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Sandie was sure this punter was a cop. He was too brash, too clean. His shoes were expensive, his suit brand new, and even the cigarette he offered her was fresh out of a new pack. Premium brand, too. His lighter was a shiny thing from Dunhill's, and it was the only thing on him that looked used. When he held it up towards her lips, she could see where the gold plating had worn thin. A real smoker, then, just like her.
He started to tell her she was too good for this, and she wanted to roll her eyes but didn't have the energy. He'd seen her for maybe five minutes, and he thought he knew her? She was worn down, just like every other girl in here, navigating the sleaze and trying to make it out intact.
The copper then started to talk about mirrors, and suddenly she had a pounding headache, the mirrored walls surrounding the booth seeming to throb along with the music. She felt like she was being watched, too, but no one was looking at her, aside from the man sitting across from her. Definitely not Jack, who seemed seconds away from fingering the giggling girl in his arms.
"Can we take this outside? It's hot in here," she said, and the cop nodded, downing his drink and slapping down some cash. Jack was still wrapped up in his latest fling, and she could easily leave without him noticing. At the coat check, the cop offered to help her put on her coat, but she brushed him off, buttoning and tying her trench securely shut. She didn't want his condescending chivalry.
"Another cigarette, then?" he offered once they were outdoors, and she gladly accepted. His cigarettes tasted better than her cheap ones, that was for sure. They leaned up against a brick wall, quietly puffing away and observing the dregs of nightlife around them. The silence was surprisingly comfortable, nothing at all like being around the other johns. She was halfway through her cigarette when she heard her name come from his lips. His expression was serious, eyes sad in a way that made her feel safe. She liked him now that he wasn't the smirking pretty boy.
"It's not too late for you. I mean it. He's got you thinking you're trapped, but you're not. You can leave."
She went cold. Just like a man to always think he knew better. "Oh, because it's so easy," she snapped.
He raised his hands defensively. "I never said it was. But London is a good place to disappear—if you want to."
She scoffed. "For a man, maybe."
"No, I've seen it work. You change your name, your hair, your clothes. Move across town." He said it so casually—like he'd done it himself, and she could imagine it, sweeping in and out of some woman's life. Men got to be vagabonds and scoundrels, reinventing themselves everywhere they went.
He pushed himself off the wall and handed her the pack of cigarettes. "Why don't you finish the rest? Think it over."
She watched him walk away, something jaunty in the sway of his hips, and finished her cigarette. She went to fish out another, but her finger brushed across something foreign and sharp. Carefully extricating it from the pack, she saw the edge of a ten-pound note. Acting as if everything was normal, she pushed it back in and began the walk back to her apartment on Goodge Street. Flashing money around was a good way to get yourself mugged, and she was no fool. Even drugged to the gills, she had always been able to keep track of her things and avoid being taken advantage of.
(Except when it came to Jack. Jack and his endless number of friends, all of whom had marched through her bedroom and all over her, during this past year.)
God, she'd been in London for a year, and what did she have to show for it? As she slammed the door to her room shut, her old headshot looked up at her, judging her from its place in her vanity mirror. She'd ruined everything by trusting Jack, her ambition blinding her from reality. And now she could never be famous, he'd made sure of that. He'd tarnished her, and those sorts of stains never went away. She would spend the rest of her days having to hide her shame, afraid that some man would expose her past.
She'd never been the type of girl who had a past, just a pretty girl with a pretty voice with your typical poor, suburban parents. And she didn't have her parents anymore, but even if they were still alive, no one would want a whore for a daughter—or a sister. She could hardly run crying to one of her brothers, either, as she didn't know what had become of them. The last time she'd seen hide or hair of them, she'd been twelve, and here she was, nearly a decade later, with nobody and no one.
Except for a stranger who had just given her a pack of cigarettes and ten, twenty, thirty... Jesus, four hundred pounds. All crisp, too, like he'd gotten them fresh off the printer. They were sequential notes, which definitely screamed cop to her. Combined with her meager savings from sleeping with johns for thirty pounds a night, those four hundred pounds could get her somewhere far, far away.
She took a bath and washed her hair, letting her head float in the tub for a bit. The warm water felt nice, worlds away from Jack and the Rialto and every grim place she'd stepped into since arriving in the city. She really could leave, couldn't she? She could become a shopgirl or hairdresser, whittling away the days in anonymity. She'd live one of those lives of quiet desperation, making friends or marrying a nice boy, forever waiting for some aspect of her past to reappear and making everything come crashing down.
But on the other hand... she just might pull it off. She was an excellent actress when she set her mind to it, and quiet desperation would be a better life than this. She was dying here, one night at a time.
She eyed herself in the mirror, critically taking in her appearance. With her hair wet, it was dark and straight, and without the Bardot hairdo, the angles of her face were different. Her skin looked paler, her eyes warmer and not as sharp. She could dye her hair brown and ditch the bouffants and bows. She was sick of them by now, anyway.
From her radio, she heard strains of that catchy Supremes imploring a man to set me free, why don't cha babe. Was it a sign? You don't really love me, you just keep me hangin' on. By the end of the song, her mind was made up. She could do this.
Her clothes would have to go. That wouldn't be too difficult. She could pack everything up and sell it to a secondhand store. Gone would be those awful minidresses, the ones Jack had forced on her, with their revealing cuts and garish colors. She could say goodbye to all of the cheap, tacky lingerie. The fabric was disgusting, anyway. Same with the plastic costume jewelry. But her old favorites, like the peach chiffon dress and silver slingbacks or the black lace dress and matching pumps? And the white trench coat that had become her suit of armor during these many nights in Soho? She didn't want to do it, but she'd have to get rid of them, too. She needed a fresh start, and besides, she couldn't bear to ever wear them again. Jack had ruined those for her, just as he'd ruined everything.
Early the next morning, she dressed in her casual daywear and went out to get some hair dye. She didn't see any of Jack's gang watching her, but just in case, she went all the way to a random pharmacy in swanky Kensington. She also popped into Biba, snagging a sleek burgundy shift dress from the sale rack. She added a pair of low black flats and a little black shoulder bag to complete her new outfit, which wouldn't draw attention to the wearer. At the register, she asked the shopgirl to stow her purchases away in a plain paper bag. She wanted to surprise her beau with a fresh look, she claimed, biting her lip and twirling her hair, and the girl smiled brightly back at her.
Sandie returned to her apartment, ready to begin her transformation. First, she took off her pearl ring and stashed it in the zippered side pocket of the new black bag. She added her nail file, her powder compact, her lighter, and the pack of cigarettes that contained the majority of her cash. The rest of her money was tucked in the small coin purse that came with the bag. She would put twenty pounds in her bra before she left the apartment, just in case. Her headshot came down from the mirror and joined her ring in the zippered pocket for safekeeping.
After her bath the previous night, she had gone through everything she owned, deciding what to toss and what to sell. Anything she thought she could get money for was packed in her suitcase, and she would sell it all to a secondhand store in a different area. The rest had gone in bin bags. The room was immaculately neat now, and all she needed to do was clean the bathroom after doing her hair.
It took her about two hours to become a brunette, and after rinsing her hair in the sink and drying it off, she began cutting. She had always done her own hair, so it was nothing to give her bangs a trim, shortening them until they just brushed the top of her eyebrows. She made them thicker and blunter, too, but nothing too eye-catching or complicated, like something from Vidal Sassoon. She hardly had the skills for those hair sculptures anyway. Careful that her hair fell into the sink, she took a few inches off the bottom of her hair, giving herself a bob that fell just below her chin. It was the hair of a responsible young woman, and she had seen it on dozens of girls every day. It suited her, as most things did, but she was barely recognizable.
She then did her makeup like she saw the girls in Biba doing, smudging eyeliner along her lashline. It was strange to put liner on her lower eyelid, which she usually kept bare to not draw attention to her drooping waterline, and she found her hands instinctively trying to do her normal feline flick. No more of that. With the smoky eye, she loaded on the mascara but forwent the false eyelashes and didn't put on any lipstick. She looked like an owl, in her opinion, but the "Biba Look" combined with the Biba outfit made her look like just another young woman in London. Sandie, who?
After cleaning her hair out of the sink and putting it in a separate bin bag, she did one last scan of the now immaculate room. She was leaving nothing of herself behind. Locking the door behind her, she carried the bin bags and her luggage down to the ground floor. She quietly slid the key to her room under the landlord's door, mixed the contents of her bin bags along with those from the rest of the tenants, and stepped out into the Soho air.
This new, dark girl blended into the crowd, and she went back to Knightsbridge to sell the things from her previous life. As far as she could tell, no one followed her, and she could feel herself become less anxious. Her old clothes netted her less than she had hoped, but she had more than enough to go swing back by Biba to buy a lightweight coat and a few other essentials.
To her delight, no one recognized her. She was helped by the same shop girl who had rung her up earlier that day, who treated her like an entirely new person. And Sandie was, wasn't she? She's a sensible brunette who just wanted to get by and look good doing it. Adopting a more chipper attitude, she struck up a conversation with the shopgirl, mentioning that the newer fashions were looking more bohemian. The girl, whose curly hair had been straightened into submission, began prattling about Eastern influences and how the notion of glamour was changing. As they chatted, the girl mentioned that she was a university student living in Bloomsbury, and something clicked. Bloomsbury was a bit close to Soho for her liking, but students meant cheap housing and a constant throng of people coming and going.
She asked the shopgirl, who turned out to be named Mindy, if she knew anyone looking for a roommate.
"Not really, but I think Sandy's looking for one," the girl mused. "She's in the back—I can go ask." She turned to leave but stopped herself. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"It's Sandie."
"Noooo," the girl gasped. "It's a sign!"
"I can go by Sandra," Sandie added, her mouth moving before her mind could catch up, and she found herself liking the way the name felt on her lips. She'd never used it before, and it had a certain elegance.
As it turned out, the other Sandy was indeed looking for a roommate. There were four girls in the flat, and no boys after seven, she said apologetically. The landlady didn't like music after ten, either, and you had to smoke on the balcony or out the bathroom window. When Sandie—now Sandra—learns that the rent was lower than what she paid in Goodge Place, she realized her mistake. She'd moved to the city and immediately isolated herself. She needed friends, or, at the very least, people who she was friendly with. How else would she get anywhere?
"When can I move in?" she asked, perhaps a bit too quickly, and the other Sandy gave her a startled look. She plastered a chagrined smile on her face, whipping up a convincing lie. "Sorry, it's just that my boyfriend and I broke up, and now he's dating my roommate, so—"
"Oh gosh, no. You can't go back there, I totally get it. Come over and meet everyone," she said, perhaps a little too enthusiastically for Sandra's liking. Still, the girl was genuinely sweet, she could tell, and it was nice to be around happier folk. Perhaps some of it would rub off on her.
She agreed to meet Sandy outside of the Biba doors at five and started wandering around Kensington and Notting Hill, taking note of any help-wanted signs. There were a few shops and salons that looked promising, but she didn't want to inquire while lugging around a suitcase. It reeked of desperation, and she was a focused, young woman with a good head on her shoulders and plenty to offer. She would not be desperate anymore.
That evening, she introduced herself as Sandra Croft. ("Croft" had been her grandmother's maiden name, and it would account for the "SC" embossed on her lighter and luggage tag.) The next day, she found a job in a salon right there in Bloomsbury. She would be spending her days in the back, washing hair, operating dryers, and sweeping the floor. The pay was a pittance, but she could walk there from her new apartment and you couldn't see her working from the street. Only women came in there, too, which made it an excellent hiding place. Jack and his men would never venture into such a girly domain, she figured, and she was right.
A year passed, and Sandra couldn't resist the clarion call of the stage any longer. Scraping together her funds, she took a night class in acting, just to whet her appetite. It was there she first heard about casting calls for the ensembles of West End shows. Wouldn't that be a thrill, and no one would care enough about a random girl in the back to recognize her. It took a few auditions before she booked a part, and as it turned out, being a chorus girl was much more fun when she had the chance to sing. Harmonizing with the others sent pleasant chills down her spine, and getting to do that eight shows a week? Divine. After a year with the same show, she was able to join Equity and quit her day job. "Sandra Croft" became a regular gypsy, bouncing from one musical to the next, getting the occasional solo and being recorded on cast albums.
By thirty, she hadn't had her big break, but directors loved her, booking her in comedies, dramas, musicals, plays in fun supporting roles. She was talented and professional, always on time with her lines and choreography memorized. Plus, she wasn't a diva, didn't party like lots of the others, and didn't cause any drama. By forty, she was respected by her peers, but the roles were drying up, so she cast her net more widely, dipping her toes into television and film. It would hurt her if those days with Jack became public knowledge, but after the seventies, morality about those sorts of things had changed. She had changed, too, and she felt like she could handle a scandal if need be.
No such scandal ever arose.
It's not until she's a shriveled old prune that she finally makes it. Suddenly, after decades of work, she becomes a beloved character actress of stage and screen. She wins a BAFTA, and then an Olivier. The Americans even like her, too, handing an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress into her wrinkled hands. She does a delightful miniseries with Helen Mirren, who remembers treading the boards with her many years before, and they both snag Emmy nominations. (The lovely Kate Winslet wins that year, and she pulls Sandra aside to tell her she's been a fan of hers for ages.) After all of those awards and all of that attention, Sandra appears on talk shows like Graham Norton, entertaining the masses with fun anecdotes from some sixty years in show business.
Literary agents reach out to her, urging her to write a memoir about her career, and isn't that flattering? Sandra is midway through a draft when #MeToo happens, and she begins to think. She still carries all that shame around with her, so many decades later, and why should she? She opens up to some old friends, who are nothing more than supportive, and when she seeks the advice of her manager and literary agent, they implore her to include it. How brave she would be, for sharing such a vulnerable time in her life, and her story just might inspire someone in similar circumstances to set themselves free, too.
With the ghost of her twenty-something self in her mind's eye, she nervously writes about what happened to her during that terrible year in Soho. About how close she and her dreams were to dying. About how she reclaimed her life and created a new one for herself.
To her relief, when it comes out, her book receives rapturous reviews. Suddenly, she's a grandmotherly figurehead in the fight against human trafficking and domestic abuse. Her assistant posts to social media for her, but she does read the many stories sent her way. It saddens her to see she was never alone in her trauma, but it heartens her to see strong young women breaking the taboo and speaking out to protect future victims.
Later, a young girl in Cornwall buys her memoir and reads it cover-to-cover before moving to London. Goodge Street is now filled with modern student housing, and she finds refuge from tough days of classes by listening to her grandmother's records in her tiny industrial bedsit. And when a biopic of Sandra Croft's life is made a few years later, that girl from Redruth is a part of the team designing the costumes for the film.
The peach chiffon dress she makes is just like Sandra remembers.