‘He fancies you rotten,’ one of the girls – Sadie – told Dora as they sat squashed in front of the mirror in their ‘dressing room’, which was part of the ladies’ bogs in the Soho strip club, with a thin pink curtain strung up to preserve their modesty.

‘What?’ Dora was irritated, uncaring. Fancy her? Donny owned her.

A careless accident in her past had brought mayhem into Dora’s life. Got her chucked out of home, disgraced. Mum had cried but Dad had thrown her out on the pavement, calling her a whore. Which she wasn’t. Well – not then, she wasn’t. Then, she’d been just a flighty silly girl making a big mistake.

‘That Maguire bloke,’ said dark-haired Sadie, slapping on mascara and blowing little Angel, who was clinging on to her mother’s knees, a kiss in the mirror. ‘You all right there, babe? Little beauty, ain’t you? Gawd, she’s going to be a looker, that one.’

‘Don’t go on, you’ll turn her head,’ snapped Dora, applying lipstick while shooting a stern eye at Angel.

Fat lot of good that would do the kid, being fawned over and ruined. Dora cast an appraising glance over her daughter. Yes, the kid was lovely. Her hair was like Dora’s own – fine and ashy silver-blonde, cascading down her back in gentle waves. Her skin was clear and pale, her nose straight, her lips pouty, her eyes almond-shaped and periwinkle blue, sleepy like her mother’s and one day when she was grown they would become seductive. Just looking at her caused Dora a pang of pride and nearly unbearable pain. What the hell would become of the poor little sod, being dragged up as she was?

‘That copper’s always hanging around you. What, is he pimping you or something?’

‘Shut your mouth,’ said Dora, looking daggers at Sadie.

‘Well pardon me for breathing,’ said Sadie, slapping the mascara wand back into her make-up bag and standing up. She swooshed the curtain aside, and there he was, standing right there looking at her. Handsome Donny Maguire, slick as butter. Oiling his way about the place. He must have heard every word.

‘Here! This is the ladies room, you know,’ said Sadie, fronting it out.

Maguire gave Sadie a thin smile. ‘Well I don’t see any ladies. Piss off out of it,’ he said. Then his eyes fell on Angel. ‘Take the kid with you.’

Sadie snatched up her make-up bag, her face thunderous.

She tossed her head at Maguire and held out a hand to Angel. ‘Come on, babycakes, let’s go out and get you a drink, shall we? Let the nasty man speak to Mama.’

‘Got a job for you after your shift,’ Donny said to her when Sadie and Angel were out of earshot, and Dora felt her innards shrivel at his words.

‘Not tonight, eh?’ she said, giving a shaky half-smile. ‘I’m knackered.’

She knew Donny and his ‘jobs’. This one, for instance. He’d said he’d got her a job here as a singer, and she’d been pleased. Almost excited. But the job was stripping. And she never saw a penny of her wages: the manager handed it to Donny. If she ever dared complain – and she rarely did any more – he’d say, hadn’t he given her everything? A roof over her head? Safety from villains? So why was she so fucking ungrateful?