by Unknown
Golden Girl went on last and had chosen some whiny Britney Spears track Marianne knew and hated with a passion. At this point, the three friends had lost interest in what was happening on the stage and returned to the bar, where Judith ordered them each another Blue Murder.
“It wasn’t so bad,” Marianne said, sipping her drink.
Judith pouted. “I don’t have to tell you ‘I told you so,’ do I?”
“Nah. It was kinda cool. Kinda kinky.”
They watched Golden Girl shake assorted body parts. Although the woman was good at what she did, Marianne couldn’t help but feel there was something smutty about the way she moved. Not even the full-time dancers at Imperial House had left her feeling as though she’d like to scrub her eyes with industrial-strength detergent.
Cynthia seemed to be thinking the exact same thing because she turned to her friends, a small frown creasing her brow as she shook her head ever so slightly. Marianne shot her a grimace, hoping the song would finish soon so they could do that last meat parade and find out who the winner was. Her sheepskin slippers would be far more comfortable than the horrid heels that were beginning to pinch her toes in a most abominable fashion. She couldn’t wait to return to Judith’s, get out of the trashy rags, hit the shower, then go home.
Marianne couldn’t help the small, slightly nasty smile that slipped onto her lips. Carl thought she, Judith, and Cynthia were having a girls’ night at the apartment, watching chick flicks while painting their toenails and giving neck and shoulder massages. If only he knew…
She was only too glad when Katja motioned them to the stage for the final part of their show. None of the tension that had bedevilled her earlier remained, and Marianne found herself grinning as they strutted the last bit to appreciative whistles and an overwhelming standing ovation from the patrons, who’d clearly enjoyed this evening’s performance.
At last they lined the stage and the DJ went through their names, which at this pointed sounded absolutely ridiculous. Who the hell wanted the stripper name of Mercedes?
It was only when the spotlight fell on her and the man repeated her name—Hot Pepper—that Marianne thought her legs would buckle. Startled, she blinked at Katja, who approached with an envelope in her hand and a warm smile as the applause all but deafened her.
Chapter 4
The damn phone wouldn’t stop ringing. As soon as Marianne concluded one call, the infernal thing started again. Not for the first time over the past week and a bit she wondered what the hell she’d been thinking accepting this temping position at a medical aid scheme’s call centre at the exact time the company was taking over another’s client base.
If she had to listen to one more person complain about not being able to afford his medicine followed by a litany of health-related complaints, from sore joints to heart palpitations, she would…No. She was already mad to have come here in the first place.
Although it had been more than three weeks since she’d won the amateur night at Imperial House, Marianne couldn’t quite escape that indescribable sense of magic she’d felt when she’d walked home with two grand—which she’d already spent, thanks to Carl’s two traffic fines—for doing something as silly as taking off her clothes.
She’d expected to feel guilty, but the odd thing was she didn’t. And, it was certainly an easier way of making money than sitting here, in this cubicle farm, with dozens of folk answering telephones that would never stop ringing. Glancing up at the digital display, Marianne was dismayed to see the centre had already dealt with one thousand calls. And it was only eleven o’clock. Lunch hour was still two hours away.
Her phone rang again, and, before she knew it, yet another chunk of her day went missing. When she caught herself again, she’d lost fifteen minutes of her lunch break. While she listened and took down details, Marianne couldn’t help but judge her surroundings and the people in it. Was this where she was destined to spend the rest of her adult life, squeezed into a pulp by grey office walls and pale, taut-faced administration officers who expected her to be as drab as they were?
What made it worse was that she had to use public transport, catching the train all the way to Rondebosch before walking almost a kilometre to the building housing the call centre. Today it had rained, and if she hadn’t had her coat, she’d have been soaked through. As it was, she’d received nasty once-overs from one of the supervisors because her hair had been wet.
With a pang she thought back to the last week at the studio. She’d been full of hope then, had already sent her CV off to three potential employers, one of which was one of Cape Town’s most prominent ad agencies. All she’d received so far had been a deafening silence. The temping agency had been quick enough to snap her up, however. Was that all she was good for? Would she be answering phones and trying to smile brightly until she turned sixty?
When she tried to soothe yet one more irate customer, she thought her voice sounded as if it belonged to the kind of stranger Marianne knew she’d hate dealing with telephonically. The word she was looking for was “saccharine.” Lovely, now she sounded insincere.
“Sorry, Mr. Wilson, I’m afraid all our lines are busy at the moment. Please allow me to take a message, and one of consultants will return your call later…”
She sounded like a glorified answering machine. The thought that she could have been employed to cold-call potential customers to sell them cell phone contracts or gym memberships brought little relief.
During her tea break, Marianne borrowed a telephone directory from one of the supervisors and found a quiet corner in the canteen. She’d had quite enough after today. Something had to change. Carl had told her to stick it out, something would come up, but it was fine for him to speak. He’d been holding down the same job as an assistant to a wedding photographer for the past few years, getting around and attending all manner of swank functions. Sure, it meant he worked most weekends and was often retouching photos until late during the week, but he didn’t have to deal with this.
Marianne tried not to snarl at her co-workers, who chatted quietly in groups around the white plastic tables. Nice people, she thought, who went home to watch television, who were happy to be here, just doing their job every day so they could go eat takeout, hang out in a mall, or watch movies.
The trouble was Marianne didn’t know what she wanted anymore. Looking back, she hadn’t been happy as a designer either, although she’d enjoyed talking shop with Judith, as if knowing how to drive an Apple Macintosh rather than a Windows-based system somehow made her better than “mere” PC users. It was all so silly, really.
She flipped through the directory, scanning through names under I until she found the entry for Imperial House. What in the hell was she thinking grasping after one night of glitter? There were better things to do than take off one’s clothing in front of a bunch of lecherous old men who should be at home with their wives or girlfriends.
But, the music…A strange warmth flooded Marianne’s veins every time she remembered that song, recalled the tautness of her muscles as she had gone through the motions she’d enjoyed while she’d still been taking dance classes. To think she’d always said she’d get back into dancing again once things had settled down in her new job, but a few weeks into the new job had blurred into two years at the McJob.
It couldn’t hurt. All the Imperial House management peeps could say was no. Marianne saved the club’s number, then returned the directory. The digital display on the wall informed her she still had five minutes remaining. She could sneak outside and make that call. For a moment she fought with herself. She could call later, couldn’t she? But later she may have changed her mind.
It wouldn’t take long. “No” was a small word that couldn’t hurt her.
Hurrying to the back, where the smokers hunched against the wall to keep out of the wind, Marianne walked down the deliveries alley until she was certain she was out of earshot. The roiling grey clouds framed between the walls did not look promising, and she shivered, more from the po
tential for rain than actual cold.
For some reason her fingers shook when she scrolled down, and she checked from side to side to see whether anyone stood nearby. Good God, what would anyone overhearing this conversation think?
What if she’d taken the number down wrong? The phone rang. After four, five…six rings, no one answered, and Marianne was tempted to kill the call, but then a woman answered.
“Imperial House, g’day, sorry we’re clos—”
“Sorry! I know you’re closed. I don’t have a lot of credit, and I’m calling from my cell, but I was hoping I could speak to a manager.”
The woman on the other end of the line drew in breath. Faint dance music pumped in the distance. “You can speak to me.”
“Um…This is going to sound really strange.” Marianne exhaled. Hell, it was going to sound strange no matter how she tried to verbalise her request. “I was here a few weeks ago. For amateur night, and, erm…I sort of won…and I was wondering…”
The woman laughed, a rich, warm sound. “You’d like to know if you can come try out for a few odd shifts.”
“Yeah.”
“Sure. Can you drop by this evening?’
Was it going to be this easy? Marianne turned from side to side, still checking for nonexistent eavesdroppers. “What time?”
“How about seven?”
“What must I bring?” Hell, she hadn’t even thought about it.
“Just yourself. Choose something kinky to wear. But you’ll need to chat to our manager, Errol, first. He handles the paperwork. Oh, I almost forgot. Bring your ID book.”
“Cool.” A sticky silence had Marianne pause. She had absolutely no idea what to say next. Her heart thudded so hard she thought it would break its way out of her chest.
“See you later.” The woman killed the call.
Only then did Marianne realise they’d never exchanged names.
Chapter 5
“What do you mean take all my clothes off?” Marianne tried to keep the indignation out of her voice.
The man sitting at the desk flashed her a genial smile. “You heard me, luv. Gotta see the goods.” Errol leant back, tucking his arms behind his head.
He watched her with a slight smirk while she squirmed in her chair.
“But I danced here a few weeks ago. I won the amateur night!” Her throat felt tight, and Marianne kept wanting to tell herself to stop being so full of shit because she would have to take her clothes off anyway if she wanted to dance here, night after night. What did it matter that this old pervert in front of her wanted to see her titties?
“Look, it’s me job to make sure you don’t have a third nipple stuck somewhere, or somethin’ unsightly, like a birthmark, okay?” The way he leered at her suggested he looked forward to this for his own jollies as well.
Marianne sucked in her breath. “Okay.”
To be honest, if all went according to plan, she’d soon be taking her clothes off for plenty of other middle-aged, bald males. Errol, the Imperial House manager, wasn’t much different—a colourless man dressed in faded denims and a chequered shirt, he could be any random guy on the street.
With a soft snort she stood, pushing the office chair back with a bit more force than she’d intended. The wheels protested with a squeal across the scarred linoleum floor. Errol’s expression seemed far too appreciative, in her mind, but she was determined to see this through. She shed her jacket, folded it over the back of the chair, then lifted her shirt, pausing for an instant before peeling it off to drop it on the floor. Well, if he wanted a bit of a show, she’d give it to him.
“Pleased?” She turned from side to side so he could get a clear view of the profile her breasts made in the scarlet push-up bra she’d chosen for tonight.
The door shrieked open behind her, eliciting a startled gasp from Marianne when she saw the imposing, black-clad figure who entered.
The man gave her a cursory glance before frowning at Errol. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Errol. Must you do this to all the wannabes? It’s people like you who add to the bad rep the industry has.” He turned his gaze on Marianne, his expression softening somewhat. “Lass, please get your kit back on. I’m sorry about Errol, but he’s full of shit sometimes. You need to just let him make a copy of your ID book, then go see Katja. You’ll be on trial for a month, and if things work out, Errol’s gonna make you sign a contract.” The man shot Errol a meaningful glance. “No more of this, all right?”
“Sure, boss.” Errol slumped ever so slightly in his seat.
Marianne swallowed hard. This man who’d interrupted Errol’s dismal sport was anything but what she expected an owner of a strip club to look like. Standing more than six feet tall and broad of shoulder, he had proud, noble features. Hair as glossy as a starling’s wing fell to the middle of his back, held in place at the nape. Eyes so dark brown they were almost black flashed with wicked fire as he regarded her.
“Brett Gentle.” He held out a hand which enveloped hers, his skin hotter than she expected, but he only squeezed her fingers lightly, as if he was well aware of his strength.
Marianne choked before she could blurt her name. “Marianne Rousseau. Otherwise known as Hot Pepper.” She wanted to kick herself for the weak attempt at humour.
Brett only smiled, however. “Hot Pepper. I like that. It beats Storm or Mercedes.” His gaze did roam a bit, and Marianne felt a sudden flush realising she stood half naked.
“I-I’ll get dressed.”
“You do that. See you later.” With that, he turned and left the office, leaving her alone with a now dismayed Errol, a hint of musky cologne lingering in his wake.
After she’d pulled on her clothing, the meeting with the manager went very quickly when it was decided that she’d start in two days’ time and be available for three shifts a week, one on either a Friday or Saturday night. In fact, Marianne couldn’t pay Errol much attention as she considered how Brett made her feel. He was…dangerous, somehow, and it bothered her that it didn’t unnerve her. No. Much like overcoming her initial reservations about baring all in front of an audience, Brett Gentle, owner of Imperial House Gentleman’s Club, excited her. And she wasn’t quite sure what she’d do about it.
Chapter 6
Marianne arrived home much later than she’d intended. She’d told Carl she’d gone out for drinks with Judith, but now, as she took the stairs up to the first-floor apartment she shared with her boyfriend, she realised she’d have to tell him about her taking shifts at Imperial House sooner than later. No, make that a correction—she needed to tell him.
After all, it wasn’t like she could really hide the fact that she was stripping once she started buying some of the outfits Katja had briefed her on. Killer heels and skimpy thongs were the least of it.
Carl was watching some cop show on telly and didn’t offer her more acknowledgement than a cursory grunt when she paused on her way to the bedroom. Acting on some strange impulse, she looked at him. Really looked at him, examining this man she’d spent a good few years of her life with. Already at twenty-six his features were softening, his skin pasty from too little time spent out of doors. Soft, mousy curls were thinning at the top, though he made a valiant effort to gel his hair in such a way to lessen the effect.
Marianne took a deep breath. She had to do this. She had to talk to him.
“Carl?”
He glanced away from the screen for the barest moment before looking back. “What?”
“Can we talk? Without the telly on.”
He sighed. “Can’t it wait? This is the penultimate episode. They’re probably leaving this one on a cliffie, and I need to find out who killed Derek.”
Marianne rolled her eyes. She hated it when he talked about the people in the shows as if they were real. “No. I need to talk to you now.”
He gave no reaction, the screen painting his face in flickering of light.
“Carl?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Marianne, can’t you see I’m busy watc
hing the show? I’ve had a shit day dealing with pushy clients who want everything yesterday. All I want to do is relax a little and not listen to you bitching all the time.”
Marianne snapped her mouth shut. She didn’t want to point out to him that he was working late most nights. That would only lead to further trouble. They hardly spoke as it was.
He glared at her until a sound from the television set distracted him and he resumed watching the show.
Taking a deep breath, Marianne said, “I’ve decided I’m going to start stridancing at a revue bar. I’m not cut out for working in call centres, and, besides, we kinda need the money right now.”
Carl made a non-committal grunt, and Marianne took that as her cue to go to the bedroom. Still, it hurt. How had their relationship come to that? She thought back to the earlier days, when she’d still been in college. It had seemed exciting then to be dating an older guy who drove his own car and had a steady income, who’d whizz her off to have dinner at fancy restaurants or take her into the country for a dirty weekend.
Now…
It was difficult equating that suave creature belonging to her memories to the slightly doughy fellow who was so absorbed by a stupid TV show.
Marianne had barely passed the couch when Carl’s hand snaked out, the fingers closing on her wrist. “You’re what?”
Good. She’d gotten some sort of reaction after all.
“I’ve taken some shifts dancing at a revue bar.” It’d be better not to say “strip club.”
He frowned. “You’ve what?”
“I’ve taken three shifts a week doing erotic dancing. Look, why don’t you go back to watching your show. I’m going to bed.”
Carl wouldn’t let go. “What the fuck are you playing at?”
A low groan escaped Marianne’s lips. “Look, we need the money…” Should she tell him about that fateful night Judith dragged her out for the amateur contest? No. “And the job I have with the medical aid scheme is driving me a bit bonkers.”
