And he downed his brimming glass in one. Original man thought Varadin and took a more generous sip for appearance’s sake.
“The solution to all your problems lies in decent PR,” resumed Dean Carver with authority. “Someone to take care of your image. Do you know how much money other countries are throwing into that sort of thing?”
Varadin nodded; there were certain rumours that this latest tear-jerking campaign was being organized by the intelligence services of a neighbouring Balkan country, whose aim was to discredit his government’s political efforts, at a time when the discussions about European Union enlargement were reaching their climax. “Quite recently, the government decided to invest more money in this direction,” he conceded.
“And it’s doing the right thing,” exclaimed Carver. “You have to keep your eyes open though, London is full of identical agencies. To my regret most of them are crooks. They’ll wrap you up in all sorts of ‘concepts’ and ‘strategies’, and then present you such a bill that it’ll make you dizzy. But there are some genuine professionals, as well. They talk little, but perform wonders.”
“And who are they?” asked Varadin timidly.
“There is one agency that I know of…” Carver lowered his voice confidentially; his breath had some bitter aftertaste. “They worked for me during the elections. As far as I know, at present, they’re taking care of the image of one of your neighbours; I think it was Slovakia. They’re also working for countries in the Middle East! Real professionals! They have connections at the highest levels. And a spotless reputation! It is said that even members of the Royal family have used their services from time to time …”
“Do they have connections with the palace?” Varadin’s face tensed.
“Undoubtedly!” nodded Dean Carver, M.P. “After they arranged a dinner for me with Prince Charles, my ratings instantly shot up a mile! Ha-ha! I may have republican ideas, as you know, but who cares? You seem intrigued. I think I still have their card.”
He started looking in his wallet.
“It must be this one…I forgot my specs, can you, please, read what it says here.”
Varadin lifted the card: Famous Connections. PR Agency. “Thank you,” he nodded.
“You don’t have to thank me! I am friend of Bulgaria. Take my card as well… You can always count on me.”
As he was saying this, Carver moved his eyes to his plate and raised his finger in approval. Where the starter had been, now lay a serious piece of meat, covered with cranberry sauce. He poured himself some more wine and started devouring it with deliberate concentration. Not wanting to be left behind Varadin also took to his cutlery, but his brain was elsewhere: the chewy undercooked meat slipped across the plate and splashed him with sauce. Bloody Hell!
“It doesn’t give in easily, eh?” giggled Carver. “You have to get used to the character of the roast here.”
10
When Katya popped out of the bathroom with her hair so wet that she shot off volleys of little drops, she immediately provoked the envious gaze of Doroteya Totomanova. Her eyes were like two dull brooches. The two girls were sharing a room, 9ft by 12ft and all possible love between the two had been lost. Doroteya, also known as Dotty, had a spotty face and fat ankles. Katya possessed everything else which was of any value in the eyes of the opposite sex. Pure pornography thought Dotty, whose eyes were devouring several particulars of her roommate’s body. She had the feeling sometimes that those parts had been stolen from her, and it seemed only fair that she should at least have the right to touch them. Such a small consolation, yet even that was constantly denied her.
Katya was not very keen on the idea of being stared at in that particular fashion, and on top of everything, completely for free; but the mere thought that this was doing irreparable damage to the self-esteem of the voyeuse, left her feeling it was entirely worth it. She quickly dried her hair, dragged on a pair of old jeans, a T-shirt and a jacket and threw her bag across her shoulder.
“I’m off,” she announced.
“Bye,” mumbled Dotty, without moving.
You bitch thought Katya. Doroteya Totomanova did not have to work because she received an allowance from her parents, and she was not at university; so she was lying in bed with fat, inappropriate books.
“You know, you should get out more,” said Katya with some superficial concern.
“Mind your own business.”
“Okay, then you can at least open the windows,” spat Katya.
The door slammed and Doroteya was left alone. She stuck out her tongue and showed her middle finger at the now absent Katya. Then she took out a breeze-block of a book, entitled Directions in Radical Feminism by someone called Stone John Stone and hungrily started devouring the pages. Meanwhile Katya was half way to Soho.
As usual, Samantha Brick was at the entrance in her creamcoloured basque, bare legs and stiletto-slippers, and was calling out to the johns with lascivious gestures, “Come on, darling! Pop right in!”
Katya thought that this probably repelled rather than enticed the clients, but the business had its traditions and, at the end of the day, she really didn’t give a damn. The entrance, decorated in tinted mirror tiles, was surmounted by a neon sign which read Bailey’s Place. There were thousands of such places, dispersed across every continent, little incubators of little sins, where men took their frozen, wilted eggs in the hope that some feeble erection might hatch out of them.
“Cheers!” Samantha touched her hand.
Katya smiled as their fingers briefly interlaced. Samantha was a kindly blonde, past her forties, with almost no tattoos. She had done her time on the pole, and now life was fairly determinedly pushing her to the periphery. There were many tales that Samantha could tell but nobody wanted to listen.
Katya ran down the stairs and popped through a side door into the dressing room. The familiar chaos swaddled her, soaked in sweat and perfumes. The half-naked girls were fussing around throwing tits and arses in all directions. Through the air various items of lingerie flew together with an assortment of words in a plethora of languages. She liked the informal atmosphere. It reminded her of the prehistoric melting-pot where life came into being. From time to time, a curly head popped out from behind the curtain. Its owner, Kemal Dalali was a Lebanese-born man in charge of the whole menagerie. Several gold chains, long enough to hang him, were swinging around his neck. He was shouting out the names of the girls whose turns were approaching, “Vera, hurry up! Hurry up!..Françoise! Hurry up!..Fen Li! Hurry up!”
Katya slipped into an absurd costume, constructed of black leather straps and high boots, sat in front of the mirror and started layering coats of make-up onto her face. The boots were cool, they could hold lots of tips. Connie Delano tried to push her some powdery stuff, but drew a blank once again. On her other side, the Slovakian Beata, a student at the prestigious LSE, was swearing in her mother tongue; her inner thighs were covered with a rash and that would reduce her takings. Katya advised her to put some foundation on them. Kemal Dalali’s head popped out again, “Kate! Hurry up! Hurry up!”
To grind around the pole and discard bits of her outfit was not a big deal. It was easier than hanging around behind the counter of some shop for hours or washing dishes, and most importantly, it was more profitable. Lots of students were doing it. Katya had expenses to cover: she had to pay the huge university tuition fees and to send her parents some money from time to time. She owed it to them. They had mortgaged their apartment in Sofia to pay her first set of fees. And even with those expenses Katya could lead a reasonable life, but she wanted to save up some pounds. You never know what lies round the corner as the English say. On the other hand, she found her double life rather attractive; some strange gloating sensation kept her playing the role of a poor, hard-working student, ready to do anything to keep her little hole in the Embassy.