‘How much longer?’ asked Layla, restless.
‘Hush.’ Now Precious was holding various lipsticks against Layla’s skin. She settled on a wine-red one. ‘That’s just about the other side of the colour spectrum to your eyes, which makes it perfect.’
She painted the lipstick on with another brush, made Layla bite down on a tissue, reapplied it. Then she fluffed up Layla’s hair all around her face. Finally she stood behind her, grasped her shoulders, and studied her in the mirror.
‘OK. All done. What do you think?’
Layla looked in the mirror. Her mother was staring back at her.
‘Holy shit! ’ she said, spooked.
Precious was grinning. ‘Layla Carter,’ she said in measured tones, ‘you’re beautiful.’
‘Jesus H. Christ in a sidecar.’
‘Stunning, yes? But we’ve still got work to do.’
‘Like what?’
‘I’m going to teach you how to achieve the same effect. What did it take, five minutes? That’s all. Then we’ll go and get you some make-up of your own, and some brushes – you need good brushes, rollers for your hair, all that stuff.’
Layla was still staring at her reflection, amazed.
‘Oh, and we’ll sort your hands out. Get them neatened up.’
‘OK,’ said Layla, dazed.
‘And then of course, we sort out your clothes.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my clothes.’
‘You must be bloody well joking!’
That night Layla was hovering by her bedroom door when Kyle left his post in the monitor room. Junior wouldn’t be up here for a good five minutes, and even then he’d make a detour to the kitchen first: she’d timed his comings and goings. She hurried along the hall, stepped into the monitor room, and sat down in Kyle’s vacated – still warm – chair. There was an emergency buzzer on the desk, so that whoever was manning the monitors could summon assistance from the bouncers at the front of the club. It was a neat arrangement.
Layla scanned the black-and-white monitors. One of them showed an empty room with a small dark silk banquette and an area big enough for a private dance. The second showed an embarrassed young man with a happy grin on his face watching Destiny dance in a pale-coloured thong and nothing else. The third monitor showed Precious and another middle-aged man, his arms folded, watching her gyrate in front of him. He had a look about him as if he’d been hypnotized.
Layla could see why he was so enthralled. Precious, devoid of clothing, was performing a sinuous dance, hips moving hypnotically, her breasts swaying.
‘Oh my God,’ murmured Layla, fascinated.
Precious was so comfortable in her skin that for a moment Layla didn’t realize that she was absolutely stark-bollock nude. But she was. Her bush was shaved, revealing everything. Her hair kept playing peek-a-boo with her breasts. Layla could only stare, transfixed. She had never seen anything so completely