Paige Nick - Wrong Knickers for a Wednesday - A funny novel about learning to love yourself

‘Joan Rivers?’ I offer, realising too late that this might not be very complimentary.

Dania grimaces.

‘Sorry. It’s been a long day, the flight and everything … I haven’t slept much,’ I stutter.

She recovers quickly. ‘You make a joke. Here, I give you another hint …’ she says. She starts gyrating her hips and breaks into song – something completely unrecognisable.

‘It’s on the tip of my tongue,’ I say. I haven’t got a clue, but anything to make her stop.

‘I tell you,’ she says, clapping her hands together, ‘but you’ll kick your back … is Sonny and Cher! Ja?’

‘Wow, now that you tell me of course you are, I can really see the likeness,’ I lie again.

‘I suppose it’s hard to tell without the wig.’

‘Exactly, and the outfits,’ I say. ‘Plus, I’m really tired. Any other day I would have gotten it just like that.’ I click my fingers.

‘In 1982 we are coming number eight in the Eurovision Song Contest,’ Dania says. ‘Anyway … that was then.’ She waves her hand in front of her face. ‘We retired from the biz in 1999. Then we come over here and buy the club with all our savings and prize-winnings money and so Legends was born. It is the first club like this in the whole wide world. The rest is history. David Junior was still cute baby boy then. Now he’s not so baby, but still cute-cute, my boy.’

Dania retreats into a daydream with a half-smile on her face. When I clear my throat, she starts. ‘Come, I take you now to show your room, ja? I grab my suitcase and we return to the landing. The stairwell lights click on with another clunk and we continue up the remainder of the steep, narrow staircase. I drag the stupid, heavy case behind me again. What the hell did Natalie pack in here, bricks? I’m amazed I have any body fluid left to sweat out.

Dania unlocks the door and we spill into a narrow corridor before the light times out again. The suitcase wheels whir along the wooden floor as I follow Dania down a narrow passageway punctuated with closed doors. Dania unlocks the very last door and pushes it open for me, but doesn’t go inside. Instead she holds out a clog keyring with the words ‘I heart Amsterdam’ and four keys attached to it.

‘This is for the door on the street, ja? This is the front door key, and this is the second floor key, and this is your bedroom key. Don’t lose. And also, don’t write the address on it, because if you do lose we have to change all the locks in the house. Which is a katastrof and will be for you to pay. But do write the address down somewhere, in case of getting lost. Everyone gets lost in the beginning. There are only two bathrooms in the house. The one we look at downstairs and another one through that door. There are more showers and locker space at the club, ja? So you can use also those.’

‘Thank you.’ I stare at the keys in my palm, thoughts racing. If anyone had told me three days ago that today I’d be moving into a house in Amsterdam with I don’t even know how many other women from who knows where – I’ve lost track of how many bedroom doors we passed – I’d have said they were smoking their socks.

‘Get comfortable, get ready and I come back in two and a half hours to take you to the club. You perform a bit after eight, ja?’

‘Wait … I …’ I scramble to think of a way to get out of performing so soon. Sudden flu? Ebola? What are Ebola symptoms? A cough? That’s too easy. Throw myself down the steep narrow stairs and pray I break something?

‘I almost forget, house rules …’ Dania cuts into my thoughts of stepping in front of a speeding bicycle. ‘No smoking in the house, not even out a window. If you must smoke you can go out on the street, but is very bad for wrinkles, ja?’ she says, stroking her cheek with the back of her palm. ‘And no drugs of course, but number one – no men allowed in the house.’

I nod numbly.

‘I mean it,’ Dania says sharply, her demeanour instantly hard. ‘No men allowed, not one, not by a mistake, not for one minute or thirty seconds, not if he is your brother or your uncle or your great cousin, or long-lost twin, or waxer, even if he is gay. And not for any other reason you can come up with. I have heard them all a hundred times, I can promise. One strike is out, no questions, no answers. It is rule number one, two, three and four here, ja?’ It’s obviously a speech she’s given a million times before.

‘Of course, absolutely,’ I say. There’s no way I’m bringing anyone up here. Who would there be to bring? And anyway, they’d never handle these stairs. I just want to focus on staying out of trouble, not getting caught, and seeing out my time here without any speed bumps. And then I’ll take the money home for Natalie.

Satisfied she’s made her point, Dania softens. ‘I must go, ja? David will be waiting for me.’

‘About tonight …’ I say.

‘Ja?’ she says.

What’s there to say? I’m here to perform: that’s my job. I can’t tell her I’m not prepared, that I’m not who she thinks I am, especially after making it this far. This has to work. ‘Nothing,’ I say quietly. ‘See you later.’

Dania’s skirt swirls around her in the passage as she turns to leave.

*

The bedroom has a university-dorm-room vibe. Although it’s almost too small to have a vibe at all, with just enough room for two single beds as long as there’s no cat swinging going on. I gnaw on the edge of my thumb; I’m clearly sharing with someone – one of the beds is unmade and there are clothes strewn everywhere. It looks like a bomb hit it, followed by a tsunami and then a hurricane.

I assume that the made-up bed is mine, and heft the suitcase onto it, then extract a lacy pink bra from my pillow and examine it closely. Whoever I’m sharing with has clearly never met a hanger or a drawer before, and has ginormous boobs. I lay the bra down gently on the unmade bed on top of a flotsam of clothes and a jetsam of underwear. I take a deep breath: this is going to be an adjustment. Not only sharing the house, but sharing a room too. It’s a double whammy I could do without. I could kill Natalie, give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and then kill her all over again.

I tentatively open the closet. It’s stuffed to overflowing with dozens of dresses. No wonder there’s so much clothing on the floor and bed. I open the top drawer in the bureau next to the closet. It’s packed with underwear. I run my fingertips over a pair of white lace panties, and try to picture the person who belongs to them. Then I hear footsteps and voices somewhere in the house. It would make a really bad first impression to be caught fiddling with my new roommate’s knickers if anyone came in here now, so I shove the drawer and cupboard closed and dart back to the suitcase.

There’s no room to unpack anything, but I need to figure out what I’m going to wear for my first performance tonight. At some point I’m going to have to move past denial and realise that this thing is happening.

I pull out the first dress I find, folded on the top layer of the suitcase, and try to shake out its creases. It’s a short white dress, low-cut in the back. Next to it lies a pair of six-inch white platform heels. I pull them out, but they weigh a ton, and I don’t want to break my neck on my first night, so I set them aside. I fish a little further down, feeling for the simple black wedges I shoved down the side of the suitcase a day ago. Those will have to do for now. Sorry, Rihanna.

*

> Lucas, I’m here, I made it. I’m in Amsterdam, I’m alive!

> Oh thank goodness, babes, I’ve been worried sick.

> Sorry, only just got to the house and got connected to the wi-fi here.