Wrong Knickers for a Wednesday: A funny novel about learning to love yourself

Wrong Knickers for a Wednesday: A funny novel about learning to love yourself Paige Nick Hilarious, sassy, fresh and at times completely outrageous, this is an utterly unputdownable feel-good debut from Paige Nick.Grace Hendriks has led a pretty sheltered life. So when her sister Natalie begs Grace to take her place as a Rihanna impersonator at a seedy club in Amsterdam, she has no idea what she’s letting herself in for . . . until she ends up onstage with only a pole for support and her lacy knickers in a knot!Thrown into strip-club life, and forced to share an apartment with an exotic troupe of impersonating divas with Lady Gaga-sized egos, Grace has to learn some hard lessons fast. One: living with Marilyn Monroe and Madonna isn’t easy. And two: transformations don’t happen overnight – especially when your bra is determined to sabotage your dance routine. Copyright (#ulink_168ad72a-4aea-5e59-9566-8a69e7fc266e) Published by Avon An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd The News Building 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2016 as Like a Virgin This edition published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2016 Copyright © Paige Nick 2016 Paige Nick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. 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Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780008160845 Version: 2016-07-21 Dedication (#ulink_c11bd03e-3285-5e91-a7aa-5cb89f67a489) For Sarah Lotz, for so many reasons Contents Cover (#ucfc11668-e9a3-529b-9d5c-7b0f0635ca2c) Title Page (#u8801960d-ebfa-52f9-9372-637808c77236) Copyright (#uc8df0818-3770-5c0e-a5ae-c60eabf3fbb9) Dedication (#u53282c5d-fd0c-551e-a06f-be8f46845e2a) Cape Town International Airport – 10:23pm (#ufe274ffb-bb2c-5c17-b669-a074822868bd) €200.00 (#u5c749775-dd45-58f0-8851-cb4423bd4405) €175 (#ucc062d16-254e-56f2-ac2d-d03c5f4e29fb) €151.20 (#u287e8a7f-63fb-55fd-8f04-a20af60c6804) - €73.80 (#litres_trial_promo) -€194.30 (#litres_trial_promo) - €189.30 (#litres_trial_promo) - €171.30 (#litres_trial_promo) - €170.30 (#litres_trial_promo) - €200.30 (#litres_trial_promo) - €173.30 (#litres_trial_promo) - €185.30 (#litres_trial_promo) €58.30 (#litres_trial_promo) - €208.30 (#litres_trial_promo) - €226.90 (#litres_trial_promo) €932.42 (#litres_trial_promo) €740.84 (#litres_trial_promo) €1,172.15 (#litres_trial_promo) €1,212.64 (#litres_trial_promo) €2,046.23 (#litres_trial_promo) €1,871.23 (#litres_trial_promo) €2,173.45 (#litres_trial_promo) €3,633.12 (#litres_trial_promo) €3,713.12 (#litres_trial_promo) €3,824.62 (#litres_trial_promo) €4,983.12 (#litres_trial_promo) €6,002.12 (#litres_trial_promo) €7,021.83 (#litres_trial_promo) €7,590.32 (#litres_trial_promo) €7,999.32 (#litres_trial_promo) €9,951.97 (#litres_trial_promo) €10,151.97 (#litres_trial_promo) €10,196.97 (#litres_trial_promo) €10,124.97 (#litres_trial_promo) €200.00 (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Cape Town International Airport – 10:23pm (#ulink_d51e31f2-ffb1-5564-9ae1-df50ee45a4a8) > Boarding in 5 mins. Natalie, I don’t think I can do this. > u can Grace!!!! stop freaking out > What if I get caught? > U cant think like that they will pick up on it!!!! People can smell fear. chill > Easy for you to say. Your butt isn’t on the line. > Srsly???? U know I wd have been there in a heartbeat if I cudve > I know I know, Nat. I’m just scared. > I’m counting on u Grace dnt fck it up. U kno how important this is > I’m trying OK! > You have to try harder. You can’t be such a wuss your whole life! > I told you, Nat, I’m trying. > u think Lucas suspects nything? > No I don’t think so. He trusts me. But I hate lying to him. Maybe we should just tell him the truth? > NO! Jezuz Grace! u swore u wldn’t tell him. He’ll neva understand. Plus u kno he hates my guts, he’d go ballistic if he knew you were doing this for me > I’m sure he would understand if we explained it. > Y can’t u just b ur own person 4 once? U promised u wldnt tell him. I need u to do this for me. & u owe me this at least > OK, I'm doing it! I’m at the airport, I’m flying to Amsterdam, aren’t I? Look I have to go. We’re boarding now and Lucas just WhatsApped me. I’d better message him back before I have to turn off. Text when I land … if I land! > Dnt tell him! U can do this, Grace * > Hey wife to be. I’m missing u already. X What’s happening? … Grace??? U there?? > Hi husband to be They just called my section. I’m in line, getting ready to board. > Can’t believe ur going away for so long XX > Time will fly. Better go, I don’t want to miss my flight. > I do want u to miss ur flight Grace, I miss u 2 much already! > I’ll be home before you know it, and then we can plan our wedding. > U not scared? First time overseas by yrself is a big thing, babes XXX > I’m cool. But if anything happens to me, know I love you. > Lol nothing’s going to happen to u. Just drink lots of water on the plane and WhatsApp me the second you find wifi when you land. I want all the details! XXX > Kay! Gotta go. > I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with u, babes! I love you. > Me too. Love you. xxx €200.00 (#ulink_801ec1fc-7337-5122-ba6e-7c554a0cea35) I stare at the back of the woman in the EU passport queue in front of me and concentrate on the list of Jay-Z World Tour dates printed on her hoodie. Despite the fact that it’s winter in Amsterdam, I’m sweating like crazy in my fleece-lined coat. But at least it’s concealing my sweaty armpits from the eyes of all the immigration officers, cameras and highly trained security personnel dotted around the terminal. All on the lookout for the scared, the nervous and the idiots with heroin shoved up their backsides. Jay-Z lady nudges her bag forward with her foot and rolls a shoulder. I fix my eyes on the words on the back of her hoodie (‘Atlanta Stadium, July 25’) and steady myself. I’m close enough in the queue now to check out the impassive faces of the men in the immigration booths. This could go really well or phenomenally badly, depending on whether the immigration officer I get is having a good day or a bad day, how naturally suspicious he is, if he needs the bathroom or is in a hurry to get to a tea break, and if he’s sharp-eyed enough to notice that I’m nowhere near the mirror image of the woman in my passport photo. I shuffle forward again, eyes glued to ‘Yankee Stadium, NYC, June 30’, my heart spiking in my chest, waiting for the sirens to shriek, or a hand to clamp down on my shoulder. * I made it. I can’t believe I flippin’ made it! Mouth dry, heart thudding, I focus on walking like a normal person (as opposed to someone who’s just committed a felony) towards Baggage Claim. Sweat trickles down my sides under my jacket. The airline’s rubbery breakfast omelette is repeating on me, but I don’t care. I made it. A weird sense of elation washes over me. I love the sad empty carousel going around and around. I love my exhausted, smelly fellow passengers, jostling to be the closest to the front, despite the fact that their suitcases will come when they come. I love the cleaner with the veined nose, sweeping up invisible dust bunnies. I move in beside Jay-Z lady and grin at her widely. She half-smiles back, returns to her phone, then glances at me again. I start to relax a little, but I’m not free yet, there’s still customs to go through. They could just as easily catch me there. I picture the whole scene unfolding in vicious clarity: the hand on my shoulder, the ‘come with me, please, ma’am’, the bite of the handcuffs, the click of the camera phone as Jay-Z lady takes a shot for her Instagram. Then the cold room, the even colder strip search, complete with the snap of latex gloves. The single tearful telephone call I’ll get, which I’ll use to call Lucas, who won’t understand anything I’m saying. And when I explain, he’ll dump me on the spot and leave me to rot in a Dutch prison forever. I’ll have to swap sexual favours and cigarettes for loo paper and wear sanitary towels as shoes in the shower, because I don’t have money in my commissary for flip-flops. I wonder if Dutch women’s prisons are anything like Orange Is the New Black. Natalie’s black and white wheelie suitcase, with the striped ribbon we bought at Kwaai Lappies in Woodstock (so I’d recognise the suitcase more easily in a crowd like this one – Lucas’s idea, he’s got such a practical mind), slides out of the carousel’s mouth. My relief at seeing something familiar is overwhelming and ties a knot in my throat. Which is ironic, since it’s not really my suitcase, and it’s full of someone else’s clothes. Jay-Z lady is still staring at me as I drag the case past her. ‘Hey, anyone ever tell you that you look just like—’ she starts. ‘All the time,’ I say, cutting her off. ‘Thanks.’ I keep moving and head for the exit. * ‘Nothing To Declare’ is the last of this set of hurdles. I avoid eye contact with anyone and stride towards the exit, concentrating on looking innocent, yet purposeful. They probably aren’t looking for the kinds of things I have to declare, but who wants to chance it? At last, hallelujah, sliding doors exhale me into the Schiphol airport arrivals terminal. I drag the suitcase behind me and glance back over my shoulder, still paranoid, amazed nobody has chased me down yet. The route out is lined with bobbing meerkat heads. Dozens of people waiting for friends and family. There are also a few people in chauffeur outfits, holding up boards with names on them. There’s nobody waiting for me, Grace. They’re waiting for the person in the passport I’m travelling on: Natalie Hendricks. I pause and stare at the crowd, not sure what I’m looking for. I’m the only static in the terminal; people pass by me in flashes. The new paranoia replacing my immigration angst, is getting stranded at the airport with only two hundred euros to my name. It would mean coming clean to Lucas, telling him the real reason I suddenly had to fly off to Amsterdam with only a few days’ notice. More lies. He doesn’t deserve this. ‘Rihanna!’ The shrill voice carries through the airport’s background hum. I swing my head around to try spot the star, and notice a number of other people doing the same, some staring at me with curiosity. ‘Rihanna, dahhhlink!’ the voice shouts again. Of course, they’re calling me. I spot a couple in their late fifties or early sixties making a beeline for me. There’s movement and a blur of too-bright colours, and then I’m enveloped in the woman’s arms and a cloud of too-strong Issey Miyake, although if you ask me, any amount of Issey Miyake is too strong. ‘It’s you,’ the woman says in my ear. I’m not really the ‘you’ she thinks I am, but the fact that she recognises me despite myself is a massive relief. The woman kisses me on one cheek, then the other cheek and then finally goes in for a third kiss back on my first cheek. All of which feels like too many kisses from a complete stranger. ‘We do three kisses here, dahlink. Because the Dutch are three times as gezellig,’ she gushes, her accent strong. ‘Welcome to Amsterdam,’ a man says from just behind the woman, and I hope he stays where he is. I’m not much of a stranger-hugger, particularly after fifteen hours of panic sweating. I try to place the couple’s accents, which are sing-song and don’t sound anything like Afrikaans, so they can’t be Dutch. The man’s not fat exactly, but he’s filled out, rounded at the edges. His face is taut and barely lined, but overly tanned, almost orange. His eyebrows are perfectly plucked into straight lines too high above his eyes to look natural (and is that mascara?). When he smiles, his bleached teeth are almost fluorescent. ‘I’m David,’ he says, extending his hand for a business-like shake, for which I’m grateful. ‘We spoke on the phone.’ I nod, as if I know what he’s talking about. ‘Me, I’m Dania,’ the woman says. She’s wiry and muscular, with the body of a retired career dancer. Dark roots peek out at the scalp of her short peroxided blonde hair. Her lips are swollen with collagen and she has clumps of eyeliner gunk in the corners of her eyes. ‘Your flight was good, ja?’ ‘Okay, thanks,’ I say. ‘This is your first time in Amsterdam, dahlink?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Excellent, isn’t it, David?’ Dania says, elbowing him in the ribs. ‘We’re very excited. In twenty years of doing the show we’ve never had a Rihanna before, have we dahlink?’ ‘Or a South African,’ he adds. ‘It was our son, David Junior’s idea. He wants us to find more modern acts. So I’m not familiar with all your songs yet, but we’re no strangers to showbiz,’ she says, doing jazz hands. David nods enthusiastically, again. He’s like one of those plastic nodding dogs people put on the back seats of their cars. ‘Let me guess …’ Dania takes me by the chin, her fingernails digging into my skin as she inspects my face. ‘Cheek implants? Ja?’ ‘What? No! Of course not!’ I say and pull my head out of her grasp. ‘These are my own cheeks.’ ‘Brow lift?’ David asks. I shake my head. ‘A boob job, then?’ Dania asks, as both of them stare blatantly at my chest. ‘No, nothing,’ I say, annoyed. Dania pauses to re-evaluate me through critical eyes. ‘Sometimes performers send us their pictures, and when we see them in real life, they look nothing like it. It takes quite a lot of work for some.’ ‘And tape,’ David cuts in. ‘But you’re mostly okay,’ Dania says, looking me up and down like she would a prize cow. I’m almost waiting for her to run a hand over my rump. ‘You are a little heavier than in your pictures though, ja?’ Heat floods my cheeks. Are they effing serious? I’ve only just met these people. The weight comment is a low blow. One of my biggest worries about this whole scam is that Natalie is quite a bit smaller than me. ‘But the fat will come off with a little work,’ Dania says. I open my mouth, about to blurt out that I’m tired and sweaty and not a piece of meat, that I’m not actually who they think I am and I don’t need this scrutiny. And that I don’t think this is going to work, but David cuts me off before I blow everything. ‘She looks tired, shall we get her to the house?’ he says. ‘Of course, ja.’ Dania throws up her hands in a jangle of bracelets. ‘How unthinking of me, keeping you standing here like a potato sack!’ She slips an arm through mine and it takes pure effort of will not to pull away. ‘We will become close, like sisters. I can tell. Like pod peas,’ she says. I’m tempted to say she’s probably too old to be my sister, more like an aunt. But she interrupts my thoughts. ‘… Okay so we go home, ja? You have the performance at eight, so we must be moving so you can settle.’ Wait a minute … ‘I’m performing tonight?’ I gulp. ‘Ja. Tonight. You received the schedule that was sent by David Junior on the email, yes?’ ‘He sent it already three days ago,’ David says as he fishes for his keys in his pocket, and then turns towards an exit. Thanks a lot, Natalie! Dania clacks off behind him. I reach for the case and follow. Not because I want to, but because I really don’t have any other choice. My breath steams a pulsing misty shape on the back-seat window. I wipe it away with the back of my hand, only to create another one almost immediately. There hasn’t been enough time between agreeing to come here and do this, and then getting on the plane, to build up any kind of real idea of what Amsterdam would be like. Somewhere in the back of my mind I pictured old canal-type postcard images and flashes of the infamous red-light district. But since leaving the airport car park, we’ve been driving through an urban landscape that could be anywhere, with glass-clad high-rises reflecting low, grey skies. Accordion music blares from the car stereo, and my stomach lurches at David’s stop–start driving. Dania doesn’t appear to notice, even though she keeps jerking forward, her collarbone straining against the seat belt. She’s alternating between singing what could be Swedish lyrics and volleying questions at me about South Africa. I think she’s muddled us up partly with Uganda and partly with Zimbabwe, but I’m too exhausted to correct her. ‘Do you see often lions at home?’ she asks. ‘No,’ I respond. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Africa. You belong to a tribe, yes? We have nothing like that at home in Sweden. They say it’s beautiful in South Africa. But the crime …’ She ticks her tongue against the back of her teeth. After twenty-five minutes on the highway, the landscape changes and we weave through busy, narrowing streets. I finally catch a glimpse of my first canal. It looks dark and oily, but also somehow rich, old and majestic at the same time. David finally fishtails the car onto a cobbled street, shadowed by tall but surprisingly narrow stone and brick buildings that slant up into the sky. ‘I’ve never seen so many bicycles,’ I say. They stream around us, ferrying women, children and dogs, even families of four, in wagon-like trailers and bicycle back-seats. David almost takes out a dozen of them, making me yelp out loud a few times, but neither he nor Dania notices. ‘You find parking, k?ra,’ Dania says, opening her door before he’s stopped the car fully. ‘I’ll take Rihanna up, show her around and meet you back at the club, ja?’ I clamber out of the car, grateful for solid ground, which after fifteen hours in transit and the car ride with a clearly blind Formula 1 wannabe, doesn’t feel all that solid. A motion-activated light clicks on with an electric clunk as Dania steps through the front door of the building ahead of me, revealing an ancient wooden staircase. It’s so narrow I don’t know how a more horizontally challenged (i.e. fat) person would make it up. Squeeze up sideways? Live somewhere else? The stairs aren’t just narrow and creaky; they’re also as steep as an advanced-level ski slope. I have to clutch the banister with one hand and lean forward as I follow Dania, my suitcase thunking up every step behind me. Dania unlocks a door at the top of the first flight. She’s not even out of breath, and I’m puffing and panting my way up. It takes me so long to heave myself and my bag up the stairs that the motion sensor light switches off, plunging the stairs into darkness. Dania has to wave her arms to turn it back on again. When I catch up with her, we step into a large living area, with high ceilings and wooden floors. The meaty smell of other people’s cooking permeates the air. The lounge is simply decorated, but with so much furniture that it reminds me of the Big Brother house on TV. I count three enormous couches. Magazines in various languages are strewn on each of the four coffee tables, as well as a scatter of empty mugs, bottles of nail polish in every colour, emery boards and a hairbrush. The street-facing windows are draped with blue denim curtains and look out onto the canal below. ‘It’s a … a … beautiful flat,’ I say. It’s not really what I’m thinking, but manners prevail. I wonder who stayed here before me. They haven’t left it very tidy for the new tenant. ‘Good. We hope you’ll be very comfortable here, ja? This is your new home and you must treat it as your own. As a fellow performer, I know how hard it is being far away from home. Discomfortable, really. But if you ever need to talk to us, David and me, we are here for you, like family people. Now we show you the kitchen, ja?’ It’s not actually a question, but her voice naturally rises at the end of all her sentences. It must be a Swedish thing. I follow her into the next room, where three stoves are lined up against one wall. There are also two microwaves and three fridges. It seems a little excessive. The smell of unfamiliar cooked food is more pungent in here. Cabbage and something that makes me think of boiling sheep heads. ‘You’ll find your name on a shelf in the cupboard and one in a fridge for your groceries. Word of helping, don’t touch anyone else’s shelf. These girls are thin and hungry, food is important, and it’s a quick way to make enemies.’ ‘Girls?’ I blurt out. ‘Ja, sure, the girls,’ Dania says. ‘What girls?’ ‘The other performers. The girls who live here.’ She gives me a curious stare. ‘Ohhh, of course. The other girls,’ I say, trying to sound casual. Effing, effing Natalie! First I’m performing on my first night, next I’m living in a communal house with goodness knows how many other women. I should have grilled Natalie more closely before I agreed to any of this madness. What did I think, that I’d have a whole apartment to myself? That was just na?ve. The enormity of what I’ve agreed to do strikes me, and I have to put my hand down on the sticky kitchen counter for balance. Not only am I going to have to pretend to be someone else on stage, but where I’m staying as well. I’m going to have to perform – as Natalie being Rihanna – twenty-four/seven. This is completely insane. I gnaw at a fingernail, trying not to panic. ‘It’s not always so quiet here, like this,’ Dania is saying, oblivious to the fact that I’m on the verge of hyperventilating. ‘The girls are all at the club early today for spraying tan. Winter problems. Come, we continue with the touring.’ I traipse down a corridor behind Dania, wiping my sticky palm on my leg and taking deep breaths. She pushes open a door to a small, cluttered bathroom. ‘Bathroom, ja?’ she says, her voice businesslike. I follow her back to the lounge. ‘There’s no phone. We did once try, but with calls to Croatia and Estonia, it’s difficult to manage the bill. There is Wi-Fi limitlessly though, so you can be in touch with all your people at home. The code is on a piece of paper, stuck to the side of that cupboard, ja.’ ‘Thank you,’ I say, my lip trembling. ‘You are from a big family, ja?’ ‘No. It’s just me and my older sister. Our parents died some years ago in a car accident.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ Dania says, ticking her tongue against the back of her teeth again and giving me that look everyone gets when you tell them you’re an orphan. Pity mixed with discomfort. People don’t know what to say. Which is fine by me; there’s nothing you can say. ‘What about a boyfriend?’ Dania asks, reaching for my hand and pulling it towards her to examine the naked ring finger. ‘Or children?’ Clearly this woman has no personal boundaries. ‘I have a fianc?,’ I say. ‘His name’s Lucas. He’s a teacher.’ Like me, I almost say, but stop myself just in time. ‘How does he feel about you being here?’ ‘He’s … ummm … He’s supportive and excited.’ ‘This is unusual but good. And you have left Africa by yourself before, k?ra?’ she asks. ‘Not since we came back to South Africa from exile, when I was a little girl,’ I say. ‘You will get used to it. I should know. David and I have been in showbiz for over thirty years, ja. Travelling, performing everywhere. Who would you say we look like?’ she says, brightening and landing both hands on her hips in a theatrical pose. ‘I don’t know …’ ‘Guess,’ she says, sticking her neck out towards me so I can examine her features more closely. ‘Really, I have no idea. Sorry.’ ‘Go on, just one guesses. I give you a hint; David and I have the most successful double act in Sweden for over twenty years. Who do you say I look like?’ ‘Joan Rivers?’ I offer, realising too late that this might not be very complimentary. Dania grimaces. ‘Sorry. It’s been a long day, the flight and everything … I haven’t slept much,’ I stutter. She recovers quickly. ‘You make a joke. Here, I give you another hint …’ she says. She starts gyrating her hips and breaks into song – something completely unrecognisable. ‘It’s on the tip of my tongue,’ I say. I haven’t got a clue, but anything to make her stop. ‘I tell you,’ she says, clapping her hands together, ‘but you’ll kick your back … is Sonny and Cher! Ja?’ ‘Wow, now that you tell me of course you are, I can really see the likeness,’ I lie again. ‘I suppose it’s hard to tell without the wig.’ ‘Exactly, and the outfits,’ I say. ‘Plus, I’m really tired. Any other day I would have gotten it just like that.’ I click my fingers. ‘In 1982 we are coming number eight in the Eurovision Song Contest,’ Dania says. ‘Anyway … that was then.’ She waves her hand in front of her face. ‘We retired from the biz in 1999. Then we come over here and buy the club with all our savings and prize-winnings money and so Legends was born. It is the first club like this in the whole wide world. The rest is history. David Junior was still cute baby boy then. Now he’s not so baby, but still cute-cute, my boy.’ Dania retreats into a daydream with a half-smile on her face. When I clear my throat, she starts. ‘Come, I take you now to show your room, ja? I grab my suitcase and we return to the landing. The stairwell lights click on with another clunk and we continue up the remainder of the steep, narrow staircase. I drag the stupid, heavy case behind me again. What the hell did Natalie pack in here, bricks? I’m amazed I have any body fluid left to sweat out. Dania unlocks the door and we spill into a narrow corridor before the light times out again. The suitcase wheels whir along the wooden floor as I follow Dania down a narrow passageway punctuated with closed doors. Dania unlocks the very last door and pushes it open for me, but doesn’t go inside. Instead she holds out a clog keyring with the words ‘I heart Amsterdam’ and four keys attached to it. ‘This is for the door on the street, ja? This is the front door key, and this is the second floor key, and this is your bedroom key. Don’t lose. And also, don’t write the address on it, because if you do lose we have to change all the locks in the house. Which is a katastrof and will be for you to pay. But do write the address down somewhere, in case of getting lost. Everyone gets lost in the beginning. There are only two bathrooms in the house. The one we look at downstairs and another one through that door. There are more showers and locker space at the club, ja? So you can use also those.’ ‘Thank you.’ I stare at the keys in my palm, thoughts racing. If anyone had told me three days ago that today I’d be moving into a house in Amsterdam with I don’t even know how many other women from who knows where – I’ve lost track of how many bedroom doors we passed – I’d have said they were smoking their socks. ‘Get comfortable, get ready and I come back in two and a half hours to take you to the club. You perform a bit after eight, ja?’ ‘Wait … I …’ I scramble to think of a way to get out of performing so soon. Sudden flu? Ebola? What are Ebola symptoms? A cough? That’s too easy. Throw myself down the steep narrow stairs and pray I break something? ‘I almost forget, house rules …’ Dania cuts into my thoughts of stepping in front of a speeding bicycle. ‘No smoking in the house, not even out a window. If you must smoke you can go out on the street, but is very bad for wrinkles, ja?’ she says, stroking her cheek with the back of her palm. ‘And no drugs of course, but number one – no men allowed in the house.’ I nod numbly. ‘I mean it,’ Dania says sharply, her demeanour instantly hard. ‘No men allowed, not one, not by a mistake, not for one minute or thirty seconds, not if he is your brother or your uncle or your great cousin, or long-lost twin, or waxer, even if he is gay. And not for any other reason you can come up with. I have heard them all a hundred times, I can promise. One strike is out, no questions, no answers. It is rule number one, two, three and four here, ja?’ It’s obviously a speech she’s given a million times before. ‘Of course, absolutely,’ I say. There’s no way I’m bringing anyone up here. Who would there be to bring? And anyway, they’d never handle these stairs. I just want to focus on staying out of trouble, not getting caught, and seeing out my time here without any speed bumps. And then I’ll take the money home for Natalie. Satisfied she’s made her point, Dania softens. ‘I must go, ja? David will be waiting for me.’ ‘About tonight …’ I say. ‘Ja?’ she says. What’s there to say? I’m here to perform: that’s my job. I can’t tell her I’m not prepared, that I’m not who she thinks I am, especially after making it this far. This has to work. ‘Nothing,’ I say quietly. ‘See you later.’ Dania’s skirt swirls around her in the passage as she turns to leave. * The bedroom has a university-dorm-room vibe. Although it’s almost too small to have a vibe at all, with just enough room for two single beds as long as there’s no cat swinging going on. I gnaw on the edge of my thumb; I’m clearly sharing with someone – one of the beds is unmade and there are clothes strewn everywhere. It looks like a bomb hit it, followed by a tsunami and then a hurricane. I assume that the made-up bed is mine, and heft the suitcase onto it, then extract a lacy pink bra from my pillow and examine it closely. Whoever I’m sharing with has clearly never met a hanger or a drawer before, and has ginormous boobs. I lay the bra down gently on the unmade bed on top of a flotsam of clothes and a jetsam of underwear. I take a deep breath: this is going to be an adjustment. Not only sharing the house, but sharing a room too. It’s a double whammy I could do without. I could kill Natalie, give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and then kill her all over again. I tentatively open the closet. It’s stuffed to overflowing with dozens of dresses. No wonder there’s so much clothing on the floor and bed. I open the top drawer in the bureau next to the closet. It’s packed with underwear. I run my fingertips over a pair of white lace panties, and try to picture the person who belongs to them. Then I hear footsteps and voices somewhere in the house. It would make a really bad first impression to be caught fiddling with my new roommate’s knickers if anyone came in here now, so I shove the drawer and cupboard closed and dart back to the suitcase. There’s no room to unpack anything, but I need to figure out what I’m going to wear for my first performance tonight. At some point I’m going to have to move past denial and realise that this thing is happening. I pull out the first dress I find, folded on the top layer of the suitcase, and try to shake out its creases. It’s a short white dress, low-cut in the back. Next to it lies a pair of six-inch white platform heels. I pull them out, but they weigh a ton, and I don’t want to break my neck on my first night, so I set them aside. I fish a little further down, feeling for the simple black wedges I shoved down the side of the suitcase a day ago. Those will have to do for now. Sorry, Rihanna. * > Lucas, I’m here, I made it. I’m in Amsterdam, I’m alive! > Oh thank goodness, babes, I’ve been worried sick. > Sorry, only just got to the house and got connected to the wi-fi here. > How was ur flight? > Long but fine. Only two crying babies. > Brave girl! What’s it like there? > Seems nice. Bit cold. Beautiful. Headmistress from the school was waiting for me at airport. Her name’s Dania. I think she’s Swedish. > And the place where ur staying? Send pics. I look around the tsunami room. No way can I send him pics of this; he’d have a billion questions, and I don’t have any answers yet. > It’s a pretty regular apartment in the city. I’ll send pics as soon as I’m settled. There are a bunch of other trainee teachers in the programme also staying here. > Men and women? > Don’t know, they’re all at school still, haven’t met anyone yet. > Miss u like crazy already wife to be. XXX > Me too husband to be. I love you! I’d better go unpack. XXX > Message me later, ok? Want to hear everything. Love u too too much. XXXXX and don’t forget to send pics. * > Hi Nat > Hi, where u Gracie? > I made it. I’m in Amsterdam at the apartment. > So customs & immigration ok? No questions about my passport? > Nope, no problems, can you believe it? They just let me through. Such a relief. > Yes! Knew ud b fine. Jealous!!!! U xited? > No, I’m terrified. I have to perform in a few hours. Don't think I can do this. > Course u can, member we discussed this! Its just like doin karaoke > You know I hate karaoke! And all your dresses are too small for me! > Shit! Was worried about that. Wat u wearing?? > The white one like the one she wore for the X Factor final. But it’s super-tight. What if I don’t look like her out there? > Grace pls!! Grow up! U look more like Rihanna than me, everyone always says so > I’m too short and fat to be her. > Will b fine fake it till u make it > How do you walk in these heels, let alone dance in them? I’m freaking out! > it’s easy u just need practice. u know I wldnt ask u to do this if it wasn’t rly important > I know. And I know how much you’ve sacrificed since mom and dad died. But I’m sure everyone here will see through me after five seconds. > U can’t b such a wimp Gracie. Channel her, like we used 2. U can do this! > I’m really nervous. > Ur in Amsterdam, smoke a spliff to ease ur nerves > You know I don’t smoke. > Always such a goodie-goodie. How do we cum from same genes? u can eat it 2 u know > What does it do when you eat it? > It’s amazeballs! Not hectic but it will make you totally chill! Perfect 2 kick nerves before u perform > Really? > Wld I lie 2 u? Gr8 2 take edge off. Have half a brownie, ull barely feel it, will just make u relax > No ways! I’m freaking out. I haven’t danced in years. > eat the dope cookie ull be 100% – just bendier for dancing. Go on wimpface, do it! > You know I don’t do drugs, Natalie! > Well I wld totes do it if I was there. Dunno y u being such a baby > Fingers crossed I don’t fall on my face. > Ull be fine. Break a leg babe > I think one broken leg in the family is enough! That’s what got us into this mess in the first place! > <3 u. Go make lots of $ and try have sum fun for once in ur life!!! Ur far 2 serious €175 (#ulink_58b4f92e-e088-5bc5-babb-45247c981cb4) Oh God, oh God, oh God. Why did I listen to Natalie? I should have just stayed in the house and taken a nap, not wandered into the nearest coffee shop and ordered a hash brownie to calm my nerves. It seemed so innocent, so harmless. And it was, until it kicked in half an hour ago, just as I was waiting for Dania to collect me to take me to the club. I only ate a bit of it at first, but nothing happened, so I thought maybe it wasn’t working, so I had a bit more, and then a bit more, and then the whole thing was gone, and then … oh God. My tongue feels swollen, the cobbled pavement like chewing gum under my wedge heels. And I’m sweating, despite the icy air. Cold sweat. Cold, greasy sweat. Saliva floods into my mouth – I can’t be sick. Not here on the street. Not in front of Dania. No … don’t think like that. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. ‘You okay, k?ra?’ Dania’s voice is too loud. In fact, everything is too loud and too bright. It’s winter, there’s no sun, why is everything so bright? ‘Yes,’ I think I say. She says something else, but it’s all I can do to keep up with her as she shepherds me along the street. A part of me is vaguely aware that I should be paying attention to my surroundings, because at some point later, if I don’t die from dagga poisoning or get arrested for impersonating an impersonator, I’ll have to make my way back to the house. This horrible feeling has to pass soon, surely? I fight my way through another wave of nausea and now I feel … floaty. Yes. Floaty is the best way to put it. Like I’m here, but I’m not really quite here, like my body is a shadow or a hologram, fluid, but not liquid. But the floaty feeling doesn’t entirely numb the thrumming in my stomach, especially when I think about where we’re going. I feel like I’m on the way to my own funeral. ‘Whoa,’ Dania says, lashing an arm out and pulling me back as I’m about to step off the pavement. ‘Dahlink, you must look the other way, ja?’ she says as a cyclist flies past in a blur. I was almost toast, which wouldn’t have been so great in the long term, but at least it would have solved my immediate problems. I look right, and see that she’s not lying; things here go in a different direction to what I’m used to back home. A girl like me could lose her head in a city like this if she doesn’t pay attention. Breathe. Concentrate on breathing. I drag cold air into my lungs, exhaling giant plumes of air like I’m smoking one of my sister’s Rothmans. The fug in my head clears a little, and the nausea is definitely lessening. Good. We stride past a canal with fairy lights that give the stone bridge a surreal jigsaw-puzzle vibe. Somewhere off in the distance, Dania is telling me about the area. Historical significance, something about the red-light district, blah blah blah. I nod and uh huh her onwards. There are houseboats parked along our path, or moored, that’s right, you moor a boat, you don’t park it. Mr Mason, my high-school English teacher would be proud. At least the education Natalie sacrificed so much to get me through was worth something. I suck in more air, desperate to sharpen my brain. I should never have eaten that whole brownie. Surely I’ve learnt by now that listening to Natalie leads to trouble nine times out of ten? Like the time she shoplifted a lipstick when I was ten and she was fourteen and she put it in my bag, saying they’d never search a little kid. But this is way more serious than a phone call to your parents and being grounded for a few months. It’s immigration fraud! If I get caught, I’m in as much trouble as if I’d stepped off that kerb straight into that five-speed bike. I’m definitely going straight to hell, via jail. Or this could just be the dope-induced paranoia I’ve heard about. I need to pull myself together. We pass a houseboat and inside a cat is curled up on the kitchen windowsill. I wish I were that cat, with no responsibilities for the night other than licking myself. Dania’s still talking to me, but her words float in one ear and out the other. I try to respond as generically as possible so my answers cater to the widest range of possible questions. Uhmmmm works, so does a vigorous nod, delivered with an intense and interested look on my face. We cross the street and I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window. It makes me want to giggle. Underneath my open coat (Why is it open? It’s freezing out here), I’m squeezed into Natalie’s Rihanna dress, my hair styled in a mirror-image of Rihanna’s do. For a second, I’m almost grateful to be stoned: I look like sausage meat stuffed into a too-small casing. My hair and make-up are passable, I suppose: I haven’t forgotten all of Natalie’s and my secrets from back when dressing up like Rihanna was our party trick. I get the overwhelming urge to tell Dania that looking like a celebrity is like being very tall. People constantly make a point of telling you how tall you are. Like they’re letting you in on a secret they’ve been the first to uncover. It’s just karaoke, it’s just karaoke, I repeat to myself as paranoia makes my nerves swell again. Sing ‘Umbrella’ and jump around a bit, it will be fine. But another voice in my head has something else to say: You know what ‘fine’ stands for don’t you? Effed up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional. Shut up, I tell myself. Turns out my paranoid stoner inner voice is really annoying. I almost walk into Dania’s back as she stops at an unmarked door on a narrow but bustling street, full of touristy restaurants, coffee shops, something called a Febo, which looks like a giant food-vending machine, and brightly lit kebab shops. I could chow a kebab right now. I hear a ripple of giggles and realise too late that they’re coming from me. ‘Are you sure you’re feeling all right, k?ra?’ Dania says, looking at me with concern. I put my hand in front of my mouth to staunch the flow of laughter and burp out what I hope is a ‘yes’. ‘You ready?’ she asks. I nod. Although I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. That’s the thing about first impressions; they don’t give a hoot if you’re ready for them or not. Everything still feels blurred around the edges. Dania punches a code into the security pad on the side of the door with a bright red fingernail. Red, I think, the colour of rubies, the colour of embarrassment, the colour of stoned eyeballs. I trail Dania up yet another flight of steep, narrow stairs. What is it with Amsterdam and stairs? Show time, I think, as we troop along a dark passageway. Then I follow her through a door into a loud crunch of voices. * I have to blink so my eyes adjust to the sudden fluorescent lighting. We’ve stepped into a huge dressing-room. The chatter of voices is overwhelming, and the smell of sweat is not quite masked by dozens of different perfumes fighting for attention. There’s also the distinct reek of powder and make-up, cut by the sharp smell of Deep Heat. I cough as I catch a mouthful of hairspray. The dressing-room is packed with women in various stages of undress. I tentatively shadow Dania a little further in, and the noise quiets down as some of the women turn to stare. I feel like I’m backstage at the Grammys. In one corner, Madonna is using a remote control to change the channel of a TV set mounted on the wall. Cher has her feet up on a chair and is reading a magazine, a strip of white cream along her top lip. Amy Winehouse has come back from the dead and is chewing gum as she plaits Paris Hilton’s hair. It’s surreal. I rub my eyes as Lady Gaga, wearing a dress made purely of metal studs, steps in from another area of the dressing-room, carrying a bowl of microwave popcorn. Taylor Swift is doing stretches, Jennifer Lopez is texting on an old Nokia, and Christina Aguilera is pumping an entire can of hairspray into her meringue of teased blonde hair. I really shouldn’t have eaten that whole hash brownie. Every single woman in the room is striking in their resemblance to a celebrity. They ooze drama and star appeal. I shrink back, paranoia clutching at me. I feel short, fat and inadequate, and a massive fraud. There’s no way in heck I can pull this off. ‘Ladies, this is Rihanna, from South Africa. She’s taking Gwen Stefani’s place, sharing with you, Marilyn. Be a dahlink and make her feel at home,’ Dania says. An immensely familiar woman with lightly curled, platinum-blonde hair and skin like silk turns from where she’s applying lipstick in a mirror, and stares at me through long, dark eyelashes. She has a beauty spot on her left cheek; it’s like looking at a ghost. ‘Why can’t she share with Britney?’ Marilyn says breathily. It’s not just her looks that are uncanny; her voice is also a perfect Marilyn replica. It’s high-pitched, vintage, soft and breathy, almost a whisper, with a perfect American twirl to it. But even through its ladylike lilt, I can’t ignore how laced with annoyance it is. ‘Hey!’ Britney Spears shouts. ‘Because, k?ra,’ Dania says pointedly, ‘she is sharing with you.’ Marilyn sighs and makes a big fuss of winding down her lipstick. Dania looks at her watch. ‘You go on at ten after eight, k?ra, so there isn’t time for a tour. We will have to wait till later, ja?’ Dania says to me. The sound levels in the room increase again as the women go back to getting ready. Pink blow-dries her hair, and I dredge up some long-filed-away piece of information, that Pink’s real name is actually Alecia. Then I’m distracted as Katy Perry (which I’m sure is her real name) pulls on a pair of lacy knickers. ‘Dania, um …’ There’s no easy or subtle way of getting out of this. ‘Do I have to perform tonight?’ I ask, panic settling on my chest like a ten-ton elephant. ‘Yes, dahlink, of course. You have other plans?’ Dania says as sniggers echo around the dressing-room. ‘No, I just thought … there would be more time to settle in and practise, get set up … sound checks … warm up … you know?’ I stutter. ‘As we say in the biz, dahlink, the show must go on. And you look so good. And we have you already on the flyer, ja?’ she says, as if that settles it. ‘So you must simply perform your very best. You will be fine.’ I stand mutely, trying to think of a foolproof excuse. But my brain can’t get out of first gear. ‘I must go to my place backstage now, k?ra, but ask the other girls if you have any questions. I’ll let Angelo know what you’re singing.’ She shrugs off her coat, and reveals a tight, sequined midnight-blue dress. I notice in this fluorescent light that her make-up is applied too thickly, like stage make-up. ‘So what will you be singing, k?ra?’ she asks. ‘Um …’ I pause. ‘“Diamonds” and “Umbrella”?’ I offer. I feel like I’ve swallowed a sponge. My mouth is so dry I can barely get the words out. I smack my lips together, trying to drum up some saliva, but it’s the Gobi Desert in there. ‘Have a great show, Legends, see you out there, ja?’ Dania announces to everyone, then claps her hands a couple of times before executing one of her trademark pivots, sequined fishtail skirt billowing around her as she leaves. I stand alone for a moment, unsure what to do next. ‘That was Gwen’s mirror, so I suppose it’s yours now,’ Marilyn Monroe says as she leads me to one of the mirrors dotted around the room, each surrounded by bare light bulbs. She plucks a handful of photographs of cats and a postcard of the Eiffel Tower from the edge of the mirror, and drops them in the bin. ‘What happened to Gwen Stefani?’ I ask. ‘She got knocked up again, and decided to keep it this time,’ Marilyn says, her voice bored. ‘That’s funny, I didn’t read about Gwen Stefani getting pregnant in the tabloids.’ My attempt at humour to hide my own nerves goes down like a lead balloon. Marilyn plants a hand on her hip and examines me impassively for ten seconds too long, with no hint of a smile. I clear my throat and shuffle under the intensity of her prolonged glare. ‘I suppose I can see the likeness, but aren’t you too fat to be Rihanna?’ she says. ‘Aren’t you too alive to be Marilyn?’ I flash back, remembering what Natalie said, about people being able to smell fear. As Marilyn glares at me I try not to be the first to blink, but hot tears of self-pity press against the back of my eyeballs and won’t let up. Marilyn waves me off, then returns to her dressing-table. Why is there so much moisture in my eyes and none in my mouth? ‘Can you show me where the toilets are, please?’ I squeak at the girl standing next to me, feeling pathetic and suddenly incredibly, brutally tired, not to mention stoned. ‘Come on,’ Pink says, leading me through the dressing-room and around a corner to a row of showers flanked by another row of toilet cubicles. It’s like the locker room at a Virgin Active gym back home. Only grimier. ‘Ignore Marilyn, she’s always got some bug up her ass,’ Pink says. I find her pink hair and lilting Dutch accent so soothing, I can’t stop myself confiding in her. ‘I don’t think I can do this,’ I whisper, my lip quivering again. ‘This is all a terrible mistake. I shouldn’t be here.’ ‘Here, have some of this. It will take the edge off,’ she says, whipping a silver hip flask from the pocket of the dressing gown she’s wearing over her dress. ‘First night at a new place is rough for everyone.’ The hip flask is cool in my hand, and the first sip is so sharp it makes me cough. My eyes water as the liquor burns down my throat, settling in a nest of warmth in my stomach. ‘Woof! Nobody light a match,’ I say, breathing out hard. ‘What is it?’ ‘J?germeister,’ she says, taking a sip herself. ‘A little Dutch courage. Another?’ she asks, holding the flask out to me again. This time I take a couple of much bigger sips. I’m so thirsty that the liquid is like heaven. I make to give it back again, but she indicates I can have more if I want, so I take another sip and then two more just for luck. I can hardly taste the liquor any more, it’s like drinking juice. ‘Finish it if you want, I have plenty more,’ Pink says. ‘Thank you,’ I say, taking one last sip before I hand it back to her with a hiccup. I can’t feel my lips any more. Or my face. ‘You’ll be fine. Just don’t let any of these bitches get to you,’ she says, shaking the flask, then draining the last drop herself before twisting the lid back on and slipping it back into her pocket. Then she pats my shoulder and leaves. Locked in the safety of a toilet cubicle, stoned and now full of liquor, the walls shift around me. I fight to stop welling tears and blow my nose with toilet paper, which disintegrates around my nose and in my hands. Who am I kidding? I can no more pull this off than fly to the moon. After a few minutes, there are a couple of bangs on the cubicle door: ‘Jhoo hokay in there?’ someone calls out. ‘Bet she’s just emptying out some space so she can fit into that dress better. It looked a little tight.’ I hear Marilyn’s breathy voice floating in from the dressing-room, then she laughs cruelly. I drop my head into my hands. These women are such pros. There hasn’t been enough time to prepare. I haven’t done a Rihanna routine in years. This is never going to work, and on top of all that, who knew that Marilyn Monroe was such a cow? * There are so many Madonnas to choose from: eighties Madonna, with the puff tulle skirt, crucifixes and streaks of colour in her hair. Then there’s yoga Madonna, all high-riding leotards and sculpted biceps. But the woman on stage is going for one of the most popular impersonator versions: cone-boob Madonna. I can’t believe her attention to detail. From the long blonde ponytail falling down her back (definitely fake; nobody has real hair that long, do they?) to the skin-tight, gold, boned bustier leotard with garters hanging down her thighs, and the trademark coned bra which sticks out about a foot off her chest. The whole look is finished with insanely high, black stilettos. This Madonna is even wearing a replica headset with earphones and a microphone into which she’s lip-syncing ‘Like a Virgin’ in perfect time as she prances provocatively around the stage. I watch as she grabs her crotch, then tweaks the cone boobs with both hands. Her non-stop energetic routine on stage makes me dizzy, and I stumble in the wings, clutching a curtain to steady myself. Beside me, Dania is riveted. As Madonna performs, she mouths all the words of the song and neatly mimics the actions Madonna is making on stage. She’s like a stage mother, living vicariously through her prodigy out there bathing in the limelight. As I hear the applause from the audience, I feel like I’m having a weird dream after eating too much cheese. I’d almost forgotten there was going to be a real audience out there. My tummy lurches and I decide not to peer around the heavy red velvet curtains. If I don’t know what I’m facing, maybe I can convince myself that I’m just doing karaoke slightly tipsy, in some dodgy bar at home with a group of friends. Drunken denial is a much easier place to live in than harsh reality. I catch a glimpse of Cher further back in the wings, warming up. She’s wearing a replica of the famous black-lace Oscar outfit and ginormous headdress. Sheesh, that thing looks like it weighs a ton. I watch her roll her shoulders, then windmill her arms, and that seasick dizzy feeling comes back again. My vision rocks as if I’m in a boat. I focus on my breathing and turn my thoughts to my own routine. The trick is to keep it simple: stick to the tried and tested Rihanna moves from my past. I wring my hands, repeating ‘It’s just karaoke, it’s just karaoke’, over and over, hoping to trick my brain into making my stomach and knees believe it. I feel like I’m in a microwave, overheating from the inside. I glance out on stage and do a double-take as I catch a glimpse of Madonna pulling a zip down the side of her bustier. Wait, what is she doing? My jaw drops as she shucks the cone boobs down her body and the bustier falls to the stage. She steps out of it, naked but for a nude-coloured, barely-there G-string and thigh-high, lace-topped stockings. I want to laugh and cry and vomit all at the same time. Applause from the audience ramps into high gear at the sight of Madonna’s perfect, surgically enhanced boobs, which barely move as she spins. Then she struts across the stage tracked by a spotlight and reaches for a suddenly illuminated stripper pole, which I hadn’t even noticed was there before, lurking in the darkness. I gasp and turn to Dania, expecting to see horror on her face at the sight of one of her performers going rogue. But she’s smiling, still clapping silently, mouthing the lyrics and swaying her hips as if she’s the one out there almost completely naked on the stage. The churning in my stomach ramps up as some kind of reality sets in through the haze. This isn’t just a celebrity impersonator revue show; Natalie has made a terrible mistake. It’s a celebrity impersonator show WITH STRIPPING. Natalie is going to freak out when I tell her. How could this have all gone so horribly wrong? The words ‘It’s not just like karaoke, it’s not just like karaoke,’ bounce around my brain. Madonna mounts the pole and flips upside down, wrapping her thighs around the metal. I can’t watch. I lean forward and catch my first glimpse of the audience. A row of men, some clutching money, using it to lure her closer to the front of the stage, whooping and whistling. Madonna then executes a few impossibly complicated-looking moves before she slides all the way down the pole, then crawls along the edge of the stage, grinding her hips as the men take turns stuffing euro notes into her G-string. Out on the club floor, I spot Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga in the crowd, and Marilyn is there too, in her classic white halter-neck dress. Sitting on a man’s lap, twirling his tie around her fingers. ‘Like a Virgin’ starts to wind down, and the reality that I’m up next washes over me in a greasy rush of cold sweat. I’m paralysed, my knees jelly, my heart thudding loudly in my chest. J?germeister-brownie bile bubbles in my stomach. The room warps, then spins on its axis as my mouth fills with saliva, and I know I’m going to be sick. I dry-heave, then cover my mouth with my hand and make a dash for the dressing-room. Cher, doing lunges, blocks my way, so I push her aside, and she swears at me in a babble of Dutch. I make it out of the backstage area, then through the door of the dressing-room, before the vomit comes in a wave. The women shout and jump out of my way as I run to a cubicle, drop to my knees in front of the toilet and heave violently into the bowl. As I retch, a cool hand lands on the back of my neck and sweeps my hair back from my sweating forehead. ‘Is everything all right, k?ra?’ I recognise Dania’s voice as I keep throwing up. Tears stream down my cheeks, and I nod, even though everything is not all right; it’s not even close to being all right. I heave again. ‘Did you eat something brown, k?ra?’ Dania asks. I continue crying, retching and nodding simultaneously. ‘Whatever it was, it must have been off,’ Dania says. Her talking about it brings on a fresh wave of nausea. ‘Here.’ Another voice, with a different accent. Someone hands me a filthy, make-up-stained, black towel, which I use to wipe my mouth and dab at the mascara trailing down my cheeks. ‘Somebody get David,’ Dania shouts. Eventually, with nothing left inside me, I move to get up. I feel weak and depleted. Dania and another woman help me to a bench. It takes a minute before I place her. It’s Jennifer Lopez. ‘Give her some space, ja,’ Dania says, as she fans me with her hand. The movement doesn’t help my queasy stomach, and I push her hand away. ‘I’m fine, really. Thanks. Sorry,’ I say, not wanting to seem rude. David appears, dressed in black, with an earphone headset like the one Madonna was wearing on stage earlier, clutching a clipboard. ‘Ja, sweetie?’ he says, and then notices me, pale, sweaty and limp. ‘The new girl’s ill,’ Dania says. I cover my mouth as a hiccup slips out. ‘Let everyone know we’re shuffling the line-up. Cher’s gone on one set early, in Rihanna’s place. Everyone else has to bump up one position on the set list. And don’t forget to tell Angelo, although he’s probably realised by now,’ Dania says, her voice clipped and in charge. ‘Cher has to be doing “Diamonds”. Would you have imagined that, dahlink? And we’ll need some clean-up in here.’ ‘Yes, sweetie,’ David says, scurrying off, speaking urgently into the headset. ‘I’m really sorry, Dania. I’m sure it’s just all this travelling and first-night jitters,’ I say. I don’t add, ‘and the marijuana brownie and all that J?germeister and the fact that I’m supposed to take my top off on stage.’ Dania would probably kill me with her bare hands. She has the Pilates arms for it. This is a full-scale DEFCON 1 disaster. ‘When you eat as much as you probably do, these things are bound to happen,’ comes Marilyn’s light, breathy voice from across the dressing-room. I catch the bitchy smirk on the reflection of her face in her mirror as she applies more lipstick. ‘I hope it’s nothing serious,’ Dania says. ‘You don’t look so good,’ Jennifer Lopez adds. Thanks for the newsflash, I think. But bite my tongue. ‘Do you think you can make it back to the house by yourself, or do you need Marilyn to help you?’ Dania asks. I catch Marilyn flinching in her mirror. ‘But … but … I can’t babysit her; I’m going on in thirty minutes. I need to prepare for my performance,’ she complains, in full diva mode. ‘I’ll be fine, thank you, I can make it on my own,’ I say with dignity. Even though I’m not at all sure I’ll be able to find the house alone. But the last thing I want is Marilyn’s reluctant help. And I need time to process what I’ve seen and figure out how I’m going to deal with it. And of course I need sleep. Preferably hours and days and decades of sleep. Oblivion would be welcome. I feel disgusting, and my throat burns from vomiting. ‘How’s she doing?’ David asks, popping his head back around the door. ‘She’ll be okay. Poor k?ra, she’s just not feeling herself,’ Dania says. My stomach roils again. If she only knew how true that was. * > NATALIE! Are you there? > Hi Gracie > You’re not going to believe this. It’s an effing strip club! > Think of it more like a revue club, or upmarket caberay or burlesk show > You knew!!!?? > Its not such a big deal > Madonna stripped and danced on a pole! It’s a huge deal!!! > u always overreact. It’s only showing ur boobs > I’m supposed to take my clothes off! On stage in front of an audience! How can I be overreacting? > dont b such a prude it’s only down to ur panties > I’m turning my life upside down, lying to my fianc?, doing you a massive favour and all you do is lie to me and insult me. > Just chill ok Grace. I’ve spent the last 6 years doing u faves & never asked 4 a single thing til now. And I’m not insulting u, cos it’s true. Uv even admitted it, u r a bit uptight > This is ridiculous! I’m coming home on the first flight tomorrow. > u can’t Grace ive already signed up for the college course & paid the deposit, if u quit I’ll have to drop out AND lose all the $ > We can get the money another way, Natalie! > How? Lottery? Rob a bank? Sell a kidney! U dnt think I’ve thought of evthing? I wld b there myself if it wasn’t for this fucking broken leg. Cant dance on crutches!!! It’s just your boobs Grace … in exchange for my whole future. Not such a big deal > … Grace u still there? > … Oh come on, talk 2 me, Grace. the timing is so good 4 this. The rand is tanked. u dnt even hav 2 make that much. Just a few grand, the exchange rate will sort out the rest. I’m your sister, I need this … Grace, srsly its not that bad. Try it, ull see. It’s like singing in shower > Natalie, tell me you haven’t been stripping … > God ur so judgemental!! > OMG you’ve been stripping!!!! I thought you were a buyer at Zara? > I am, the other week i bought a really gr8 dress there > It’s not funny! Oh my goodness Nat. All this time? Why didn’t you tell me? > Oh pls, knew u wld have a shitfit. I like it & money is gr8. Nyway we needed it. How do u think I paid off all that debt dad left when they died? U think I made that much $ working as a sales lady in a clothes store when I was 17? Ha! And where did you think I was all nite every nite? > I don’t know. I was just a kid. You said you were at your boyfriend’s house, I believed you. You could have done something else. > What? Flipped burgers for minimum wage? Gr8 id still be paying for their funeral now. & wat about ur school fees, choir camp, books & uniforms? They weren’t free u kno > You could have at least warned me what I was getting into here. > u wldnt have gone > To help you, of course I would have. > No u wouldn’t if ud known cos u such a prude > No I probably wouldn’t. But I would have made another plan. What if Lucas finds out? I can’t do this Nat. I have to come home. We’ll work it out. We’ll sell mom’s ring, something. > I knew I cldn’t count on u! > That’s not fair. You can’t expect me to do this. > typical, miss perfect!!! > Eff you Natalie! > Dnt worry im pretty fucked already! * > How’s ur first night going sugar plum? > Hi Lucas. Fine. Great. Amazing. > I’m so glad. What u have for supper? > Bunch of us went to a coffee shop. > A marijuana coffee shop? > Yes. > U didn’t …? > No of course not. > I knew u wouldn’t. I trust u. My future wife and the best person I know in the world would never do that > I miss you, Lucas. This is really hard. I don’t know if I can do it. > Come home tonight. And let’s never be separated from each other again. > Ha if only. That would be so nice. OK. I’m shattered. Going to try get some sleep. Love you. > I mean it. U should just come home. I love u too. To the moon and back. > Night. Xxx > WhatsApp me the second u wake up in the am babes. Sweet dreams. Xxx * There’s a split second between peeling my eyes open and full consciousness, a second when I’m in bed at home with Lucas, and my biggest problem of the day is teaching some tone-deaf kid how to play the recorder without farting every time he blows into the instrument. Or trying to get gum out of a nine-year-old’s hair without having to cut it out. When mothers deliver their kids to school in one piece in the morning, they aren’t so happy when they have clumps of hair missing at pick-up time. Hey, I was still a trainee teacher; lesson learnt. But then my eyes flicker open. The inside of my mouth tastes like roadkill. I’ve never wanted to pull the duvet back over my head and disappear forever so badly. As I lie there, memories from last night wash over me and I groan. I’m so embarrassed. How could I get stoned AND drunk on my first night? How am I going to face any of those women, or Dania and David, again? I’m going to have to leave. I sit up, reach for my bag and rifle through it for the plastic envelope with Natalie’s Dutch passport, a throwback from our family’s days in exile, her plane ticket and itinerary. The words ‘non-refundable’ and ‘non-transferable’ swim in front of my eyes. I could always ask Lucas to loan me the money for a flight home today. I can pay it off even if it takes a couple of years and I have to get a second job, waitressing or something. Only the money Natalie needs plucks at my brain. Across the room, Marilyn’s bed is still unmade, and the clothing tornado looks untouched. ‘Knock knock.’ I recognise David’s voice. ‘Come in,’ I say, dragging myself out of bed, relieved I passed out in tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt. After my humiliation last night, I don’t want to face him half-dressed. ‘Are you both decent?’ he asks, peeking around the door. ‘It’s just me, Marilyn’s not here,’ I say, finding no small irony in him being nervous of seeing us naked. David’s wearing a pair of chinos and a too-tight blue-and-white-striped T-shirt, with a man-scarf tied around his neck and a black beret on his head. Ever the showman. ‘Hello,’ he says again, his voice soft and sing-songy. ‘Dania sent me to check on you, see how you’re feeling this morning? She wanted to pop in herself, but she’s interviewing Beyonc?s.’ ‘I’m feeling better, thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry about last night. I’m terribly embarrassed. I don’t know what happened. It must have been something I ate.’ ‘But you’re feeling better now, yes?’ he asks. ‘Much, thank you,’ I say politely, working up the nerve to tell him I’m not sticking around. ‘Dania wants to know if you’re all right to perform tonight.’ He gives me an awkward grin and thumbs-up. ‘We are having you on the flyer already, you see.’ ‘Actually …’ I say. ‘Morning biyatches.’ Marilyn saunters past him into the room, cutting me off. She’s wearing the same trademark white halter-neck dress she was wearing last night, except it’s more creased and less crisp than I remember. She’s barefoot, carrying her stilettos in one hand, her toenails deep pink. It’s weird to hear Marilyn Monroe, her voice feminine, bird-like and old-fashioned, sounding cheap and nasty. ‘Marilyn,’ David greets her, his voice cordial. ‘Bonjour, David,’ Marilyn whispers through pouty lips and tweaking his scarf with a put-on giggle. ‘Tr?s French today, oui?’ David flushes a red even his self-tan can’t hide. ‘I’d better go, Dania needs me. See you later?’ he says to me, then lets himself out before I can tell him there’s no way I’m hanging around. I want to call him back but I don’t want to give Marilyn the pleasure of quitting in front of her. ‘Toodles,’ Marilyn shouts. ‘What was that all about?’ she asks, sitting on her unmade bed, rubbing her feet. ‘Just checking in to see if I’m feeling better,’ I say coolly. Marilyn doesn’t ask me how I’m feeling, but then I wasn’t expecting her to. I watch her movements surreptitiously as I make my bed. She opens her white satin purse and pulls out a wad of cash. She licks a finger, then thumbs through it. Then she opens her bedside table to reveal a built-in safe. She masks the safe door with her body as she punches in her code and opens the door with a satisfyingly thick metal clunk. I check and find I have a safe too, but mine is wide open, and only contains a dog-eared laminated card, printed with directions for setting a new code. When she’s finished stashing her cash, Marilyn goes to the closet and for a split second I think she’s going to clear out some stuff to make space for me to unpack, but instead she pulls out a tracksuit, some underwear, a toiletry bag and a towel, and heads for the door. Her casual dismissal infuriates me. ‘Marilyn, do you think you can make some space in the cupboard?’ I say, aware that I don’t know what her real name is. ‘What for?’ she responds. ‘My things.’ ‘Why? It’s not like you’re going to be here very long.’ Her comment stings and burns at the same time. ‘What do you mean?’ I say, trying hard to push back the lump that always appears in my throat at any sign of confrontation. ‘Please! We’re taking bets. Everybody agrees that you won’t last a week,’ she says, sashaying out the door. Everybody? Who’s everybody? Eff her! She’s right of course, but who the hell does she think she is? She makes me want to scream. I rub my face and feel caked mascara around my eyes. > Morning babes. U there? How are you? > Hi Lucas. I miss you. > I miss u too my noo noo. XX U feeling better this morning? > It’s all very new and overwhelming. > I’m sorry babes. I was worried it would be too much for u to handle. > What do you mean? > It’s just it’s ur first time overseas on your own. Away for long time, Grace. And it was all very last minute, plus it’s a challenging job. I meant what I said last night about coming home. I don’t think anyone would blame u if u wanted to throw in the towel at that school. After all, u have a wedding to plan XXX > I just … I don’t want to let anyone down. I did say I would do this. I should at least give it a try. > U don’t have to you know. If ur unhappy and want to come home u must. I wouldn't judge u. > Thanks. I’m really confused right now. I don’t want to quit, but I don’t know if I can do this. > Just come home. It sounds like it’s too much for u > I need to think about it. > Ok. So what u up to today? > I have a few hours to explore this morning, then work later. > Will u explore on your own, or with someone from there? > On my own. I haven’t really gotten to know any of the other teachers yet. > Where are they from? > All over the world from what I can gather. > Interesting. Men and women teachers? > Mostly women. My roommate looks SO much like Marilyn Monroe, everyone even calls her Marilyn. > Sounds cool babes. But be safe and careful ok, lots of crazies out there. Send me pics I wanna see everything and everyone. > I will. As soon as I’ve settled in. > Luv u too much XXX Remember u can come home whenever u want. I think u should seriously consider it. > Thanks I will xx > XXX * While I’m getting dressed my phone bleeps with a WhatsApp from Natalie. > I’m sorry Gracie, dnt want 2 argue with u. Tossed & turned all nite. Come home if u want. We’ll figure smthing out. I dnt have 2 go to college and get diploma, it’ll b ok. I can carry on stripping when leg heals, we’ll be fine xxx I luv u ‘My sister is a stripper!’ I tap out a message to Lucas. Then backspace to delete each letter. He would freak out if he knew, and then I’d have to explain how I found out, and everything would unravel. Natalie is already on Lucas’s most-hated list, especially after the whole disaster at our engagement party. He would feel totally justified in writing her off. Plus he’d insist I come home at once. If he was still talking to me. I slump back down onto my bed. I don’t know why I’m so surprised. How na?ve can a person be? The way Nat looks and dresses, the weird hours. The dubious underwear in her suitcase. It’s a good thing our parents are already dead; my mother would have a heart attack on the spot. And I don’t even want to think about how my dad would react. The respectable minister from Walmer Estate, determined that his daughters would attend Harold Cressy High. But not respectable enough to leave us debt free. I reread Nat’s message twice. Cupboard space, Marilyn, lying to Lucas, Natalie lying to me … taking your top off on stage … none of it’s important in the big scheme of things. Family is what’s important. And Nat’s the only family I’ve got. When I step gingerly downstairs and into the communal lounge, some time after nine, the house is quiet. I’m not surprised no one’s around: doors were opening and closing, and there were voices and the clatter of stilettos up and down the passage until the early hours of this morning. There’s a woman on one of the couches reading a magazine, her feet up on a coffee table. She’s wearing a short pink silk robe, her head wrapped in a black towel turban. There’s a box of croissants on her lap, and she’s idly munching on one as she turns the pages of the magazine too quickly to be actually reading anything. Chocolate oozes out of the pastry she’s holding and drips onto the magazine. She mumbles something under her breath in a language I don’t recognise, swipes the chocolate up with her finger and licks it off. I step into the lounge and clear my throat, not wanting to startle her. She turns and I see she’s supermodel thin with pale skin and wisps of platinum-blonde hair escaping from under the turban. ‘You make vomit on backstage,’ she says matter-of-factly, polishing off the rest of the croissant, licking each of her fingers in turn, then reaching for another one. ‘It wasn’t a very good first impression, was it?’ She doesn’t respond. ‘Where is everyone?’ I ask. ‘Morning is middle of night here,’ she says, returning to her magazine. ‘I’m Gra … Natalie,’ I say, just managing to catch myself in time. ‘Rihanna is okay,’ she says. I don’t know if she means Rihanna the actual singer is okay and it’s a statement of approval, or if she means calling myself Rihanna is okay. ‘I’m Paris Hilton,’ she continues. ‘But curtains don’t match carpets, blonde is not real hair colour. I’m dark hair for really.’ She didn’t have to tell me that: the platinum colour of her hair is the furthest thing from natural I’ve ever seen. ‘You look a lot like her,’ I say. ‘Thank you. Nose job, cheek job, chin job, eyebrow raise and boob job. Only make boobs bigger not small like Paris. Small boobs no good for tips. Everything else same-same for Paris.’ ‘Wow. Well, it all worked.’ ‘I choose Paris because she can’t sing. Me also too, I can’t sing. Perfect matching.’ ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘You want make movie?’ Paris asks, pushing the last bit of the second pastry into her mouth and brushing her hands together. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone eat a chocolate croissant so quickly. ‘You want me to go see a movie with you?’ I ask, which seems more likely than her wanting to make a movie with me. ‘We make movie with Leo DiCaprio and Kate Winslington,’ she says. ‘I wish I could, but I only got here yesterday, I have a lot to sort out.’ Paris makes a non-committal sound, and returns to her magazine, reaching for a third croissant. The thought of sinking into the darkness of a theatre and being transported elsewhere is incredibly appealing. I’d rather be on the Titanic than here in this predicament. But this isn’t the time for socialising and escapism. I, or rather Rihanna, needs to figure out what the heck she is going to do: stay and do this thing, or make my way home? ‘Sweet David Caruso! Look, is me,’ the woman exclaims, holding up the magazine, which is in a foreign language, and seems out of date (given that there’s a picture of Charlie Sheen on the cover posing with his Two and a Half Men co-stars). She shows me a shot of Paris Hilton getting out of a sports car, pixels hiding her flashing ladybits. ‘I always wonder why they never wear undies,’ I say. ‘It’s not like they can’t afford them.’ Paris looks at the magazine thoughtfully. ‘Maybe is laundry day,’ she says. There are so many questions I want to ask her about the club and the act I saw Madonna doing last night. I especially want to ask about the stripping. How long has she been doing it? Is it difficult? Why does she do it? And what I should do? But it seems rude to launch into the third degree when I’ve only just met her. Plus, I can’t let on that I’m not who I say I am. As far as anyone here knows, I’m seasoned at … at … at whatever it is they do here. My stomach grumbles loudly; not only am I lost, an imposter and morally compromised, I’m also starving. Watching Paris demolish those pastries has set off my salivary glands. The one thing I do know is that one should never make huge, life-altering decisions on an empty stomach. I need to find some breakfast. €151.20 (#ulink_cc40b20c-e127-50ac-95f7-cd59dba247d6) I put my shopping down and shake the circulation back into my fingers. The lounge is full of women, the chatter of their voices fighting to be heard over the Fashion TV voice-over. The smell of coffee drifts through the air, reminding me I forgot to buy myself coffee. Amsterdam had me at hello. The canals; the bridges; the people; the families on bikes; the snaking trams; the smells, at turns pungent and swampy, then deliciously foodie. The old buildings and quaint streets, the feel of being somewhere completely different; nowhere I’ve ever been before, filled with people I’ve never seen before. Eventually I stumbled on a street market that went on for days. Food and clothes and more food and more clothes and raw herring on fresh bread. If it wasn’t for the giant life-sized disaster beating at my brain, I could have almost tricked myself into thinking I was here on holiday rather than a fraudulent stripper travelling on someone else’s passport, and in a lot of trouble. My feet ache, and I have a terrible hangover-y headache, and there’s still a bad taste lingering in my mouth. As if something curled up in the pit of my tummy and died. I want to sleep forever, maybe longer, but I’m too nervous to go up to my room in case Marilyn’s still there. I look for a familiar face, but without the costumes, wigs and make-up, I don’t recognise any of the women from last night. A few are spread on the couches chatting, watching TV and paging through magazines, analysing the models. One of them has a thick green face mask on. Across the room, three women are doing yoga on mats. And one of the large sash windows is open a crack and there’s a woman perched on the windowsill smoking a cigarette, blowing the smoke out the small gap in the window as the cold air seeps in around her. I say a shy greeting to anyone who makes eye contact with me, and carry my bags into the kitchen, catching snatches of conversation that might be Russian or Polish and I think I recognise some French in there too. There are two women in the kitchen. One has her head buried deep in one of the fridges, the other is wearing a green towelling bathrobe and is stirring a large pot on the stove. I can’t recognise what she’s cooking by sight or smell, but as it comes to the boil it creates a putrid haze, making my eyes water. It’s like the bad taste in my mouth has been recreated in odour. The only good thing is the smell of coffee coming from the pot on the stove. I take a step closer to it. ‘Who’s cooking that sheet again?’ A shout comes from the lounge. I pin down a Spanish accent. ‘Ees not sheet, ees flaczki,’ the woman in the green bathrobe yells. ‘I thought we agreed, no cooking pig balls,’ the Spanish voice calls. ‘Ees not pig balls. Ees pig tripe stew. Big difference. Ees Polish delicacy!’ shouts Green Bathrobe. ‘Well, smell is like pig sheet!’ the voice says. ‘Somebody open another window.’ The woman continues stirring and grumbles swear words under her breath in Polish. Swear words have a particular tonality. Even if you don’t speak the language, you know what they’re insinuating. The Spanish voice is right, though; the stuff smells awful. The joys of communal living. Close to gagging, I open the lid of the angular metal coffee pot on the back plate of one of the stoves and breathe it in. I’m momentarily tempted to pour myself a cup, but Dania’s words of warning ring in my ears. I need as much goodwill in this house as possible. ‘Is this either of yours? Please could I have a cup?’ I ask, looking hopefully at both women. ‘Is Taylor Swift’s, ask her,’ says the one as she finishes rummaging in the fridge for a small carton of milk. Then I follow her into the lounge, where she joins the others on the couch and digs into her bowl of muesli. I scan the room for a possible Taylor Swift. She could be any one of the blondes with big boobs, or maybe the one in the face mask. But what if Taylor Swift is actually one of the brunettes and she wears a wig to do her impersonation? I’ve seen these women work magic with a make-up brush, it’s all smoke and mirrors. For all I know, Swift is the dark-skinned woman on the yoga mat with tiger-print fingernails. All these women are chameleons in G-strings with fake tans and feather boas. I examine each of their faces closely, and wish I’d paid more attention when reading Heat. There’s a hint: only one of the blondes in the room is sipping from a mug of coffee. She’s petite and has the kind of features that could morph into a Taylor, with enough time, make-up and duct tape. I nervously approach the couch where she’s hanging out with two other unrecognisable women and a possible Shakira, who’s saying, ‘If he puts hand on arse of mine one more time …’ ‘People pay good money to put hand on this arse … why he should do for free?’ says the one unrecognisable woman. ‘Just because son of boss?’ ‘I’d let him do it free,’ unrecognisable woman number two says. The other women on the couch erupt in disgust. ‘What? Maybe he put me in better spot on line-up then. Dania always makes me on too early. Is better later.’ ‘New girls should go early, to varm up crowd,’ says potential Taylor Swift, her voice thickly accented. Sensing me hovering, she stares pointedly. ‘Vhat?’ she snaps. I crouch down next to her. ‘Hi, umm … Taylor, right? Could I have a cup of your coffee, please? I’ll replace it, I promise.’ Possible Taylor glares for a moment, then points across the room at a brunette with heavily plucked eyebrows. ‘I’m Britney Spears. She’s Taylor Swift,’ she says. Shoot, shoot, shoot! ‘Oh my goodness, I’m sorry. I thought …’ I say, stumbling. Now that I know, it’s obvious that she’s Britney Spears. She cranes her neck over the back of the couch and babbles something in a foreign language to the actual fake Taylor Swift, who’s doing a side plank on her yoga mat. Taylor glances at me mid-plank, looks me up and down, and says, ‘Tell Nicki Minaj she can buy she’s own coffee.’ Britney shrugs at me. ‘You hear her.’ ‘Have some of mine; it’s in the first cupboard on your right. Milk’s in the refrigerator, it’s got my name written on it,’ another yoga woman chirps, and I recognise the Spanish accent. ‘Thank you …?’ I say. ‘I’m Madonna,’ she says. ‘Thank you, Madonna,’ I say with a small embarrassed smile. Of course it’s Madonna. I’d recognise those yoga arms anywhere. Another woman comes into the lounge, stark naked. She has long, over-dyed blonde hair, teased to a foot off the top of her head, and huge pink, pillowy lips. But her most startling features are her breasts. I’ve never seen such big knockers before; they’re almost melon-sized. Then her chest tapers down into an unnaturally narrow waist. Her crotch is completely hairless. I try not to stare, but I don’t know where not to look first. She wanders through the lounge and into the kitchen, and I expect the comments to come flying, but none of the other women pay her any attention. ‘Let me guess. Dolly Parton?’ I ask Madonna, who nods. ‘Isn’t she cold?’ Madonna shrugs and returns to downward-facing dog. ‘She should really put something on,’ I mumble. ‘She wouldn’t want to get a chest infection.’ * I step cautiously back into our bedroom, relieved there’s no sign of Marilyn. I sip my coffee, wondering if it was worth the humiliation, and stare at my open suitcase for a minute, not entirely sure what my next move is. Am I packing or unpacking? I don’t know times a million, times a billion, times a trillion. If I go home, Marilyn and Lucas get to be right about me, which shouldn’t annoy me. What does it matter what other people think? I’ll never even see Marilyn again, if I’m lucky. But I can’t help it. I don’t want to fail at anything, not even this. And of course there’s the bigger issue: what about Nat? If I can’t make the money she needs, she’ll just keep stripping. For the rest of her life? Surely she deserves the same kind of opportunities she sacrificed everything to give me? But if I do stay, I don’t know if I can actually physically do what I have to do. Maybe there are other options. I could leave the house and stay at a backpackers, get a waitressing job to earn enough cash for the flight home. But this isn’t small money we’re talking about. It would take ages to earn that much. Let alone the years it would take to earn the kind of money Nat needs to live and study for three years, assuming she doesn’t tank a year. I don’t have years; the clock is ticking. I can’t stay in Amsterdam indefinitely – what would Lucas think? Not to mention that my first job as a real teacher starts in a few months. A proper job, back home, not one that involves dressing up like Rihanna and taking my clothes off on a stage in front of a crowd. I run a hand over the dresses still in the suitcase, getting more creased by the second. I haven’t had a chance to go through the contents of the case properly yet. Natalie just handed it to me, and I hurriedly tossed in a few of my own things before we made a mad dash for the airport. I sift through the contents and pull out a precise black bobbed wig. There’s also the white low-backed, vomit-spattered dress from last night, shoved in a gap. I pull it out and toss it into the bin. Too many bad memories. I pull out a swathe of red fabric and give it a shake. It’s an imitation of Rihanna’s red Grammy dress from 2013. There’s also a white tulle skirt and crop top. I lay each outfit on the bed, then tug something bright purple out of the case. It’s a pretty good replica of the jumpsuit RiRi wore on her We Ride album cover. Nat’s really done her homework. Below that, I spot an assortment of underwear. I pull out a couple of pieces – the knickers are so tiny, I’m not sure why Nat even bothers with them. The bras are all beautiful, mostly lace in black, purple, white and green. I pull my t-shirt off over my head and unsnap my bra, then try on one of Nat’s bras. It’s the simplest one she has. A deep bottle-green, made of silk. It’s so soft to the touch I hold it to my cheek for a moment before I put it on, and I’m sure I can smell Nat underneath the Omo, which makes me feel homesick. But the joke’s on me: my breasts barely fill half the cup; they look like a pair of empty socks. I tug at the two straps, hold my breath and try to pull them towards each other behind my back. They only just close, but I can’t breathe – my rib cage is being crushed while my breasts swim in space. I give up and toss the bra back into the case, sweeping the other bras in after it. Next I pull off my jeans and my own knickers and hold up a pair of Nat’s panties, hoping I have more luck in the downstairs area. It’s a nude G-string and I’ve never worn one before. I turn around as I try to figure out which is the front and which is the back. It doesn’t have a label – well, it’s not big enough, I don’t know where they’d put it. I take a flying guess and step into both leg holes, but there’s no way this teeny thing is making it past my thighs. As I’d feared, I like chocolate far too much to fit into Nat’s underwear. Exasperated, I pull the useless scrap of fabric off and catapult it across the room with a twang, aiming for the bin but missing, so the G-string joins the rest of Marilyn’s clothes scattered on the floor. It’s hopeless: my arse is much bigger than hers, and my boobs are smaller. How is this ever going to work? What am I going to wear? I slip my own knickers and T-shirt bra back on, then fish around in the case for the rest of my own underwear that I had brought with me, laying each piece out on the bed to see how bad my situation really is. It’s bad. All I have is a motley collection of T-shirt bras in varying shades of over-washed grey, and matching panties, most of them with elastic on their last legs. I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t own any sexy underwear. I once got something lacy to wear for Lucas’s birthday, but I felt stupid prancing around in it, so that was that. I’ve always been more of the sensible-cotton-pants-and-sports-bra type. There’s one pair of plain black cotton knickers and a matching black T-shirt bra that might work. They’re slightly less stretched and not as faded as the other underwear, and they’re black – that’s sexy, isn’t it? I step experimentally into the jumpsuit. It’s lined with the oddest Velcro panels along the seams, which I finally click must be for easy removal. I shake my head again at my sister’s deception and my own na?vety. Even though the jumpsuit is half a size too small, the Velcro gives me a tiny bit of extra space so I can get it on, although I have to suck my breath in to get the zip up, and it still doesn’t go all the way, stopping a few centimetres short of the top, lodged against a roll of back fat. But it’s on and that’s what counts. If I eat anything or even try to sit down while wearing this thing, God help us all. I had shoved a pair of Spanx into the suitcase back home, thinking I was smart. They’re magic at sucking in fat and that would have been the perfect solution for me to fit into Nat’s clothes, but now the rules have changed: I can hardly strip down to a full latex body suit. Nobody would pay to see that. Well, maybe some people would, but that would be at a different kind of club. Yuck. I check myself in the full-length mirror hanging inside the cupboard door and pray for an earthquake, something big on the Richter scale. There’s no doubt I’m definitely Rihanna-ish, sort of, on her most hung-over day. But the few extra kilos in the jumpsuit give me a terrible camel toe, and while Rihanna has plenty of side boob, she doesn’t have any of the side fat that’s bulging out the edges of the strappy jumpsuit. I suck in my stomach and fiddle with the fabric, adjusting it the way men do, to make more room in the crotch. It helps, marginally. Wait, does this mean I’m actually going to do this thing tonight? I don’t know. But if I am, this get-up is going to have to do until I can pick up something more appropriate. Although I may not have to. I’m almost positive that if I put a foot on stage in my tatty old underwear and the too-small purple jumpsuit, Dania will shove me on the first plane home. Hopefully they’ll let me change out of the jumpsuit before I fly: more than two hours in this thing and I’d die of asphyxiation. I wonder what Lucas would think of me in this? It’s so tight, sexy and low cut, he’d probably say it’s too slutty on me; he doesn’t even like it if I wear a V-neck top to college. I suck in my tummy again and strike a Rihanna-like pose in the mirror. I grab Marilyn’s hairbrush from her bed and hold it up to my mouth like a microphone, then strike that pose again and quietly hum the tune to ‘Umbrella’ as I sway my hips. It’s not great, but it’s not entirely vomit-inducing either. Some people with less than twenty-twenty vision might even consider it sexy with all that skin showing at my sides. Plus, like David said, the right hair and make-up will help, and maybe I can get a Boob Tape 101 lesson from one of the other girls. What they call ‘mood lighting’ (i.e. near darkness) will help too. So, as long as someone loans me some tape, everyone in the club is blind and they have a power failure, I could just about pull this off, almost, if I really wanted to. What if I did it? Just once. Shouldn’t you try everything at least once? Isn’t that what they say? Who knows, it may not even be that bad – I could chalk it up to life experience. It’s not like I know anybody here, or would ever see any of them again. Maybe I can do this. I may not be as thin as Nat or the other girls, I think, looking at myself critically in the mirror, but I look more like my celebrity naturally than most of the women in the house, and that’s got to count for something. The whole boobs thing is definitely a spanner in the works, though. I put down the brush and cup my breasts with my hands. I don’t hate my boobs. They’re perky-ish, but small in comparison to the other girls’. And would I really be able to flash them to a crowd? Although it will be dark, surely? So maybe I can hold out and then flash them super fast, so that the crowd barely has a chance to get a good look, right at the end of my routine. Shoot … what about my routine? I try out some of the Rihanna moves Natalie and I used to pull out back in the day. It’s the routine I was planning on doing last night before the vom-fest. Everyone always used to think we were twins, the cute little Rihanna girls. While I’m working through a couple of our old moves, I wonder what it feels like taking your clothes off in front of a bunch of strangers. When you’re with the same person for a long time, your guy doesn’t look at you in that kind of way any more, maybe because you’re not looking at him like that either. It can’t be all bad to feel sexy and wild once in a while, can it? Swinging my hips again, I pull at the zip, trying to get it down elegantly, but it gets stuck on another fat roll. So I give one of the secret seams a tug instead. Nothing happens, so I grab another seam and pull. Eventually when I tug hard enough, and in the right places, the Velcro pulls apart. Seconds later the jumpsuit is off, without me ever having to as much as come close to a zip or a button. Standing in the middle of the room in my saggy old grey knickers and bra, I piece the suit back together, then fold and put it on top of the open suitcase. I try on the red Grammy dress next. It’s also super-snug, and I have to squeeze into it carefully, holding my breath. But once it’s on (after several minutes of tugging and two minutes lying down on the bed to get the zip up) it kind of looks okay. It fact, it’s pretty stunning. It cinches in my waist and pushes out my boobs in all the right places, giving me a devious extra cup size or two. When I breathe out, I hear some of the Velcro in the seams complaining, making room for all of me to settle in the limited space. Feeling fat again, my moment of confidence vaporised, I waddle closer to the mirror. My eye wanders to all Marilyn’s clothes stuffed in the closet. Curious, I rifle through the hangers. Dresses, blouses, and at least six of the identical replica Marilyn Monroe white halter-neck dress. I pick up a pair of glitzy white strappy stilettos from the bottom of the cupboard. They’re gorgeous, but how the hell does she walk in them? They must be at least six inches tall and weigh a ton. I slip my bare foot into the right shoe, wondering how it will look with the Grammy dress I’m wearing. My foot swims in it; it’s at least three sizes too big. I’m about to look for a size on the sole, but I hear footsteps coming down the passage. A second later, there’s a rattle at the door handle. Panicked, I flip Marilyn’s shoe back into the cupboard with a thud and leap away from the incriminating evidence, trying to act natural, but knowing that I probably look guilty as hell. ‘Oh. You’re still here?’ she says in her pouty-whispery Marilyn voice. ‘Quelle surprise!’ She looks from me to the cupboard and back again, and then eyes the red Grammy dress. ‘Get used to me,’ I say, shoving a hand on my hip with more confidence than I feel. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ ‘God, in that dress I hope not,’ she counters. I sag and breathe out, and the Velcro gives way with a loud rip. Marilyn grabs her bag from her bedside table and leaves with a snort. * The dressing-room is deserted. Which gives me a chance to sit on my torn chair and look into the light-bulb-framed mirror. I tug at a passport-sized photograph of a small, smiling blonde girl that’s wedged between the mirror and the frame. Gwen Stefani must have left in a hurry, and Marilyn missed this little memento when she tossed the other pictures. I look for Gwen Stefani-like features and wonder if this little girl is her daughter, sister or maybe a niece? Maybe even herself in a different life? I wonder if this little girl knows what her mom, sister, aunt or future self does for a living. Empty like this, three hours before show time, the dressing-room feels echoey and overly bright. The overhead fluorescent lights buzz like the ghosts of hairdryers. Paris offered to show me around before we opened, and I want to get ready first. I also want to avoid dressing in front of all these perfect, surgically enhanced women, which is ridiculous, since they’re all bound to see me near-naked a little later. I tuck the photograph into my bag, too sentimental to toss it. I pull out the purple jumpsuit, together with the same black wedges I wore last night. (It had taken me twenty minutes to wipe off the puke.) They’re the only pair of shoes in Nat’s suitcase that I’ll be able to dance in without breaking my neck. I need to feel as stable as possible for this, whether the real Rihanna would approve of low wedges or not. I shove my backpack and handbag into the locker that has my name on it, and now contains all my worldly possessions. I wonder how many other legends have done the same thing over the years. Bette Midler? Roxette? Maybe even Barbra Streisand? Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/paige-nick/wrong-knickers-for-a-wednesday-a-funny-novel-about-learning-to/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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