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  ‘Yeah, you’d never get refused with those bazookas,’ giggled Marina, grabbing the packet and ripping off the cellophane to hand out the cigarettes.

  ‘Bet you forgot matches,’ chipped in Emma from under her fur-lined hoody. ‘Come on, it’s f-f-freezing out here, and we’ve got hockey next. I’ll be an ice-block by then.’

  ‘Hang on, I’ve got matches here, they’re in the bottom of my bag,’ muttered Poppy as she knelt on the wet grass and rummaged in her satchel. Pulling out folders and text books she finally located the small box of Swan Vesta. ‘Are you guys looking out for any teachers?’ she asked cautiously, looking up at the girls enquiringly.

  ‘Yeah yeah yeah, anyway we’ll hear the tennis court gate squeaking if anyone comes, don’t worry,’ reassured Marina.

  One by one the girls struck a match and lit their cigarettes. They took awkward drags and eyeballed each other, each hoping they didn’t look as clumsy as Claire who was flapping away clouds of smoke from around her face. Despite her lack of brainpower, she was the envy of the class, always bagging the hot boyfriends. However with her innocent, angelic face she figured she could procure a more sophisticated air with some accomplished smoking. Her pal Emma just wanted to keep the weight off, somehow she thought cigarettes and gum would do the trick. The popular girls of the class, Claire and Emma were a fearsome twosome, although Poppy secretly nicknamed them Thick and Thin. Marina was the most elegant of the girls, the one who everyone in the world wanted to be friends with. Marina loved Poppy for her combination of sparkiness, brains, and what she considered to be striking, rather than classic looks, but she also knew Poppy to be extremely insecure with her unusual features. Moreover, Marina found something about her rather intriguing and liked to include her in the group, despite Emma and Claire’s stand-offishness towards her.

  Emma broke the silence with a cough, struggling to quickly regain her composure. Marina looked over with amusement, exhaling a long thin plume of smoke. She had to be a natural, of course. Poppy simply spluttered loudly.

  ‘Ugh, this is gross,’ she cringed.

  ‘Keep doing it you’ll get used to it,’ advised Marina.

  ‘When do you start enjoying it then?’

  ‘Well … you’re not exactly meant to enjoy it really, that’s not the idea …’

  ‘Right. So what’s the point?’

  ‘God you’re soooo clueless,’ sighed Claire, rolling her eyes. ‘Listen, if we smoke we get to look older and hang out with the older boys.’

  ‘Aren’t there cheaper ways to look older?’ asked Poppy, wastefully dropping her cigarette and extinguishing it underfoot.

  ‘You may have big tits, but some of us need a bit more help.’ Emma scowled.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve seen Mr Rogers checking out those puppies!’ Marina winked.

  ‘He always puts you in centre forward so he can see you running up and down the pitch, jiggling about,’ sniggered Claire.

  ‘Do I jiggle?’ gasped Poppy, instinctively pulling her blazer tight across her chest. The group burst into fits of laughter. She hated being teased about her bust.

  ‘Well, let’s just say Mr Rogers gets his glasses all steamed up when you’ve got the ball,’ said Marina, putting an arm around Poppy’s shoulder affectionately.

  ‘Yeah, you don’t actually think you got on the squad because you’re a good player do you? Haven’t you noticed that every time you’re on we lose the match,’ Emma grumbled.

  ‘Cor, Emma’s got her bitch stick out today,’ laughed Marina. ‘Whassamatter Ems, got your p-e-r-i-o-d?’

  ‘Come on. It’s obvious Mr Rogers has his faves.’ Mr Rogers was their new gym teacher. He was Australian and a hunk. ‘It’s wasted on Poppy anyway by the looks of things. Look at the pictures of porn stars stuck all over her folder.’ The girls all looked down at the pile of books and folders still lying on the grass next to Poppy’s satchel, covered in black-and-white pin-up pictures.

  ‘They’re not porn stars!’ gasped Poppy. ‘They’re movie stars! Marilyn and Rita!’

  ‘What? But they’re women! In bikinis! Ruffled knickers! Half naked!’ taunted Emma. ‘Whatever turns you on you lez. Lezzer! Lezzer!’

  Without warning Poppy threw herself at Emma and knocked her to the ground, eliciting a sharp yelp. Claire squealed and giggled as Poppy struggled to pin Emma to the grass. Marina simply shook her head at the scene and elegantly finished off the last few drags of her cigarette as the two girls rolled around. Poppy grabbed fistfuls of hair.

  ‘Argh! Get off my hair, I just had it permed!’ screamed Emma, trying to push Poppy off her. ‘Lesbian!’

  ‘Slapper!’ yelled Poppy waving a sorry-looking tuft of blonde ponytail in Emma’s face.

  ‘Take that back!’ shouted Emma, her free hand leaping defensively for her hair. As the girls wrestled on the grass a huge rip could be heard.

  ‘My shirt!’ squealed Poppy. ‘You stupid cow, what did you do that for! My mum’ll go spare!’ Poppy sat back for a moment to survey the damage, giving Emma the advantage. In a flash Emma was straddling Poppy, yanking at her long plaits with one hand and grabbing at her exposed bra with the other. Claire and Marina had now piled in to separate the two amidst yelps and name calling. No one heard the loud squeak of the tennis court gate as Mr Rogers hurtled towards the fray.

  Chapter 7

  Tiger lovingly placed her diamond-encrusted merkin back in hibernation in its heart-shaped box, snapping the clasps shut with a flourish. Picking up a half-finished roll of tit tape and fondling it absentmindedly between her fingers, her green eyes gazed one last time over the carnage of the dressing room. Huge labelled trunks of costume were stacked next to hatboxes, make-up caddies, her feather steamer, jewellery cases and her lucky mascot – her vintage Jayne Mansfield hot water bottle. Layers of glitter and diamond dust were trodden into the gaps in the floorboards and worked into the pitted formica of the long dresser. Discarded cans of Elnett hairspray, dead flowers, used make-up wipes and a couple of empty Tanqueray bottles filled a black binliner. A defective pair of eyelashes still stuck to the mirror. Tiger had enjoyed her three months at the Savoy. The auditorium had been packed night after night; the critics were adoring, the venue were thrilled, the Starletts were on a high, the band was on fire, Rex was getting out the holiday brochures, Blue was in costume heaven, even Lewis seemed … happy.

  An impatient little honk from Tiger’s driver wafted up from the street below, signalling it was time for her to leave. Vladimir had been outside gently revving the black Lincoln Towncar for over twenty minutes and the bellhops at the Savoy Hotel opposite were probably trying to move him on. Tiger scooped what she could under her arms and made for the stairs.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am!’ came a breathless panting. ‘I was sent to ferry your cases to your car, but I’m new here and I got lost between dressing rooms. Can I take those for you?’

  Tiger took in the strapping young security boy standing in the doorway. At a little under six foot he peered at her with coal black eyes. Eyes not unlike Rex’s. Tiger felt an immediate twinge of lust.

  ‘Wow that’s very kind of you – er …’

  ‘Mark.’

  ‘Mark,’ she sighed kindly. ‘Look why don’t I take the little caddies down myself, and if you could manage the heavy trunks that would be wonderful. Oh and careful with those hatboxes, you can’t put anything heavy on them.’ Tiger was already off towards the exit.

  ‘Ma’am … um …’

  Tiger stopped at the stairs and looked back at him.

  ‘I’m sorry, but would it be too much to ask for a photograph? My mates won’t believe I met you unless I have a photo,’ he asked coyly, producing a small digital camera. Tiger laughed softly.

  ‘Oh sweetheart, I haven’t much scaffold or plaster on today, you wouldn’t want to see me like this.’

  ‘Oh no,’ he retorted, shocked, ‘no, you’re wrong, you’re beautiful. Much more beautiful up close. Hey, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked—’

&nbs
p; ‘Oh, come on,’ said Tiger, sensing his shyness, ‘let’s say “cheese” then,’ and they huddled up close as he held the camera at arm’s length and managed to take a halfway decent picture of the two of them. Tiger even kindly signed some left over posters for his friends.

  ‘So where are you performing next? I’d love to get tickets,’ Mark puffed moments later as he humped the huge trunks of costume down the steep stairs with Tiger daintily clip-clopping her way down behind him.

  ‘I have lots of one-nighters to do right now, but I’m supposed to be expanding my show for Vegas. Only thing is, it’s a long way and I might miss England too much.’

  ‘Oh my god, well I’d definitely make the trip over the pond to see it. Will it be all new material?’

  ‘Well, if I decide to do it, then you can be sure it’ll be something special.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’d even need to think about it!’ exclaimed Mark, bringing Tiger’s mountain of cargo to the foot of the stairs with a crashing thud, nearly taking his thumb off. ‘Okay, ma’am, I’m gonna have these loaded into your limo in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. You just sit back and I’ll take care of everything.’

  Mark held the stage door open for Tiger with a flourish. As she stepped out into the street she stumbled, nearly falling. Steadying herself she looked down to encounter a wall of white gladioli reaching to her knees.

  ‘What the—’ Mark immediately jumped to clear the towering pile of flowers.

  ‘No, no, it’s okay, sweetheart,’ said Tiger gently, moving Mark out of the way and crouching down to retrieve what looked like a card on top of the pile. Opening the envelope slowly she found a newspaper clipping of one of her rave reviews. Tiger was silent for a beat. She looked up and carefully surveyed the street, tapping the envelope against her palm pensively as she scanned. Aha. There by a lamppost on the corner of the Strand was the familiar squat figure of stage door Johnnie. He appeared to be hanging off the post as though awaiting a reaction. Their eyes locked across the crowded street. Tiger picked up an armful of the flowers and held them theatrically to her nose. Smiling, she stood and waved regally at Johnnie, cradling the bouquet. He patted his heart, punched the air and skipped gaily off in the direction of Covent Garden, his whoops carried on the wind behind him. Tiger laughed.

  ‘You have a girlfriend, Mark?’ she asked, turning to look into his lovely eyes.

  ‘Um, well…’

  ‘Here, take her a big bunch of these, okay? You’ll get the best blow job of your life tonight if you do.’

  Mark laughed. ‘Thank you, ma’am. My boyfriend doesn’t actually like flowers, but if it’s okay, I’d love to take some for my mum, thank you.’

  Tiger blushed. Of course. He was far too good looking to be straight.

  ‘Sure you can, sweetheart. Help yourself. Bye, Mark, see you around. Vegas maybe.’ Blowing him a kiss Tiger climbed into her limo with her own armful of flowers and shut the outside world out. She knew exactly who she wanted to give her gladioli to.

  Tiger took a deep breath and flipped open her mobile. She had the number on speed dial. It kicked straight in to voicemail.

  ‘Mr Hunter?’ she purred. ‘Tiger.’ She waited a beat. ‘Catch me.’

  Tiger snapped the mobile shut. Cheesy. Dammit! She hated voicemail.

  It had been weeks since Tiger had been with Rex. Not since their first time on her opening night. She had burned inside since then. After all those years of self denial, of playing the Ice Queen to his Zorro, she had finally unleashed within herself a terrifying kaleidoscope of emotion. Of course, business always came first and, fully committed to her Savoy shows, Tiger had only met Rex briefly for press and interviews; the atmosphere between them had been unbearable. Tiger felt like a strung-out puma around him; tense and fit to burst.

  No wonder she had been receiving rave reviews, the only place she could vent her sexual energy was on stage. Once, she had received advice from her favourite old burlesque legend Satan’s Angel, now sixty something. Angel had said to her, ‘Tiger baby, when you’re up on that stage, just imagine you’re doing it all for your lover. That’s what I always used to do back in the fifties. Brought the house down every time, honey.’ Needless to say Tiger’s audiences didn’t know what hit ’em. Grown men bit their white knuckles and wept, women waited at the stage doors night after night for signed postcards, recipes and beauty tips. With Rex in Tiger’s mind, the stage was alight with passion.

  Of course, Tiger still had her new acts to rehearse while she did the evening shows at the Savoy, so she hardly had a second to even blink let alone socialise. And then Lewis was on her case every spare second trying to persuade her to do Vegas. To counter the sporadic platonic meetings, Rex frequently sent texts to Tiger of the single entendre variety which only served to send her into further paroxysms of lust. Despite keeping calm on the surface, she was already planning an extended repertoire for their next ‘meeting’ to top all others.

  Tiger looked out of the car window. Vladimir seemed to be hurtling towards her Regent’s Park palace at a good five miles per hour. Typical London congestion, she thought, irritably. She settled back into her seat and flipped open her mobile again.

  ‘Lewis? Tiger. Just checking in.’

  ‘Have you done the “get out”?’

  ‘Yep, I’m all loaded out.’

  ‘Good girl. Have you got all your costume ready for your show tonight?’

  ‘Yeah, Blue’s at home steaming and fluffing the poodle costume. He’s been revamping all the girls’ puppy dog outfits ready too. It’s the charity benefit tonight, right?’

  ‘Yes. The diamante dog basket’s already over at Hampton Court being rigged up. The stage was set up in the grounds last night, it looks great. Sparkling chequerboard, all a bit Alice in Wonderland.’

  ‘Oh great, I’ve been looking forward to this one. I like a bit of al fresco.’

  ‘Hmm. Sure you do. You only have time for a thirty-minute soundcheck tonight. Sorry, it’s all I could get. They’re putting on a red carpet catwalk show with Kate and Naomi and it’s cut right into the set-up time. And I’m only putting on four of the Starrlets with you, the stage size is a bit tight as someone fucked up with the dimensions of the golden staircase – it’s big enough to fill the gardens at Marseilles.’

  ‘Jeez, Lewis, I forgot to check, did you sort the giant topiary poodles I asked for? You know I wanted them out by the maze to set the scene.’

  ‘Oh god yes! I forgot to tell you, the charity is very pleased with you for that idea – they only managed to get Jeff Koons to make the giant poodles as a special art installation!’

  ‘Wow! Amazing, I love his work! Will he be there tonight?’

  ‘I would have thought so. I know the sculptures are going to be auctioned off to raise money, so brownie points go to you. This will attract some huge private collectors, and a wadge of cash for the charity; the art world’s absolutely buzzing about it.’

  ‘Fabulous! So when’s my call time?’

  ‘Well, Georgia’s already down at the grounds rechoregraphing with Pepper; she wants the girls to slide down that big gold staircase while you’re being carried onto the stage in the dog basket by the butler boys. Your call time is 6 p.m. to load in, for a six thirty soundcheck. Guests from eight, be ready for your photocall and champagne reception at nine, and you’re on stage at eleven. You’ll be expected for a private drink with the hosts after your show. I think Kylie’s singing a couple of numbers, then they’re all dancing ’til dawn.’

  ‘Okay. Can you ask the spot operator to give me a lilac gel? It’ll look best with the pink outfits.’

  ‘I already asked, it’s fine.’

  ‘Great! See you at six.’

  ‘Oh, Tiger?’

  ‘Uh huh?’

  ‘We need to sign on Vegas, time’s running out.’

  ‘Oh no, not Vegas again. Do we really need to talk about it any more?’

  ‘I can hardly see what’s to hesitate about, Tiger. You’ve
wanted it for fifteen years. You’re doing it. End of. See you at six.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘I hate that.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Tiger ended her call and sighed, knowing the Vegas argument was imminent that evening. Tiger just couldn’t risk public humiliation at the hands of the critics. A Brit in Vegas was fair game at the best of times, and if Lance de Brett’s malevolent words on her opening night had been a sign of things to come, Tiger had everything to lose. More than that, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she felt her confidence evaporating; ironic after having worked so hard for so many years for this opportunity. Why, when she seemed to have the world at her feet, did she feel so troubled?

  Pushing all thoughts of the evening’s show to the back of her mind she pulled the limo’s privacy screen back.

  ‘Vladimir, this traffic is ridiculous; can you just drop me at Rex’s office round the corner, then take all my kit home. Blue knows what to do with all the trunks. That cool with you?’

  ‘Yes, Ms Starr. No problem.’

  Vladimir jerked the Towncar into a violent U-turn amidst crazed beeps and honks and within minutes safely deposited an excitable Tiger at the door of Hunter Gatherers’ headquarters, armed with sweet smelling gladioli.

  ‘Oh Rex, baby,’

  ‘Argh, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Look it – it’s okay…’

  ‘Sorry, Vicky, this hasn’t happened before …’ Rex spat into his palm and pumped his cock furiously with his hand, muttering curses and willing it to get past marshmallow consistency. Fuck you, Tiger. Fuck you for messing with my head, thought Rex, breaking into a sweat as he pummelled away. Vicky rose from the palatial-sized bed and coolly pulled a Marlboro Light from the packet by the minibar.

  ‘It’s not me is it?’ asked Vicky, standing by the open window, jutting her little tits towards Rex and trying to look sexy.

  ‘Argh you stupid bitch, no! It’s me!’ Rex liberated his cock and flopped forwards onto the bed, concealing his excuse for manhood. Vicky looked visibly offended.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry, look I’m just stressed out, babe, I shouldn’t have taken the afternoon off really. I have a shitload of work to do before tomorrow, I guess I’m just preoccupied. Sorry, babes.’