Chameleon

Chapter 9

At least it's not stripping.

So how come I still end up naked in public?

Molly pondered the question that had dogged her since she had sprouted a thirty-six inch chest at the age of fourteen. At first it had been the boys in the playground. Then the numerous "Uncles" her mother had brought home. Even her boss at the dead-end factory job she'd taken at sixteen. All of them had wanted to get Molly to shed her clothes. Finally, she'd decided that, if this was going to be the pattern of her life, she may as well get paid for it.

She became a stripper at eighteen. Just for a year or two, she told herself, then I'll move on. Modelling maybe, or acting. Ten years later she was still "getting 'em off" in grimy working men's clubs, dodging the groping, sweaty punters and kidding herself it was only temporary.

And then Mike Menagerie had offered her a chance to get into showbiz for real. At first she thought he was just shooting a line, with his obviously fake name, drooping moustache and seventies fashion sense. But he persisted, and Molly began to feel flattered by the attention. He told her his idea. She didn't know if it would work or not, but dressing up as famous people was fun. She'd been doing it herself for some years now, pretending to be Marilyn, giving ageing Teddy Boys the cheap thrill of a lifetime as they watched their boyhood wet dream come alive in front of their eyes. But she was bored with that and the money was lousy. And she really could sing!

There and then Molly made up her mind that this was going to be her big break. No more stripping. Mike swore, hand on heart, that she would get to keep her clothes on.

He'd lied, of course.

Glam Slam played the fourth division clubs and pubs. The more Molly took off, the easier it was to get a repeat booking. Normally she only had to strip to a sexy basque or stockings and suspenders. If it was an important gig then she'd twirl her tassels, but now and then, like the Hellfire Club, she'd had to go all the way. The thought of it still made her shudder.

Everyone was mad at Mike, but Molly felt sorry for him. He tried so hard, even if he was a lying little shit.

With the gear smashed they'd had to cancel some gigs, which was bad news. With no money coming in, Molly had to do something to pay the rent. That's why she was here. Stark naked, but not stripping. Posing for the local art class didn't pay very well, but at least it was something. She stood on a platform, balancing a vase on one shoulder in a vaguely Grecian pose. Twelve painters daubed away at rickety easels while the teacher, a hatchet-faced woman called Miss Winter, peered through half-moon spectacles and advised on colour tone. A two-bar electric fire tried, and failed, to keep the chill out of the room. Molly felt the goose-bumps break out on her arms.

Miss Winter prodded her in the thigh with one sharp fingernail.

'Keep that knee bent,' she ordered. 'How can anyone paint you if you keep fidgeting so?'

Molly gritted her teeth and did as she was told.

'I will not be doing this for the rest of my life,' she told herself. 'Or stripping. God willing!' But Molly had little faith in God or men, so she smiled and tried to keep the goosebumps to a minimum.

***

The bus stopped opposite the back entrance to Video Dome.

Glam Slam had played one of their talent nights here once.