The Daily Front - Chapter 6 - The Flat at Bow Creek
Vanessa arrives at Susan’s council estate amidst a rainstorm to find Jessica and Michelle desperately trying to prevent a tragedy. As the bailiffs wait outside and Susan barricades herself away, the models realize they only have each other to rely on when Fleet Street turns its back.
The rain in East London didn't just fall; it slatted sideways against the stained concrete of the Bow Creek estate, turning the communal walkways into slick, grey rivers. Vanessa stepped out of her Ford Capri, her high heels splashing instantly into a deep puddle. She pulled her fake fur coat tightly around her shoulders, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
As she climbed the open concrete stairwell to the third floor, the sound of shouting grew louder, cutting through the low rumble of the nearby Blackwall Tunnel traffic.
On the narrow balcony outside Flat 42, two heavy-set men in damp donkey jackets stood with clipboard folders tucked under their arms. They looked thoroughly bored. Blockades and screaming tenants were just a standard Sunday morning shift for Tower Hamlets council bailiffs. But standing squarely between them and the front door was Jessica. She was still wearing her glittering club dress from the night before, her blonde hair damp and flat, wielding a heavy iron tyre lever like a broadsword.
"I told you, you miserable bastards, you touch that handle again and I’ll take the wing mirrors off your van," Jessica yelled, her Manchester accent echoing off the brutalist concrete walls.
"Jess! Stop it!" Michelle pleaded from the doorway, her mascara running in thick, black tracks down her cheeks. She turned and saw Vanessa sprinting down the walkway. "Van! Thank God. She’s locked herself in the bathroom. She’s got Toby in there with her. She won't talk to us."
Vanessa pushed past the two bailiffs, who stepped back, clearly not wanting the paperwork that came with wrestling a Page 3 model on a public walkway. "Let me through," Vanessa commanded, her voice dropping into the authoritative rasp she used whenever photographers got too handsy in the studio. She stepped inside the small, damp flat. The hallway smelled of stale baby formula, paraffin heaters, and damp wallpaper.
The bathroom door at the end of the hall was a cheap, hollow-core piece of plywood, but Susan had wedged the heavy kitchen table against it from the inside.
Vanessa walked right up to the door, resting her palm flat against the cold wood. "Susan? It’s Van. I’m here, love. Jessica’s here too, and Michelle. The bailiffs aren't coming in. We've stopped them."
From inside, there was only the sound of muffled, ragged breathing, followed by a tiny, wet cough from toddler Toby.
"Go away, Van," Susan’s voice cracked, sounding entirely hollow, stripped of the bubbly, blonde persona she put on for the cameras. "There’s no point. Finch called my mobile via the corner shop phone yesterday. He said I'm off the book completely. Said the public don't want to look at a girl who has stretch marks and a housing debt. I owe three months' rent, Van. They're going to take Toby away from me."
"Nobody is taking Toby," Vanessa said fiercely, her forehead resting against the door. "Listen to me, Susan. We earn more in a week than these bureaucrats do in a month when the bookings are good. We're going to pool it. Jess has her syndication cash, I’ve got my savings from the supplement gig."
"What savings?" Susan laughed bitterly, a sound that quickly turned into a choked sob. "We don't have savings, Van! We spend it all on the clothes, the makeup, the taxis to the studios so we don't look like scum when we turn up at Finch's desk. We're just a circus act to them. Once the tent comes down, we're just girls from the estates again."
Jessica stepped into the flat, dropping the tyre lever onto the worn linoleum with a heavy thud. She looked at Vanessa, the fire in her eyes suddenly replaced by a raw, desperate fear. "She's right, Van. Finch told me on Friday. He said we're a dime a dozen. He’s already printing a four-page pull-out of Debbie for tomorrow's edition. They don't care if we live in a penthouse or a gutter, as long as the page prints at midnight."
Michelle sank onto the bottom step of the internal stairs, burying her face in her hands. "What are we going to do?"
Vanessa stood up straight, her jaw tightening. She looked around the cramped, decaying flat, then back at the door where her friend was hiding in the dark. For years, they had competed against one another for the top spot, for the best lighting, for Finch's fleeting approval. But looking at the damp rising up the walls, Vanessa realized the truth. The rivalry was a lie invented by the men on the fourth floor to keep them from looking up.
"Susan," Vanessa said, her voice clear and steady. "Unlock the door. We're going to pay the men outside. And then, tomorrow morning, we're going to give The Daily Globe a front page they didn't buy."
The Daily Front has been developed using AI tools.
