by Unknown
Cynthia laughed from where she pranced and posed before the mirror. “It’s too late, Mari. We’re all in this together. No chickening out tonight. Besides, after one or two shooters, you’ll get into the vibe. Some apple sours to pucker those lips, mmm?”
Judith stared intently into Marianne’s eyes. “Look up. Mascara needs a dab more.”
“I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”
“There will be dozens of others feeling exactly the same way,” Cynthia said.
“What if we’re the only girls there?” Marianne asked.
Judith gave a throaty laugh. “Won’t be. Some of my Facebook friends went last week. Prize money’s good. Who can say no to two grand?”
Two grand. That put a completely different spin on things. Two grand would be almost half the deposit on a new place to stay. Or it could pay for groceries for most of the month. But who was she kidding? Who’d find a five-foot-two mousey squeak like her sexy? Sure, she’d taken some belly-dancing classes while she was still at art school, but that was more than two years ago. And she’d never done well with that either, since she didn’t have the curves nor the belly for sensual dancing.
“I’m gonna suck,” Marianne said, her voice thick in her throat.
That brought a peal of laughter from her friends.
Judith tried not to wipe at the moisture at the corner of her eye. “I hope you don’t, sweetness. I don’t think they allow the dancers to do that to the customers.”
Chapter 3
Marianne kept quiet in the car on the way to the venue, although Judith had made her ride shotgun. She still tasted the tartness of the tot of bourbon Cynthia had made each of them slug back before they drove and, although it wasn’t far to the club—a few blocks only—Marianne hoped they wouldn’t be stopped by cops, especially not dressed the way they were.
The walk to the car had been bad enough. They’d made quite a bit of noise as they’d giggled, taking the stairs down to the ground floor, where they encountered Mrs. Jacobs taking her toy poodle out for a whizz. The look of pure horror stamped on the old woman’s features had made Marianne wince, but, the strange thing was, by equal measure she felt immune to the old bat’s disgust.
Judith was right. With the three of them in matching outrageous outfits, it somehow made her feel safer. We’re a group.
Catching sight of herself in the car’s side mirror, Marianne allowed herself a quick smile. The creature who stared back at her with heavily kohl-painted eyes seemed somehow exotic, almost vampish. Marianne would be Pepper tonight. No. Make that Hot Pepper. They’d all chosen their stripper names, a process resulting in further hilarity. Cynthia would be calling herself Sindee, while Judith had selected Storm.
Although Marianne must have walked past Imperial House in Harrington Street on more occasions than she could number, she never recalled seeing the building, nor even knowing it as a strip club. Sorry, no…“gentleman’s club.” At night, however, the red, blue, and green LED lights flashed, brightening up the charcoal walls that made the building all but vanish during the day.
Heavy shutters over the windows still remained closed, but a crimson carpet had been rolled out the front entrance, and two well-built men, with the physiques of pro wrestlers, stood guard, dressed in immaculate matching tuxedos. They held their hands loosely crossed before them, and Marianne pitied the sod who’d try his luck with that pair. It made her feel immediately better seeing them outside, knowing not just any riff-raff would be allowed inside.
It wouldn’t be a venue like the Bird Cage, which she’d heard so much about from her male friends while she’d still attended art school. Some of the guys had spent more time ogling strippers and chugging back beers than concentrating on completing their studies.
“You ready?” Judith asked as she killed the Toyota’s engine. She sounded breathless, and her eyes sparkled.
Something twisted in Marianne’s stomach. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” She wanted nothing more than to sink into the upholstery, but it was almost as if her body was on autopilot, following her friends’ cues as they climbed out.
Tottering a little on the unfamiliar heels, Marianne fell in behind her two taller companions, sucking in her breath as the cold smacked into her with an almost physical ferocity.
They’d parked two blocks down from Imperial House, but it seemed so much farther. Marianne concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, biting the inside of her cheeks to stop her teeth from chattering. It could have been worse. It could have been raining. Marianne supposed she should be grateful for small mercies.
Although the wind snatched Cynthia’s words away, she caught the tail end of a comment about perky nipples, which made her smile and join in the laughter.
They couldn’t reach the front door soon enough. A sudden sick worry had Marianne wonder if this was all some sort of elaborate prank Judith had concocted, but when she caught sight of a small gaggle of similarly dressed women speaking to a man at a desk—an area that made her think of a hotel lobby—she relaxed.
The doormen let them in without comment, although she was sure she saw the one on the left let slip a quick a smile. The relief of being out of the cold was immediate. Although she was certain the inside of the building was anything but warm, her skin felt flushed.
The reception area was all dark wood panelling and red plush carpets. Luxurious crimson velvet drapes blocked the entrance to the club’s interior, and a compelling trip-hop song played over the sound system. Marianne couldn’t be certain, but she thought it could be the new Portishead.
The girl ahead of them wore little more than a short, shimmery gold dress with matching heels, which looked good against her nut-brown skin. The glance she shot Marianne and her friends was anything but nice.
“Bitch,” Cynthia muttered so only they could hear.
Golden Girl, as Marianne decided to call the cow, slipped through the curtains, swallowed into the unknown territory on the other side of the fabric barrier.
The man at the desk, also dressed in a tux like his companions outside, wrote their names into a journal, taking down their cell phone numbers and stage names. To Marianne he seemed bored, his thin features somehow pinched, and he didn’t give the appearance of paying them much attention as he scribbled their details.
Her heart in her throat, Marianne realised it was now or never. There was something final in having had her name—even if it was only an assumed name—down on paper. Judith gave Marianne’s shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze, and the three of them stepped through into forbidden territory.
Against Marianne’s expectations, it was not a big venue. A short stage with a curved catwalk ran down the centre of the room. Two poles had been positioned at strategic spots, and a vast mirrored wall ran along the back of the stage. House lights were dim, but a half-dozen mirror balls of varying sizes rotated from the ceiling, casting spots of light in revolutions on the walls.
Small round tables covered in dark fabric—no more than about twenty, at a quick count—were dotted about the interior, and only about half were occupied, by one or two men at each, who mostly chatted to women, some of whom draped themselves across laps in an almost cat-like fashion.
“This way, ladies,” a woman said next to them.
Marianne jumped, suppressing a small gasp.
The woman who’d spoken wasn’t much taller than her, despite the wicked heels she wore. Dark eyes, lined heavily to appear Egyptian, met hers from beneath a Bettie Page fringe. A figure-hugging, long-sleeved mini dress made the woman seem as wild as the cat whose spots patterned the fabric.
“Katja’s the name. You can follow me to the niche over there.” She gestured to a darkened area where a number of scantily clad ladies had gathered, including Golden Girl.
Marianne tagged along after the others, a sense of inevitability settling on her as they joined the group. If anything, she felt some relief because here, gathered with the amateurs, she didn’t stand out as much, although
she was pretty darn sure a few of the male customers at the venue craned their necks every now and then to give them a good once-over.
Katja briefed them, and they had to strain to hear her husky voice over the music. They had to write down a selection of three songs for the DJ, who would let them know which he had in his playlist. Then, they would be assigned a number and, when this was called out, step up to the stage.
When it was Marianne’s turn to scribble her choice, her mind went blank, her stomach flipping over and trying to wriggle its way into her throat. Katja stood patiently, one eyebrow arched.
“Um…ah.”
“Just choose your favourites, honey,” Katja said. “Ones you think you can dance to.”
Marianne wanted to do nothing more than slip under the tables and vanish. What was she doing in this place? She eventually settled on some classic numbers she’d liked—“With or Without You” by U2, “The Lovecats” by The Cure and “Give in to Me” by Michael Jackson.
It didn’t help her feel any better when Katja gave a small, almost unnoticeable shake of her head when she’d scanned Marianne’s choice. Cynthia and Judith seemed to have given their selections a lot of thought beforehand because they didn’t pause when they wrote theirs down.
One small consolation was the complimentary drink they each received, a sweet cocktail called Blue Murder, which tasted strongly of berries with a tart aftertaste.
“House speciality,” the barman said, handing Marianne hers.
“Tastes a bit like cough mixture,” Judith said.
Cynthia grimaced, and the three of them found an alcove from where they could watch.
Eight girls, including Marianne and her friends, would be dancing tonight. They huddled together, and, to Marianne’s eye, all appeared to be nervous—heads turning too often, frequent outbursts of the giggles punctuating lulls in the music.
By comparison, the professionals sashayed about with enviable confidence, hardly bothering to notice the contestants. When a tall Nordic beauty dressed from head to toe in a tight white bodysuit took the stage, Marianne almost forgot where she was. The woman moved with the grace of a gazelle, flowing toward one of the poles, where she turned on impossibly high heels. Her flaxen hair glowed in the flickering lights, full dark-red lips pulled into a sexy pout. When the beat kicked in, she twisted herself up the pole.
How strong are her thighs?
The woman pulled herself to the top of the pole, so high above the floor it almost made Marianne ill to consider what would happen should she slip. She’d brain herself, or worse…It was as if gravity had no hold on the dancer, whose body undulated in sinuous movements as she writhed. Piece by piece her clothing dropped off until she wore only a silver thong which, much to Marianne’s relief, she did not remove, although she did end her routine by dancing between some of the tables.
I’ll never be able to do that.
The three friends shared glances, and Marianne thought she saw Cynthia’s confident smile falter.
Presently, Katja returned with their numbers. “You’ll pin this somewhere on your body. You don’t have to take it all off, obviously, but if you’re brave enough…” She winked. “The DJ will play a song, and you’ll all file onstage so we can have a good look at you. Then you’ll each get a turn to dance to your song, and, afterward, you’ll line up on the stage and the judging will start.”
Marianne checked Katja’s clipboard to see that the DJ had indicated that he would play “The Lovecats.” A small shiver travelled down her spine when she recalled how fast that song was. How in heaven’s name would she dance to that?
“That’s gonna be tricky,” Judith said.
“Should have chosen something by Abba,” Cynthia added.
“I absolutely loathe Abba,” Marianne said. “I’ll think of something. Don’t you two worry.”
She’d drawn number four, so she wouldn’t be up first. Stuck somewhere in the middle was much better. That way the audience could forget how terrible she was. Golden Girl smugly displayed her number—eight. She’d be last. Perhaps that was a good thing? People would remember her performance the best.
They watched two other dancers—all professionals—take to the stage. Marianne envied them, the surety of their motions, the way their muscles rippled as they moved to the music. She’d never think of those songs in quite the same way again.
But the time of the contest arrived far too soon for Marianne’s liking. She’d succeeded in numbing her expectations, half losing herself in the sound and light, when Katja ushered them to the stage. Taking one last sip of her drink before placing the glass on the nearest table, Marianne tottered after her friends. She didn’t like the way some of the other contestants glared at her.
The DJ, a plump, bald chap whose booth presided over the stage, flashed a grin and gave them a thumbs-up. At least he was friendly and didn’t regard them with the same bored indifference as the full-time dancers. She supposed Katja wasn’t too bad, but by now she could sense the weight of focus in the club shifting onto the amateurs.
The music faded and the DJ spoke, his deep voice echoing in the venue. “Good evening. Welcome to Imperial House’s amateur night, where we give these lovely ladies the chance to thrill us and possibly walk away two grand richer.”
A song Marianne recognised from the radio, but had no idea of title or artist, throbbed out of the sound system. Katja ushered them up the steps as if they were a gaggle of schoolchildren on an outing. “Walk ’round twice. Then line up at the front. And wiggle your arses and be goddesses, will you?”
Before she knew it, Marianne found herself in the line, swaying her hips while trying to keep her balance. The heels she wore were treacherous, and one wrong step would see her landing on her backside. It didn’t help that she noticed heel-wide holes here and there on the catwalk. She’d have to keep an eye out for those when it was her turn. Not for the first time that night she wondered how she’d managed to end up in this predicament.
Here on the stage, she couldn’t really focus on any of the faces turned their way. This was a good thing. Instead she watched Cynthia, who jiggled along ahead of her and, despite the choking fear, shoved her misgivings far away and put on a strut.
Come to think of it, no one here really knew who she was. What happened here tonight stayed here. She was Hot Pepper, and she sizzled.
The first girl to take to the stage was really pretty, her skin a warm honey brown, which contrasted with the platinum wig reaching her bottom. The problem was they all knew it was a wig, because the girl somehow hooked a strand of hair through her fingers and ripped the hairpiece from her head. She stood frozen, blinking at the patrons, before running from the stage and vanishing out the front door well before her song was due to end.
“That didn’t go well,” Judith commented.
Cynthia held her hand before her mouth, trying to hide her grin.
Marianne could only shake her head and place both her hands on her stomach, as if that would somehow quell the nausea lodged there.
Number two did better, even though she caught one of her heels in a hole. Marianne was sure the willowy brunette had had some experience dancing, because she had one or two wolf whistles from the tables. One more, then it would be her turn. Marianne glanced about wildly, but all eyes were trained on the stage.
It’s not me they’ll see, she mouthed to herself. They’ll see Hot Pepper. It’s not me… The words became a mantra she repeated to herself all through number three’s set, which passed in a blur.
“And here we have Hot Pepper, ready to show us some smokin’ stuff.” The DJ’s words shook her out of her trance.
It was as if her body didn’t quite belong to her. Marianne stumbled once, then found her balance, her blood running hot then cold in quick succession.
“Go Hot Pepper!” Judith shouted behind her, which did give her some comfort.
All those eyes…staring at her…The first beats of the Cure song bounced across the sound system. “The Love
cats” didn’t last long. She must enjoy it. Robert Smith crooned and whooped his way through the opening lines, and, from the depths of her muscle memory, Marianne dredged up her old belly-dancing moves, knowing she’d regret not warming up the following day.
Her limbs loosened after the initial stiff steps, and, plastering a mad grin on her face, Marianne allowed the music to guide her. This was a fun, happy tune, about love, about being a flirt. None of these men gaping at her knew where she lived or what her real name was, and, once this realisation sunk its claws into her, Marianne released herself to becoming that vamp whose hips spoke of untold pleasures.
Before she knew it, the song came to an end. She’d spun herself around a pole, and she was standing in only her bikini without any recollection of stripping the items now strewn across the catwalk.
A moment of silence reigned followed by whistles of appreciation. Two guys at the back had risen to their feet, clapping loudly. Blushing, Marianne darted across to collect her fallen garments, then sought relative anonymity among the amateurs.
Judith already had a drink in hand for Marianne. “Girl, you were…Words fail me. Fantastic! Smoking!”
“Thanks!” Marianne took a too-large sip, then almost choked from the pure relief singing through her veins. She’d done it!
Cynthia was already onstage, clearly enjoying the attention as she made a passable attempt at pole dancing.
“She did some classes last year.” Judith had to repeat the words three times to be heard over the loud music, a Bon Jovi number, if Marianne was correct.
Next up was Judith, who’d chosen some obscure dance track Marianne had never listened to yet had the kind of beat that could even get a zombie to bop and jive. Both her friends did well. None of them would win, she was sure, but she’d found the experience to be oddly liberating in some way. Hell, if she could handle taking her clothes off to wiggle about in only her knickers, then looking for a new job would be a piece of cake, by comparison.
