THE PRIVATE PARTY

32

"I'm just going to pick what's tightest and shortest. This." You pick up a salmon tank dress. There are tags still attached.

"You know, says Vania, "I have never, ever worn that. I bought it for a holiday. But when I got it home I was too scared."

"Try it." You hand it to her. "Now, let's see these shoes. What are your absolute cheesiest stripper shoes." You have turned to the closet because you are not sure if she is going to leave the room to try on the dress. But sure enough you hear the rustle of fabric as she slips out of her white one. You give her some time and then turn to see her pulling the clingy straps of the salmon dress over her shoulders.

"Well, you can't wear that bra, for one. What is that, some kind of body armour? It's like an inch thick."

"I have to, for work, wear these. I can't go around showing even the trace of nipple. It is armour, absolutely, it protects me."

"We are going to be looked at. Right? And no pantyhose. Look at how it cuts your waist."

"Bare legs. Yes. Or stay-ups."

"Where would I get stay-ups?"

"Any drugstore. Do you live in your office?"

"Pretty much."

"Ok, bare legs then."

"Let's have a glass of wine," says Vania.

"Yes, Or eight."

She goes into the main room to put some music on, some bassy hip hop.

"I'm going to smoke," she calls. "But I'll go out on the balcony."

You have not desired a cigarette since you started working at the club with no name. But you want to join Vania on the balcony, to share that with you. "I'll join you."

The air is crisp on you in your tiny dresses. The wine is bold and burning. The cigarette tastes like dancing. The city has sounds, when you are outside: a roar, not a murmur, something diabolical.

Vania is humming, swaying to the music. "What are we going to have to do, exactly?"

"Just make nice, for the most part. I think. When we get a chance to go to the washroom we'll put the recorder together. Then we'll just talk and listen. Sit close to the Owner and record them talking about the titanium. Pretend you're impressed by stories of violence. Pretend you're turned on. Ask them to tell you the scariest thing they've done, or the worst. We'll get tons." You throw away your cigarette. "Shoes."

From her pile you pull out the tallest stilettoes with ankle straps.

"Wedding shoes," she says. "Bridesmaid."

"Put them on. Now pull off the pantyhose. And the bra."

"And the bra!"

"Come on."

She hikes up the dress. The hose comes off. She wriggles out of the bra, pulls it out from under the fabric. She turns to the mirror with her hands over her breasts. "I can't do this."

"Stand tall. Drop your arms."

She does. She pulls her shoulders back. You stand beside her, a hand on her waist. "No. Look at that."

Vania is shorter than you are, and curvier. Her breasts are full and hang a little low; this is why she wants to cover them. There are nipples. But the dress sucks to her body like a supportive film. "Now. See. You're the porno movie."

She turns to one side and the other. "What about the underwear?"

You trace the line of thong over her hip. "Leave it on. It's ok that they can see it. Men like to think of underwear. It's more erotic than not having any."

"Really? How do you know this?"

You don't answer this.