Wrong Knickers for a Wednesday: A funny novel about learning to love yourself. Paige Nick
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really gotten to know any of the other teachers yet.
> Where are they from?
> All over the world from what I can gather.
> Interesting. Men and women teachers?
> Mostly women. My roommate looks SO much like Marilyn Monroe, everyone even calls her Marilyn.
> Sounds cool babes. But be safe and careful ok, lots of crazies out there. Send me pics I wanna see everything and everyone.
> I will. As soon as I’ve settled in.
> Luv u too much XXX Remember u can come home whenever u want. I think u should seriously consider it.
> Thanks I will xx
> XXX
*
While I’m getting dressed my phone bleeps with a WhatsApp from Natalie.
> I’m sorry Gracie, dnt want 2 argue with u. Tossed & turned all nite. Come home if u want. We’ll figure smthing out. I dnt have 2 go to college and get diploma, it’ll b ok. I can carry on stripping when leg heals, we’ll be fine xxx I luv u
‘My sister is a stripper!’ I tap out a message to Lucas. Then backspace to delete each letter. He would freak out if he knew, and then I’d have to explain how I found out, and everything would unravel.
Natalie is already on Lucas’s most-hated list, especially after the whole disaster at our engagement party. He would feel totally justified in writing her off. Plus he’d insist I come home at once. If he was still talking to me.
I slump back down onto my bed. I don’t know why I’m so surprised. How naïve can a person be? The way Nat looks and dresses, the weird hours. The dubious underwear in her suitcase. It’s a good thing our parents are already dead; my mother would have a heart attack on the spot. And I don’t even want to think about how my dad would react. The respectable minister from Walmer Estate, determined that his daughters would attend Harold Cressy High. But not respectable enough to leave us debt free.
I reread Nat’s message twice.
Cupboard space, Marilyn, lying to Lucas, Natalie lying to me … taking your top off on stage … none of it’s important in the big scheme of things. Family is what’s important. And Nat’s the only family I’ve got.
When I step gingerly downstairs and into the communal lounge, some time after nine, the house is quiet. I’m not surprised no one’s around: doors were opening and closing, and there were voices and the clatter of stilettos up and down the passage until the early hours of this morning.
There’s a woman on one of the couches reading a magazine, her feet up on a coffee table. She’s wearing a short pink silk robe, her head wrapped in a black towel turban. There’s a box of croissants on her lap, and she’s idly munching on one as she turns the pages of the magazine too quickly to be actually reading anything. Chocolate oozes out of the pastry she’s holding and drips onto the magazine. She mumbles something under her breath in a language I don’t recognise, swipes the chocolate up with her finger and licks it off.
I step into the lounge and clear my throat, not wanting to startle her. She turns and I see she’s supermodel thin with pale skin and wisps of platinum-blonde hair escaping from under the turban.
‘You make vomit on backstage,’ she says matter-of-factly, polishing off the rest of the croissant, licking each of her fingers in turn, then reaching for another one.
‘It wasn’t a very good first impression, was it?’
She doesn’t respond.
‘Where is everyone?’ I ask.
‘Morning is middle of night here,’ she says, returning to her magazine.
‘I’m Gra … Natalie,’ I say, just managing to catch myself in time.
‘Rihanna is okay,’ she says.
I don’t know if she means Rihanna the actual singer is okay and it’s a statement of approval, or if she means calling myself Rihanna is okay.
‘I’m Paris Hilton,’ she continues. ‘But curtains don’t match carpets, blonde is not real hair colour. I’m dark hair for really.’
She didn’t have to tell me that: the platinum colour of her hair is the furthest thing from natural I’ve ever seen.
‘You look a lot like her,’ I say.
‘Thank you. Nose job, cheek job, chin job, eyebrow raise and boob job. Only make boobs bigger not small like Paris. Small boobs no good for tips. Everything else same-same for Paris.’
‘Wow. Well, it all worked.’
‘I choose Paris because she can’t sing. Me also too, I can’t sing. Perfect matching.’
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘You want make movie?’ Paris asks, pushing the last bit of the second pastry into her mouth and brushing her hands together.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone eat a chocolate croissant so quickly.
‘You want me to go see a movie with you?’ I ask, which seems more likely than her wanting to make a movie with me.
‘We make movie with Leo DiCaprio and Kate Winslington,’ she says.
‘I wish I could, but I only got here yesterday, I have a lot to sort out.’
Paris makes a non-committal sound, and returns to her magazine, reaching for a third croissant.
The thought of sinking into the darkness of a theatre and being transported elsewhere is incredibly appealing. I’d rather be on the Titanic than here in this predicament. But this isn’t the time for socialising and escapism. I, or rather Rihanna, needs to figure out what the heck she is going to do: stay and do this thing, or make my way home?
‘Sweet David Caruso! Look, is me,’ the woman exclaims, holding up the magazine, which is in a foreign language, and seems out of date (given that there’s a picture of Charlie Sheen on the cover posing with his Two and a Half Men co-stars). She shows me a shot of Paris Hilton getting out of a sports car, pixels hiding her flashing ladybits.
‘I always wonder why they never wear undies,’ I say. ‘It’s not like they can’t afford them.’
Paris looks at the magazine thoughtfully. ‘Maybe is laundry day,’ she says.
There are so many questions I want to ask her about the club and the act I saw Madonna doing last night. I especially want to ask about the stripping. How long has she been doing it? Is it difficult? Why does she do it? And what I should do? But it seems rude to launch into the third degree when I’ve only just met her. Plus, I can’t let on that I’m not who I say I am. As far as anyone here knows, I’m seasoned at … at … at whatever it is they do here. My stomach grumbles loudly; not only am I lost, an imposter and morally compromised, I’m also starving. Watching Paris demolish those pastries has set off my salivary glands. The one thing I do know is that one should never make huge, life-altering decisions on an empty stomach. I need to find some breakfast.
I put my shopping down and shake the circulation back into my fingers. The lounge is full of women, the chatter of their voices fighting to be heard over the Fashion TV voice-over. The smell of coffee drifts through the air, reminding me I forgot to buy myself coffee.
Amsterdam had me at hello. The canals; the bridges; the people; the families on bikes; the snaking trams; the smells, at turns pungent and swampy, then