Virgin

by Georgia Le Carre

  But there is no comfort—his head is a hard, unfamiliar weight and the action produces an odd thud made by his stiff hand repeatedly hitting the floor. I stop. In a daze I look down on his face.

  His mouth is open, the tongue—a strange, dull color—is pushed against his teeth. Without the healthy sheen of saliva it looks gross. I try to close his mouth, but it is locked open. His eyes are not fully shut and through the slits I see the whites. I try to lift a lid to see once more the beautiful blue eyes I have known all my life.

  If I could at least see that.

  But his eyelids are glued shut. They will not budge. Tremors shoot through my hand as I still the gruesome desire to force his eyelid open. When we were young we used to lick the salt from each other’s skin. I am suddenly filled with the strange desire to lick his skin.

  I put one hand under his head and the other under his neck and I put his head on the floor. Then I scoot backwards until I am on my hands and knees and my face is hovering inches away from his. My head moves downwards. My tongue comes out. Inches away a voice in my head urgently cries, ‘No.’

  I stop and listen to peculiar silence around us. It is quieter than falling snow. On the tabletop I notice his fingerprints in the light layer of dust, and then something weird happens. For a second I clearly perceive myself not from inside my body but from outside, crouched over my dead brother, more animal than human. I recoil from the sight. And then the moment is gone and I lower my head and lick the last salt on the corpse’s skin.

  It is the beginning of my descent into unfamiliar territory. A place you might call madness.

  I’m afraid my stay was excruciatingly long.

  Quote

  Can’t read my, can’t read my,

  No, he can’t read my poker face

  —Poker Face, Lady Gaga

  ONE

  LILY

  ‘FIRST STOP, EDEN,’ says Patrick, with a quick backward glance, as he pulls the eight-seater minibus out into the lunchtime traffic. ‘Just give it your best moves, and no worries if ya don’t get picked because we still have Spearmint Rhino and Diamonds after that,’ he adds cheerfully.

  He has a boyish face, full of charm and guile, but one look at him and you know. Weasel. And he drives like a mad man. The five of us hang onto our battered seats and smile distantly at each other. We are competitors who have been collected from the designated pick-up point outside South Kensington Tube station and are on our way to an audition. Surreptitiously, I watch them.

  Traveling with me are a tall redhead, a black girl with a tight body, a life-size human Barbie doll with masses of blonde hair, a beyond believable tiny waist and enormous boobs, and a sleekly beautiful olive-skinned girl. Each one of us has a large shoulder bag. No doubt their bags hold the same things mine does.

  A sexy costume, killer shoes, and strong stage make-up.

  I gaze out of the window and digest the information that Club Eden is to be our first stop. Shame. I had hoped to practice my routine on a real life stage in one of the other clubs and see all the other girls’ routines before we got to Eden, but still, it is interesting to know that Eden has to be paying Patrick the highest commission to have first refusal. No wonder it has overtaken all the other strip clubs and become the club to be seen in even though it does not offer full nudity.

  In silence we head northwards to the infamous King’s Cross area of London. Once it was synonymous with a grimy train station crawling with prostitutes, and rave parties in disused warehouses, but King’s Cross has cleaned up its act and fast become a cutting-edge hub for fashion and the arts, attracting even Google to set up its European headquarters there.

  Club Eden stands sandwiched between two tall glass office towers.

  Patrick drives past the large neon-lit bitten red apple logo and, turning at the next side street, enters the rear car park. He parks close to the back doors where a guy in a chef’s whites is sitting on the steps smoking a cigarette. He watches us through the smoke with uncurious eyes.

  ‘Here we are,’ Patrick announces, and switches off the engine.

  We climb out, adjust our clothes, and follow him around the side of the building to the front entrance. As soon as we enter the glossy black, double doors and my stiletto heels leave their indent on the carpet, I feel a prickling sensation go up my spine. It is so strong it feels as if a spider is actually walking on my skin. Unable to stop myself I snap my head around.

  Jesus!

  Deeply tanned, badass black hair, and staring straight at me is the legend himself! Jake Fucking Eden. My heart skips a beat. Fuck me! His photographs have not done him justice. Dressed totally in black except for a pair of brown snakeskin boots, he is coming down a broad and rather magnificent stairway with the kind of effortless, lazy power of a tiger.

  He is too far away for me to see the expression in his eyes, but the intense, barely leashed tension around him has a thunderstorm effect. It makes the air between us vibrate and crackle like electricity, taking my breath away and throwing my senses into high alert. My spine goes rigid and all the tiny hairs on the back of my neck rise up like those of a cat that comes face to face with mortal danger.

  For a few seconds we stare at each other, instant sexual adversaries.

  Then I tear my eyes away from his and train them back on Patrick, who is holding open another door. Taking a deep breath I go through it. It leads into a dimly lit corridor. The air here is cooler. I look at my hands. They are clenched tight with pent-up energy. That has never happened to me before. I have never simply looked at a man and hungered to have him inside my body. The sensation is raw.

  ‘Changing rooms are through there,’ Patrick says swiveling his eyes toward another door farther up the corridor. ‘Meet me upstairs in fifteen minutes and I’ll introduce ya to the manager.’

  Then he disappears in the direction we came from and the five of us troop into the changing rooms, which I cannot help noting are super clean and resemble those in a posh spa. The other girls immediately start unzipping their bags, but running into Jake Eden has unexpectedly and unfathomably unnerved and unsettled me, and I have to close my eyes and take a quick moment to compose my body, which is still clenched tight with arousal. When I open my eyes, my face is no longer flushed, nor are my eyes glittering bright. I have a task ahead of me. I look cool and composed.

  As I open my bag and pull out my specially commissioned, easy to remove red dress my eyes flick over to the others. Already unrecognizably glamorous in a long, sheer robe with sequined edges, the redhead is stepping into sparkly gold shoes. Suddenly she is a six feet tall goddess. She is impressive to say the least. The black girl has taken off her bomber jacket and underneath she is ripped like a racehorse and wearing a black catsuit with fluorescent green and pink geometric patterns. I quickly slip into my dress and take my plastic red platform shoes out. While I secure the straps I notice that the life-size Barbie doll is dressed in a schoolgirl’s uniform. She catches my eyes in the mirror and mouths, ‘Hiya.’

  I mark her as my biggest competitor. It turns out the sleekly beautiful olive-skinned beauty has the longest legs I have ever seen on a human being. To increase the illusion she hooks on glass-effect shoes. As if by unspoken agreement we are all ready at the same time.

  Together we go up the grand staircase Jake Eden had come down and through a pair of gold and black doors.

  I have been in nightclubs when daylight starts filtering in before, and it always looks dirty and sordid, but not this place. Here it is as if we have stepped back into a decadent time in Paris or Vienna when men wore wigs and high heels. From the hundreds of gilded mirrors to the intricate gold on black brocade upholstery on the armchairs and settees, the rich wallpapers, the heavy velvet curtains, to the massive chandeliers it is just over the top splendor. The rich mix of colors reminds me of a Gustav Klimt painting. Patrick is standing at the lip of the stage talking to a balding man. He beckons us over.

  ‘This is Mark. He’s the manager so be nice to him.’r />
  ‘Hey,’ Mark greets with a smile that encompasses all of us. We pipe in with our bright volley of hellos and heys.

  Mark doesn’t waste time. He zeroes in on the olive-skinned beauty. ‘Haven’t I seen you before, sweetheart?’

  She shakes her head decisively. ‘Nope. This is my first time here.’

  ‘Yeah? Weren’t you here about six months ago?’

  Saying nothing she starts walking away.

  Mark looks at Patrick. ‘Roamers.’

  Patrick shrugs. That’s a commission he won’t be getting.

  I watch her go—one down, three to go. Later I would learn that roamers are hookers who work a few sessions in strip clubs every few months to look for customers they can turn into private clients.

  ‘I’ll be at the bar,’ says Patrick turning away from us.

  ‘First time for anybody here?’ Mark asks.

  I raise my hand.

  ‘Right. We run a squeaky clean club here. No drugs. No prostitution. Zero tolerance. Got that?’

  ‘Got it,’ I say quickly.

  He nods. ‘Did you bring your music?’

  I nod.

  ‘Great. The set-up is you’ve got two songs. Keep your clothes on for the first song. Start getting undressed for the second and by the middle of the second track you have to be topless. You have only one objective. By the end of your second track you want every guy in the place to want to empty his wallet all over you.’

  I nod slowly.

  He turns toward the redhead. ‘Want to go first, sweetheart?’

  ‘Sure,’ she says with a sweet smile, and gives him her CD. He sticks it into a small machine that is conveniently just under the stage. ‘Ready when you are.’

  She takes her time sashaying to the pole.

  ‘Ready,’ she calls out once she is in position.

  Mark hits play and the club fills with the sound of Pussycat Dolls belting out, ‘Don’t You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me’. The redhead is OK, but nothing special, and my confidence goes up a notch. As the seconds tick by I realize I am miles better than her. In fact, she does not even get a chance to finish her first number before Mark snaps off the music.

  ‘Thanks, sweetheart, but you need more moves. Get some dance lessons and then come back for another audition with the House Mother,’ he dismisses. It is a no, but he has left the door open. He turns toward the black girl.

  ‘Can I have only the ultraviolet lights on, please?’ she requests.

  Mark shouts over to the barman who slips to the back of the bar. Seconds later when the stage is lit by a purple glow she steps into it and suddenly her dark skin makes her disappear. She becomes a collection of pink and green patterns. Justin Timberlake’s ‘Sexy Back’ comes on and she launches herself with surprising energy onto the pole and begins to execute the most intricate moves. But the real beauty is the way she seems to be a geometric shape moving up and down the pole. The way she gets out of her catsuit is pure class. She is damn good and so impressive to look at my heart sinks a little. If this is the standard I am competing against there is no way I am getting this job. When the music finishes it is a foregone conclusion that she is getting the job.

  ‘Fantastic show. Come back this evening at six,’ Mark tells her, and turns toward me. His eyes travel casually down my body, taking in the red dress that I could shimmy out of in two seconds flat. ‘You want to keep the fluorescent lights going?’

  I shake my head. My heart is suddenly beating so hard I feel my blood buzzing through my body. This is it. It is tits out time.

  He hollers to the barman and the lights change back. ‘Right. Off you go then.’

  The butterflies in my stomach begin to crawl up my throat. I swallow hard and nod.

  ‘Just be yourself and have fun,’ he advises with a friendly smile.

  I give him my CD and walk to the stage slowly, deliberately swaying my hips, but I am so nervous my knees wobble. I climb the steps carefully. No point falling on my ass before I start the show. There are large mirrors on stage and I can see myself walking. Five feet five inches on top of nearly seven inches of heels, slim hips, flat stomach, nothing special chest, dark chocolate hair with tints of copper and a wide red mouth fixed into a professional dancer’s smile. I guess I don’t look too bad. And I can definitely do this. I have practiced this routine for hours. OK, I am not as good as the girl who can magic into geometric shapes, but I can do this. I have a good, foxy routine. Even Ann says so and she has taught hundreds of girls. All I have to do is get to the pole and follow the routine.

  I reach the pole.

  ‘Ready?’ Mark asks.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Mark hits the play button and Marilyn Manson’s skin-crawling voice reverberates around me.

  Sometimes I feel I got to run away.

  Holding onto the pole I circle it with a prowling gait and sinuously rub myself against it. I snake my hands above my head and grabbing the pole jut my ass out and swing it from side to side. I sneak a look at Mark and he is leaning forward. Approval.

  Yeah, I can definitely do this.

  I grip the pole hard and with all my might I fling myself into the air. It should have been an energetic and impressive one-handed swing around the pole, but instead my sweaty palm starts slipping off the metal. In a blind panic I try to right myself by catching the pole with my other hand but it is too late—I am flying into the air. I end up hitting the stage floor hard with my knees. For a few seconds I sit stunned in the position I have fallen in. My adrenaline is pumping so hard I do not feel any pain. Then my brain kicks into gear. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. With my legs still twisted underneath me I turn toward Mark.

  He has slid off the table and is bounding up to the stage.

  ‘Let me try again,’ I plead, and putting my palms on the floor I attempt to push myself upright. A sharp pain shoots right up my legs. Wincing, I persist and right myself to a standing position.

  Mark is standing in front of me, looking concerned. ‘Are you all right?’

  Around us Marilyn’s raspy voice screams, Tainted love, tainted love.

  ‘I really need this job,’ I beg, humiliated by my graceless fall and annoyed with myself for being so careless.

  He eyes my knees and rubs his chin thoughtfully, and I know just by looking at him that he is going to ask me to take more lessons or something in that vein.

  ‘Please,’ I urge. ‘That was my first time. I was just nervous. I can do this.’

  ‘Look,’ he begins more firmly, but he is interrupted by his mobile ringing. He takes it out of his pocket, glances at the screen and looks surprised. He lifts one finger at me in a gesture that tells me to wait, presses his thumb on the answer button, and puts his phone to his ear.

  ‘Yup,’ he says after less than a few seconds of listening to someone speak, and terminates the call.

  He turns his attention back to me, but his eyes are now speculative and assessing. ‘Good news. You’ve got the job. You can start whenever the swelling’—he nods toward my knees—‘goes down. Arrive at five thirty p.m. with a photo ID, proof of address, and your National Insurance number and report to the House Mother. Her name is Brianna.’

  For an instant I stare at him speechlessly. My knees are throbbing like crazy by now. ‘I’ve got the job,’ I repeat stupidly.

  ‘Looks like it,’ he says with a grin.

  ‘Thanks, Mark. You won’t regret this.’

  ‘No problem,’ he replies casually, and losing interest in me turns toward the blonde Barbie. ‘Want to show us what you’ve got?’

  As I hobble away from the stage, a slight movement in the far shadows catches my eyes. I turn my head and at the dim edges of the club I see the glint of snakeskin as Jake Eden quietly slips out of the black and gold doors. And I know without a doubt: North London’s most illusive gangster, Jake Eden, has just hired me.

  TWO

  LILY

  For two days I hobble around my flat, eat junk food, and endlessly replay my disastro
us reaction to Jake Eden. Could it have been some sort of freak overreaction caused by nervousness about my impending audition? On the third day I convince myself it must have been, and slapping a bit of concealer on my knees I make my way back to the club.

  To my surprise the House Mother is a female version of my bank manager: forties, a sleek helmet of strawberry blonde hair, and a dark blue suit with a classy fitted top underneath it. Then she goes and does what my bank manager never does: she flashes a genuinely warm smile and I know we are going to get on just fine.

  ‘Hi, I’m Brianna.’ She extends a hand. ‘Patrick told me to expect you.’

  Her grasp is warm and soft.

  ‘We’re all known by our stage names here. Thank God. I’d go bonkers if I have to remember two names for all my girls. Do you have one?’

  ‘Jewel.’

  ‘Jewel. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that stage name.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been in this business for twenty years, you know. And I danced for the first ten.’

  She was so respectable and ‘establishment’ it was hard to imagine her on a pole. ‘You did?’

  ‘I sure did. A part of me still misses the attention and the money, but I’m married with kids now and I wouldn’t exchange that for the world. Besides I love being House Mom here.’ She smiles charmingly, but her next words are a smooth shift into her business mode. ‘About a hundred and twenty girls work at any given time and it is my job to ensure that just the right amount of redheads, blondes and brunettes are on the floor, so that all my girls make good money.’ She looks at me curiously. ‘You have a very exotic look. Unusual. Your eyes are slanted, but so blue.’

  ‘My grandmother is from China and my grandfather was Nordic,’ I offer reluctantly into the expectant pause. I don’t ever want to talk about my personal life to anybody here.