Chap Four

It takes her a while to find it. A door was hidden in shadow, at the bottom of a wide but shallow staircase, in an almost-too-narrow alleyway between two forgotten hotels. Outside, perched on a plastic chair chained to an iron railing, a well-dressed guard with a lazy eye smokes the stub of what was once a large cigar, smoke climbing in thick pulses from his lips, disappearing against the brick work of the hotel opposite, or escaping plainly into the night.

Broken by his foot, a puddle attempts to reflect the neon lights from the small sign above, so most of the word ‘Wonder’ runs across it in bright, backwards green lettering, trapped and wobbling as though caught in a dream.

While she waits for the door to open, he eyes her greedily from the shadow cast by the peak of his hat, careful not to be spotted. Sash hugs herself against the cold, pulling her winter coat tight around her fragile frame, her lips curled into a thin, ironic smile.

Inside, deep shades of burgundy red  throb out across the fixtures and fittings. On stage, a young woman sings against a light piano backdrop, the hem of her skirt sweeping the floor as she sashays around it. A bright eyed girl with pigtails takes her coat, and Isabella, who will be responsible for managing her, takes her arm. Her smile is comforting, her touch familiar, her eyelids awash with glitter.

“So you’re Dante’s little sister”, she says affectionately, holding Sash out at arms length as though to check the girl herself more closely. “He always told us you were beautiful.”

The girl with the pigtails nods. “Beautiful”, she agrees, a chipped front tooth digging into her lower lip when she closes her mouth.

Sash touches her hair self-consciously. “Thanks”, she says, although beautiful is far from what she feels.

Isabella disappears through a plush red curtain to the left of the reception desk, into the nervous system of ‘Wonderland’, one of several members only clubs that Dante owns, motioning for Sash to come with her. Here a collection of internal pipes cling to the white walls like veins and arteries, humming and clicking with vibrant life as they pass. As she walks, deeper into the beast that she is here to offer herself to, Sash can hear the audience clap and cheer, as though delighted by her progress.

They pass through the inner workings of the club, past dressing rooms and technical hubs, security and system maintenance. Isabella moves rapidly, gliding along as if connected to the floor by wheels, and more than once, something that is nothing more than a shadow in the darkness catches her eye and smiles, as though the building itself were greeting her, complicit in her role.

“Have you ever done anything like this before?” Isabella asks as they arrive at their destination, her slender fingers smoothing the ringlets of Sash’s hair. She asks the question in a way that makes Sash wonder if she already knows the answer to it.

“Never”, Sash says, shaking her head and smiling nervously.

The booth is smaller than she expects. There is a pole, a chair and very little else. It is one of several in a corridor that look out on private rooms through floor to ceiling mirrors, one side of which allows the client to see the dancer, but not the other way round.      

This wasn’t exactly what she was hoping would be the solution to her problems, but she has been left with no other choice.

‘An opening in entertainment’, was the way that Dante had sarcastically described it, knowing full well his stepsister knew exactly what she was being offered and that she wouldn’t be able to refuse. Ass-hole.

She was on the verge of saying no too, turning around and heading back out of his life as quickly as she came back into it, but what else could she do? She hated the fact she had to go to him, but there was nowhere else she could turn. She needed the money and this was the only thing she could do to get it. This was the only thing he was offering her. At least it was only dancing. At least there was a god-damn piece of glass protecting her from the groping hands of the perverts that paid to watch.

“Each dance lasts for as long as the customer pays for”, Isabella informs her. “If someone wants to book you for the night, they can do. I guess Dante would have told you that though.”

“He didn’t say much”, Sash says, looking around the booth as though trying to divine what kind of thing might await her. What kind of person. She holds onto the pole and leans out from it, pressing her nose close up to the mirror to try and see through it.

“I can take you to the other side”, Isabella says seeing her curiosity. “You know, just to show you what it’s like. You won’t be able to see the clients of course.”

“Ok”, Sash says. “I’d like that.”

“You rent the space for the night, so we charge you for that. Anything you make on top of that is yours to keep. You work for as long and as often as you like, as long as the booths aren’t booked out. The more customers you have, the more money you take home, it’s as simple as that. We’ve got almost twenty girls on our books, all making good money.”

Isabella takes her back out into the corridor, to an apex and off to the left. Above, black paint makes the height of the ceiling impossible to determine. Sash reaches up anyway, keen to touch the nothingness. They pass through another red curtain, a large set of double doors protected on the other side by a guard whose ass Isabella pinches, and into a carpeted corridor. Isabella counts the doors carefully. When she reaches what she believes to be the right one, she pauses, her hand on the dented metal door knob.

“This is a dance club, not a brothel”, she says. “That is the first and most important thing to learn. If a client offers you money for sex, or any other service outside of the ones we offer here, and you accept, you will be asked to leave. This isn’t a place for pimping yourself honey, there is good money on offer here and no need to do anything else for it, do you understand?”

Sash nods.

“If you want to pimp yourself, there are plenty of places in the city where you can do just that.”

“Dancing is enough, believe me”, Sash insists.

Isabella opens the door. Inside, the room is a little larger than the booth on the other side, so the window is framed at the edges by a small part of the wall and looks just like an enormous TV screen. There is a green leather chair with a chesterfield back, a drinks cabinet to the side, a table with a banker’s lamp, and a mahogany trim bookshelf. On the wall, a Salvador Dali print hangs, of a woman looking out of a window to the distant sea beyond. The decor is modern, but a little outdated. The red carpet looks worn at the foot of the chair and the books don’t look like they are real. Much of the room is cast in shadow, and what little light there is, seems to filter in through the booth next door.

“So this is it, how the other half live”, Isabella says. “Just to give you an idea.”

Sash walks around the room as though inspecting it for imperfections. She fingers the wallpaper and runs her hand along the line of books, before perching on the softened edge of the leather chair, picturing herself on the other side of the glass.

“Do they?” Sash asks innocently, dancing her fingers along the arm of the chair. “You know?”

Isabella tilts her head, like a dog that’s just heard a noise too high pitched for a human ear.

“Dante said he wanted to start you off slowly”, she says, ignoring the question.

“What does that mean?” Sash asks.

Isabella extends her arm and Sash takes it, pulling herself out of the chair. Still holding hands, the two girls head back out into the corridor and retrace their steps back to the booth. Another dancer passes them on the way, her tight ass shimmying in the soft fabric of her panties. From the look of weary resignation on her face, Sash can’t work out whether she’s just finished a dance or about to begin one.

“It means that tonight you only dance once. If the customer likes you, you get to come back.” Isabella says.

“And if he doesn’t?” Sash asks.

“He will”, Isabella says confidently.