73

The ‘job’ was a party at the flat. All Donny’s police mates and their wives were coming, he told her. Happy music was on the turntable, ‘Rubber Ball’ and ‘Hit the Road Jack’ and ‘Wild Wind’, all booming out of the radiogram. Drinks were set up on a table, and Dora had prepared sandwiches, put out bowls of crisps. The babysitter had taken Angel for the night.

‘Wear the black dress,’ Donny told Dora before the party got going. ‘You look like Marilyn Monroe in that dress.’

Donny liked the black velvet dress, which fitted tight to all her curves, so tight it looked almost like she’d been sewn into it. The dress highlighted her pale skin and silver-white hair. He’d bought it for her, of course. Everything she owned these days, Donny bought her. She wore the dress with the high-heeled black suede shoes he liked and was putting on a silver necklace in front of the mirror in their bedroom when Donny came in and took it away from her.

‘You don’t need that,’ he said, turning her around like a mannequin, frowning at her. ‘Are you getting fat?’

‘What . . . ?’ Dora started, but then the doorbell rang and Donny went off into the living room to answer it.

Dora heard female voices. She gave herself a last look-over in the mirror. Fat? Was she? She knew she looked tired. There were dark shadows under her eyes. She looked strained. And now she had to make nice with the dull wives of even duller policemen, or Donny would get upset, and she really didn’t want that to happen because it would be the worse for her. He would burn her again, or cut her. She had lots of cuts and burns, all hidden when she was dressed or covered with make-up when she was stripping, but they were there all the same, like brands.

She went out into the living room. Donny was taking coats from two women who didn’t look like wives. One had brightly dyed red hair and was wearing an electric-blue satin dress that made Dora’s own tight-fitting garment look demure by comparison. The other was a tiny gold blonde, heavily made-up and wearing a short red skirt and a see-through pink chiffon blouse. A red bra was visible underneath it.

Dora stood there, gobsmacked. ‘What’s this?’ she asked.

‘This,’ said Donny, indicating the redhead, ‘is Mandy. And this is Julia.’

‘But they . . .’ Dora started, and then caught herself. These aren’t wives. They look like tarts.

‘What?’ His eyes were challenging.

‘Nothing,’ said Dora.

‘Hang these up somewhere, will you?’ He crossed the room and dropped the coats into her arms.

‘Got a drink, babe?’ asked Mandy.

‘Help yourselves,’ said Donny.

‘Can I have a word?’ asked Dora as the two women went over to the drinks table.

‘Sure,’ said Donny, following her into the bedroom.

Dora dumped the coats on the floor. ‘Those two are prossies,’ she said.