My feet ache, and I have a terrible hangover-y headache, and there’s still a bad taste lingering in my mouth. As if something curled up in the pit of my tummy and died. I want to sleep forever, maybe longer, but I’m too nervous to go up to my room in case Marilyn’s still there.
I look for a familiar face, but without the costumes, wigs and make-up, I don’t recognise any of the women from last night. A few are spread on the couches chatting, watching TV and paging through magazines, analysing the models. One of them has a thick green face mask on. Across the room, three women are doing yoga on mats. And one of the large sash windows is open a crack and there’s a woman perched on the windowsill smoking a cigarette, blowing the smoke out the small gap in the window as the cold air seeps in around her.
I say a shy greeting to anyone who makes eye contact with me, and carry my bags into the kitchen, catching snatches of conversation that might be Russian or Polish and I think I recognise some French in there too.
There are two women in the kitchen. One has her head buried deep in one of the fridges, the other is wearing a green towelling bathrobe and is stirring a large pot on the stove. I can’t recognise what she’s cooking by sight or smell, but as it comes to the boil it creates a putrid haze, making my eyes water. It’s like the bad taste in my mouth has been recreated in odour. The only good thing is the smell of coffee coming from the pot on the stove. I take a step closer to it.
‘Who’s cooking that sheet again?’ A shout comes from the lounge. I pin down a Spanish accent.
‘Ees not sheet, ees flaczki,’ the woman in the green bathrobe yells.
‘I thought we agreed, no cooking pig balls,’ the Spanish voice calls.
‘Ees not pig balls. Ees pig tripe stew. Big difference. Ees Polish delicacy!’ shouts Green Bathrobe.
‘Well, smell is like pig sheet!’ the voice says. ‘Somebody open another window.’
The woman continues stirring and grumbles swear words under her breath in Polish. Swear words have a particular tonality. Even if you don’t speak the language, you know what they’re insinuating. The Spanish voice is right, though; the stuff smells awful. The joys of communal living. Close to gagging, I open the lid of the angular metal coffee pot on the back plate of one of the stoves and breathe it in. I’m momentarily tempted to pour myself a cup, but Dania’s words of warning ring in my ears. I need as much goodwill in this house as possible.
‘Is this either of yours? Please could I have a cup?’ I ask, looking hopefully at both women.
‘Is Taylor Swift’s, ask her,’ says the one as she finishes rummaging in the fridge for a small carton of milk. Then I follow her into the lounge, where she joins the others on the couch and digs into her bowl of muesli.
I scan the room for a possible Taylor Swift. She could be any one of the blondes with big boobs, or maybe the one in the face mask. But what if Taylor Swift is actually one of the brunettes and she wears a wig to do her impersonation? I’ve seen these women work magic with a make-up brush, it’s all smoke and mirrors. For all I know, Swift is the dark-skinned woman on the yoga mat with tiger-print fingernails. All these women are chameleons in G-strings with fake tans and feather boas. I examine each of their faces closely, and wish I’d paid more attention when reading Heat. There’s a hint: only one of the blondes in the room is sipping from a mug of coffee. She’s petite and has the kind of features that could morph into a Taylor, with enough time, make-up and duct tape.
I nervously approach the couch where she’s hanging out with two other unrecognisable women and a possible Shakira, who’s saying, ‘If he puts hand on arse of mine one more time …’
‘People pay good money to put hand on this arse … why he should do for free?’ says the one unrecognisable woman. ‘Just because son of boss?’
‘I’d let him do it free,’ unrecognisable woman number two says.
The other women on the couch erupt in disgust.
‘What? Maybe he put me in better spot on line-up then. Dania always makes me on too early. Is better later.’
‘New girls should go early, to varm up crowd,’ says potential Taylor Swift, her voice thickly accented. Sensing me hovering, she stares pointedly. ‘Vhat?’ she snaps.
I crouch down next to her. ‘Hi, umm … Taylor, right? Could I have a cup of your coffee, please? I’ll replace it, I promise.’
Possible Taylor glares for a moment, then points across the room at a brunette with heavily plucked eyebrows.
‘I’m Britney Spears. She’s Taylor Swift,’ she says.
Shoot, shoot, shoot! ‘Oh my goodness, I’m sorry. I thought …’ I say, stumbling.
Now that I know, it’s obvious that she’s Britney Spears. She cranes her neck over the back of the couch and babbles something in a foreign language to the actual fake Taylor Swift, who’s doing a side plank on her yoga mat.
Taylor glances at me mid-plank, looks me up and down, and says, ‘Tell Nicki Minaj she can buy she’s own coffee.’
Britney shrugs at me. ‘You hear her.’
‘Have some of mine; it’s in the first cupboard on your right. Milk’s in the refrigerator, it’s got my name written on it,’ another yoga woman chirps, and I recognise the Spanish accent.
‘Thank you …?’ I say.
‘I’m Madonna,’ she says.
‘Thank you, Madonna,’ I say with a small embarrassed smile. Of course it’s Madonna. I’d recognise those yoga arms anywhere.
Another woman comes into the lounge, stark naked. She has long, over-dyed blonde hair, teased to a foot off the top of her head, and huge pink, pillowy lips. But her most startling features are her breasts. I’ve never seen such big knockers before; they’re almost melon-sized. Then her chest tapers down into an unnaturally narrow waist. Her crotch is completely hairless. I try not to stare, but I don’t know where not to look first. She wanders through the lounge and into the kitchen, and I expect the comments to come flying, but none of the other women pay her any attention.
‘Let me guess. Dolly Parton?’ I ask Madonna, who nods.
‘Isn’t she cold?’
Madonna shrugs and returns to downward-facing dog.
‘She should really put something on,’ I mumble. ‘She wouldn’t want to get a chest infection.’
*
I step cautiously back into our bedroom, relieved there’s no sign of Marilyn. I sip my coffee, wondering if it was worth the humiliation, and stare at my open suitcase for a minute, not entirely sure what my next move is. Am I packing or unpacking? I don’t know times a million, times a billion, times a trillion. If I go home, Marilyn and Lucas get to be right about me, which shouldn’t annoy me. What does it matter what other people think? I’ll never even see Marilyn again, if I’m lucky. But I can’t help it. I don’t want to fail at anything, not even this.
And of course there’s the bigger issue: what about Nat? If I can’t make the money she needs, she’ll just keep stripping. For the rest of her life? Surely she deserves the same kind of opportunities she sacrificed everything to give me?
But if I do stay, I don’t know if I can actually physically do what I have to do.
Maybe there are other options. I could leave the house and stay at a backpackers, get a waitressing job to earn enough cash for the flight home. But this isn’t small money we’re talking about. It would take ages to earn that much. Let alone the years