Wrong Knickers for a Wednesday: A funny novel about learning to love yourself. Paige Nick
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and pushes out my boobs in all the right places, giving me a devious extra cup size or two. When I breathe out, I hear some of the Velcro in the seams complaining, making room for all of me to settle in the limited space. Feeling fat again, my moment of confidence vaporised, I waddle closer to the mirror. My eye wanders to all Marilyn’s clothes stuffed in the closet. Curious, I rifle through the hangers. Dresses, blouses, and at least six of the identical replica Marilyn Monroe white halter-neck dress. I pick up a pair of glitzy white strappy stilettos from the bottom of the cupboard. They’re gorgeous, but how the hell does she walk in them? They must be at least six inches tall and weigh a ton. I slip my bare foot into the right shoe, wondering how it will look with the Grammy dress I’m wearing. My foot swims in it; it’s at least three sizes too big. I’m about to look for a size on the sole, but I hear footsteps coming down the passage. A second later, there’s a rattle at the door handle. Panicked, I flip Marilyn’s shoe back into the cupboard with a thud and leap away from the incriminating evidence, trying to act natural, but knowing that I probably look guilty as hell.
‘Oh. You’re still here?’ she says in her pouty-whispery Marilyn voice. ‘Quelle surprise!’ She looks from me to the cupboard and back again, and then eyes the red Grammy dress.
‘Get used to me,’ I say, shoving a hand on my hip with more confidence than I feel. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘God, in that dress I hope not,’ she counters.
I sag and breathe out, and the Velcro gives way with a loud rip. Marilyn grabs her bag from her bedside table and leaves with a snort.
*
The dressing-room is deserted. Which gives me a chance to sit on my torn chair and look into the light-bulb-framed mirror. I tug at a passport-sized photograph of a small, smiling blonde girl that’s wedged between the mirror and the frame. Gwen Stefani must have left in a hurry, and Marilyn missed this little memento when she tossed the other pictures. I look for Gwen Stefani-like features and wonder if this little girl is her daughter, sister or maybe a niece? Maybe even herself in a different life? I wonder if this little girl knows what her mom, sister, aunt or future self does for a living.
Empty like this, three hours before show time, the dressing-room feels echoey and overly bright. The overhead fluorescent lights buzz like the ghosts of hairdryers.
Paris offered to show me around before we opened, and I want to get ready first. I also want to avoid dressing in front of all these perfect, surgically enhanced women, which is ridiculous, since they’re all bound to see me near-naked a little later. I tuck the photograph into my bag, too sentimental to toss it. I pull out the purple jumpsuit, together with the same black wedges I wore last night. (It had taken me twenty minutes to wipe off the puke.) They’re the only pair of shoes in Nat’s suitcase that I’ll be able to dance in without breaking my neck. I need to feel as stable as possible for this, whether the real Rihanna would approve of low wedges or not. I shove my backpack and handbag into the locker that has my name on it, and now contains all my worldly possessions. I wonder how many other legends have done the same thing over the years. Bette Midler? Roxette? Maybe even Barbra Streisand?
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