Tart.

Sunday October 24, 1926.

Tart

After Clarence turned out to be such a horse’s arse I’ve spent all my free time down at the docks with real men who realise a girl has to get by somehow. They need a helping hand and I need money. Could it be more simple? No.

I’ve made quite a little pile that I intend to spend brightening up my room. Mr Pankhurst has said the leaking skylight will be fixed tomorrow. It’s about bloody time.

It’s starting to get cold now. I have stoked up the pathetic little stove at the foot of my bed and settled in to read some magazines, drink a big cup of cocoa and treat myself to a little tart. A little tart for a little tart.

A skinny young man came to the shop last week with his very rich Mamma. Then he passed the shop a few times the next day, stopping and staring at me with deep intent. On Friday he actually came in, but silly Lauren kept asking him if she could help him. I was serving some old shrew, but I gave him my killer smile. He leered back and then bashed his shoulder against the door as he bolted. I fully expected to see him when I left that evening, but he wasn’t there.

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