splashed him with sauce. Bloody Hell!
“It doesn’t give in easily, eh?” giggled Carver. “You have to get used to the character of the roast here.”
10
When Katya popped out of the bathroom with her hair so wet that she shot off volleys of little drops, she immediately provoked the envious gaze of Doroteya Totomanova. Her eyes were like two dull brooches. The two girls were sharing a room, 9ft by 12ft and all possible love between the two had been lost. Doroteya, also known as Dotty, had a spotty face and fat ankles. Katya possessed everything else which was of any value in the eyes of the opposite sex. Pure pornography thought Dotty, whose eyes were devouring several particulars of her roommate’s body. She had the feeling sometimes that those parts had been stolen from her, and it seemed only fair that she should at least have the right to touch them. Such a small consolation, yet even that was constantly denied her.
Katya was not very keen on the idea of being stared at in that particular fashion, and on top of everything, completely for free; but the mere thought that this was doing irreparable damage to the self-esteem of the voyeuse, left her feeling it was entirely worth it. She quickly dried her hair, dragged on a pair of old jeans, a T-shirt and a jacket and threw her bag across her shoulder.
“I’m off,” she announced.
“Bye,” mumbled Dotty, without moving.
You bitch thought Katya. Doroteya Totomanova did not have to work because she received an allowance from her parents, and she was not at university; so she was lying in bed with fat, inappropriate books.
“You know, you should get out more,” said Katya with some superficial concern.
“Mind your own business.”
“Okay, then you can at least open the windows,” spat Katya.
The door slammed and Doroteya was left alone. She stuck out her tongue and showed her middle finger at the now absent Katya. Then she took out a breeze-block of a book, entitled Directions in Radical Feminism by someone called Stone John Stone and hungrily started devouring the pages. Meanwhile Katya was half way to Soho.
As usual, Samantha Brick was at the entrance in her creamcoloured basque, bare legs and stiletto-slippers, and was calling out to the johns with lascivious gestures, “Come on, darling! Pop right in!”
Katya thought that this probably repelled rather than enticed the clients, but the business had its traditions and, at the end of the day, she really didn’t give a damn. The entrance, decorated in tinted mirror tiles, was surmounted by a neon sign which read Bailey’s Place. There were thousands of such places, dispersed across every continent, little incubators of little sins, where men took their frozen, wilted eggs in the hope that some feeble erection might hatch out of them.
“Cheers!” Samantha touched her hand.
Katya smiled as their fingers briefly interlaced. Samantha was a kindly blonde, past her forties, with almost no tattoos. She had done her time on the pole, and now life was fairly determinedly pushing her to the periphery. There were many tales that Samantha could tell but nobody wanted to listen.
Katya ran down the stairs and popped through a side door into the dressing room. The familiar chaos swaddled her, soaked in sweat and perfumes. The half-naked girls were fussing around throwing tits and arses in all directions. Through the air various items of lingerie flew together with an assortment of words in a plethora of languages. She liked the informal atmosphere. It reminded her of the prehistoric melting-pot where life came into being. From time to time, a curly head popped out from behind the curtain. Its owner, Kemal Dalali was a Lebanese-born man in charge of the whole menagerie. Several gold chains, long enough to hang him, were swinging around his neck. He was shouting out the names of the girls whose turns were approaching, “Vera, hurry up! Hurry up!…Françoise! Hurry up!…Fen Li! Hurry up!”
Katya slipped into an absurd costume, constructed of black leather straps and high boots, sat in front of the mirror and started layering coats of make-up onto her face. The boots were cool, they could hold lots of tips. Connie Delano tried to push her some powdery stuff, but drew a blank once again. On her other side, the Slovakian Beata, a student at the prestigious LSE, was swearing in her mother tongue; her inner thighs were covered with a rash and that would reduce her takings. Katya advised her to put some foundation on them. Kemal Dalali’s head popped out again, “Kate! Hurry up! Hurry up!”
To grind around the pole and discard bits of her outfit was not a big deal. It was easier than hanging around behind the counter of some shop for hours or washing dishes, and most importantly, it was more profitable. Lots of students were doing it. Katya had expenses to cover: she had to pay the huge university tuition fees and to send her parents some money from time to time. She owed it to them. They had mortgaged their apartment in Sofia to pay her first set of fees. And even with those expenses Katya could lead a reasonable life, but she wanted to save up some pounds. You never know what lies round the corner as the English say. On the other hand, she found her double life rather attractive; some strange gloating sensation kept her playing the role of a poor, hard-working student, ready to do anything to keep her little hole in the Embassy.
Every time she found herself totally naked on the dance-floor, Katya felt the urge to carry on: to pull her whole body apart and throw it, bit by bit, to the public, until she got rid of her last carnal accessory, and to leave only dust in the stage lights. This self-destructive urge arose at the end of every performance, maybe it was her body’s reaction against her shameless soul, but it never lasted long. Last swing around the pole. It was good for the body. Her freshly shaven armpits were sticky with sweat. The only thing remaining now was to crawl the catwalk between the male muzzles, and to gather the tips – the most important part of the performance.
And the most pleasant one! The catwalk was warm from the lights, which were glowing underneath it in green, orange and white. She slid her body forward like a big colourful cat, lasciviously bending her back while the male hands were stuffing her boots with notes. Some jerk put some paper note in her crack – very original, indeed! She hissed as a warning. Some other paper note touched her nipple, slid down and landed in her boot. ‘Oh, fuck you!’ she thought. She continued to crawl forwards, gathering banknotes like flies on flypaper. At the far end of the path she noticed a glassy face. This one is going to throw the whole content of his wallet in my little boot! she decided. The carpet was warm; the pieces of paper tickled her body. The glassy face became even glassier. Come on, take out your tenner, you arse-hole! she thought nastily to herself, impatiently swinging her attributes in front of his nose. No reaction followed.
“I’ll stick it up your backside!” she hissed in her native Bulgarian in his face and sharply turned her back.
She did not turn around again. The walk back seemed considerably shorter. She stood up, waved playfully at the public and disappeared behind the curtains.
The first thing she did was to count her money – ₤55. Not bad! She went back into the dressing room and started cleaning her face. Beata was still whingeing about her rash.
“Don’t you really want to try some of this stuff?” Connie said to her whimsically “It’s lethal!”
“No,” Katya shook her head.
She avoided staying long in Bailey’s. The dressing room was full to bursting anyway. One after the other, the girls would get on stage, do their act and then make way for the next. Every act was different. Kemal Dalali was particularly proud of this variety. In one night, more than thirty girls would turn up. If any girl wanted something on top, she could stay performing
