by Will Davis
Second she’s gone everyone runs off to different corners of the house to practise on their songs, which means there’s no escape. They’re all power ballads and trust me the only thing worse than having to listen to someone covering a Celine Dion number over and over is having to cover it yourself. They’ve given me ‘Falling Into You’ and I want to puke every time I have to go into the chorus. If it wasn’t bad enough that I hate the song, there’s just no way I can compete with one of the best singers in the whole fucking world, so Jesus knows how I’m s’posed to make it happen onstage. I’ll have to really work the crowd. Make them love me. It’s lucky I’ve got three years’ training to know how to do it.
Cept there’s no way I can go out onstage tomorrow with a head like this. I got to get hold of some blow or else I’m up shit creek without a paddle. I need a master plan. Luckily, I got one.
The one place where no one’s polluting the atmosphere with noise coming out their mouths is the bedroom, and since the crew are busy filming Ella whimpering her way through her Toni Braxton song and Joni ballsing up her dance steps, it’s pretty easy for me to say in a loud voice, I’m off to bed, and then head off without them following. Once I’m upstairs I slide out my luggage bag from under the bed and slip it in under the duvet, patting it down till it looks like a body’s under there. Then I plump up the pillows and voilà! – far as anyone can tell Riana is fast asleep and dead to the world.
Now for phase two. The house is a massive three-storey number, and the bedroom is on the second floor. But there’s a fire escape off the bathroom with stairs leading down to the garden outside. So long as it doesn’t set off some alarms this is what I am hoping will be my route to freedom. I push open the fire door and hold my breath. No alarms. Just like that I’m out.
Phase three. The garden is surrounded by this six-foot wall, which is half an inch taller than me. If I wasn’t who I am I’d be pretty much trapped, but the good news is three years of twisting round poles and swinging up and down also turns out to be the perfect training for breaking and entering – or in my case exiting. I slip over the wall like Catwoman, landing on both feet on the pavement outside without so much as a scratch. They should build an army out of us strippers. We are fucking hardcore.
Only bad news is that residential wherever-the-fuck is not exactly jampacked with phone boxes, and it takes me a fucking eon to find one, by which point I’m sweating like a bastard and starting to wonder what I’m doing, jeopardising my shot at the big time with this crazy mission for blow. And please don’t think I don’t know it’s crazy, it’s just that I’ve got this image of tomorrow’s performance, me standing in front of the panel, holding the mic, and this horrible headache pulsating up top. I see myself raising the mic to my lips and this shudder runs through me cos I know that if I open my mouth the only thing that’s going to come out of it is puke. There’s no turning back. It’s a case of all or nothing.
Eddy answers after the eighth ring – just as I’m thinking her phone is about to screw me and go to voicemail. At the sound of her voice I suddenly realise how much I want her arms round me, holding me all tenderly in that way she does when she’s pretending I’m just this naïve little girl that needs protecting from the big bad world outside. Right now I genuinely feel a bit like that and could really use a nice old cuddle. And a good long snog. As well as a decent snort.
Eddy, it’s me – please don’t hang up!
On the last day before I left the flat I kept expecting her to call, or else show up and make up. It upset me that she didn’t. Maybe I should have called her, but I had that stupid crew following me around like a fucking entourage and then all the girls from the club dropping by one after the other to say goodbye and have a strut in front of the cameras, so I didn’t get the opportunity. It’s been bugging me all week the way we left things. Course we row all the time, and it often boils over and ends up in one or other of us threatening to move out or else leaving and staying with friends for a couple of nights. It’s just that normally once those couple of nights are over and things have cooled down a bit I haven’t moved halfway across London and been locked up in a houseful of girls and cameras and bastard coaches.
Well? goes Eddy after a long pause.
I’m sorry, Eddy. I was a total bitch.
I listen to her breathe, willing her not to make this difficult.
Yeah, she says, and I was a total cunt. I’m sorry too.
I let out a sigh of relief. We spend a bit longer saying sorry, and then I start to feel quite emotional and get all choked up. It’s the strain, all that non-stop dancing and singing, and being constantly filmed and surrounded by gabbling wannabes. My voice cracks and I tell Eddy how hard it is and how much I just want to be curled up in bed with her. Eddy calls me her poor little baby and says she misses me like crazy.
I’ve taken a big risk sneaking out, I wail. I got to get back before anyone notices – maybe they already have! But I had to call you. I couldn’t go another day without hearing your voice.
I wish I could see you! moans Eddy.
Well, listen, I say, trying to sound like it’s just a spur-of-the-moment idea. Maybe that could be arranged . . .
Quickly I explain where I am, and say that if she wants she could come meet me in a few hours, this same spot, and that I’ll sneak out again when everyone’s asleep. They’ll all be whacked out from today so there’s no chance of anyone catching me, I figure. Eddy agrees straight away. I can tell she’s quite excited by the idea of me taking this fuck-off big risk just to see her. Anarchy’s in her blood, she’s my little radical. I’m kind of turned-on myself. Breaking the rules is a sexy business.
Before I hang up I ask if she can score for me.
I’m desperate, I admit. I could really use some for the performance tomorrow. This environment is turning me into a nervous fucking wreck.
For a minute I think our connection’s been broken, cos I can’t hear anything from the end of the line, not even the sound of breathing.
Eddy?
You mean to say the only reason you called was to get me to ferry you over some coke? says Eddy coldly.
I should have known she’d choose to see it this way. Trust Eddy to turn something around so it seems like I’m nothing but a selfish shit who only cares about herself.
You know that’s not the only reason! I say, struggling not to get narky. I just thought that if you’re coming anyway—
Jesus! snaps Eddy again. I resist the temptation to say anything else cos I know it’ll just make her madder. Instead I just wait. There’s another long patch of silence and after a bit I start to worry maybe she’s thrown the phone away in disgust.
Eddy . . . you there?
Yeah, I’m here.
I bite my lip.
Well?
What time do you want to meet?
I tell her four o’clock and say how much I love her. Then I start to get dirty and tell her how when I’m famous I’m going to make her drink champagne out of my pussy and then do things with the cork that’ll make her blush. But before I’ve got on to this last bit she hangs up. Guess I’ll just have to make it up to her when she gets here. We’ll have our own little party, her, me and this here phone box.
Everyone’s in bed when I get back. Valerie and Rebecca are doing their whispering thing under the bedclothes, like a couple of boarding school closet-cases, and there’s the usual hog-snoring coming from Joni’s bed. Nothing from Ella next to mine, so I s’pose she must have snivelled herself off to sleep already. It’s completely dark and I stub my toe on the bedpost as I pull back the duvet. I can’t help letting out a little gasp at the pain.
Who’s that? calls a Scouser accent.
Me, I say to Valerie.
Thought you was asleep!
Was. Had to go to the toilet. Nighty night.
I slip into bed beside my luggage bag. It’s only then that I realise I got no way of telling the time unless I get up again and go to the bathroom to check the clock there.
I’m going to have to wing it. I close my eyes and let out a long breath. I need to relax. Another thing I miss about Eddy is the massage she sometimes gives me after I get off work. She’s trained in Swedish and Thai from her days as a backpacker and it’s like dying and going to heaven when she puts her hands on your body, specially after a night with it wrapped round a metal pole.
I don’t mean to fall asleep, but once I’m lying there with my head on the pillow it’s like this dark cloud just descends on me. Next thing I know the room’s slowly filling with light and there’s birds tweeting outside. It’s the dawn-fucking-chorus. You don’t really get to hear it in Hoxton, seeing as whatever birds there are get drowned out and probably run over by all the traffic. But all the way out here on the edge of London it’s so loud it almost sounds like you’ve woken up in the middle of a forest. Sadly I’m not exactly in the right frame of mind to appreciate the wonder of nature. I feel like microwaved shit.
There’s no other sound apart from the odd wheeze from sleeping girl-band wannabes, so I roll out of bed and tiptoe quickly into the bathroom. Fuck. It’s four fucking thirty. I quickly push open the fire door. I’m only wearing my Mickey Mouse T-shirt and some panties but I decide not to bother with my shoes or putting on anything else, seeing as how Eddy’ll already have been waiting for half an hour.
Course when I get on to the lawn this chill wind blows right up under the T-shirt and I wish I’d put more on. My head’s thumping even worse than it was last night and I’ve got this nasty burning going on in my stomach, like there’s acid eating away at my insides. My vision is cloudy and there’s this synthetic ringing in my ears, kind of like all those birds are tweeting through a vocoder. I pull myself up and scramble over the wall, scraping my knee and coming away with a long bloody cut. So much for Catwoman.
The streets are still deserted so I chuck modesty out the window and race barefoot along the pavement without bothering to hold down the T-shirt, round the corner and up the road until the phone box is in sight. Then I come to a frozen halt. There’s no sign of Eddy. I open the door and step inside, ready to start beating up the place out of frustration. Couldn’t she have fucking waited? I’m only half a fucking hour late, aren’t I?
Then I see it. There on top of the phone is a Boots bag and inside is a piece of carefully folded newspaper containing a little plastic bag of what looks like at least three good grams of blow. There’s no note, no nothing. Just the bag, sitting there like one of those cakes in Alice in Wonderland with Eat Me written on it.
Oh Eddy, I breathe. You’re a fucking lifesaver.
Even though it’s a bad idea cos I’ll be buzzing in bed, I can’t resist a smidge, just to test that it really is the good stuff. It is. Straight away I feel better, and I can’t stop myself from dabbing a tiny bit more on to my gums, to get a good taste of that wonderful numbness. I slip the packet into the back of my panties and take a moment to chill and get a grip. I’m kind of put out that Eddy just left it here like this. I mean, what if some tramp had come in and found it? I know she’s probably still mad at me for making her get it and then for not showing up on time, but this stuff costs an absolute bomb. That’s at least a hundred quid’s worth she left sitting there for anyone to come along and nick off with.
I open the door and step back outside into the wind. As I hurry down the road a car slows down and honks at me. The driver’s this middle-aged bloke, probably some repressed chartered accountant who lives round here. He leers and licks his lips in a totally pervy way. Normally I’d just give him the finger, but I’m too pleased with myself to give a shit about dirty old men, and instead I blow him a kiss and wiggle my arse for good measure as I run by.
Apart from missing Eddy the whole operation has gone so smoothly that I can’t help congratulating myself as I make my way back up the fire escape. Turns out this is a lethal thing to do, seeing as I’m not quite in the clear yet. The fire door’s closed and when I try to open it I find the safety lock on the inside’s clicked into place. I turn and sink to my knees on the metal balcony, pressing my forehead against the railing, getting this sensation of falling into a great bottomless black hole. Suddenly everything seems hopeless. I’ve fucked it all up. They’re gonna come here and find me and they’ll twig that I sneaked out and throw me off the show. Then I’ll be back to the club with my tail between my legs, and Dave’ll give me this look like he never truly thought I’d amount to anything really, and Emily’ll tell me it’s all right cos I’ve still got her and I’ll look at her and know that’s me in ten years’ time. I feel the tears begin to slide down my cheeks followed by a faint pitter-patter as they land on the metal platform below. I just want to die.
There’s a sudden clanking noise from behind and I quickly turn, shielding the bulge on my butt as the fire door opens a crack and this thin suspicious face peeps out.
Riana?
It’s Little Miss Perfect, Louise, who always gets the solos because of her pitch-perfect squeak of a voice. She stares at me like she was expecting to find a raving rapist.
What are you doing out here?
I just . . . I just needed some air, I lie. Louise’s eyes travel down my body and I see she’s looking at my muddy feet and taking in the bloody graze on my left knee. Got locked out so I went down to try the front door, only I tripped up, didn’t I?
You know we’re not allowed outside, says Miss Prissy, folding her arms. The tight-arsed little bitch is actually standing in the way of me getting back in. But in a weird, other-dimensional kind of a way, the whole situation is a bit hilarious and I have to stop this giggle that’s rising up my throat.
It’s the rules, she goes.
It was so hot in there I just wanted a breath of air! There’s a bit of hysteria in my voice – funnily enough just what Edgar said I should be concentrating on trying to produce when I go for those high notes. It doesn’t say anywhere in the contract that we have to deprive ourselves of oxygen, does it?
Louise continues to stare at me, her lower lip jutting out in a pout that actually kind of suits her. She’s one of those girls who only look good when they don’t smile, like Posh Spice. Then I realise she’s not staring at my face. I follow her eyes down and see that they’re focused on my chest. I inspect it quickly, but everything looks fine enough to me.
How do . . . they stay up like that? Louise murmurs, seeming to forget that I’m a tear- and mud-stained mess that she’s stopping from getting inside. Even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing, I force myself to give her this big sisterly smile.
They just do.
But . . .
She trails off and blushes. I realise I don’t really know anything about her, cept for the fact she’s been in training to be a pop star since birth or something. Next to Ella she’s by far the quietest, just doing everything perfectly straight off and watching with this detached smirk while the rest of us all fuck up. It’s nice to know she’s got at least one insecurity. It makes her more human, something I might be more keen to appreciate if I wasn’t freezing my arse off on a fire escape while she weighs up the finer points of having perky tits.
Got ’em after the first year of stripping, I tell her, putting my hands on my T-shirt and flattening it round them to show off their shape. Not bad, eh?
Louise stares at me, then looks down at my tits again, and then back up at me.
You mean to say they’re fake? she gasps. I glance down at her own chest, nothing there at all hardly, apart from a pair of pointy little nipples poking through her silly heart-spotted vest. Still there’s something promising about them, and even if this spoilt little madam’s not my type, all skin and bone and flint, there’s also something quite sexy about this situation. Me frozen and trying to protect a packet of coke strapped to my backside while Louise compares our bust sizes. I wave my hand in front of her face and she looks up. The red in her cheeks suits her too.
Sure, I say. Probably the most painful experience of my life, but definitely worth it. Suddenly everyone wa
s fighting each other to slip their fivers between them. Wanna feel?
Louise looks shocked, as if I’d just suggested she have a suck on my tongue and see how she likes it. But she doesn’t say no. I grab hold of her hand, pull her towards me, and then plant it firmly on my left tit. I’m already erect cos of the wind and her hand trembles as I push it down on the nipple, but when I let go she doesn’t let it fall. Instead, ever so shyly, like she’s worried my tit might come to life and bite her, she gives it a squeeze.
Three thousand quid for the pair and not one regret, I tell her. Got a discount for giving the surgeon a hand job.
If Louise gets that I’m joking she doesn’t show it. Instead she flinches and steps back, lifting her head like she’s suddenly come to her senses and can’t believe what she’s just been doing. She holds up her hand like she’s been touching dog shit with it.
I have to get to bed, she declares. If you want to traipse around out here in the cold then that’s your business, but some of us need our rest!
With these words Princess spins on her heel and marches back inside, the fire door swinging behind her. I catch it before it can close and lock me out again and then take a long, gorgeously satisfying breath of relief. I’m alive, safe and back in the game. And tonight, with a little help from the packet strapped to my arse, I’m gonna blow ’em away with my performance. This bitch is coming out on top.
‘Oh, I’m not nervous. I don’t actually get nervous, because I really believe in myself and in the music. I think some of the other girls are going to struggle to be honest, but not me. I can’t wait to get out there and give it everything. It’s what I was born to do!’
God – you have to get me through this.
I force my lips into a smile and turn my body round slowly to face the audience, trying to be sensual, refusing to acknowledge the cramp in my tummy. If only I’d eaten something at lunch. Just a few effing mouthfuls would have done it. But I was too psyched and I couldn’t bring myself to swallow so much as a bite. I’ve always been like that in the hours before I go onstage – my performance is all I can think about. It just takes over everything, so that nothing else matters except for those precious moments when I’m under the spotlight with everyone’s eyes upon me. I know I should have had something at breakfast at least, but I hate eating right after I get up because it makes me feel heavy and bloated for the rest of the morning, which is the last way you want to feel when you’re practising dance moves.