She paused. ‘Oh? Who?’ ‘Bloke called Bennett. In a bit of a state. Said he was going to call back tonight, see if you were in. You want to see him, do you?’ No. She really didn’t. Clara stared up at Sears’s face. God, he was ugly. And right now, after all that had happened, he was hanging on to this job by the skin of his teeth. ‘Yeah, let him in when he comes,’ she said, and walked on, into the club, aware of the goon staring after her. Great lummox, she thought. It was only ten but it was already busy, the atmosphere thick with cigarette and cigar smoke, the lighting low and intimate. All the hostesses were circulating, chatting up the punters, drinking overpriced booze with them at the long red-lit bar and at the tables. Clara was pleased to see the regulation uniform on each and every one of the girls, the plain black satin evening dress, the neatly groomed hair, an aura of cleanliness and friendliness about them. Up on the tiny half-moon stage, a brunette in emerald green was crooning ‘Where the Boys Are’ under the spotlight.
