wonder what Lucas would think of me in this? It’s so tight, sexy and low cut, he’d probably say it’s too slutty on me; he doesn’t even like it if I wear a V-neck top to college. I suck in my tummy again and strike a Rihanna-like pose in the mirror. I grab Marilyn’s hairbrush from her bed and hold it up to my mouth like a microphone, then strike that pose again and quietly hum the tune to ‘Umbrella’ as I sway my hips. It’s not great, but it’s not entirely vomit-inducing either. Some people with less than twenty-twenty vision might even consider it sexy with all that skin showing at my sides. Plus, like David said, the right hair and make-up will help, and maybe I can get a Boob Tape 101 lesson from one of the other girls. What they call ‘mood lighting’ (i.e. near darkness) will help too. So, as long as someone loans me some tape, everyone in the club is blind and they have a power failure, I could just about pull this off, almost, if I really wanted to.
What if I did it? Just once. Shouldn’t you try everything at least once? Isn’t that what they say? Who knows, it may not even be that bad – I could chalk it up to life experience. It’s not like I know anybody here, or would ever see any of them again. Maybe I can do this. I may not be as thin as Nat or the other girls, I think, looking at myself critically in the mirror, but I look more like my celebrity naturally than most of the women in the house, and that’s got to count for something.
The whole boobs thing is definitely a spanner in the works, though. I put down the brush and cup my breasts with my hands. I don’t hate my boobs. They’re perky-ish, but small in comparison to the other girls’. And would I really be able to flash them to a crowd? Although it will be dark, surely? So maybe I can hold out and then flash them super fast, so that the crowd barely has a chance to get a good look, right at the end of my routine. Shoot … what about my routine?
I try out some of the Rihanna moves Natalie and I used to pull out back in the day. It’s the routine I was planning on doing last night before the vom-fest. Everyone always used to think we were twins, the cute little Rihanna girls. While I’m working through a couple of our old moves, I wonder what it feels like taking your clothes off in front of a bunch of strangers. When you’re with the same person for a long time, your guy doesn’t look at you in that kind of way any more, maybe because you’re not looking at him like that either. It can’t be all bad to feel sexy and wild once in a while, can it? Swinging my hips again, I pull at the zip, trying to get it down elegantly, but it gets stuck on another fat roll. So I give one of the secret seams a tug instead. Nothing happens, so I grab another seam and pull. Eventually when I tug hard enough, and in the right places, the Velcro pulls apart. Seconds later the jumpsuit is off, without me ever having to as much as come close to a zip or a button. Standing in the middle of the room in my saggy old grey knickers and bra, I piece the suit back together, then fold and put it on top of the open suitcase.
I try on the red Grammy dress next. It’s also super-snug, and I have to squeeze into it carefully, holding my breath. But once it’s on (after several minutes of tugging and two minutes lying down on the bed to get the zip up) it kind of looks okay. It fact, it’s pretty stunning. It cinches in my waist 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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