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Wrong Knickers for a Wednesday: A funny novel about learning to love yourself
Copyright
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2016 as Like a Virgin
This edition published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2016
Copyright © Paige Nick 2016
Paige Nick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780008160845
Version: 2016-07-21
Dedication
For Sarah Lotz, for so many reasons
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Cape Town International Airport – 10:23pm
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Acknowledgements
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Cape Town International Airport – 10:23pm
> Boarding in 5 mins. Natalie, I don’t think I can do this.
> u can Grace!!!! stop freaking out
> What if I get caught?
> U cant think like that they will pick up on it!!!! People can smell fear. chill
> Easy for you to say. Your butt isn’t on the line.
> Srsly???? U know I wd have been there in a heartbeat if I cudve
> I know I know, Nat. I’m just scared.
> I’m counting on u Grace dnt fck it up. U kno how important this is
> I’m trying OK!
> You have to try harder. You can’t be such a wuss your whole life!
> I told you, Nat, I’m trying.
> u think Lucas suspects nything?
> No I don’t think so. He trusts me. But I hate lying to him. Maybe we should just tell him the truth?
> NO! Jezuz Grace! u swore u wldn’t tell him. He’ll neva understand. Plus u kno he hates my guts, he’d go ballistic if he knew you were doing this for me
> I’m sure he would understand if we explained it.
> Y can’t u just b ur own person 4 once? U promised u wldnt tell him. I need u to do this for me. & u owe me this at least
> OK, I'm doing it! I’m at the airport, I’m flying to Amsterdam, aren’t I? Look I have to go. We’re boarding now and Lucas just WhatsApped me. I’d better message him back before I have to turn off. Text when I land … if I land!
> Dnt tell him! U can do this, Grace
*
> Hey wife to be. I’m missing u already. X What’s happening?
… Grace??? U there??
> Hi husband to be 
> Can’t believe ur going away for so long XX
> Time will fly. Better go, I don’t want to miss my flight.
> I do want u to miss ur flight Grace, I miss u 2 much already!
> I’ll be home before you know it, and then we can plan our wedding.
> U not scared? First time overseas by yrself is a big thing, babes XXX
> I’m cool. But if anything happens to me, know I love you.
> Lol nothing’s going to happen to u. Just drink lots of water on the plane and WhatsApp me the second you find wifi when you land. I want all the details! XXX
> Kay! Gotta go.
> I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with u, babes! I love you.
> Me too. Love you. xxx
€200.00
I stare at the back of the woman in the EU passport queue in front of me and concentrate on the list of Jay-Z World Tour dates printed on her hoodie.
Despite the fact that it’s winter in Amsterdam, I’m sweating like crazy in my fleece-lined coat. But at least it’s concealing my sweaty armpits from the eyes of all the immigration officers, cameras and highly trained security personnel dotted around the terminal. All on the lookout for the scared, the nervous and the idiots with heroin shoved up their backsides.
Jay-Z lady nudges her bag forward with her foot and rolls a shoulder. I fix my eyes on the words on the back of her hoodie (‘Atlanta Stadium, July 25’) and steady myself. I’m close enough in the queue now to check out the impassive faces of the men in the immigration booths. This could go really well or phenomenally badly, depending on whether the immigration officer I get is having a good day or a bad day, how naturally suspicious he is, if he needs the bathroom or is in a hurry to get to a tea break, and if he’s sharp-eyed enough to notice that I’m nowhere near the mirror image of the woman in my passport photo.
I shuffle forward again, eyes glued to ‘Yankee Stadium, NYC, June 30’, my heart spiking in my chest, waiting for the sirens to shriek, or a hand to clamp down on my shoulder.
*
I made it.
I can’t believe I flippin’ made it!
Mouth dry, heart thudding, I focus on walking like a normal person (as opposed to someone who’s just committed a felony) towards Baggage Claim. Sweat trickles down my sides under my jacket. The airline’s rubbery breakfast omelette is repeating on me, but I don’t care. I made it.
A weird sense of elation washes over me. I love the sad empty carousel going around and around. I love my exhausted, smelly fellow passengers, jostling to be the closest to the front, despite the fact that their suitcases will come when they come. I love the cleaner with the veined nose, sweeping up invisible dust bunnies. I move in beside Jay-Z lady and grin at her widely. She half-smiles back, returns to her phone, then glances at me again.
I start to relax a little, but I’m not free yet, there’s still customs to go through. They could just as easily catch me there. I picture the whole scene unfolding in vicious clarity: the hand on my shoulder, the ‘come with me, please, ma’am’, the bite of the handcuffs, the click of the camera phone as Jay-Z lady takes a shot for her Instagram. Then the cold room, the even colder strip search, complete with the snap of latex gloves. The single tearful telephone call I’ll get, which I’ll use to call Lucas, who won’t understand anything I’m saying. And when I explain, he’ll dump me on the spot and leave me to rot in a Dutch prison forever. I’ll have to swap sexual favours and cigarettes for loo paper and wear sanitary towels as shoes in the shower, because I don’t have money in my commissary for flip-flops. I wonder if Dutch women’s prisons are anything like Orange Is the New Black.
Natalie’s black and white wheelie suitcase, with the striped ribbon we bought at Kwaai Lappies in Woodstock (so I’d recognise the suitcase more easily in a crowd like this one – Lucas’s idea, he’s got such a practical mind), slides out of the carousel’s mouth. My relief at seeing something familiar is overwhelming and ties a knot in my throat. Which is ironic, since it’s not really my suitcase, and it’s full of someone else’s clothes. Jay-Z lady is still staring at me as I drag the case past her. ‘Hey, anyone ever tell you that you look just like—’ she starts.
‘All the time,’ I say, cutting her off. ‘Thanks.’
I keep moving and head for the exit.
*
‘Nothing To Declare’ is the last of this set of hurdles. I avoid eye contact with anyone and stride towards the exit, concentrating on looking innocent, yet purposeful. They probably aren’t looking for the kinds of things I have to declare, but who wants to chance it?
At last, hallelujah, sliding doors exhale me into the Schiphol airport arrivals terminal. I drag the suitcase behind me and glance back over my shoulder, still paranoid, amazed nobody has chased me down yet.
The route out is lined with bobbing meerkat heads. Dozens of people waiting for friends and family. There are also a few people in chauffeur outfits, holding up boards with names on them. There’s nobody waiting for me, Grace. They’re waiting for the person in the passport I’m travelling on: Natalie Hendricks.
I pause and stare at the crowd, not sure what I’m looking for. I’m the only static in the terminal; people pass by me in flashes. The new paranoia replacing my immigration angst, is getting stranded at the airport with only two hundred euros to my name. It would mean coming clean to Lucas, telling him the real reason I suddenly had to fly off to Amsterdam with only a few days’ notice. More lies. He doesn’t deserve this.
‘Rihanna!’ The shrill voice carries through the airport’s background hum. I swing my head around to try spot the star, and notice a number of other people doing the same, some staring at me with curiosity.
‘Rihanna, dahhhlink!’ the voice shouts again.
Of course, they’re calling me. I spot a couple in their late fifties or early sixties making a beeline for me.
There’s movement and a blur of too-bright colours, and then I’m enveloped in the woman’s arms and a cloud of too-strong Issey Miyake, although if you ask me, any amount of Issey Miyake is too strong.
‘It’s you,’ the woman says in my ear. I’m not really the ‘you’ she thinks I am, but the fact that she recognises me despite myself is a massive relief.
The woman kisses me on one cheek, then the other cheek and then finally goes in for a third kiss back on my first cheek. All of which feels like too many kisses from a complete stranger.
‘We do three kisses here, dahlink. Because the Dutch are three times as gezellig,’ she gushes, her accent strong.
‘Welcome to Amsterdam,’ a man says from just behind the woman, and I hope he stays where he is. I’m not much of a stranger-hugger, particularly after fifteen hours of panic sweating. I try to place the couple’s accents, which are sing-song and don’t sound anything like Afrikaans, so they can’t be Dutch. The man’s not fat exactly, but he’s filled out, rounded at the edges. His face is taut and barely lined, but overly tanned, almost orange. His eyebrows are perfectly plucked into straight lines too high above his eyes to look natural (and is that mascara?). When he smiles, his bleached teeth are almost fluorescent.
‘I’m David,’ he says, extending his hand for a business-like shake, for which I’m grateful. ‘We spoke on the phone.’
I nod, as if I know what he’s talking about.
‘Me, I’m Dania,’ the woman says. She’s wiry and muscular, with the body of a retired career dancer. Dark roots peek out at the scalp of her short peroxided blonde hair. Her lips are swollen with collagen and she has clumps of eyeliner gunk in the corners of her eyes. ‘Your flight was good, ja?’
‘Okay, thanks,’ I say.
‘This is your first time in Amsterdam, dahlink?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent, isn’t it, David?’ Dania says, elbowing him in the ribs. ‘We’re very excited. In twenty years of doing the show we’ve never had a Rihanna before, have we dahlink?’
‘Or a South African,’ he adds.
‘It was our son, David Junior’s idea. He wants us to find more modern acts. So I’m not familiar with all your songs yet, but we’re no strangers to showbiz,’ she says, doing jazz hands.
David nods enthusiastically, again. He’s like one of those plastic nodding dogs people put on the back seats of their cars.
‘Let me guess …’ Dania takes me by the chin, her fingernails digging into my skin as she inspects my face. ‘Cheek implants? Ja?’
‘What? No! Of course not!’ I say and pull my head out of her grasp. ‘These are my own cheeks.’
‘Brow lift?’ David asks.
I shake my head.
‘A boob job, then?’ Dania asks, as both of them stare blatantly at my chest.
‘No, nothing,’ I say, annoyed.
Dania pauses to re-evaluate me through critical eyes. ‘Sometimes performers send us their pictures, and when we see them in real life, they look nothing like it. It takes quite a lot of work for some.’
‘And tape,’ David cuts in.
‘But you’re mostly okay,’ Dania says, looking me up and down like she would a prize cow. I’m almost waiting for her to run a hand over my rump. ‘You are a little heavier than in your pictures though, ja?’
Heat floods my cheeks. Are they effing serious? I’ve only just met these people. The weight comment is a low blow. One of my biggest worries about this whole scam is that Natalie is quite a bit smaller than me.
‘But the fat will come off with a little work,’ Dania says.
I open my mouth, about to blurt out that I’m tired and sweaty and not a piece of meat, that I’m not actually who they think I am and I don’t need this scrutiny. And that I don’t think this is going to work, but David cuts me off before I blow everything.
‘She looks tired, shall we get her to the house?’ he says.
‘Of course, ja.’ Dania throws up her hands in a jangle of bracelets. ‘How unthinking of me, keeping you standing here like a potato sack!’ She slips an arm through mine and it takes pure effort of will not to pull away. ‘We will become close, like sisters. I can tell. Like pod peas,’ she says.
I’m tempted to say she’s probably too old to be my sister, more like an aunt. But she interrupts my thoughts.
‘… Okay so we go home, ja? You have the performance at eight, so we must be moving so you can settle.’
Wait a minute … ‘I’m performing tonight?’ I gulp.
‘Ja. Tonight. You received the schedule that was sent by David Junior on the email, yes?’
‘He sent it already three days ago,’ David says as he fishes for his keys in his pocket, and then turns towards an exit.
Thanks a lot, Natalie!
Dania clacks off behind him.
I reach for the case and follow. Not because I want to, but because I really don’t have any other choice.
My breath steams a pulsing misty shape on the back-seat window. I wipe it away with the back of my hand, only to create another one almost immediately. There hasn’t been enough time between agreeing to come here and do this, and then getting on the plane, to build up any kind of real idea of what Amsterdam would be like. Somewhere in the back of my mind I pictured old canal-type postcard images and flashes of the infamous red-light district. But since leaving the airport car park, we’ve been driving through an urban landscape that could be anywhere, with glass-clad high-rises reflecting low, grey skies.
Accordion music blares from the car stereo, and my stomach lurches at David’s stop–start driving. Dania doesn’t appear to notice, even though she keeps jerking forward, her collarbone straining against the seat belt. She’s alternating between singing what could be Swedish lyrics and volleying questions at me about South Africa. I think she’s muddled us up partly with Uganda and partly with Zimbabwe, but I’m too exhausted to correct her.
‘Do you see often lions at home?’ she asks.
‘No,’ I respond.
‘I’ve always wanted to go to Africa. You belong to a tribe, yes? We have nothing like that at home in Sweden. They say it’s beautiful in South Africa. But the crime …’ She ticks her tongue against the back of her teeth.
After twenty-five minutes on the highway, the landscape changes and we weave through busy, narrowing streets. I finally catch a glimpse of my first canal. It looks dark and oily, but also somehow rich, old and majestic at the same time.
David finally fishtails the car onto a cobbled street, shadowed by tall but surprisingly narrow stone and brick buildings that slant up into the sky.
‘I’ve never seen so many bicycles,’ I say. They stream around us, ferrying women, children and dogs, even families of four, in wagon-like trailers and bicycle back-seats. David almost takes out a dozen of them, making me yelp out loud a few times, but neither he nor Dania notices.
‘You find parking, kära,’ Dania says, opening her door before he’s stopped the car fully. ‘I’ll take Rihanna up, show her around and meet you back at the club, ja?’
I clamber out of the car, grateful for solid ground, which after fifteen hours in transit and the car ride with a clearly blind Formula 1 wannabe, doesn’t feel all that solid.
A motion-activated light clicks on with an electric clunk as Dania steps through the front door of the building ahead of me, revealing an ancient wooden staircase. It’s so narrow I don’t know how a more horizontally challenged (i.e. fat) person would make it up. Squeeze up sideways? Live somewhere else? The stairs aren’t just narrow and creaky; they’re also as steep as an advanced-level ski slope. I have to clutch the banister with one hand and lean forward as I follow Dania, my suitcase thunking up every step behind me.
Dania unlocks a door at the top of the first flight. She’s not even out of breath, and I’m puffing and panting my way up. It takes me so long to heave myself and my bag up the stairs that the motion sensor light switches off, plunging the stairs into darkness. Dania has to wave her arms to turn it back on again. When I catch up with her, we step into a large living area, with high ceilings and wooden floors. The meaty smell of other people’s cooking permeates the air.
The lounge is simply decorated, but with so much furniture that it reminds me of the Big Brother house on TV. I count three enormous couches. Magazines in various languages are strewn on each of the four coffee tables, as well as a scatter of empty mugs, bottles of nail polish in every colour, emery boards and a hairbrush. The street-facing windows are draped with blue denim curtains and look out onto the canal below.
‘It’s a … a … beautiful flat,’ I say. It’s not really what I’m thinking, but manners prevail. I wonder who stayed here before me. They haven’t left it very tidy for the new tenant.
‘Good. We hope you’ll be very comfortable here, ja? This is your new home and you must treat it as your own. As a fellow performer, I know how hard it is being far away from home. Discomfortable, really. But if you ever need to talk to us, David and me, we are here for you, like family people. Now we show you the kitchen, ja?’
It’s not actually a question, but her voice naturally rises at the end of all her sentences. It must be a Swedish thing. I follow her into the next room, where three stoves are lined up against one wall. There are also two microwaves and three fridges. It seems a little excessive. The smell of unfamiliar cooked food is more pungent in here. Cabbage and something that makes me think of boiling sheep heads.
‘You’ll find your name on a shelf in the cupboard and one in a fridge for your groceries. Word of helping, don’t touch anyone else’s shelf. These girls are thin and hungry, food is important, and it’s a quick way to make enemies.’
‘Girls?’ I blurt out.
‘Ja, sure, the girls,’ Dania says.
‘What girls?’
‘The other performers. The girls who live here.’ She gives me a curious stare.
‘Ohhh, of course. The other girls,’ I say, trying to sound casual. Effing, effing Natalie! First I’m performing on my first night, next I’m living in a communal house with goodness knows how many other women. I should have grilled Natalie more closely before I agreed to any of this madness. What did I think, that I’d have a whole apartment to myself? That was just naïve. The enormity of what I’ve agreed to do strikes me, and I have to put my hand down on the sticky kitchen counter for balance. Not only am I going to have to pretend to be someone else on stage, but where I’m staying as well. I’m going to have to perform – as Natalie being Rihanna – twenty-four/seven. This is completely insane. I gnaw at a fingernail, trying not to panic.
‘It’s not always so quiet here, like this,’ Dania is saying, oblivious to the fact that I’m on the verge of hyperventilating. ‘The girls are all at the club early today for spraying tan. Winter problems. Come, we continue with the touring.’
I traipse down a corridor behind Dania, wiping my sticky palm on my leg and taking deep breaths. She pushes open a door to a small, cluttered bathroom.
‘Bathroom, ja?’ she says, her voice businesslike.
I follow her back to the lounge.
‘There’s no phone. We did once try, but with calls to Croatia and Estonia, it’s difficult to manage the bill. There is Wi-Fi limitlessly though, so you can be in touch with all your people at home. The code is on a piece of paper, stuck to the side of that cupboard, ja.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, my lip trembling.
‘You are from a big family, ja?’
‘No. It’s just me and my older sister. Our parents died some years ago in a car accident.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Dania says, ticking her tongue against the back of her teeth again and giving me that look everyone gets when you tell them you’re an orphan. Pity mixed with discomfort. People don’t know what to say. Which is fine by me; there’s nothing you can say.
‘What about a boyfriend?’ Dania asks, reaching for my hand and pulling it towards her to examine the naked ring finger. ‘Or children?’ Clearly this woman has no personal boundaries.
‘I have a fiancé,’ I say. ‘His name’s Lucas. He’s a teacher.’ Like me, I almost say, but stop myself just in time.
‘How does he feel about you being here?’
‘He’s … ummm … He’s supportive and excited.’
