Dream Machine

by Will Davis

  Friday night is my last shift at the club. Manager Dave offered to keep me on the payroll, just in case, but I said no thanks – this girl’s done with a career of getting her tits out. At least in dives like this hole, that is.

  When the place finally closes, the girls bring out some bottles of champers and have send-off drinks for me in the dressing room. After this long speech from Emily about how she thinks of me as a daughter and she just knows I’m going to be a star, they start on with the usual gossip about the punters – who was packing it in and who was minted and so on. Meanwhile I go to my chair in the corner and have a long look at myself in the mirror. I’m still wearing the diamanté bikini I always wear for my last set, and I think to myself: I’m never going to wear this number again, or sit here in this chair in front of this mirror. I’m not going to be this person anymore.

  Here, says Emily, coming up behind. She’s holding out a compact with a beautiful fat line on it. From me and the girls.

  I look round at all the smiling faces, with their silver and gold eye shadow and dramatic red and pink lips, and suddenly I’m moved. Three years I been working in this joint. Feels like an eternity. But I’m going to miss these bitches, I can tell, even though they drive me half mad with their constant moaning on about money and relationships. I wipe away the tears that have sprung to my eyes and do the line. When I look up I see that Emily’s blurry-eyed too, and it occurs to me that I’m going to miss the silly old bint more than any of them.

  Ahem, coughs this male voice. We all look up and gasp when we see Dave standing in the doorway holding a huge bouquet of roses. Dave’s a real sleaze. First warning you get from the girls when you start work here is to watch out for him and his wandering mitts, which are like ferrets with minds of their own. Thinks running the shop gives him a green card. But even so he never comes in the dressing room, since one of the house rules is that it’s strictly off bounds to men – including all staff. Tonight though he walks forward all self-conscious till he’s right in front of me and then hands me the roses.

  Something to say goodbye, he says, to show how much you’ll be missed. Spect you’ll be getting plenty more of these in the future.

  There’s a big Ah sound from everyone. All the girls are suckers for flowers, including me. I’m surprised Eddy’s never twigged that if she wants to get into my good books all she has to do is pick up a few half-price stems from Costcutter’s and I’d be putty in her hands. But Eddy’s never going to be one for romantic gestures like flowers and chocolates or jewellery. She thinks inviting me out to demonstrate’s romantic.

  I breathe in the sweet pong of the roses and say thank you to Dave. He grins awkwardly and says he’ll let us get back to it and starts to back out of the room.

  Aw, come on, Dave, have a glass of bubbly! calls Gem, who’s still wearing just her nipple tassels up top. Dave hesitates, then shrugs and takes the glass she holds out to him. Then he lifts it up and proposes a toast.

  I been manager here for five years and Riana is one of the best dancers I’ve ever seen, he declares. But let me tell you all something. I knew when I first saw that face one day she was going to be a star. Riana, you make us all proud, d’you hear?

  Everyone cheers and we all clink our glasses together. The idea of Dave looking up from a girl’s tits long enough to think about what future her face might have is pretty laughable, but it’s sweet of him all the same. I never really thought of it this way before, but it’s rather like a twisted version of a family we got here. Emily’s my twisted surrogate mum and Dave’s like a twisted surrogate father. Fucked up or what?

  Pretty soon the girls start to get nostalgic and tell stories, like the time Mia had to go out onstage with a massive rash on her thighs from a botched Brazilian, or Connie’s legendary fart midway through giving Ace Johnson a private. Dave even gets into the swing of things and tells us about punters who he’s personally had to rough up. Then he looks round proudly like he expects this information to have impressed us all. After a line and another glass of champagne he grandly informs everyone we can stay as long as we like and have a good old party.

  Thanks Dave, I say, but not for me. Gotta get home.

  Aw, come on, yells Mia. Ya can’t bail on us now! Things are just getting warmed up!

  Here! says Gem. She hands me the mirror and a rolled-up fiver. Another doobie – for old time’s sake.

  The plan was to go home and see Eddy, seeing as how we don’t have much time left together now. Tomorrow she’s working a double at Candy Bar and the next day this camera crew is coming and I’ve told her she’s got to either go out and stay out, or else pretend she’s just my flatmate – her choice. Obviously she wasn’t exactly thrilled about either option, and at first she said that if I wanted to lie about myself then fine but there was no way in hell she was getting thrown out of her own home or pretending to be my poxy co-sharer. Then I went down on her and that stopped her being difficult like a miracle cure. But I did say to her before I left there was a chance I’d be late back, and I figure I’ve been doing this job for way longer than I been going out with Eddy so I may as well see it through to the bitter end.

  What the fuck, you only get one life, don’t ya! I cry and take the fiver.

  Three hours later I stumble up the steps up to our flat. I spend ages doing that thing where you fumble around in every pocket for your keys, only to drop them before you can get the mothers in the door. They ping off the second step and go flying into the road, where they magically disappear into a drain on the pavement. Luckily I’m too wrecked to give a shit, but it means I’ve got to ring and get Eddy to come down and let me in. Course I know she’s not going to be thrilled at being woken up, but I’m still not expecting the death stare that welcomes me.

  Hello Miss Grumpy! I sing, finishing with a big kissing noise. Eddy gives me this scowl like she’s just opened the door to a Jehovah’s Witness.

  Aw, don’t be like that!

  I try to kiss her, but before I can even touch her she turns on her heel and stomps off up the stairs without a word, leaving me puckering up to thin air. I close the door behind me and follow her up. I’ve got this ominous feeling she’s going to really let rip at me as soon as I get inside our flat.

  Sure enough in the living room Eddy is stood with her arms folded facing the wall, just like Mum used to when I got in later than I said I would when I was a teen, waiting for me to explain myself. It’s kind of uncanny actually. Cept that unlike Mum, Eddy doesn’t wait. She turns round and starts giving me some.

  Do you have any idea what time it is? You said you were gonna come straight home after you finished! I’ve been waiting up for you! Didn’t you get my texts?

  I know, baby, I say, but it was my last night and the girls wanted me to stay. I couldn’t say no. Do you hate me?

  I go up to her and put my arms round her. Eddy’s always been a softy on the inside, and one of the quickest ways to melt her down is to give her a big cuddle. But this time it doesn’t wash and she pushes me off.

  Look at you! You’re completely caned, aren’t you? she snaps. If you don’t mind me asking, Riana, exactly how are you planning to get through this stupid competition when you can’t take even two steps before you need to shove another fucking heap of powder up your nose?

  Eddy always starts on about me having a blow problem when she wants to pick a fight. She knows just how to needle me. It’s pretty fucking rich, seeing as how Eddy loves blow just as much as me if not more, and is always sneaking off for little pick-me-ups in the toilets at Candy Bar whenever I pop in to see her.

  Aw, stop being such a silly.

  I’ll stop being such a silly when you stop being such a fucking addict! snarls Eddy.

  I’m not an addict!

  That’s what all addicts say!

  She puts on this smug grin as if she’s just come up with conclusive proof of me reaching rock bottom. There’s obviously no talking to her right now. I s’pose what this really is about is me going awa
y and how much Eddy’s going to miss me, but it’d be nice if she could just tell me that kind of thing instead of acting like such a dick.

  Fuck off, Eddy, I say tiredly, I’m going to bed.

  I heave this deep long sigh just to let her know how stupid and immature I reckon her behaviour is and head off out of the room. It’d probably be more dignified if I didn’t trip on one of my heels as I reach the door and twist my ankle. I let out a little scream of pain and fall against the wall.

  Hey! says Eddy. I look up, expecting her to be offering me her arm. Stead she’s kneeling down and excitedly examining the carpet like she’s just spotted a twenty-quid note lying there. Then she looks up, holding something between her thumb and forefinger. It’s a piece of fluff.

  Look darling! she gushes in this mock beauty queen voice. Maybe you can wear this for your next performance!

  I stare at her, totally gobsmacked. Here I am, fucking crippled, two days away from the most important thing I’ve ever done in my life, and my girlfriend is taking the piss. Time and time again I’ve made it clear to her that it doesn’t make any difference what she thinks of what I’m doing cos I’m doing it anyway. I’ve explained how important this is to me, and how it’s just a means to an end and it doesn’t mean I’m ashamed of her or of what I am. And despite it all she still can’t find it in herself to support me, not even just a tiny little bit. Inside something snaps. I pull myself up and kick off my heels. Ignoring this shooting pain that’s going on in my ankle, I march up to her and poke her in the ribs.

  What the fuck is your problem?

  My problem? she yells, slapping my hand away. I’m not the one with the problem round here! It’s you who’s about to go and do something that’s against everything we stand for!

  At this I throw my head back and let out a big laugh. If there’s one way to really piss Eddy off it’s to laugh at her. Makes her fucking blood boil, it does.

  Don’t give me that shit, I go through my sniggers. This has nothing to do with that and you know it. This is about your insecurity. You can’t handle the fact that I’m doing something amazing and you’re not involved!

  Eddy starts to shake, which is what she does when she gets crazy.

  What you’re planning to go and do amounts to nothing more than prostitution! she shouts in my face, probably waking up the whole street. Stripping’s one thing, but I don’t think I can cope with having a prostitute for a girlfriend!

  Eyes flashing, she juts out her chin and folds her arms again. For a second, just one second, I’m so angry with her for being such a stubborn piece of fuck that I rack my brains for the most hurtful thing I can possibly say. Then, without thinking about whether it’s a good idea or not, I spit it out at her.

  Well, if you can’t cope, then you should just leave, shouldn’t you?

  Even as the words come out my mouth I know I don’t mean them. It’s the blow talking – and exhaustion. I mean, fucking hell, I’ve been dancing since six o’clock yesterday. And I’m all nervous and stressed out about the competition. But as soon as they’re said it’s too late and I can’t take them back. All I can do is watch Eddy’s face as all the colour drains out of it.

  Fine, she says coldly, I’ll pick up my stuff tomorrow.

  She walks past me and into the hall, where I hear her tearing her coat off the hook.

  Eddy, wait! I scream after her. I didn’t mean it!

  But the only answer is the sound of the door slamming.

  ‘I just want my family to know how much they mean to me, and I want God to know how grateful I am for this opportunity. I believe He’s watching over this contest and looking out for me. I was chosen for a reason, and I’m sure as hell not going to let Him down.’

  The camera crew were supposed to arrive at eight, but instead they arrive at twenty to nine. I’ve been waiting for them since seven, staring out my bedroom window, wearing my new zebra- and leopard-print pyjamas, my hair all brushed and then re-tousled so that it looks like I’ve only just got up – bedraggled but glamorous, like Jennifer Aniston had it back in March. My plan was that I’d open the door and then do a jokey scream and act all pretend-outraged at being caught on camera like this, but when the bell finally does go I’m on the toilet. I flush and hurl myself out on to the landing, but I’m too late and Mum’s already got there first. I peep between the banisters and watch them filming her and asking her questions about what she thinks of me being a contestant. Like the doofus she is Mum just says stuff like ‘Ummmm’ and ‘Wellllll’ over and over, as though no one’s ever asked her for her opinion before. Well, it doesn’t happen often that’s for sure – and there’s a good reason for that. Finally she wonders out loud if anyone would like to try her brownies in this stupid hopeful voice, like the one Gramps puts on after he’s regressed seventy years and wants to know if we can go and feed the ducks. The crew obviously don’t want to hurt her feelings, or else maybe they’re genuinely charmed by her total lack of a mind, because they follow her into the kitchen and a few seconds later I hear these disgusting chomping noises followed by ‘How delicious!’

  Since plan A is now officially sabotaged I hurry back to my room to finish getting up. If they’ve seen Mum up and about I don’t want them to think I’m one of those teenage slobs who lazes around in her pyjamas all day long watching TFM and getting in her parents’ way. I return to my bathroom which is en suite and quickly start going through my ritual. This is something I have to do every morning, no matter how important a day it is. I take off all my clothes, step onto the scales, close my eyes, take a deep gulp of air and then hold my breath for as long as I can. While I hold it I pray with all my might that the little digits which pop up in front of my toes will be more than they were the day before. If you could increase your body mass through the sheer force of will in the same way that you can turn around a bad performance onstage, I’d weigh exactly eight and four – the amount the doctor said a girl of my age and height could just about get away with weighing. But physics can’t be worked like a crowd, and my weight never rises above seven and eight. Since this morning is the last time I’ll be able to do this for a while, seeing as they might not even have scales in the house I’m going to, I hold my breath until I’m bursting. Finally, just when it feels like I’m about to pass out, I breathe in and look down. Seven and four. I haven’t told Dad, but it’s been sliding, steadily but surely, ounce by ounce, ever since that first audition two weeks ago.

  Please God, don’t let me lose any more.

  To complete the ritual I turn and quickly study my body in the full-length mirror opposite. Because of my weight I always expect to see a super-thin girl staring back, but I never look that skinny. When I turn to the side there’s even a slight protrusion where my gut is, in spite of all the sit-ups I do. It’s effing disgusting. My new dance instructor, Edna, who started with me just a couple of months ago, promised I’d have the Britney belly by now. Okay, Edna, but have you even seen the pictures of the Britney belly lately?

  I quickly clean my teeth and then go through to the bedroom to put on my clothes. I’m so excited now I can hardly contain myself. Today I am making history – at least, that’s how I’m approaching it. The crew are going to be following me round all day in order to get a sense of who I am, and Dad and I have planned it right down to the last detail. First of all I’m going to take a walk about the village, so they can get some shots of me looking pensive and dreamy with some nice scenery as a backdrop. Then Dad’s going to show them all my trophies, which he had a special cabinet built for in the garage. After that I’m having my last ever singing lesson with Mr Field, and then this evening we’re having a goodbye meal before seven when the car is coming to take me to London. Then I’ll go into the house and officially start the beginning of my career as the new Purrfect girl.

  I straighten myself out and then pull out my make-up kit. I don’t usually wear make-up around the house, unlike Mum who’s in full foundation and lipstick before she’s had her first cup of tea i
n the morning. Partly it’s because there’s no point, and partly it’s because Dad doesn’t like me wearing it when I’m not performing. He says cosmetics age you prematurely, and that once I’m twenty-one and have my first wrinkle that’s the time to start slapping it on. But today there are the cameras so I brush some concealer over the two pimples that have ignored God’s instructions not to come up, followed by a subtle dab of pink on my eyelids to bring out the hazel of my eyes. Then I pull my hair back into a ponytail and give myself a big smile. It’s important to give yourself a smile before you go out and face the day. It preps you for whatever the Devil plans to throw at you.

  When I get downstairs Dad has returned from his jog, which he does without fail every morning no matter what the weather is like. It’s crucial to have a system in your life, is what he always says, and I know exactly what he means. Mercifully he’s prised the hapless crew away from Mum’s clutches and is with them in the living room telling them how talented and special I am. I pause just before the door, hearing him as he says that he knows I am his daughter and obviously he is biased because he loves me, but he also used to be in show business and knows a rising star when he sees one. For a second I actually think I might cry. I’m so incredibly lucky to have a father who understands me and believes in me.

  ‘Louise, there you are!’ says Mum brightly from behind, almost making me scream. I shoot her a glare because she knows how cranky it makes me when she does that. ‘I was just bringing this up for you. Fresh from the oven!’

  She’s got her silly apron on, the one with the apples and oranges with smiley faces, and is holding a steaming cup of tea and a plate with a massive hunk of ugly fatty brownie – the sort of food that makes you put on weight if you even look at it for too long. She smiles at me, nervous and anxious to please, much like a spaniel. I don’t say this to be mean, because she is my mother and I do love her and all that, but Mum really is one of those people nature designed to be walked over by others, and she’s just lucky that Dad came along and saw whatever it was he saw in her and rescued her from herself. Sometimes I’m glad I’m an only child, because if I had a sister who was like Mum I don’t know if I’d be able to cope. One idiot in the family is more than enough. I take the tea but wave the brownie away.