Wrong Knickers for a Wednesday: A funny novel about learning to love yourself. Paige Nick
now. I hear a ripple of giggles and realise too late that they’re coming from me.
‘Are you sure you’re feeling all right, kära?’ Dania says, looking at me with concern.
I put my hand in front of my mouth to staunch the flow of laughter and burp out what I hope is a ‘yes’.
‘You ready?’ she asks.
I nod. Although I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. That’s the thing about first impressions; they don’t give a hoot if you’re ready for them or not. Everything still feels blurred around the edges. Dania punches a code into the security pad on the side of the door with a bright red fingernail. Red, I think, the colour of rubies, the colour of embarrassment, the colour of stoned eyeballs.
I trail Dania up yet another flight of steep, narrow stairs. What is it with Amsterdam and stairs? Show time, I think, as we troop along a dark passageway. Then I follow her through a door into a loud crunch of voices.
*
I have to blink so my eyes adjust to the sudden fluorescent lighting. We’ve stepped into a huge dressing-room. The chatter of voices is overwhelming, and the smell of sweat is not quite masked by dozens of different perfumes fighting for attention. There’s also the distinct reek of powder and make-up, cut by the sharp smell of Deep Heat. I cough as I catch a mouthful of hairspray.
The dressing-room is packed with women in various stages of undress. I tentatively shadow Dania a little further in, and the noise quiets down as some of the women turn to stare.
I feel like I’m backstage at the Grammys. In one corner, Madonna is using a remote control to change the channel of a TV set mounted on the wall. Cher has her feet up on a chair and is reading a magazine, a strip of white cream along her top lip. Amy Winehouse has come back from the dead and is chewing gum as she plaits Paris Hilton’s hair. It’s surreal. I rub my eyes as Lady Gaga, wearing a dress made purely of metal studs, steps in from another area of the dressing-room, carrying a bowl of microwave popcorn. Taylor Swift is doing stretches, Jennifer Lopez is texting on an old Nokia, and Christina Aguilera is pumping an entire can of hairspray into her meringue of teased blonde hair.
I really shouldn’t have eaten that whole hash brownie.
Every single woman in the room is striking in their resemblance to a celebrity. They ooze drama and star appeal. I shrink back, paranoia clutching at me. I feel short, fat and inadequate, and a massive fraud. There’s no way in heck I can pull this off.
‘Ladies, this is Rihanna, from South Africa. She’s taking Gwen Stefani’s place, sharing with you, Marilyn. Be a dahlink and make her feel at home,’ Dania says.
An immensely familiar woman with lightly curled, platinum-blonde hair and skin like silk turns from where she’s applying lipstick in a mirror, and stares at me through long, dark eyelashes. She has a beauty spot on her left cheek; it’s like looking at a ghost.
‘Why can’t she share with Britney?’ Marilyn says breathily. It’s not just her looks that are uncanny; her voice is also a perfect Marilyn replica. It’s high-pitched, vintage, soft and breathy, almost a whisper, with a perfect American twirl to it. But even through its ladylike lilt, I can’t ignore how laced with annoyance it is.
‘Hey!’ Britney Spears shouts.
‘Because, kära,’ Dania says pointedly, ‘she is sharing with you.’
Marilyn sighs and makes a big fuss of winding down her lipstick. Dania looks at her watch.
‘You go on at ten after eight, kära, so there isn’t time for a tour. We will have to wait till later, ja?’ Dania says to me.
The sound levels in the room increase again as the women go back to getting ready. Pink blow-dries her hair, and I dredge up some long-filed-away piece of information, that Pink’s real name is actually Alecia. Then I’m distracted as Katy Perry (which I’m sure is her real name) pulls on a pair of lacy knickers.
‘Dania, um …’ There’s no easy or subtle way of getting out of this. ‘Do I have to perform tonight?’ I ask, panic settling on my chest like a ten-ton elephant.
‘Yes, dahlink, of course. You have other plans?’ Dania says as sniggers echo around the dressing-room.
‘No, I just thought … there would be more time to settle in and practise, get set up … sound checks … warm up … you know?’ I stutter.
‘As we say in the biz, dahlink, the show must go on. And you look so good. And we have you already on the flyer, ja?’ she says, as if that settles it. ‘So you must simply perform your very best. You will be fine.’
I stand mutely, trying to think of a foolproof excuse. But my brain can’t get out of first gear.
‘I must go to my place backstage now, kära, but ask the other girls if you have any questions. I’ll let Angelo know what you’re singing.’ She shrugs off her coat, and reveals a tight, sequined midnight-blue dress. I notice in this fluorescent light that her make-up is applied too thickly, like stage make-up. ‘So what will you be singing, kära?’ she asks.
‘Um …’ I pause. ‘“Diamonds” and “Umbrella”?’ I offer. I feel like I’ve swallowed a sponge. My mouth is so dry I can barely get the words out. I smack my lips together, trying to drum up some saliva, but it’s the Gobi Desert in there.
‘Have a great show, Legends, see you out there, ja?’ Dania announces to everyone, then claps her hands a couple of times before executing one of her trademark pivots, sequined fishtail skirt billowing around her as she leaves.
I stand alone for a moment, unsure what to do next.
‘That was Gwen’s mirror, so I suppose it’s yours now,’ Marilyn Monroe says as she leads me to one of the mirrors dotted around the room, each surrounded by bare light bulbs. She plucks a handful of photographs of cats and a postcard of the Eiffel Tower from the edge of the mirror, and drops them in the bin.
‘What happened to Gwen Stefani?’ I ask.
‘She got knocked up again, and decided to keep it this time,’ Marilyn says, her voice bored.
‘That’s funny, I didn’t read about Gwen Stefani getting pregnant in the tabloids.’ My attempt at humour to hide my own nerves goes down like a lead balloon.
Marilyn plants a hand on her hip and examines me impassively for ten seconds too long, with no hint of a smile. I clear my throat and shuffle under the intensity of her prolonged glare. ‘I suppose I can see the likeness, but aren’t you too fat to be Rihanna?’ she says.
‘Aren’t you too alive to be Marilyn?’ I flash back, remembering what Natalie said, about people being able to smell fear.
As Marilyn glares at me I try not to be the first to blink, but hot tears of self-pity press against the back of my eyeballs and won’t let up. Marilyn waves me off, then returns to her dressing-table. Why is there so much moisture in my eyes and none in my mouth?
‘Can you show me where the toilets are, please?’ I squeak at the girl standing next to me, feeling pathetic and suddenly incredibly, brutally tired, not to mention stoned.
‘Come on,’ Pink says, leading me through the dressing-room and around a corner to a row of showers flanked by another row of toilet cubicles. It’s like the locker room at a Virgin Active gym back home. Only grimier.
‘Ignore Marilyn, she’s always got some bug up her ass,’ Pink says. I find her pink hair and lilting Dutch accent so soothing, I can’t stop myself confiding in her. ‘I don’t think I can do this,’ I whisper, my lip quivering again. ‘This is all a terrible mistake. I shouldn’t be here.’
‘Here, have some of this. It will take the edge off,’ she says, whipping a silver hip flask from the pocket of the dressing gown she’s wearing over her dress. ‘First night at a new place is rough for everyone.’
The hip flask is cool in my hand, and the first