Page 9 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

“That’s ok. My granny left me a wee bit, don’t worry about me, now what’s the gossip?”

“Well, you know Liam is in here every day asking about you. He’s even paid one of the security guards off to give him information about you.” His eyes narrow. “He’s even given me money to give him information about me. He has been very insistent. It’s basically stalking. He should be ashamed. I could be a witness for you. If you want to go to the garda, get a restraining order? I wasn’t gonna tell him anything, promise. You know you can talk to me, if you need, about your granny’s death. Sorry I’m rumbling, running my mouth.” He rubs my leathered arm. “Are you ok?” he asks.

“She slipped away in her sleep. Nothing much to talk about.” I lie.

“A death most people can only dream about,” he says. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph grant me strength, patience and sanity. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” He says crossing himself.

“Don’t worry,” I say.

“When did O’Shaughnessy come in here asking about me?”

“It started two days after you left.”

I breathe a sigh of relief inwardly. “What’s the other big news?”

“Let me see,” he says as Athena walks by. “Athena’s still a bitch and we have a new girl, Tanya. And you know Vivian went and married crazy Connor.”

“What’s the new girl like?” I ask.

“She’s in the dressing room. Go say hi. She’s a bit mouthy. Acts dumb, but she’s got a law degree, so I don’t think she’s the airhead she pretends to be.”

“She’s channelling a bit of the legally blonde vibe?” I ask.

“OH. MY. GOD. Go get changed.” Kieran says. “O’Shaughnessy just walked through the door. He’ll probably pay you €10,000 just to stand next to you and breathe the same air.”

I kiss Kieran’s cheek and trot down the corridor to the changing room.

I’d know the instant I saw Liam if he’d recognised me today, but I needed to be in the proper outfit first.

The changing room is still an absolute shit tip. The same rusting railing is pushed into the corner. Spilled foundation has hardened on the floor. The new girl is looking in the mirror, drawing her eyelash wand up, trying to curl her eyelashes.

“You would be better off curling them first with an eyelash curler,” I say.

“I know,” she says, “but I forgot one.”

“I’ve got one in my bag you can borrow.”

“With conjunctivitis going round. Thank you, but no thank you.” she says.

“Suit yourself. I’m Ciara, by the way. I help a lot of the new girls get started.”

“I don’t need any help, thanks.”

“All new dancers need help,” I say.

I befriended all the girls. The new girls were an important part of my strategy. They’d confide all the secrets the men who came here told them. Things they couldn’t even say aloud in an empty room.

She turns her neck on her stall to look me up and down.

“Ok. Give me your top three tips,” she says, as if I’m a YouTuber she’s thinking of following.

“Number one. Take help when it is offered to you,” I say.

“Tip two?” She asks, her cheeks puffing out.

“Treat the man like he’s your baby, your beau. You do anything to please him” I’d dished this line out so many times it comes out verbatim now.

“Tip three?” She asks, returning to her mascara application.

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