The House on Ottoman Street / Hilary Ayshford

Ivy is an armchair – the old-fashioned kind that makes you want to slump back, curl your legs up, be cradled by her wide, welcoming arms. She has seen better days; bits that used to be well sprung have collapsed into folds of lumpy flesh; the crumpled antimacassar of her jowls sags round her neck; some of her creases sprout occasional whiskers, like escaping strands of horsehair.

The bright florals of her youth have faded, but she does her best to preserve the pattern by dyeing the tassels of her hair a tarnished copper, applying a thick coating of walnut-coloured foundation that stops abruptly at her jawline, topping it with cherry wood circles where the frame of her cheek bones used to be. Pride is woven into her fabric.

Over the years many have paid to sink into her comfortable upholstery. Her breasts, once cushiony, are sagging and greasy where too many men have rested their heads. But underneath her frayed appearance the oak bearers are still sturdy.

She is Madam Ivy to the clients, Mam to the girls and Ma to Lily. 

She rarely entertains clients herself anymore, apart from a few regulars who have been with her from the beginning, and they are more likely to want a chat over a cup of tea than anything more strenuous. Paying customers are looking for something firmer and less threadbare. 
Most of them look longingly at Lily, but she is out of bounds like a roped-off throne in a stately home – too precious to be pawed by their rough hands. 

People assume Lily is her daughter; it's not an impression Ivy ever corrects. She found Lily in the same place most of her girls come from, sitting on the hard wooden benches in the bus station, backpacks like overstuffed cushions at their feet. Care-worn and stained by neglect, they have an abandoned look, ripe for rescue and restoration.

Compared with Lily, the others are kitchen chairs of moulded wipe-clean plastic. Lily is an icon of classical elegance, a Louis XIV fauteuil with finely turned legs, delicate decoration and an air of understated opulence. Bright as a button, too. Ivy engages tutors, buys text books and pays for the girl to take exams and qualify for a place at college. In return, Lily balances the books for the business and deals with the taxman. She also scavenges for new arrivals at the bus station, delivering them to Ivy for refurbishment before they go on display in the showroom.

Ivy has never been ashamed of her profession: at first, she did what she needed to survive, then discovered that her services meant more than fleeting moments of illicit physical release. Now she provides a repository for girls who have nowhere to go and no one else to care about them.

There are models available to suit every taste. Poppy is a red velvet chaise longue, languorous and luxurious for the discerning gentleman. Delphine is sleek black leather and chrome club chair, offering support but little comfort. Holly is a prickly green moquette that leaves patterned marks on bare flesh, while Violet is a recliner, soft and inviting but hard to escape.
There is a knock at the front door. Ivy heaves her bulk upright, joints squealing like castors in need of oiling. She gathers her chintz caftan around her and lumbers to the door.

The girl is a dining chair, straight-backed with spindle legs, and looks about fourteen. Ivy assesses her: not very robust and could do with some plumping up. But Lily will be off to college in a couple of months, and she’ll need someone to fill the gap.

'I met Lily at the bus station,' the girl says. 'She said you might have a bed going spare.'

'You know what goes on here?' 

She nods.

'What's your name?'

'Julie.'

Ivy sniffs her disapproval. 'I'll call you Rose. You can start off cleaning the bedrooms and then we'll see.'

She wraps a well-padded arm around Rose's shoulder and steers the girl into the parlour.