it’s been pulled into a knot behind her head.
‘This is your press ID.’ Cindy turns and slaps a laminated badge into my hand. She pins on her own and looks around. ‘Is there a bathroom we could use?’ she asks the
woman behind the desk.
The woman points to a flight of stairs behind her. They descend into shadow.
‘Go and smarten yourself up.’ Cindy flaps me towards the stairs. ‘I’ll meet you in the show hall. Don’t lose your ID, you’ll need it to get in. OK?’ She
fixes me with freeze-beam eyes.
‘OK.’ I head down the stairs, my shoes silent on the plush red carpet.
At the bottom, I scan the walls for signs. The wine-red walls are softly lit. I can’t see any sign of a bathroom, but there’s a white notice further down the hallway. I make it out
as I approach.
Models.
Perhaps the backstage loo is this way. I follow the sign, taking a left that leads me away from the carpeted hallway and into a narrow corridor. Neon strips flicker overhead. The tiled walls are
chipped and the lino’s worn.
Ladies.
A large handwritten sign points towards a dark green door. This must be the loo.
I push my way in, rummaging through my bag for a comb. It’s warm inside. And noisy. I look up.
This isn’t a bathroom.
Mirrors line the walls. And women. They’re fussing around each other, heaving zips, pinning hems, bending to adjust straps on very high-heeled shoes. They’re tall and willowy and
sharply beautiful.
I stare, not sure what to do. I’m an explorer who’s stumbled on a tribe preparing for battle.
‘Close the bloody door!’ A seven-foot Amazon, half wearing a quilted spacesuit, yells at me.
I close the door. Every gaze in the room swivels towards me like cats spotting a mouse.
I catch sight of myself in a mirror on the far side of the room. My heart sinks. I’ve been zombified. Ripped tights, crumpled blazer, smeared make-up. And my hair has doubled in volume.
It’s frothing, cappuccino-style, round my face.
‘Hello,’ I croak softly as the room falls silent. Someone actually drops a pin and the noise deafens me.
A purple streak blazes towards me.
It’s a man. His hair is coiffed; his face is baby-smooth; his purple shirt clashes perfectly with his lipstick-red trousers.
‘Dar-
ling
!’ he wails excitedly.
I back away, pressing against the door as he rockets towards me.
‘You must be Radical!’ He stops right in front of me and kisses the air beside my cheeks.
‘Must I?
‘You are
rocking
that schoolgirl look, honey.’ He grabs my elbow and steers me across the room. The models part to let me through. I feel their gaze as I pass. They’re
mentally slicing me up and I pray the purple man doesn’t let go of me. I’d be fish chum in a shark pool.
‘Sit here.’ Purple Man guides me to a chair and pushes me into it. ‘Comfy, darling?’ He spins the chair and it swings round to face a mirror. My streaked make-up and mad
hair are even more terrifying close up.
Purple Man throws up his arms. ‘Come on, ladies! Give Radical a proper welcome!’
At his command, the models start clapping. Smiles grow on their faces and reach towards me, but their eyes remain fixed on Purple Man. Clearly, he’s tribe leader.
I blink at him in the mirror. Part of me is longing to confess.
I’m not Radical. I don’t even know who Radical is.
But another part of me – the part that controls my
voice – seems to be frozen with shock.
As the clapping dies away, Purple Man starts waving. ‘Let’s get you ready. The show starts in thirty minutes.’
A gaggle of women herd towards me, waving hairdryers and make-up brushes.
‘Erm, there’s been a bit of a—’ but the models aren’t listening to me; they’ve all snapped back to dressing and chatting. Music throbs beyond the wall.
A dumpy woman with a razor-sharp haircut pulls at a strand of my hair and wraps it round a curling wand. A stick-thin blonde ducks in front of me and lathers cream onto my face. I shut my eyes
‘This is your press ID.’ Cindy turns and slaps a laminated badge into my hand. She pins on her own and looks around. ‘Is there a bathroom we could use?’ she asks the
woman behind the desk.
The woman points to a flight of stairs behind her. They descend into shadow.
‘Go and smarten yourself up.’ Cindy flaps me towards the stairs. ‘I’ll meet you in the show hall. Don’t lose your ID, you’ll need it to get in. OK?’ She
fixes me with freeze-beam eyes.
‘OK.’ I head down the stairs, my shoes silent on the plush red carpet.
At the bottom, I scan the walls for signs. The wine-red walls are softly lit. I can’t see any sign of a bathroom, but there’s a white notice further down the hallway. I make it out
as I approach.
Models.
Perhaps the backstage loo is this way. I follow the sign, taking a left that leads me away from the carpeted hallway and into a narrow corridor. Neon strips flicker overhead. The tiled walls are
chipped and the lino’s worn.
Ladies.
A large handwritten sign points towards a dark green door. This must be the loo.
I push my way in, rummaging through my bag for a comb. It’s warm inside. And noisy. I look up.
This isn’t a bathroom.
Mirrors line the walls. And women. They’re fussing around each other, heaving zips, pinning hems, bending to adjust straps on very high-heeled shoes. They’re tall and willowy and
sharply beautiful.
I stare, not sure what to do. I’m an explorer who’s stumbled on a tribe preparing for battle.
‘Close the bloody door!’ A seven-foot Amazon, half wearing a quilted spacesuit, yells at me.
I close the door. Every gaze in the room swivels towards me like cats spotting a mouse.
I catch sight of myself in a mirror on the far side of the room. My heart sinks. I’ve been zombified. Ripped tights, crumpled blazer, smeared make-up. And my hair has doubled in volume.
It’s frothing, cappuccino-style, round my face.
‘Hello,’ I croak softly as the room falls silent. Someone actually drops a pin and the noise deafens me.
A purple streak blazes towards me.
It’s a man. His hair is coiffed; his face is baby-smooth; his purple shirt clashes perfectly with his lipstick-red trousers.
‘Dar-
ling
!’ he wails excitedly.
I back away, pressing against the door as he rockets towards me.
‘You must be Radical!’ He stops right in front of me and kisses the air beside my cheeks.
‘Must I?
‘You are
rocking
that schoolgirl look, honey.’ He grabs my elbow and steers me across the room. The models part to let me through. I feel their gaze as I pass. They’re
mentally slicing me up and I pray the purple man doesn’t let go of me. I’d be fish chum in a shark pool.
‘Sit here.’ Purple Man guides me to a chair and pushes me into it. ‘Comfy, darling?’ He spins the chair and it swings round to face a mirror. My streaked make-up and mad
hair are even more terrifying close up.
Purple Man throws up his arms. ‘Come on, ladies! Give Radical a proper welcome!’
At his command, the models start clapping. Smiles grow on their faces and reach towards me, but their eyes remain fixed on Purple Man. Clearly, he’s tribe leader.
I blink at him in the mirror. Part of me is longing to confess.
I’m not Radical. I don’t even know who Radical is.
But another part of me – the part that controls my
voice – seems to be frozen with shock.
As the clapping dies away, Purple Man starts waving. ‘Let’s get you ready. The show starts in thirty minutes.’
A gaggle of women herd towards me, waving hairdryers and make-up brushes.
‘Erm, there’s been a bit of a—’ but the models aren’t listening to me; they’ve all snapped back to dressing and chatting. Music throbs beyond the wall.
A dumpy woman with a razor-sharp haircut pulls at a strand of my hair and wraps it round a curling wand. A stick-thin blonde ducks in front of me and lathers cream onto my face. I shut my eyes
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