A Daughter’s Ruin

By Kitty Neale

The Sunday Times bestseller is back with a gripping, heart-wrenching tale, perfect for fans of Dilly Court’s A Village Scandal, Katie Flynn and Rosie Goodwin.

Denied
Seventeen-year-old Constance has had a privileged upbringing in Clapham, with staff to attend to her every need. But her parents have always been cold and distant, never showing her love.

Disowned
Craving affection, Constance falls into the arms of Albie Jones, the cook’s grandson. But one fateful encounter leaves her ashamed and pregnant, and she is soon shunned from the family home.

Desperate
Heartbroken and threatened by scandal, Constance is forced to wed Albie and moves to Battersea, where she suffers unforgiving stares and cruel whispers from the neighbours. Trapped in a bitter and loveless marriage without a penny to her name, Constance has no choice but to stay and surrender. Will she ever find freedom – or happiness – again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins UK
• Release date: Feb 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9780008270957

Kitty Neale

Kitty Neale was raised in South London and this working class area became the inspiration for her novels. In the 1980s she moved to Surrey with her husband and two children, but in 1998 there was a catalyst in her life when her son died, aged just 27. After joining other bereaved parents in a support group, Kitty was inspired to take up writing and her books have been Sunday Times bestsellers. Kitty now lives in Spain with her husband.

Book preview

Chapter 1

London, Clapham, July 1964

‘Constance, how dare you come down to dinner with bare legs?’ Henrietta Burton Blake chastised her seventeen-year-old daughter on Friday evening.

‘Oh, Mother, surely with just the three of us there’s no need for formality.’

‘I don’t care if there are three or thirty for dinner, standards must be kept.’

Constance could hear the slight slur in her mother’s voice and guessed she’d been drinking. It was the only clue. She was sitting rigidly upright, wearing a dated brown silk dress and her usual pearls. Her grey, tightly permed hair was immaculately groomed, but with grey eyes too, she looked colourless. It felt warm and stuffy in the dining room, but her mother appeared cool and composed, whereas Constance felt a trickle of perspiration running down her neck. ‘Mummy, it’s too hot for stockings.’

‘Please don’t argue with me. Now go back upstairs and dress properly for dinner.’

Constance sighed heavily but did as she was told and reluctantly returned to her bedroom. Her room was on the third floor of their imposing four-storey house, and her window overlooked Clapham Common. It was almost eight o’clock in the evening but still light as Constance looked briefly out of her window. She saw families with children and dog walkers enjoying the lovely summer evening. She longed to be out there too, but instead would have to sit in with her parents. She knew she’d be bored, her evening spent watching her mother getting steadily more inebriated, and her father showing increasing disapproval until he’d leave to go to his club.

After rummaging in the top drawer of her dresser and refusing to even contemplate wearing a suspender belt, Constance found her stockings and peeled them up her legs, fastening them just above her knees in a twisted, untidy knot that would be covered by her calf-length plain blue dress. With only her parents to see her, she didn’t care if the stockings wrinkled, and once summer was over she hoped to be allowed to wear tights. They were the in thing now, not silly stockings with girdles or suspender belts. She knew her mother still wore a boned corset, no doubt accounting for her rod-like stance, but as she was stick-thin Constance thought it ridiculous and unnecessary. With the way she dressed and her overbearing manner, it felt to Constance as though her mother was still living in the 1940s instead of the ’60s. The girls at college wore modern column dresses that fell just above the knee, or Capri pants, but Constance knew her mother would never allow her to wear them. There was one concession to modern living – a television – but it was only allowed on after dinner, and for about an hour before they retired for the night.

‘At last,’ Henrietta snapped when Constance appeared in the dining room. ‘Mary, you may serve us now.’

‘Yes, Madam,’ answered Mary Flinch, a fifteen-year-old girl with frizzy hair who had come to them from a nearby children’s home. She slept in one of the rooms in the eaves on the top floor and was very subservient, but strangely enough, Constance had found, Mary seemed happy to be working for them.

They also had a cook, Ethel Jones, who had a small flat next to the kitchen in the basement. Ethel had worked for the Burton Blakes for many, many years, along with her husband, who had been their gardener and handyman until his premature death six years earlier. Constance was unsure of Ethel’s age but guessed she must be around sixty. Short and tubby with salt-and-pepper hair, rosy cheeks and a ready smile, Ethel radiated warmth – a stark contrast to Constance’s mother’s coldness.

Constance twisted a strand of hair around her forefinger as she thought back to her childhood. She’d always felt unwanted or in the way, and had often fled her mother’s bad moods by sneaking down to the basement to find comfort in Ethel. The woman would make a fuss of her, offering cuddles and giving her the affection she craved.

‘How many times have I told you to stop habitually doing that to your hair?’ her mother barked, snapping Constance from her thoughts.

‘Sorry, Mother,’ she replied dutifully and sighed heavily as Mary placed a bowl of soup in front of her. Though no longer a child, Constance still loved to escape to the basement. Without the confidence of other girls her age, and after years of being belittled by her mother, she was excruciatingly shy. This had led to her being picked on at school, and now at college she kept herself to herself, finding it difficult to form relationships.

Henrietta looked at her brown-haired, plain-faced daughter and she too sighed. She had been forty, and had given up on having children, when Constance had been conceived. Instead of being overjoyed, she’d found motherhood trying, and Constance an inconvenience. It hadn’t helped that Charles, her husband, had refused to employ a nanny so she’d been forced to give up many of her social events to care for the child. On top of that, when Constance was old enough, Charles refused to send her to boarding school, saying that for a girl it was an unnecessary expense. Henrietta felt that he was punishing her for not giving him a son, though, much to her distaste, they had continued to try. The efforts had proved impossible. Now she was fifty-seven and Charles sixty-four, they were no longer intimate. That suited her, but she still found his cold and distant manner towards her difficult.

‘Mary, wake up,’ she snapped, taking her angst out on the servant. ‘Clear these soup bowls then bring our second course.’

At least Mary rushed to do her bidding, Henrietta thought with some satisfaction. She might not have been able to give Charles a son, but he couldn’t complain about the way she ran the house. Once Mary had cleared the bowls she took them out to the dumbwaiter, sent them down to the basement kitchen and waited for it to return with their next course.

‘Constance, you could have made more of an effort with your appearance,’ Henrietta complained. ‘You wouldn’t look so plain if you did something with your hair. Instead of letting it just hang straight down to your shoulders you could try putting it up, or waving it.’

‘That’s a bit harsh, Hettie,’ said Charles. ‘I wouldn’t call Constance plain.’

‘Well, she’s hardly a raving beauty, and if she wants to attract a husband she’ll have to make herself more presentable,’ Henrietta replied as she scrutinised her husband. As always, Charles was immaculately dressed, in a grey suit, white silk shirt and tie. He was a tall man, grey-haired and green-eyed, his bearing imposing. Henrietta thought to herself that Constance hadn’t inherited his looks, or hers, and she could only describe her daughter as mousy.

‘Constance is still at college and is far too young to think about marriage,’ Charles said firmly.

‘I don’t approve of young women in commerce. That leaves marriage, and I want her to marry well. She may be young, but it wouldn’t hurt to consider some suitors and arrange introductions.’

‘For goodness’ sake, Hettie, those days are gone. Nowadays young ladies pick their own husbands, and I am sure when the time comes Constance will choose wisely,’ Charles said as the lamb and vegetables arrived already plated. He frowned with disapproval. ‘What’s this, Hettie? The meat should be on a platter and the vegetables in serving dishes.’

‘I’m well aware of that, Charles, but as we only have two servants now, certain standards are impossible to maintain. Cook has time to rest between preparing our meals, but Mary has been on duty all day and she still has to wash the dinner dishes before she can retire. Therefore, the less washing-up she has to tackle, the better.’

‘It’s what she’s paid to do.’

‘So you think that working from eight in the morning until ten at night is acceptable?’

‘Come now, Hettie. Mary doesn’t work those hours. She has every afternoon off.’

‘She used to, Charles. But since you insisted that I get rid of the other cleaner, Mary has had to take on her duties too.’

‘I have to pay for a gardener and a handyman when necessary so I must cut back on household expenditure,’ Charles said grumpily, rising to his feet and throwing his napkin on to the table in disgust. ‘If you insist on employing another cleaner again, go ahead. However, her wages will have to come out of your allowance.’

‘But … but …’ Henrietta blustered. Her allowance was paltry as it was, and if Charles cut it she’d barely be able to afford the smallest of luxuries.

‘It’s either that or you do the cleaning yourself, Hettie. Now I’ve had enough of listening to you whining. I’m going to my club.’

With that, Charles marched out of the room and Henrietta was left sitting with her mouth agape. What did Charles mean when he said he was having to make cuts? Was he having money problems? No, of course not, she told herself. He was an investment banker on a high salary, advising a top City of London financial organisation. There was also this house and the sizable amount of money he’d inherited when his parents had died. He was just being mean, as always, still punishing her for not giving him a son. But how dare he suggest that she take on the cleaning! That was going too far, and she wasn’t going to put up with his miserly ways any longer.

Charles left the house and immediately his mood lifted. He wasn’t going to his club. Instead, he was going to Battersea to see his mistress. He climbed into his Bentley and, before driving off, patted his inside pocket. The necklace hadn’t cost the earth, but he hoped it would pacify Jessica. She had been his mistress for four years now – four years during which her demands had cost him a pretty penny. To add to that, his investments were not performing as well as he’d hoped, so like it or not he’d been forced to rein in his expenditure.

As he reached Clapham Junction, Charles was deep in thought. When it came to Jessica Cottle, he was no fool. He knew she was only with him for what he could give her, and so far that had been substantial. He paid the upkeep on the opulent flat in Battersea he had purchased for her to live in, opposite the park in a sought-after area. He also gave her a very generous allowance, five times more than he gave his wife, but despite that Jessica often ran up bills on his Harrods account. Charles knew he had to put a stop to her spending, but feared losing her. She enthralled him, held him in the palm of her hand, and though he was no spring chicken, she was still able to arouse him to sexual heights that he had never experienced before.

When he arrived at the flat, he parked, smiling in anticipation.

‘Charles,’ said Jessica, jumping up from the sofa as he let himself in and walked into the lounge, ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

‘I can see that,’ he replied, frowning at the young man who had obviously been seated beside her. His eyes then went back to Jessica and, seeing that she was only wearing a red silk robe, he felt a surge of anger.

‘Charles, this is Eric, my brother. I don’t think you’ve met. He’s a merchant seaman and as he has a bit of shore leave he called round to ask me out to dinner. I was just about to get ready.’

Charles relaxed. Yes, of course, he could see the resemblance. Both had almost black hair and eyes, though Jessica’s glossy locks hung almost to her waist. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Eric.’

‘Nice to meet you too, but I’d best be off. Perhaps we’ll see each other again some time.’

‘Please, don’t leave on my account.’

‘Nah, that’s all right. I only called in on the off chance that Dai … Jessica wasn’t busy.’

‘I’ll see you out, but come round again before you go back to sea,’ Jessica said quickly, escorting him out of the room and into the hall.

Charles could hear fierce whispering and once again frowned. He felt he’d arrived at an inopportune moment and had interrupted something. He just didn’t know what.

‘Bloody hell, Daisy,’ hissed Eric, ‘that was a bit too close for comfort.’

‘Don’t call me Daisy. I hate that name and changed it to Jessica. It sounds a bit more classy.’

‘If you say so, but you’ve been Daisy to me since we were kids.’

‘Yes, well, we’re not kids now and I’m on to a good thing here. I don’t want you ruining it for me.’

‘I won’t do that, but I ain’t seen you in years and you’re as gorgeous as ever. It was a bit of luck bumping into you.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ she whispered. ‘Charles might hear you.’

‘I nearly choked with laughter when you introduced me as your brother. It was quick thinking though and he obviously fell for it.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s the first thing that I could think of. Now bugger off or Charles might wonder what’s keeping me.’

‘When can I see you again?’ Eric asked, persistent.

‘You can’t. It’s too risky.’

‘It needn’t be. Look, I’ll go for a drink and then hang about until he leaves.’

‘No, Eric.’

‘I ain’t taking no for an answer. I’ve fancied you for years, and when I signed up for my first trip with the Merchant Navy, I was gutted when I came home to hear you’d buggered off.’

‘Can you blame me? You know what my parents were like.’ Jessica cast her eyes to the ground.

‘I heard rumours, talk of your dad being violent, but that was all.’

‘He used to take his belt to me, or use his fists, but I ain’t got time to go into that now. Please, Eric, you must go,’ she pleaded with urgency.

‘All right, but after a dodgy marriage I’m footloose, fancy free, and not about to lose sight of you again. I’ll see you later,’ Eric said, walking out and closing the door behind him.

Jessica sighed. It had been lovely to see Eric and he was as handsome as ever, but she’d made a silly mistake inviting him to the flat. If he came back she’d have to send him away again. As she had told him, she was on to a good thing with Charles, and after years of living in poverty and worse, she wasn’t about to give it up.

Chapter 2

Constance watched her mother make another gin and tonic, but said nothing. She’d learned a long time ago that the less said when her mother was on at least her third drink, the better. The gin affected her in two ways: she’d either become snappy and argumentative or turn maudlin, lamenting her lost youth and difficult life.

Constance quietly left the room and went down to the basement kitchen. She didn’t usually disturb Ethel during her time off in the evenings, and hoped she wouldn’t mind. She walked in and frowned when she saw Ethel sitting on a chair with her swollen feet raised on a stool. Poor Ethel, she thought. The woman’s life was a stark contrast to that of her mother’s, who’d known nothing but luxury. ‘Oh, Ethel, your feet,’ she exclaimed.

‘Don’t worry, love. Once I’ve had them up for a while the swelling will go down.’

‘I’ll have a word with my mother. You’re working too many hours, as is Mary.’

‘No, Miss, please don’t say anything,’ Ethel said worriedly. ‘At my age I’m lucky to still have a job, and one with accommodation too. As for Mary, she’s young and can manage.’

Constance wasn’t satisfied and bit her lower lip. Despite her father suggesting it, Constance knew her mother would never contemplate doing any cleaning. However, she might allow her to help Mary in some way. She still had many weeks left before she returned for her last year at college, and even then she was home early enough to help with the housework, and of course during weekends. Constance wasn’t sure what she could do, but maybe a bit of dusting or something like that would take a small amount of the burden from Mary. There was a knock on the basement door, startling Constance out of her thoughts, especially when Mary opened it to a very good-looking young man.

‘Albie, what are you doing here?’ Ethel asked, sounding surprised.

‘I’ve just popped in to see how you are,’ he said. His eyes travelled to Constance. ‘Well, well, who’s this then?’

‘Albie, this is Miss Constance, the daughter of the house, and I’d thank you to mind your manners.’

‘What do you take me for, Gran?’ he quipped with a twinkle in his blue eyes. ‘Of course I’ll mind me manners.’

‘Miss Constance, this is my grandson, Albert Jones, but he likes to be called Albie.’

‘How do you do,’ Constance said shyly. ‘It is very nice to meet you.’

‘Likewise. Has anyone ever told you that you’re a sight for sore eyes?’

‘Albie!’ Ethel snapped.

‘What, Gran? I’m only speaking the truth. She’s tasty and I’ve always fancied a bit of posh totty.’

‘Albie!’

‘Albie … Albie,’ he mimicked. ‘Gran, I think you’re turning into a parrot.’

Mary giggled, drawing his attention. ‘Hello, Mary. You’re so quiet, like a little mouse, which is more than I can say for my gran.’

‘Don’t be so cheeky,’ Ethel admonished, ‘and listen here, my lad, I’m fine so there’s no need for you to stay.’

‘What’s this? Trying to get rid of me, are you?’

‘On this occasion, yes. Miss Constance isn’t used to the likes of you with all your blarney.’

‘It’s all right, Ethel,’ Constance said hurriedly. ‘I’m going back upstairs now.’

‘That’s a shame,’ Albie said, flashing her a smile. ‘I hope we meet again.’

Constance felt her cheeks flush. She’d never met anyone like Albie before and when she looked at him her stomach fluttered. ‘Yes … err … bye,’ she stammered and then quickly turned to flee upstairs.

‘Now look what you’ve done, Albie. You embarrassed the girl,’ Ethel said, but her tone was light.

‘How old is she, Gran?’

‘She’s only seventeen, and far too young for you.’

‘Leave it out. I’m only twenty-four.’

‘Constance has had a very sheltered life and she’s an innocent, so whatever it is you’re thinking, forget it. Stick to your own class.’

‘Come off it, Gran. Those days are long gone. It seems funny that this is the first time I’ve met her. Where’s she been hiding?’

‘She wasn’t born until you were seven, and her mother didn’t allow her below stairs to mix with us. By the time she started sneaking down here behind her mother’s back, she was about ten and you’d left school to start work.’

‘It still seems funny that despite me popping in to see you, we’ve never met. I reckon you’ve been keeping her from me,’ he said jovially.

‘Miss Constance doesn’t usually come down to disturb me when I’m off duty. Anyway, now that you’ve met, I don’t want you sniffing around her. If her parents found out I could lose my job.’

‘Looking at the state of your legs, that would be the best thing for you. It’s time you retired.’

‘My flat goes with the job, so where am I supposed to live if I retire?’

‘With us.’

‘Huh, and your mother has suggested that, has she?’

‘Well, no, but I should think it’s taken for granted.’

‘Albie, you know me and your mum don’t get on. The last thing she’d want is me moving in.’

‘I know she can be a bit hard at times, but she wouldn’t see you homeless.’

‘I’m not so sure about that.’

‘Gran, I’m asking you again, why did you fall out? I’ve asked Mum loads of times too, but she won’t say.’

Ethel glanced across at Mary and said, ‘You’ve done enough for one day. Go on up to bed, love.’

‘I’m all right. I’m not tired,’ Mary protested as she wiped her nose on her sleeve.

‘You must be, and anyway, I need to talk to my grandson in private.’

‘Gran, we could go into your sitting room,’ Albie suggested.

‘Huh, the walls are so thin that we might as well be talking in here.’

‘I’ll go and sit in the garden for a while,’ Mary offered.

‘Thanks, love. We just need ten minutes,’ Ethel said, and waited until the girl left by the back door before she spoke again. ‘Albie, I don’t think your mum would want me to tell you why we fell out. Suffice to say it was my fault, and she’s never forgiven me.’

‘Your fault? I can’t believe that.’

‘It happened a long time ago, and at the time I thought I was doing the right thing. It wasn’t, but I’m not saying any more about it so don’t ask questions.’

‘Was it because she wouldn’t let me be evacuated during the war? I know it was dodgy with the bombing raids on London, so did you have a go at her for that?’

‘No, it was her decision and though I didn’t agree with it, I didn’t interfere.’

‘So why did you fall out?’

‘Albie, that’s enough. I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Bloody hell, you’re as bad as my mother.’

‘Language,’ Ethel admonished.

‘Sorry, but you and Mum are enough to make a vicar swear. I hate it that you don’t talk to each other. It means we never get together as a family and that ain’t right, especially as there’s only the three of us, what with Dad getting killed during the war, and Granddad gone.’

‘I know, love. I’ve tried to talk to her but Dora can’t forgive me.’

‘I’ll sort her out, tell her she’s out of order.’

‘No, Albie. What I did to your mum was unforgivable, so please don’t blame her. Stirring things up will just make things worse. You never know, one day she might soften. It’s the best I can hope for. Now, enough said on the matter. I don’t know about you but I could do with a nice cup of tea.’

As though on cue the back door opened and Mary poked her head inside. ‘Is it all right to come in now?’

‘Yes, love, and you can make us all a drink,’ Ethel said, relieved to bring the conversation with her grandson to an end. She had treated her daughter harshly, and was thankful that Dora had never told Albie the truth. If she did, Ethel knew she would probably lose Albie too. He was a bit of a rogue, but she loved him dearly and couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again.

Albie stayed for a little while longer and, as always, his gran began to reminisce, her happiness remaining in the past.

‘Do you remember when me and your granddad lived close to you and your mum during the war?’

‘Yeah, vaguely, on the next street, I think. It was such a long time ago, but I know granddad used to bring me to your house.’

‘That’s right, and do you remember the toys he carved for you?’

‘Not really, though I think there was a car.’

‘Yeah, that’s right. You loved that little car.’

Albie had been born in 1940 and had mixed emotions about his childhood. He knew from talk of the war that there’d been air raids and bombs falling, but he had little memory of them. Maybe it had been so horrific that his brain had shut out the sights and sounds. Other memories remained though, and he said, ‘More than the car, I can remember that I loved being with you and Granddad.’

‘We loved having you. You were our only grandchild, and still are, so we cherished any time spent with you.’

‘I didn’t know what happened at the time, or why things changed, just that you moved here and I saw a lot less of you.’

‘As I’ve told you before, it wasn’t out of choice. We were down the local pub when a doodlebug took out our house. We were left with nothing, not even a pot to piss in, so seeing a job offered with accommodation was like a godsend.’

‘A pot to piss in,’ Mary said and giggled. ‘I ain’t heard that one before.’

‘Well, you have now, but it doesn’t sound very ladylike and I shouldn’t have said it.’

Albie smiled. He didn’t care if his gran sounded ladylike or not. He loved her just as she was. ‘I suppose I must have been about three years old when your house was hit.’

‘Yes, that’s right, and then once a month, on his day off, your granddad would bring you here. The Burton Blakes were kind enough to let you visit us as long as it didn’t cause them any inconvenience.’

‘Huh, big of them,’ Albie said sarcastically. One day off a month, and his gran talked about the Burton Blakes being kind. He wondered if Constance was as bad as them, stuck up and considering herself a cut above those who worked below stairs. Maybe she was different – at least he hoped so – because now that he had met her, Albie intended to find a way to see her again. The attraction didn’t come from her looks – with straight, shoulder-length, mousy brown hair and a face devoid of make-up, she wasn’t his type. It was the way she spoke, her posh voice and demeanour, that fascinated him. Even the way she dressed was different. There had been no pencil skirt, or the Capri pants that all the girls were wearing now. Instead she wore an old-fashioned dress and wrinkled stockings that made him smile.

Thought not strictly the truth, it was as he’d told his gran. He’d always fancied a bit of posh totty, and though Constance didn’t fully fit the bill, she seemed ripe for the picking. Albie wanted to better himself, to rise above his roots, and he could learn a lot from Constance Burton Blake.

Constance sat on her window seat, twirling a strand of hair out of habit, as she waited to see Albie leave. He’d said that she was a sight for sore eyes, and she’d been unable to believe her ears. Constance knew she was plain, her mother had told her often enough, and Albie was the first boy who had spared her a glance. Of course, she realised he was just being kind, and that had been sweet of him, but he still fascinated her. He was tall with vivid blue eyes and blond hair that flopped onto his forehead, and she thought him very handsome. Ethel often talked of her only grandson, who was a long-distance lorry driver, but this had been the first time they’d met.

She recalled Albie’s remark about posh totty and, unoffended, she smiled. She hadn’t heard that said before, and hoped it meant he would try to see her again. Maybe she could ask Ethel when he was likely to visit next, and then make sure she was there at the same time.

It was dark outside now, but by the light of a street-lamp she saw Albie leave. He looked up at the windows as though aware he was being watched, and she quickly moved back, her face flushing. As he turned to saunter off, raising an arm to wave, Constance heard her mother shouting from below.

‘Constance, where are you, girl?’

She ran onto the landing and from the top of the stairs called, ‘I’m up here, Mummy, in my room.’

‘I’m not feeling well.’

Used to this, Constance ran down to help her mother. Despite the way she was treated, she longed for her mother’s love and craved her affection, but it had never been forthcoming. Now, with an arm around her mother to give support, she guided her to the first floor and into her large and luxurious bedroom at the front of the house. Her mother was leaning on her, legs wobbly, as Constance led her to the large double bed. ‘There you are,’ she said gently as she sat her down. ‘Would you like me to help you to undress?’

‘Certainly not. Go now. I can manage.’

Though her mother was attempting an imperious tone, her words were indistinct. Constance did as she was told and left the room. She knew from experience what would happen now. Her mother would lie down, fully dressed, and when her father came home he would see the state of her and sleep in another room. In the morning her mother would wake up, bathe and dress, and then come downstairs for breakfast as if nothing had happened. Constance knew that nothing would be said, and their breakfast would be perfectly civilised, as always. She could never understand why her father tolerated this behaviour.

Back in her room, Constance undressed and slipped into bed. No wonder her father spent most evenings at his club, she thought – he was driven from his own home by a drunken wife. Constance wished she too could escape, permanently, and prayed that one day she would be able to do just that.

Chapter 3

Despite intending to keep Eric Dobson at arm’s length, Jessica had found him impossible to resist and had been seeing him for the past two weeks. After so many years keeping an old man happy in bed, it was nice to feel a young man’s body and to be brought to a climax.

Jessica had escaped her parents’ home in Hackney, running away when she was sixteen. She’d lied about her age and had found cash-in-hand work as a barmaid in Fulham. For three years, she’d lived there in a tiny bedsit. Working behind the bar all that time, she was used to men ogling her, and had been out with many of them, but was sick of being wanted for just one thing – her body. She’d been a fool, mistaking sex