“Whiskey,” I order, “neat.”
More men have arrived. They gather like prowling tigers. Staring at the narrow, elongated stage, amber shots in their hands. On either side, lights resemble cat’s eyes on a darkened highway. A shiny pole planted at the end with two blazing spotlights awaiting something divine, something wicked.
I gaze up at the stage.
The bass kicking harder, dread rattling in my chest.
She wears just a black PVC bra and matching thong. I hardly recognize her: heavy makeup, a shake ’n’ go wig, and confidence so raw I divert my eyes. Ella parts her legs and licks her top lip, red and glossed. Teases the imposter hair, waist length and wavy. In her hand she harnesses a whip made of leather and light-catching crystal. It is delicate enough to hint at play yet hard enough to warn of domination. She cracks the whip before striding toward the men.
When she reaches the end she slut-drops. Her legs wide, both hands ordering the whip between clenched teeth. I feel my heart drop into a pit of despair.
I watch her eyes turn foggy and amiss, a lazy slant to the lids that has her looking like she’s about to fall asleep or pass out. Skin shining like honey, she grabs and spins, gyrating to the music in three-inch heels.
No chance of running in those, Runner says, their shaping of the line of her legs ceremonious, making her appear taller, slimmer. Enhancers to men’s celestial fantasies.
I wonder if the pill she popped earlier is alive. It being the very thing, along with the other girls’ goading, that got her up there onstage.
She arches her back, turns and falls to her knees, and spreads her legs wide open. Longing to be fed.
With love.
Validation.
Acceptance.
A bedtime story.
But instead takes the money.
A man inches forward in his chair and wipes his hands down his thighs. I allow a single tear down my cheek.
You don’t have to do this, I voice in my head.
Maybe she wants to, Oneiroi says, maybe she likes it.
Shut the fuck up! Runner yells. No girl wants men lusting over her like dogs—it’s not the fucking attention she wants. It’s something else . . .
I glance over at Shaun and Cassie, now joined by Amy—all three lost in Ella’s striptease—feeling the encore of jealousy once again. Imagining Shaun masturbating alone in bed, picturing Ella, I drop the thought into a pit of self-punishment. The thrashing not kind but most likely true.
A group of men have edged nearer to the stage. Tiger paws waving notes like submission flags.
I surrender, Runner mimics, a tarred snarl to her lip. Take me for the asshole I am.
Ella drops on all fours and prowls closer to the men, guiding the cash to her slippery bra and thong. Two of the men stuff their bills rather aggressively while another appears a little more reserved. Woozy almost.
Why are you doing this? I scream.
I look around, suddenly noticing Navid leaning against one of the mirrored pillars next to the small, intimate stage. I watch him watching her, a glow in his eyes. Ella’s intimacy with the pole seemingly pleasing him. Her performance revs up. Dropping her shoulders, she lets the straps of her bra fall like sin until she is free of it completely. The first man stands and with a doglike lusting reaches for the bra. With a turn on her spiked heel, Ella kicks it out of reach. She wags her finger, shakes her head, mouthing: Naughty boy.
Eyes fixed on her naked breasts, he hollers and whoops, checking behind him to see he has the leering support of the other men. A sheen of sweat glazed across his upper lip.
Ella stares out now, all at once childish. Lost. And with a half-teasing smile, her moves gradually slowing down.
I notice she is wearing a gold necklace. A dainty key hanging off its loose chain just like the one I’ve seen the other girls wearing. A gift from Navid?
Navid locks eyes with her, his paw raised, toasts her with a squat glass filled with dark liquid. She gyrates closer to him and fingers the necklace before cupping her breasts, then slides both hands between her thighs. And I know immediately the gift is from him.
A key to his heart? Runner mocks.
I close my eyes and try not to see any more.
I want to go home, Dolly says, awakened and rubbing her eyes. I don’t like it in here, Alexa. Not one bit.
I look away. The churn in my gut too real, my throat tightening as I make my way through the glass double doors. My best friend: a stripper.
You knew this was coming, Runner says, stepping into the night. I warned you.
Not concerned with scoldings or told you so’s, I grab my coat and wait for Ella outside the club, knowing she’ll come look for me. The night turning dark like my mood, and sure enough, Ella appears as Runner lights a second cigarette.
“Hey,” she says, “can I have one?”
I nod, not trusting my voice enough to use it while Runner offers her a light.
Her eyes slip across my face to the ground.
Coward, I want to scream, but don’t.
Hypocrite, the Fouls scold.
“I’m tired,” she says. “I don’t wanna get into anything right now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Sure,” I say, my nerves jangled, frustration forced down.
My Reason turns away and hails a cab, lifting her collar with both hands to shield her neck.
“For what it’s worth, the girls thought I was pretty good tonight,” she says, a look of green pride in her stride as she walks away, the night promising to accept what she’s done.
I walk up the shoulder of the street, my wool coat smelling of wet dog. I blow on my fingers. The night has turned damp and icy. On the opposite side of the road I notice two figures, animated, bent over, then realize it’s Amy and Annabelle. Confused, I make my way over to them.
I thought Annabelle wasn’t working here anymore, Runner says. She isn’t, I say. She works at another club now, in Soho.
Nearing the sisters, I notice both are crying. They are holding hands with an intensity that looks fraught and wild. When they see me, they startle. Annabelle is breathless, her makeup smudged. Hanging off her shoulders is an oversize black double-breasted coat—probably a man’s—covering a tiny dress.
“It’s our brother. He’s been rushed to the hospital,” Annabelle wails, edging closer. “Hit-and-run. It’s all my fault.”
Fear clangs at my gut. “So what are you doing here?” I ask.
“I came to get Amy. We’re waiting for a cab.”
I place my hand on her shoulder, trying to lock eyes. My fingers brushing away her wet, limp hair.
“Do you think—?” I dare.
All three of us are rooted to the spot. Amy takes my arm, her voice shaking at the edge:
“Yes,” she says, “it’s gotta be Navid.”
Annabelle lets out a scream like a murder of crows. The streetlight ablaze and shining on her embossed temples, veins turning turquoise. A madness arisen.
23
Daniel Rosenstein
Alexa fiddles with the tie on her silk blouse. Her disclosure of last night’s events clearly weighing heavily on her mind.
“So how long do you plan on being away for?” she asks, eyeing the pile of premature holiday brochures on my desk, a look that, were it possible, might set them alight. Clumsy of me to leave them out, I think, insensitive.
“Two weeks,” I say, writing down the dates on letterhead notepaper and handing it to her, “but it won’t be until next month. Patients usually prefer to know well in advance.”
She nods.
Silence.
“How do you feel about that,” I ask, “under the circumstances?”
“What? You leaving?”
“Yes.”
“We’re used to it,” she says, stuffing the note in her purse. “People leaving.”
“Still, it’s important to name it, acknowledge how you feel.”
“I guess.”
“Anyone inside want to say a
nything?” I probe.
I watch her attempt to speak, then stop herself. Unsure, I imagine, whether the Flock’s words are worthy of acknowledgment, or if they’ll be dismissed—causing shame.
She uncrosses her legs. Kicks the rug between us.
“We can look after ourselves,” she snarls.
I note the switch. Runner, I think. “Are you sure about that?” I ask.
“Yes, smart-ass.” She leans forward in her chair, rests both elbows on her knees. “Tell me something, Doc,” she says with a look of disdain. “Do you always interrogate patients before you’re about to abandon them?”
Definitely Runner—angry, enjoying it, and getting off on my attempts to catch up.
“I’m not abandoning you.”
“Go fuck yourself. Don’t pretend you give two shits.”
“But I do give a shit,” I say. “I also have to make you conscious of the things you don’t see.”
“Really? God, you’re such an asshole.”
“Asshole? Really?”
She looks away.
“You’re angry, upset that I’m leaving.”
She flashes me a look of pure hatefulness and folds her arms. I disgust her.
“I’m not leaving you,” I continue, “but it makes sense why you’re angry.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Like it or not,” I say, “I do care.”
“Liar.”
“Seems like it’s painful for you to accept someone might care.”
“Pfft, care? No one’s ever cared, apart from Ella. And now she’s got different priorities too, just like you.”
Silence.
I leave some space for her to feel the bite. The burn.
“That’s tough,” I finally say.
“What would you know?”
“Well, I don’t know how it feels for you,” I say, “but I know what it feels like to miss someone.”
She looks up, scans my face for clues, then tilts her head as if hoping gravity might hold back her tears.
“Sounds like you really miss Ella,” I say, keeping an eye on the time, “like you’re worried about her. The choices she’s making.”
I know this is the point when the Flock will finally cease the fight. We’ve done this merry dance enough times. I know the drill.
And sure enough, her tears fall. Mascara leaving a trail of deep hurt. Time slows down and my heart feels for her, this triggering my missing of Clara. Of our life. I check in with myself and breathe. The truth that we take our patients only as far as we’ve gone ourselves, Alexa’s loss resonating with my own grief.
She crimps her eyes, shakes her head. “Sorry, how long did you say you’d be away for?” she asks again, confused.
I note the memory lapse.
“Two weeks,” I repeat. “There’s a note in your purse with the dates.” I point.
She taps the side of her head.
“The Fouls are telling me you don’t care.”
“That’s not true, Alexa.”
“They’re threatening to hide my medication while you’re away.”
“They want to sabotage our work.”
“They’re saying you think I’m needy, pathetic.”
“Alexa, listen to me. They’re trying to destroy all the work we’ve done. Hello! If you’re listening, I’m telling you straight—Alexa needs her medication. Stop punishing her. Come out and talk.”
A pause.
“They refuse,” she answers on their behalf.
“It would be helpful to discuss why parts of you believe I would think you needy and pathetic, and why they wish to harm you,” I say. “You need to keep taking it, Alexa. Certainly while I’m away.”
A pause.
“Please don’t go,” she says, staring out the window. “Please stay.”
I check the gold clock on my desk.
“I’m afraid it’s time,” I say.
She remains, her legs parted. Hands resting between her thighs. Her vulnerability exhibited in her large green eyes, clear and wide. Her cheekbones suddenly appearing openly defined, her skin strikingly awake and luminous. The light between us seems suddenly to melt. My breathing jolts, my chest slowly tightening. She stands, strokes the tie on her blouse, and walks toward me.
“Hold me,” she whispers.
I pause. “There are certain boundaries we need to keep.”
She moves closer.
I catch my breath and stare at the open button on her blouse, her waist now resting in line with my eyes. Her body giving off the fresh scent of citrus. I feel my hands wanting to reach for her, take her in my arms and stroke her hair, allow my mouth her mouth. I imagine the immediacy between our bodies, the heat it builds. The air between us thick, swirling, forming a vacuum of space and longing. Each of our losses instantly gratified. Swiftly, I steady myself. My internal supervisor eventually helping me rise from my chair. I walk over to the door, my head light and swimming. Suddenly imbued with reason.
“It’s time,” I say again. “You must leave now.”
24
Alexa Wú
I am lying in a strange bed, sticky with heat. Beside me, a woman with nut-brown skin is sleeping soundly, her waist-length hair silky soft and smelling of rose.
Earlier, I was walking through Shoreditch—alone—with every intention of going home, but then I stumbled on a bar. Live music. People dancing. I was tired and a little dour after work, Jack’s uncharacteristic irritability and his insistence that we organize the entire studio affecting my day. The Fouls shooting their mouths and adding to my already low mood. Just one drink.
Suck it up, buttercup, the Fouls had sneered, their sarcasm biting me like some rabid dog.
As the night wore on and the bar filled up, I was beginning to feel mortified about my meeting this morning with Daniel, the Fouls kindly reminding me how I’d tried to seduce him. Confronting my shame with another drink, this time a shot.
Slut, the Fouls hissed.
Another shot. And another.
Mood dipping further, I then began wondering about Amy and Annabelle, their brother. I had terrible thoughts in my head. Was his body broken? Could he walk? I tried calling Ella, but there was no reply. Just a familiar voice asking me to leave a message as if from some faraway planet. Unreachable. One huge sky between us darkening like a savage bruise.
Face it, the Fouls scorned, she’s moved on.
Flash.
And now I’m here. Tick-tock. Not drinking, or in a bar. My clothes strewn across a parquet floor. A not unpleasant feeling between my legs.
I slowly peel the Body away from the woman beside me, immediately cooler and free. But as I do, she stirs. I note she is wearing an expensive wristwatch, a faint tattoo of a hummingbird inked across the curve of her ass. I have no idea what day it is, or whether day is actually night. The blinds pulled down and masking any sign of life. A hangover fills my head.
Where are we? I ask.
No one answers. I try again.
Who’s that beside us, naked?
Dolly giggles into her hand and scuttles away.
Runner? Oneiroi? I demand.
Her name’s Robin, Runner finally whispers. We met her at the O Bar. I really fancied her.
You were drunk, Oneiroi adds.
I slide my hand down the Egyptian cotton sheets—no knickers.
Runner! I scream.
She smiles: the cat with the cream.
What? she says. I have to put up with you and that idiot Shaun.
I reach for my phone: 6:48. Wednesday. Good. I’ve lost only a few hours. Not days. Phew. I don’t panic and instead gather my thoughts and bearings. Covering up dissociation, a skill we’ve acquired over time. Now I just need to figure out how best to leave without appearing rude.
I notice a carafe of water beside the bed, a drinking glass turned upside down and balanced on top. Robin has one too. She must make a habit of one-night stands, I think.
Probably, Oneiroi says, but Runner and her really
hit it off. They had a great time.
Dolly giggles into her hand, And they kissed, a lot! she says shyly.
I look around. Diptyque everywhere and still alight. Violet dressing the early morning air. A vague memory of our martini-stained lips—kissing—eyes overzealous and glittering. Our legs tangled on her soft leather couch until we finally fell into bed.
I enter the bathroom along the corridor. It is not hard to find, all the black walnut doors left ajar, revealing expansive rooms with low-level furniture and chrome uplights.
Classy. Runner smiles.
Get back inside, I snap. You’ve got us in enough trouble.
Trouble? she says. You should try it sometime. Beats those lowlife men you choose to sleep with.
I pause.
Maybe she’s got a point, I think to myself, smiling at another memory of us dancing together closely.
I turn on the tap, debating whether to use the purple toothbrush resting in a clear beaker, and then open the mirrored cabinet above. A spare. Good. I split the perforated cardboard edge with my fingernail, staring at the array of beauty products, a skyline of orderly neurosis. I smile softly to myself.
She must be an older woman, I say, fingering an antiaging face cream, various procollagen heroes.
Fifty-three to be exact. Runner shines.
A little old, don’t you think? Oneiroi scoffs. She’s older than Anna.
I brush my teeth, ignoring their banter, quietly noting the list of daily affirmations tacked to the cabinet’s mirror:
Your body is really rather beautiful
We can escape the places we were born and raised
We’re very normal, considering the madness we’ve felt and committed
We could disappear—
for a while
We can feel fearless about an ordinary life
We perhaps have one good friend
Just for today we are warm
There’s always someone suffering just the way you are
We can reinvent ourselves—a little
Of course,
we couldn’t have known
The Eighth Girl Page 16