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—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 slee
kly 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.’
‘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?’
