I was in my local bookshop, browsing the new publications, when I spotted it. A work entitled 'Soho In The '60s'. It was obvious that the subject was the sex industry in the area of London with which that trade is so closely associated. The book's cover featured a glossy black and white photo of a woman in her twenties, a mass of peroxide blonde hair framing a sultry looking face, a cigarette hanging from her mouth. Her heavy, obviously bra-less, breasts bagged her white blouse, and a black leather mini skirt ended halfway down her thighs to reveal black fishnet stockings, her feet clad in white stiletto-heeled shoes.
Having spent a few wild nights in Soho in my distant youth (I'm 38 now), I was mildly interested, and started to leaf through the book. Inside there were several glossy pages of other black and white photos of strip clubs, working girls and so on. One was a close-up on the face of the girl on the cover, grinning at the photographer with big come-on eyes. I turned past it, then literally did a double-take and flicked back to the picture. There was something so familiar about that face. It was difficult to tell, with the face caked in foundation, the eye shadow, mascara and eye liner making her look like a panda, the lips painted into a big bow and, of course, the masses of dyed blonde hair, piled in top of her head in that shot. But...the high cheekbones...the shape of the eyes and nose...the small ears with large lobes...I almost dropped the book in shock -- I was staring at a photo of my mother!
Once I'd recognised her, I didn't know why I hadn't seen it immediately. She was 67 now, but there was no question in my mind that what I was seeing was a younger version of her. I stared at the caption: apparently she had called herself Candy Cumcake. Madly, I flicked to the index of the book. There were several references to her, including one four-page block. My hands shaking, I turned to it. It was an extended interview with Candy, 'a young whore who plies her trade around Meard Street'. She spoke freely of the range of her clientele, her sexual activities, which involved every orifice, on occasions more or less simultaneously, and her involvement with petty gangsters. The prostitute's final words in the interview jangled in my brain: "Ill probably pack this in by the time I'm 30, settle down with some nice bloke and have his kids." I had been born when my mother was 29.
I stood in a state of shock. I'm a well known businessman in the small town where we live. We're only 30 miles from London, and the book was bound to arouse interest. How long would it be before someone who knew my family made the same connection I did? Maybe someone who thought the local press might be interested? Horrified at the prospect, I hurriedly bought a copy of the book and scuttled out of the store. I needed to confront my mother, and find out for certain if it really was her. I drove to my parents' home like a maniac, and screeched to a halt. Then gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles white with the pressure I was exerting, I closed my eyes, sat back in my seat, and took a few deep breaths to calm myself.
I let myself into the house and called for my mother. She stepped out of the kitchen with a smile for me, but she must have seen something in my face, because she looked alarmed and said, "Ian, what is it? Has something happened to Lucy?" That was my six-year old daughter, who lived with my estranged wife, only eight miles away from my home, but who I hadn't seen for more than two months. I shook my head and stalked into the lounge, slumping onto the couch. Mum followed me, and I looked her up and down: an elderly woman, with permed and dyed dark brown hair, a face lined with age, a slightly stooped posture, wearing a frumpy brown blouse and black slacks. As she wrung her hands, staring at me with concern, I began to wonder for the first time if maybe I'd made some horrible mistake. I asked her where my father was. Mum replied in her rather refined accent. "Oh, he's away for the weekend with his bowls club. Darling, please tell me, what is it?"
I was holding the book in my hand, the back cover face out. I said carefully, "I bought this today", and laid it face up on the low coffee table in front of me. My mother dropped her chin to look, and stared at it unmoving for fully thirty seconds. I couldn't see her face until she looked up at me again. She was trying to be nonchalant, but her cheeks had developed a deep red blush. She shrugged, but couldn't keep a slight tremor out of her voice as she said, "So you bought yourself a mucky book of some kind. What's that to me?"
Her lie angered me. "Oh come on Mum, for Christ's sake, that's you on the bloody cover!"
She tried to laugh, but it didn't come off. Blushing still deeper, she said, "Really, darling, don't be ridiculous. Do you think I could ever have looked like that?"
I hung my head, shaking it. "Please Mum, I can telly you're lying, you're not very good at it. How could you?"
