Gaia said, ‘I’ve watched you dance.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You dance like a housewife. Or like a schoolgirl. Like you’re at the school disco or something.’ Gaia put her hand on my arm. ‘Pierre thinks it’s cute and he tolerates it from you because of Wanda. Come on, don’t get all put out.’ She rested her head on my shoulder in a low, friendly, tender head butt. ‘You need to dance like a tart. Like you mean it. Look at me next time. Don’t go for the steel poles: they’re too slick, too fast and it’s difficult to create tension and to keep control. Go for the brass ones: they provide more friction, they’re easier to hold and you can try something slower, more sensual. Has a customer asked you for your phone number yet?’
‘No. Does that mean I haven’t been very good?’
‘Yes. But what are you going to do when you are asked?’
I opened my eyes wide.
‘You need to think about it. Have your answer ready.’
‘Do you ever give your number out?’
‘In for a penny, in for a pound. What’s the big deal? It’s only sex. It’s what’s at the heart of every family, right?’ She squeezed my arm. ‘If you were a man, you’d ask for my number, wouldn’t you?’
I returned the gentle head-to-head and we laughed. She knew she was right.
We remained seated for a while, the two of us squeezed in between the arms of the high-backed armchair, taking the two-hourly ten-minute break we were entitled to. The club was hot, the temperature kept high in order to keep us – the girls – warm and the customers thirsty.