surgeons in Waikiki to put western lines into her eyelids. ‘Just act like you think she looks fabulous.’
I put my hands on my skirt, pressing it down against my thighs. You have to be very brave or desperate to stick things out, and I was about to give up, stand and turn for the lift when the aluminium doors opened and out she stalked: a small, bleached woman dressed in a gold lamé Marilyn Monroe dress, carrying an ornate cigarette-holder and a fur stole. She was boxy and muscular, like a Chinese war-horse, and her Asian hair had been peroxided, ferociously backcombed into a Marilyn bob. She clipped across to me on her stilettos, flinging back her fur stole, licking her fingers and smoothing her haircut into shape. She stopped a few inches in front of me, saying nothing, letting her eyes flick over my face. That is it, I thought, she’s going to throw me out.
‘Stand up.’
I stood.
‘Where you from? Hmmm?’ She prowled in a circle, looking at the wrinkled black tights, Irina’s stilettos crammed with paper. ‘Where you come from?’
‘England.’
‘England?’ She stood back and plugged a cigarette into the holder, narrowing her eyes. ‘Yes. You look like English girl. What you want to work here for? Eh?’
‘The same reason everyone wants to work here.’
‘What that, then, hmm? You like Japanese man?’
‘No. I need the money.’
Her mouth curled then, as if she was amused. She lit the cigarette. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘ Peachy .’ She tilted her head and blew the smoke in a stream over her shoulder. ‘You try tonight. You nice to customer I give you three thousand yen an hour. Three thousand. Okay?’
‘Does that mean you want me to work?’
‘Why you surprised? You want something else? Three thousand. Take it or fly away, lady. I can’t give you no more.’
‘I just thought . . .’
Mama Strawberry held up her hand to silence me. ‘And if it goes peachy tonight, then tomorrow you come back and you wear nice dress. Okay? You no wear nice dress and you pay ten thousand yen penalty. Penalty . You get it, lady? This very high-class club.’
The club seemed to me the most magical place I’d ever seen – the floor like a starlit pool floating fifty storeys above the world, surrounded on all sides by panoramic views of the Tokyo skyline, the video screens on neighbouring buildings showing newsreels and music videos. I moved through it in a kind of nervous awe, looking at the ikebana flower arrangements, the muted downlighting. One or two customers were already there, small men in business suits, at tables dotted around, some in banquettes, some in deep leather armchairs, pools of smoke hanging above the tables. On a raised platform a thin-faced piano-player in his bow-tie warmed up with tinkling arpeggios. The only place the view of the city was interrupted was where Marilyn – the blank reverse of her, girdered, engineered and supported with metal struts – creaked and rattled back and forth through the night, blocking our view completely every ten seconds or so.
Mama Strawberry was sitting at a reproduction Louis Quatorze gilded desk just in front of the Marilyn swing, smoking from her elaborate cigarette-holder and punching numbers into a calculator. Not far from her was a table where the hostesses sat, waiting to be assigned to a customer, smoking and chattering – twenty of us, all Japanese with the exception of me and the twins. Irina had given me a handful of Sobranie ‘Pinks’ cigarettes and I sat in silence, smoking intently, looking warily across the club at the aluminium doors where the customers would arrive.
Eventually the lift bell pinged and a large party of suited men came through the aluminium doors. ‘She’s going to put you with them,’ Irina whispered, sliding up to me, her hand held to the side of her mouth. ‘These ones, they always leave the tip . For their favourite girls. Mama gonna watch and see if you get tip. This is your test, bay-beee!’
I
I put my hands on my skirt, pressing it down against my thighs. You have to be very brave or desperate to stick things out, and I was about to give up, stand and turn for the lift when the aluminium doors opened and out she stalked: a small, bleached woman dressed in a gold lamé Marilyn Monroe dress, carrying an ornate cigarette-holder and a fur stole. She was boxy and muscular, like a Chinese war-horse, and her Asian hair had been peroxided, ferociously backcombed into a Marilyn bob. She clipped across to me on her stilettos, flinging back her fur stole, licking her fingers and smoothing her haircut into shape. She stopped a few inches in front of me, saying nothing, letting her eyes flick over my face. That is it, I thought, she’s going to throw me out.
‘Stand up.’
I stood.
‘Where you from? Hmmm?’ She prowled in a circle, looking at the wrinkled black tights, Irina’s stilettos crammed with paper. ‘Where you come from?’
‘England.’
‘England?’ She stood back and plugged a cigarette into the holder, narrowing her eyes. ‘Yes. You look like English girl. What you want to work here for? Eh?’
‘The same reason everyone wants to work here.’
‘What that, then, hmm? You like Japanese man?’
‘No. I need the money.’
Her mouth curled then, as if she was amused. She lit the cigarette. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘ Peachy .’ She tilted her head and blew the smoke in a stream over her shoulder. ‘You try tonight. You nice to customer I give you three thousand yen an hour. Three thousand. Okay?’
‘Does that mean you want me to work?’
‘Why you surprised? You want something else? Three thousand. Take it or fly away, lady. I can’t give you no more.’
‘I just thought . . .’
Mama Strawberry held up her hand to silence me. ‘And if it goes peachy tonight, then tomorrow you come back and you wear nice dress. Okay? You no wear nice dress and you pay ten thousand yen penalty. Penalty . You get it, lady? This very high-class club.’
The club seemed to me the most magical place I’d ever seen – the floor like a starlit pool floating fifty storeys above the world, surrounded on all sides by panoramic views of the Tokyo skyline, the video screens on neighbouring buildings showing newsreels and music videos. I moved through it in a kind of nervous awe, looking at the ikebana flower arrangements, the muted downlighting. One or two customers were already there, small men in business suits, at tables dotted around, some in banquettes, some in deep leather armchairs, pools of smoke hanging above the tables. On a raised platform a thin-faced piano-player in his bow-tie warmed up with tinkling arpeggios. The only place the view of the city was interrupted was where Marilyn – the blank reverse of her, girdered, engineered and supported with metal struts – creaked and rattled back and forth through the night, blocking our view completely every ten seconds or so.
Mama Strawberry was sitting at a reproduction Louis Quatorze gilded desk just in front of the Marilyn swing, smoking from her elaborate cigarette-holder and punching numbers into a calculator. Not far from her was a table where the hostesses sat, waiting to be assigned to a customer, smoking and chattering – twenty of us, all Japanese with the exception of me and the twins. Irina had given me a handful of Sobranie ‘Pinks’ cigarettes and I sat in silence, smoking intently, looking warily across the club at the aluminium doors where the customers would arrive.
Eventually the lift bell pinged and a large party of suited men came through the aluminium doors. ‘She’s going to put you with them,’ Irina whispered, sliding up to me, her hand held to the side of her mouth. ‘These ones, they always leave the tip . For their favourite girls. Mama gonna watch and see if you get tip. This is your test, bay-beee!’
I
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