“Like a goddess,” chirps Colette, cheerfully. She’s offered to do this with me about a hundred times, but I think Colette is famousenough that it somehow might get back to her too-strict stepfather.
“I’ll wait in the car nearby,” grumbles Eike, voice so deep I can barely hear. “Text me when you’re done, Colette.”
“Thank you,” she says, taking my hand as we walk inside.
The small entryway is dimly lit, a giant pinboard to my left with flyers for all the other events that happen here: kids clubs, Pilates classes, food banks, steel drum workshops. It smells like embarrassment and humiliation and a future viral video entitled “Ginger Life Model Mental Breakdown HD Full Version.”
Okay, it smells like some sort of incense, but still.
I feel sick.
A door at the end of the empty hallway swings open, andwow, Clementine is exactly as I pictured her. She’s in patchwork floaty pants and a sports bra, and the tote bag slung over her shoulder readsbig clit energy. “Oh my gosh.” She spins me around in delight. “You’re theperfectmodel. You’ll be brilliant.”
She ushers me into a small classroom where seven easels are arranged in a circle around a chaise longue.
Oh God. I can’t do this.
“It’s a very casual event, bring your own drink, play music, that sort of thing. I can stay or leave—whatever makes you comfortable.”
“Um, maybe you could leave?” I say, like eight strangers seeing my weird (still to be determined) nipples is somehow any worse than seven.
“Of course!” She leaves a fluffy dressing gown and a sheet for me, turning up the thermostat just a little and lighting a couple of candles.
“I think I might throw up,” I say, once we’re alone.
Colette folds me into a warm hug. She smells like flowers and clean linen and unwavering belief in me. “I’m so proud of you.”
I don’t want to undress, but the idea of having to do it after everyone has already arrived, each of them awkwardly watching me hop around while trying to get a sock off and fiddling with the sheet issomuch worse that I shrug off my cardigan and step out of my boots and dress.
I can hardly even look at Colette, scurrying to grab the sheet as I sit on the chaise and wrap it around my shoulders. “Shall we leave?”
“No. You’re doing this, and then we’re going out to celebrate. We can get fries.”
“Chips. Proper pub chips. Triple-cooked chips.”
“Triple-cooked? Like … burned?”
“Oh my god. You haven’t lived.”
“Okay, deal. I’ll get us triple chips, or whatever.”
I lie back like that girl in theTitanicmovie, letting Colette tastefully drape white fabric over my hips and breasts. She bites her lip to suppress a grin. “You looksogood.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
Chapter 13
OPHELIA
When, three minutes past the start time of the class, not a single person has shown up, I should feel maybe alittledisappointed, but what courses through me is pure relief.
“Maybe no one is coming?” I say to Colette’s disheartened expression.
The sound of the main door opening and closing echoes loud and clear in the empty hall. I shut my eyes, a fresh wave of dread engulfing me. “Whydid I say that?”
Muffled voices sound from outside the door to the hall. I sit there in silence, like I’m awaiting execution.
The door to the hall opens. I can’t even bring myself to look, my whole body turning pink with embarrassment. The sheet is too small, my skin too exposed. The goose bumps on my arm are almost painful.
