Double Bind

by Karen Bell

  ‘Of course you do. I was getting carried away with myself, I forget my strength sometimes and I’m just so envious of that tiny waist!’ He eased the garment and she felt her heart rate slowly return to normal.

  Mila had watched many a classic Hollywood film as a child with her mother and then, years later she’d watched them again with Holly when Robert was away on business trips. She still loved them, but in recent years her heart had ached with the loss of her mother. Now, she shook off the feeling and quickly swallowed down her second glass of champagne as Siren prepared to unveil the rest of the outfit.

  The wig and lingerie had given her a clue and Mila was quickly narrowing down the field of possible film stars to those famous from the early 1950s through to the late 1960s with blonde hair. She came up with a not- so-short list of Jayne Mansfield, Doris Day, Catherine Hepburn, Grace Kelly, Lauren Bacall, Lana Turner and of course Marilyn Monroe. She was mentally eliminating those that she couldn’t envisage on a pole! Then there were the singers who had at various times had channelled their style. Madonna, Christina Aguilera, Lady Gaga and Gwen Stefani.

  She couldn’t possibly imagine herself looking even remotely like any of them, but with the second drink going to her head, she was now getting excited for the big reveal. If you can just think of this as acting and nothing more…

  A few more minutes and Mila was standing dressed, with eyes closed in front of a full-length mirror. Thankfully, her own black heels had been good enough. ‘Drum roll please.’ announced Siren. ‘And now, you can open!’

  When Mila caught sight of her reflection, her jaw literally dropped. She was looking not at herself, but at the best double for Marilyn Monroe she had ever seen. She stared at herself, in disbelief for some seconds.

  Had Siren suggested it from the start, Mila would have rolled down the staircase and out onto busy Oxford street, laughing. No way would Mila have imagined that her features in any way resembled hers but she had to admit now that with everything complete, the make-up, the hair, the changed lip line, she really was a recognizably good likeness for the ‘50s icon.

  The outfit was not the clichéd Marilyn white halter that would have been easier to dance in, but it was a long fitted strapless dress designed to go over the lingerie and Mila could see it hugged in all the right places.

  When she again voiced her concerns about its suitability for dancing, Siren scolded her. ‘Trust me the whole outfit is designed for the job. It’s looks like a dress but it’s actually separates that come off a piece at a time. There’s a split in the back of the skirt and a concealed zip that runs right the way down for quick getaways. Honey let’s face it, you’ll sashay on, saunter around once or twice, do a couple of closed leg spins around the pole and that top layer’s going to come right off!’

  ‘You are a genius,’ Mila whispered.

  ‘And never fear, I called the club before we started to make sure there’s no other Marilyn in the line-up, so you’re good to go.’

  She couldn’t stop looking at the stranger in the mirror, searching for recognition of her own face beneath. She may not have been one hundred percent Marilyn but she felt one hundred percent not Mila and that was a huge weight lifted from her shoulders. It gave her confidence that she wouldn’t be caught out and also a kind of an alternate persona to inhabit.

  ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you,’ she said earnestly. ‘I mean that. I’m really in your debt.’

  Siren glowed with pride. ‘Well I have had just a smidge of experience you know, a drag show here, a Mardi Gras there. Anyway, after hearing your plight, I’ve decided to work out the charges as a hire-only for tonight, and then when you get the job, we can work out a balance for the purchase. What do you think?’

  ‘I think I might cry,’ she replied tearfully.

  ‘Oh my God no! Don’t do that. Think of the make-up!’

  The final touches were a pair of elbow-length lycra gloves, and diamante jewellery that Mila slipped into her bag, along with her own clothes. Siren called a taxi and hugged her fondly before sending her teetering back down the stairs and into the street. It was becoming dark and Mila was still light headed and far too nervous to eat, so having nowhere else to go, although it was still early for her appointment, she asked the driver to take her straight to the club.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Men were cramming in and spilling out. There was even a small queue down the road and Mila’s stomach clenched with nerves as she got out of the taxi to a chorus of wolf whistles and comments. The security guy tried to settle the crowd and quickly ushered her over.

  ‘You’re not a regular; just trying out tonight?’ he yelled. Mila nodded in reply over the noise.

  ‘There’s a stage door around the back, for next time.’ He picked up his walkie-talkie. ‘Sending in a newbie through the front. Is the boss in?’

  ‘Copy that. Sure is, send her in. I’ll send a hostess to meet her at reception.’

  Mila was shown inside, where more men were checking in coats and briefcases before being escorted further into the club beyond Mila’s line of vision. The venue had been unassuming from the street; little more than a hole in the wall really. The interiors by contrast were straight out of a film set, circa 1950s glam Hollywood: velvet papered walls, gold, marble and mahogany joinery and fretwork, plush carpets printed in fleur de lys designs and the most sumptuous and expensive looking lounges Mila had ever seen. From where she waited, Mila could see a gentleman’s smoking room. Through the pall of smoke, she could see topless girls delivering trays of drinks to suited men of varied ages. They sat in small clusters of tub chairs around marble coffee tables enjoying the attention of criminally young waitresses. A sultry looking pianist with a husky voice oozed sex appeal as she crooned out a K.D. Lang song. Keep smoking thought Mila, it can only improve those vocals. The room had its own bar, intimately lit with concealed LED strips– a sparkling curved wall of wines and spirits, all top shelf varieties judging by their stylized bottles, as well as crystal glassware of all descriptions shimmering in open glass cabinets. Mila pitied the cleaners whose job it would be to remove the nicotine and tar grime that must accumulate each day.

  Just then, she was greeted by a hostess who gave her the once-over. ‘Follow me,’ she said in a fashion as bored as if Mila was the tenth Marilyn Monroe look-alike she’d seen that evening.

  Luckily she’s not the one I’m trying to impress thought Mila as she followed Miss silver G-string, who was now sauntering down the hallway before her. No cellulite, no surprise. Mila noted dryly.

  ‘Mr Arnett has asked me to show you to a private room, so we can go through the main theatre if you’d like. Have you been here before, seen any of the shows?’

  ‘No, but can we? I’d like to be a bit prepared.’

  ‘What music have you brought? Disc or iPod? The dock is playing up in the Casablanca Room.’

  It was a passing comment but it stopped Mila in her tracks. How could you have overlooked that one? She thought with horror. The most important thing.

  ‘Music? I-I didn’t bring my own. I was called in on short notice this afternoon and it was all I could do to get an outfit together.’ Mila felt both foolish and unprofessional.

  ‘Well how do you expect to impress him with no music and no chorrie?’ The question was well founded and Mila had no reply.

  They were now walking through the enormous double doors into the main theatre where a burlesque show was in progress and judging by the expanses of bare flesh and the thunderous applause, it was at a point of climax.

  Given her mounting panic, Mila would have liked to have skipped the audition and just stayed here as a fly on the wall but G-string girl was trying to say something, which Mila couldn’t catch above the noise. They wove through the auditorium and exited through locked doors marked Members Only.

  ‘You can download some music on your iPhone if you like and I’ll stall the boss.’ Mila didn’t dare say that she had no idea how to do that but she didn�
�t have to. G-string was ten years her junior and read it on her face. ‘What song do you want?’ she asked with some exasperation.

  Finally, something Mila had an answer for. She knew every Marilyn movie and there was really only one song with the mood and tempo that suited the outfit and that Mila could envision as a strip tease.

  It was a provocative classic, Diamonds are a girl’s best friend and it was the song that Marilyn sang when wearing the similar dress to Mila’s gown. It was a little obvious but at least it was well enough known to be familiar to a mixed audience.

  ‘Give me your phone,’ she said rolling her eyes and holding out her hand simultaneously. Mila reached in to her purse, silently blessing Holly a million times for her early Christmas gift of the latest iPhone.

  She started pressing buttons at lightning speed and Mila was blown away by how quickly she was able to download the song, pressing play to check the sound.

  Who would have thought that G-string girl would have turned out to be another thread in Mila’s silver lining!

  ‘You’re an angel. Thank you. What is your name?’

  ‘Here at the club, my name’s Ginger,’ she answered referring to her mane of auburn hair, ‘but I reserve my real name for my friends and you haven’t reached that status yet.’ She said it nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulders as though it wasn’t even a criticism but it still stung. Mila clearly wasn’t used to this scene. Ginger didn’t ask Mila’s name; either because she didn’t care or because she already knew it from the boss, but it made Mila aware that she may need to invent an alias. She was also going to have to grow a thicker skin.

  As they walked down a long corridor, she was gobsmacked to see an enormous indoor pool and wet bar behind a glass wall, steam rising off the water. Naked girls walked around unselfconsciously, stepping out of their heels before slipping in to the pool to deliver drinks or join in on hot-tub antics.

  Where did all these gorgeous young things come from? There seemed to be no shortage of them eager to get their clothes off. How am I meant to compete with that?

  All the rooms to her left were labelled with the names of well-known films from the Golden Era. There were cameras discreetly concealed in the ceiling but Mila noticed their dark domed lenses at regular intervals along the way, reminding her that even in a place like this, the business of sex was not without its seedy side.

  ‘Wait in here and the boss should be along in about twenty minutes.’ Ginger opened the door with a swipe card, which she then slipped back into the front of her G-string.

  ‘I’ve always thought pockets were over-rated too,’ Mila smiled in jest, and was met with a poker face by way of reply. Wow, tough crowd. I’d better work on my act.

  The King and I room did not disappoint. Curved walls flanked a semi-circular lounge, upholstered in a teal-blue velvet with brocade cushions scattered about. The pole in the centre appeared to hold up harem-like swathes of silk fabric and bronzed decorative lanterns cast a warm, glow in Moorish designs about the room. A door on the other side led to a lavish ensuite bathroom.

  The scene was a bit incongruous with Mila’s ensemble but she didn’t have time to give it another thought with the realization that she was spectacularly unprepared for her performance. After searching her phone for the music library and downloaded song, Mila docked it and pressed play. She was still no expert and wasted precious minutes fiddling with controls.

  She hadn’t stretched and hadn’t warmed up. Both were now impossible in the combined constraints of time and her figure-hugging gown. She wasn’t prepared to risk a complete un-dress rehearsal in case the manager appeared ahead of time, so instead, had to satisfy herself with choreographing and practicing the first part of an act with movements limited by the sheath-like skirt and long gloves.

  Years of rhythmic gymnastics had given Mila some great moves but she had to edit those that weren’t sufficiently sensuous and find a way to get off the gloves almost immediately. Pretending they were a theatrical prop, she practiced tossing them into her unseen audience. Okay, so gloves don’t fly she noted as they fluttered flaccidly to the carpet half a metre away. Next she tried some moves that she’d mastered on the pole.

  Despite the split in the skirt, it wasn’t easy. She attempted a couple of moves that had her turning and twisting around the pole with legs together. That required enormous upper body and core strength, both of which she had in spades but she quickly realized the sooner she took off the outer layer, the more comfortable she’d feel. How’s that for irony, she mused.

  Mila looked at her watch and noted in a panic that fifteen minutes had already elapsed. She grabbed her bag and dashed for the ensuite realizing that she still had to reapply lipstick and put on the diamante jewellery.

  The bathroom looked pristine but given the range of activities that took place here, Mila couldn’t help imagining how the walls and floor would be revealed under a black light, a kind of a Jackson Pollock masterpiece of DNA splashes. She was careful not to touch the toilet seat as she took a last-minute nervous pee.

  The champagne was wearing off and Mila felt a pang of anxiety in her gut as she donned the long gloves, and caught sight of herself in the mirror. You’re here now Mila – I mean Marilyn. Pretend you’ve done this a million times, that you’re as comfortable in your own skin as all those girls out there. The worst that can happen is that you don’t get the job.

  The sound of the door opening and closing outside the bathroom sent her stomach into a nosedive.

  Stepping out of the bathroom she was surprised to see a distinguished and charismatic looking man, impeccably groomed, in a slim fitted suit, shirt and tie. He was seated comfortably on the lounge with one ankle draped over the other knee and Mila was struck by how very at-home he looked in the space. He effortlessly gave the impression of having been styled for a leading role in a movie: Classically cut, expensive looking suit, silk tie and suede Italian loafers.

  Mila immediately twigged that this was not a manager, but the owner of the club. His hair was still dark but smatterings of salt and pepper grey, and silvering sideburns suggested his age to be possibly early sixties. He had an intelligent forehead, a face that was timelessly handsome and made her think of Cary Grant in his later films.

  He stood when Mila approached and shook her hand approvingly but without affectation. He had looked her over subtly, his expression giving nothing further away.

  ‘So Mila, lovely to make your acquaintance, I’m James Arnett.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Mila felt like curtseying and stopped herself just in time.

  ‘You come recommended by Sarah Rose. That’s a good start. We’ve had several of her graduates gracing our stage, all very professional. My time’s a bit limited tonight I’m sorry, so do you mind if we skip the formalities and see what you’ve got?’

  He said it without any innuendo and Mila was relieved that he wasn’t in the least bit sleazy. She wasn’t convinced though that it would make it any easier to get her clothes off. Pretend he’s your obstetrician. He’s seen it all a million times before.

  Taking a deep breath, Mila walked over to the iPod dock and pressed play.

  The next four minutes passed in a blur as she poured herself into the music and her moves. She was aware of her surroundings but gave no conscious thought to the fact that one by one, the pieces of her costume were coming off and going in various directions.

  At intervals she caught his eye and he looked intrigued if not slightly amused. She was at one moment at the top of the pole and the next spinning sensuously down its length while tossing the last of her lingerie in his general direction. When the song reached its last few dramatic lines, Mila was astounded to find herself naked as a jaybird with nothing more to take off. In a moment of panic, she pirouetted and sashayed towards the bathroom, taking a final leap through the open door as though it were the wings of a stage.

  With that, she heard him burst out laughing. It was not a nasty laugh but an infectious and hearty laugh that
made Mila smile despite the fact that she was obviously the cause of his great mirth. She grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around her before coming out to collect her clothes.

  ‘Well I’m glad I gave you a laugh. That bad was it?’

  He had by then regained his composure and was gathering items of her clothing that had landed all about him on the sofa.

  ‘No it was really very good but let’s just say a little unorthodox, maybe a few moves that gave you away.

  ‘Gave me away?’

  ‘Gave away that it was your first time doing this. It was a bit over the top but actually refreshingly naïve. Humour can be a good part of burlesque.’

  ‘Well I wasn’t exactly trying to be funny.’

  ‘I know, that’s what made it even more so.’

  Mila was disappointed. ‘Do you think there’s hope for me with a few amendments to the routine or was it completely irreparable?’

  He laughed again, but a look of intrigue crossed his face and Mila took it as a positive sign.

  ‘No, it was far from a lost cause. Can I give you a few pointers?’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, ‘I’m open to constructive criticism.’ She was at the same time thinking that she was not about to make a fool of herself more than once if she could help it.

  ‘Okay. You’re going to have to either tone it down or turn it up. At the moment you’re somewhere between Lucille Ball and Cirque du Soleil.

  It was Mila’s turn to laugh, familiar as she was with the subject of both analogies.

  ‘More eye contact with your audience, no mouthing the words, and if you’re going to use that song, either amp up the humour and sassiness or slow down the moves and make it really steam. I’d go for the latter. Go away and watch Dita Von Teese on the internet and come back at three on Saturday to fill out forms and run through a sound check and rehearsal. My stage manager tells me we have gaps at 7:15, 10 p.m. and 1 a.m. in the main auditorium on Saturday night. I’m not sure about Sunday. If you want to do private dances in between, let her know.’ He stood up, handing Mila her underwear and giving her a reassuring pat on the arm before leaving the room.