Читать книгу Wrong Knickers for a Wednesday: A funny novel about learning to love yourself - Paige Nick - Страница 8

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, kära?’ 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, kära?’ 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, kära,’ 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, kära, 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, kära, 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, kära?’ 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?’

‘Jägermeister,’ 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. Jägermeister-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, kära?’ 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, kära?’ 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 Jägermeister 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 kära, 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 fiancé, 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 Beyoncés.’

‘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. ‘Très 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 naïve 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.