, ‘So what if I am? He might not be there at all. And Reg said I’d be the only photographer there.’
‘So Reg is bribing you with work? Very canny of him. Mick will be there.’ Constance hiccupped. ‘He’ll think it’s a laugh.’
‘Ronnie’s going to be there, too,’ Glory said softly. ‘And he scares the shit out of me after what they say he did to Frances …’
‘What people think he did to Frances. There’s no proof. It’s been over a year now. Those are rumours. Rumours you best not be repeating.’
Glory gave Constance a stare of disbelief. ‘Oh, c’mon, luv,’ she said. ‘Your mum and dad and the rest of ’em pretend the Krays aren’t that bad, so they can take their help, but you know better. Maybe we don’t know for sure that Ronnie had something to do with Frances, but it’s easy enough to believe.’
Suddenly, there was a fiery tinge to the tips of her flowers. She shook her head. ‘They’re dangerous to know, and yet here we are planning on going to another one of their parties, just like everyone else who gets invited.’
‘Then why go?’ Constance wasn’t in any condition to argue about the Krays. And Glory was right. There were rumours about what had happened to Frances. And then there were the rumours that Ronnie had a wild card. ‘If it’s true,’ she said with a shiver. ‘That makes it completely mad to go to this party. You know I’d kill Ronnie if we knew it was him what killed Frances. But we don’t know for certain. But I’ll tell you, they certainly make being part of the Firm seem glamorous.’
White roses bloomed on Glory’s head, bleeding into the foxgloves, making them fade and disappear.
Constance shook her head in disbelief. ‘White roses? You really are going because of Mick. You’re daft. I suppose I’ll have to go along to keep you out of trouble.’
It was dusk when Constance woke. Her head was throbbing, and her mouth felt as if someone had used it for an ashtray. Or to wash dirty socks. There was a knock on the door and she heard Glory say, ‘C’mon, let me in!’
Constance got up and shuffled to the door. Glory swept in, her head covered in hot-pink rose petals that mimicked Twiggy’s famous short haircut. Thin and vaguely androgynous, Twiggy had changed the way women wanted to look. But neither Glory nor Constance had the requisite body type. Still, that didn’t seem to bother any of the men they slept with.
‘You look terrible,’ Glory said. ‘It’s going to take a miracle to get you in shape for tonight. Oh, this is for you.’ She held out a greasy bag. Constance grabbed it and discovered chips inside – and underneath them, a chunk of battered fish. ‘Thought you’d need something to eat.’
Constance wasn’t sure she wanted to eat anything, but the chips smelled wonderful and were nice and hot. They burned a little as she ate them.
‘Look in the wardrobe and see if there’s something you’d like to wear,’ Constance said as she found a cup of cold tea on the windowsill. She wrinkled her nose at the taste, but drank it anyway. ‘I used your measurements when I made most of them.’
‘Hmm,’ Glory said as she pulled out an iridescent electric-blue sheath dress. An elaborately embroidered phoenix wrapped around the skirt, beginning in the front, coiling around the waist, its tail feathers fanning out over the left breast. ‘I love this! Can I wear it?’
‘Of course,’ Constance said around a mouthful of crunchy fish. ‘There’s a dress in the same pattern in there, but no embroidery. You see it? It’s the grey one in dupioni silk with long sleeves. I’ll wear that.’
‘Finish those chips, then go and take a shower,’ said Glory as she began to undress. Her skin was tanned except where her bikini bottom had been. Her bum was milky pale. ‘You reek, my girl.’
Constance narrowed her eyes at Glory, then sniffed her armpit. She was disgusting. ‘I’ll be back in a mo.’
Esmeralda’s Barn was definitely posh. Crystal chandeliers threw prisms of light across the room. Everything that could be gilded was. Glory began snapping pictures as fast as she could, which surprised Constance not at all. The women at the party wore tight, short dresses, some adorned with paillettes – some with sequins, beads, faux gems. Constance knew the dresses were heavy with all that embellishment. She didn’t care much for any of them.
The dresses sparkled as the women danced. Their male partners were dressed in dinner jackets and danced awkwardly, trying to look cool. Everywhere there was something glittery and bright. Constance felt overwhelmed by it all.
Celebrities and gangsters rubbed elbows with locals Constance knew only by sight. She noticed members of the Firm scattered throughout the crowd. It was clear they weren’t there to have fun. There were even a few coppers who had reputations for being bent crammed into one of the booths.
On a stage at the end of the room Dusty Springfield was accompanied by a five-piece band. She was singing, ‘The Look of Love’.
‘I thought they sold this place years ago,’ Constance said to Glory. Before they had left for the party, they’d gone up to the roof at Constance’s and smoked half a joint. Constance felt light and floaty. It helped with her fear of the Krays. Reggie seemed nice and her parents had nothing but good things to say about him, but Ronnie, well, he was another matter. They said he was schizophrenic and didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t most of the time.
‘They did sell the club, but Reggie said he missed so they bought it back about six months ago.’ Glory was clicking away, taking photos as fast as she could. It was clear she wasn’t just photographing the celebrities. Glory was in the process of putting together a new series of pictures, but she wouldn’t tell Constance what the theme was.
‘This is the reopening party. Hey, over there.’ Glory looked through her viewfinder and then snapped with rapid-fire. She stopped and reloaded the film in her camera. Then she began working again.
That was when Constance saw Marilyn Monroe and Frank Sinatra sitting at one of the gilded tables in the centre of the room. Sinatra said something, and Monroe threw back her head and laughed. It had been a few years since Cleopatra had come out, and much to everyone’s shock, Monroe had been brilliant in it. Half of the women in the club were sporting Monroe’s new trademark hairdo: long, platinum blonde, parted down the middle. The rest were trying to be Jean Shrimpton.
If only Mum were here, Constance thought. She’d be beside herself. Though if Constance was honest with herself, it was a thrill for her as well. She’d never been allowed to meet the famous customers at Teddy Bravo’s. Only the male tailors were allowed to do that, so she’d only seen celebrities from the back of the shop as she peered through the curtains.
‘Glory, luv, good to see you. I was hoping you’d be here.’
Constance knew that voice – it was famous now. She turned as Mick grabbed Glory and pulled her into an embrace. He took the camera out of Glory’s hand, and then began kissing her enthusiastically.
Jagger’s reputation with women was legendarily indiscriminate, even more so since his ace had manifested. Screwing every woman he met seemed as if it were his life’s work. Constance noticed
‘Stop it, Mick,’ Glory said, pushing him away. But as she did so, white roses covered her head. She grabbed her camera back and took a picture of him. He preened. ‘We’re friends now, nothing more.’
Mick looked Glory up and down as she lowered her camera. ‘Gorgeous dress, by the way, luv,’ he said. ‘And you look smashing in it. Now, who’s your friend?’ He gave Constance a broad smile. Charisma and danger rolled off him in waves. His attention was flattering and disconcerting at the same time.
‘Constance, Mick. Mick, Constance. She made the dress.’
He glanced back and forth between the girls. ‘You’re quite talented,’ he said to Constance. ‘And what you’re wearing is cool as well. Do you have any other talents?’ He smiled at her wickedly. Then he sniffed the air. ‘Ah, you two been havin’ a puff, I see. Is it the gear I gave you? I’d’ve thought you’d used all that up. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.’
‘It hasn’t been that long,’ Glory said, blushing. Her flowers changed to gardenias, and immediately the air was perfumed by the scent of them. ‘Where’s Keith? I’d like to get a photo of him.’
‘Probably shooting up somewhere,’ Mick replied dourly. ‘We’re going on tour soon and he’s going to get us busted. Again.’
‘I seem to remember you getting nicked every time you go all lycanthrope in public. Won’t that be a problem touring the States?’ Glory asked.
‘Don’t see why,’ Mick said with a shrug. ‘There are already bands touring the colonies with blokes like me. The Lizard King and the like. Besides, I’ve made it chic to be an ace, don’t you know. And you, my dear, have done the same for jokers. Well, pretty jokers, at any rate. Though they are rarer than hen’s teeth.’ He turned back to Constance, his eyes turning a flecked yellow, the pupils growing large. ‘Constance, do you think you’d like to howl at the moon all night with me?’ His ripe, musky smell mingled with the scent of Glory’s gardenias.