looked very odd to them, all scrunched up like a bundle of dirty laundry on their stool.
‘You going to work in club?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘They won’t want me.’
Svetlana clicked her tongue against her mouth. ‘Don’t be stupid. It easy easy easy. Easy like eating the candy.’
‘Is it sex?’
‘No!’ They laughed. ‘Not sex! You do sex, you do it outside. Mama don’t wanna hear about it.’
‘Then what do you do?’
‘Do? You don’t do nothing. You talk to customer. Light his cigarette. Tell him he’s great. Put ice in his fuckink disgustink fuckink drink.’
‘What do you talk about?’
They looked at each other and shrugged. ‘Just make him happy, make him to like you. Make him laugh. He gonna like you no problem, because you are English girl.’
I looked down at the heavy black skirt I was wearing, second hand. Its original owner would have remembered the Korean war. My black buttoned-up blouse had cost me 50p in the Oxfam shop in the Harrow Road and my tights were thick and opaque.
‘Here.’
I looked up. Svetlana was holding out a little gold makeup bag. ‘What?’
‘Do your face. We gotta go in twenny minutes.’
The twins knew the art of holding two conversations at once. Everything they did was achieved with the phone glued to their ears, cigarettes between their teeth. They were doing the nightly dial-round of customers: ‘You going to be there tonight, eh? I’ll be so sabishi without you.’ As they talked, they painted in eyebrows, fixed on eyelashes, squeezed themselves into shiny white trousers and impossibly high silver sandals. I watched them silently. Svetlana, who spent a long time standing in front of the mirror in her bra, her arms above her head, studying her armpits for hairs, thought that I should wear something gold to brighten myself up.
‘You gotta look sophisticated. You wanna wear my belt, eh? My belt is gold. Black and gold nice!’
‘I’d look stupid.’
‘Silver, then,’ said Irina. I was trying not to stare at her. She’d stripped off her bra and was standing topless near the window picking with her long nails at a roll of Sellotape, tearing off strips with her teeth. ‘You wear black, you look like widow.’
‘I always wear black.’
‘What? You mourning someone?’
‘No,’ I said, steadily. ‘Don’t be stupid. Who would I be mourning?’
She studied me for a moment. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘If it make you happy. But you go to club looking like that you probably gonna make the men to cry.’ She put one end of the tape in her mouth, squashed her breasts together as tightly as she could, and passed the tape under them from left underarm to right and back again. When she released her breasts they remained where she’d lifted them, precarious on a shelf of Sellotape. She pulled on an off-the-shoulder blouse and stood in front of the mirror, smoothing it down and checking her shape under the flimsy fabric. I bit my fingers, wishing I had the courage to ask for another cigarette.
Svetlana had finished her makeup – her lips were outlined in dark pencil. She got on her knees, rummaged in one of the drawers and pulled out a stapler. ‘Come here,’ she said, beckoning to me. ‘Come here.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. Come here.’ She shuffled towards me on her knees, wielding the stapler. She caught the hem of my skirt, folded it up and under and clamped the stapler’s jaws, fastening the hem to the lining.
‘Don’t,’ I said, trying to push her hand away. ‘Don’t.’
‘Wassamatter? You got sexy legs, better you show them. Now keep still.’
‘ Please! ’
‘Don’t you wanna job, eh?’
I put my hands over my face, my eyes rolling under my fingers, and took deep breaths while Svetlana moved round me, clipping my hem up. I could feel from the air that she’d exposed my knees. I kept imagining the way my legs would look. I kept imagining the things people would think if they saw me. ‘No . . .’
‘Jjjzzzt!’ Svetlana put
‘You going to work in club?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘They won’t want me.’
Svetlana clicked her tongue against her mouth. ‘Don’t be stupid. It easy easy easy. Easy like eating the candy.’
‘Is it sex?’
‘No!’ They laughed. ‘Not sex! You do sex, you do it outside. Mama don’t wanna hear about it.’
‘Then what do you do?’
‘Do? You don’t do nothing. You talk to customer. Light his cigarette. Tell him he’s great. Put ice in his fuckink disgustink fuckink drink.’
‘What do you talk about?’
They looked at each other and shrugged. ‘Just make him happy, make him to like you. Make him laugh. He gonna like you no problem, because you are English girl.’
I looked down at the heavy black skirt I was wearing, second hand. Its original owner would have remembered the Korean war. My black buttoned-up blouse had cost me 50p in the Oxfam shop in the Harrow Road and my tights were thick and opaque.
‘Here.’
I looked up. Svetlana was holding out a little gold makeup bag. ‘What?’
‘Do your face. We gotta go in twenny minutes.’
The twins knew the art of holding two conversations at once. Everything they did was achieved with the phone glued to their ears, cigarettes between their teeth. They were doing the nightly dial-round of customers: ‘You going to be there tonight, eh? I’ll be so sabishi without you.’ As they talked, they painted in eyebrows, fixed on eyelashes, squeezed themselves into shiny white trousers and impossibly high silver sandals. I watched them silently. Svetlana, who spent a long time standing in front of the mirror in her bra, her arms above her head, studying her armpits for hairs, thought that I should wear something gold to brighten myself up.
‘You gotta look sophisticated. You wanna wear my belt, eh? My belt is gold. Black and gold nice!’
‘I’d look stupid.’
‘Silver, then,’ said Irina. I was trying not to stare at her. She’d stripped off her bra and was standing topless near the window picking with her long nails at a roll of Sellotape, tearing off strips with her teeth. ‘You wear black, you look like widow.’
‘I always wear black.’
‘What? You mourning someone?’
‘No,’ I said, steadily. ‘Don’t be stupid. Who would I be mourning?’
She studied me for a moment. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘If it make you happy. But you go to club looking like that you probably gonna make the men to cry.’ She put one end of the tape in her mouth, squashed her breasts together as tightly as she could, and passed the tape under them from left underarm to right and back again. When she released her breasts they remained where she’d lifted them, precarious on a shelf of Sellotape. She pulled on an off-the-shoulder blouse and stood in front of the mirror, smoothing it down and checking her shape under the flimsy fabric. I bit my fingers, wishing I had the courage to ask for another cigarette.
Svetlana had finished her makeup – her lips were outlined in dark pencil. She got on her knees, rummaged in one of the drawers and pulled out a stapler. ‘Come here,’ she said, beckoning to me. ‘Come here.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. Come here.’ She shuffled towards me on her knees, wielding the stapler. She caught the hem of my skirt, folded it up and under and clamped the stapler’s jaws, fastening the hem to the lining.
‘Don’t,’ I said, trying to push her hand away. ‘Don’t.’
‘Wassamatter? You got sexy legs, better you show them. Now keep still.’
‘ Please! ’
‘Don’t you wanna job, eh?’
I put my hands over my face, my eyes rolling under my fingers, and took deep breaths while Svetlana moved round me, clipping my hem up. I could feel from the air that she’d exposed my knees. I kept imagining the way my legs would look. I kept imagining the things people would think if they saw me. ‘No . . .’
‘Jjjzzzt!’ Svetlana put
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