her dark hair pulled up on top of her head in a messy ponytail, dressed in leggings and layers of T-shirts. Her skin had a light film of sweat, and her
cheeks were bright pink: it looked as if she’d been working out. Despite the paleness of her skin, the shape of her dark almond eyes, her flat chest and long, squarish torso suggested to Evie
that she had some Korean blood in her. From her time working the Midnight Lounge, Evie was very used to assessing other women: her eyes zipped up and down the girl in the doorway, picking out her
strong and weak points as if she were a horse in an auction, checking out the competition.
‘I’m Evie, ’ she answered. ‘A friend of Lawrence’s. He’s talked about me, right?’
From the narrowing of the girl’s eyes, Evie saw that her gamble had paid off: Lawrence had mentioned her.
‘He might have, ’ the girl said reluctantly. ‘So what?’
‘So I’m crashing here for a few days with Lawrence, ’ Evie snapped.
‘He didn’t say anything about it to me, ’ said the girl, starting to close the door,
Her heavy fringe was tipped in bright red, as were the ends of her ponytail, as if she’d dipped them both in scarlet dye. She had a silver hoop in her eyebrow, a stud in her nose, and on
the arm pulling the door was a heavily patterned tattoo curling up from the wrist to the elbow. It gave her conventional prettiness the edge she’d doubtless wanted: she probably thought all
this ornamentation made her look cool and hip. And tough.
Well, she was wrong there. Evie would put her money any day of the week on a hustler from the Midnight Lounge against a would-be urban hipster. She pushed back against the door with such a shove
that the girl’s eyes widened as she involuntarily took a step back.
‘You really think that if Lawrence comes back and finds me sitting out here on the street, he’s going to be happy about it?’ Evie said from between clenched teeth.
The girl sighed.
‘OK, I’ll let you in, ’ she said, making it sound as if she were doing Evie a favour, rather than having been muscled into it. ‘But you’re not going to like it,
’ she added smugly, looking at Evie’s expensive Vuittons.
‘What’s your name?’ Evie asked the girl as she heaved her suitcases into the building.
‘Autumn, ’ the girl said.
It figured. Hippie parents.
‘Well, Autumn, can you take this for me?’
Evie handed her the pole in its plastic carrying case. Autumn staggered slightly under its weight.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘It’s my pole, ’ Evie said shortly, bending down to pick up one of her suitcases.
‘Eew!’ Autumn dropped it on the concrete floor, pulling a disgusted face. ‘No way I’m carrying that! Pole-dancing’s so anti-feminist!’
So Evie had to make three trips up the rickety old stairs to the fourth and final floor, where Autumn had left open the huge steel door for her and retreated to what Evie supposed they called
the kitchen. It was a gigantic open room, flooded with light.
That was the good part. The only one. Because the kitchen was an ancient gas cooker and an equally ancient fridge, standing next to an industrial steel sink, which was piled so high with
washing-up that Evie could barely see its outlines. Autumn was sitting at a huge Formica table which was so badly chipped and dented that it must have been salvaged from a skip. Looking around,
that went for the rest of the furniture: the kitchen chairs, the sofas, the coffee tables, were all the kind of scrap that people had put out on the street like trash. Salvation Army charity shops
would have split their sides at the suggestion that they take this crap. The coffee table was missing not one, but two legs, and was propped up on crates. The walls were bare brick, but not the
lovingly tended kind that was fashionable right now because trendy interior designers considered it authentic: this was the real deal, crumbling, ugly, and damp.
It was the standard
cheeks were bright pink: it looked as if she’d been working out. Despite the paleness of her skin, the shape of her dark almond eyes, her flat chest and long, squarish torso suggested to Evie
that she had some Korean blood in her. From her time working the Midnight Lounge, Evie was very used to assessing other women: her eyes zipped up and down the girl in the doorway, picking out her
strong and weak points as if she were a horse in an auction, checking out the competition.
‘I’m Evie, ’ she answered. ‘A friend of Lawrence’s. He’s talked about me, right?’
From the narrowing of the girl’s eyes, Evie saw that her gamble had paid off: Lawrence had mentioned her.
‘He might have, ’ the girl said reluctantly. ‘So what?’
‘So I’m crashing here for a few days with Lawrence, ’ Evie snapped.
‘He didn’t say anything about it to me, ’ said the girl, starting to close the door,
Her heavy fringe was tipped in bright red, as were the ends of her ponytail, as if she’d dipped them both in scarlet dye. She had a silver hoop in her eyebrow, a stud in her nose, and on
the arm pulling the door was a heavily patterned tattoo curling up from the wrist to the elbow. It gave her conventional prettiness the edge she’d doubtless wanted: she probably thought all
this ornamentation made her look cool and hip. And tough.
Well, she was wrong there. Evie would put her money any day of the week on a hustler from the Midnight Lounge against a would-be urban hipster. She pushed back against the door with such a shove
that the girl’s eyes widened as she involuntarily took a step back.
‘You really think that if Lawrence comes back and finds me sitting out here on the street, he’s going to be happy about it?’ Evie said from between clenched teeth.
The girl sighed.
‘OK, I’ll let you in, ’ she said, making it sound as if she were doing Evie a favour, rather than having been muscled into it. ‘But you’re not going to like it,
’ she added smugly, looking at Evie’s expensive Vuittons.
‘What’s your name?’ Evie asked the girl as she heaved her suitcases into the building.
‘Autumn, ’ the girl said.
It figured. Hippie parents.
‘Well, Autumn, can you take this for me?’
Evie handed her the pole in its plastic carrying case. Autumn staggered slightly under its weight.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘It’s my pole, ’ Evie said shortly, bending down to pick up one of her suitcases.
‘Eew!’ Autumn dropped it on the concrete floor, pulling a disgusted face. ‘No way I’m carrying that! Pole-dancing’s so anti-feminist!’
So Evie had to make three trips up the rickety old stairs to the fourth and final floor, where Autumn had left open the huge steel door for her and retreated to what Evie supposed they called
the kitchen. It was a gigantic open room, flooded with light.
That was the good part. The only one. Because the kitchen was an ancient gas cooker and an equally ancient fridge, standing next to an industrial steel sink, which was piled so high with
washing-up that Evie could barely see its outlines. Autumn was sitting at a huge Formica table which was so badly chipped and dented that it must have been salvaged from a skip. Looking around,
that went for the rest of the furniture: the kitchen chairs, the sofas, the coffee tables, were all the kind of scrap that people had put out on the street like trash. Salvation Army charity shops
would have split their sides at the suggestion that they take this crap. The coffee table was missing not one, but two legs, and was propped up on crates. The walls were bare brick, but not the
lovingly tended kind that was fashionable right now because trendy interior designers considered it authentic: this was the real deal, crumbling, ugly, and damp.
It was the standard
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