the fake lashes off her eyelids. ‘You did really well,’ she said, ‘for a first night.’
‘Thanks. I wouldn’t have had a clue if it hadn’t been for you, though.’
‘No biggie. Want some more advice?’
‘Sure.’
‘Get yourself a decent tan,’ she said, waving a make-up-caked wipe in my direction. ‘You’re bloody dazzling them under the lights.’
I had a lot to thank Caddy for. Not all the girls were quite as helpful – since we were all, in effect, competing for the same limited pot of money in the wallets of the men in the club on any given night, it was horribly similar to the day job. Dancing on the stage was the pitch. You started off showing your skills as a dancer, before moving on to add value to your pitch by showing them that you had a good body to back it up. At the same time, you were scanning the room for potential customers to target later. Once you came off the stage it was all about establishing a proper rapport with your customer by chatting them up, before closing the deal by getting them into the VIP area, which was the most financially rewarding part of the job, or, failing that, by going for an interim close by getting them to pay you for a private dance.
At least I understood how the sales environment worked. Once I applied that to the Barclay, I could start to earn some serious money. As for taking my clothes off, after the first couple of times it didn’t bother me. It was acting, just as selling was. You spotted the guys who were paying particular attention to you, the ones that made eye contact, prioritising the ones who were already drinking champagne and shots, and therefore had plenty of money and were already half-drunk. The rest was easy.
‘Half the blokes in here are expecting you to make them come,’ Caddy said, ‘and the other half are expecting you to fall off the pole. That’s what we’re here for. Entertainment, whichever way you look at it.’
Every so often she would come out with corkers like that: classic Caddy quotes that summed up the experience of working in the club in a way I would never have been able to do.
The first night in the Barclay I made two hundred quid, after taking off the house fee. I’d had fun, got a fairly decent workout and enjoyed chatting to the customers. And I’d made a new friend. This would be easy, I remember thinking. This was going to be a complete piece of piss.
I had absolutely no idea.
When I woke up, it was raining. I’d slept through the dawn, the hours where the lightening of the skylight above my head usually woke me. It was nearly ten.
I got dressed, waterproof jacket on, and took my bag with me down to the office. My bike was in the storage room behind the main building. I unlocked it and set off for the city centre, the rain falling more heavily and stinging my eyes.
The city of Rochester was beautiful, even in the rain. I left the bike chained to a bike stand and walked past the pubs and the Indian restaurants. Today there was a food festival, and an Italian market was lining the cobbled high street. Some of the stalls had given up, drawing tarpaulins over bowls of olives and baskets of fresh bread. I looked at cheeses and jars of relish and chutneys. At the corner, a stall with a huge pan was selling hot farmhouse sausages in a baguette. The smell was enticing and I bought one, but a few bites in I realised I still had no appetite.
I browsed through charity shops and second-hand bookshops, looking for things for the boat. I was very careful about what I bought. I didn’t have room for piles of crap.
The rain fell steadily and I walked up the hill to the castle, through the castle grounds and back down to the cathedral. I wanted to walk until I was tired… until I was beyond tired.
I felt lonely today. I didn’t want Malcolm, or Josie, lovely as they were. I wanted someone who knew who I was, knew what had happened in London. I needed Dylan. Part of me wanted to phone him again and demand to
‘Thanks. I wouldn’t have had a clue if it hadn’t been for you, though.’
‘No biggie. Want some more advice?’
‘Sure.’
‘Get yourself a decent tan,’ she said, waving a make-up-caked wipe in my direction. ‘You’re bloody dazzling them under the lights.’
I had a lot to thank Caddy for. Not all the girls were quite as helpful – since we were all, in effect, competing for the same limited pot of money in the wallets of the men in the club on any given night, it was horribly similar to the day job. Dancing on the stage was the pitch. You started off showing your skills as a dancer, before moving on to add value to your pitch by showing them that you had a good body to back it up. At the same time, you were scanning the room for potential customers to target later. Once you came off the stage it was all about establishing a proper rapport with your customer by chatting them up, before closing the deal by getting them into the VIP area, which was the most financially rewarding part of the job, or, failing that, by going for an interim close by getting them to pay you for a private dance.
At least I understood how the sales environment worked. Once I applied that to the Barclay, I could start to earn some serious money. As for taking my clothes off, after the first couple of times it didn’t bother me. It was acting, just as selling was. You spotted the guys who were paying particular attention to you, the ones that made eye contact, prioritising the ones who were already drinking champagne and shots, and therefore had plenty of money and were already half-drunk. The rest was easy.
‘Half the blokes in here are expecting you to make them come,’ Caddy said, ‘and the other half are expecting you to fall off the pole. That’s what we’re here for. Entertainment, whichever way you look at it.’
Every so often she would come out with corkers like that: classic Caddy quotes that summed up the experience of working in the club in a way I would never have been able to do.
The first night in the Barclay I made two hundred quid, after taking off the house fee. I’d had fun, got a fairly decent workout and enjoyed chatting to the customers. And I’d made a new friend. This would be easy, I remember thinking. This was going to be a complete piece of piss.
I had absolutely no idea.
When I woke up, it was raining. I’d slept through the dawn, the hours where the lightening of the skylight above my head usually woke me. It was nearly ten.
I got dressed, waterproof jacket on, and took my bag with me down to the office. My bike was in the storage room behind the main building. I unlocked it and set off for the city centre, the rain falling more heavily and stinging my eyes.
The city of Rochester was beautiful, even in the rain. I left the bike chained to a bike stand and walked past the pubs and the Indian restaurants. Today there was a food festival, and an Italian market was lining the cobbled high street. Some of the stalls had given up, drawing tarpaulins over bowls of olives and baskets of fresh bread. I looked at cheeses and jars of relish and chutneys. At the corner, a stall with a huge pan was selling hot farmhouse sausages in a baguette. The smell was enticing and I bought one, but a few bites in I realised I still had no appetite.
I browsed through charity shops and second-hand bookshops, looking for things for the boat. I was very careful about what I bought. I didn’t have room for piles of crap.
The rain fell steadily and I walked up the hill to the castle, through the castle grounds and back down to the cathedral. I wanted to walk until I was tired… until I was beyond tired.
I felt lonely today. I didn’t want Malcolm, or Josie, lovely as they were. I wanted someone who knew who I was, knew what had happened in London. I needed Dylan. Part of me wanted to phone him again and demand to
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