Chapter 1: The Pink Slip
The afternoon light through the coffee shop window was the colour of weak tea, catching the fine dust that hung in the air and turning it into gold motes that drifted lazily above the chipped table between them. Charli had her elbows planted on the sticky surface, both hands wrapped around a mug of something that had long gone cold, staring at the rings of dried coffee that mapped out her future like some terrible constellation of unpaid bills.
“So that’s it,” she said, her voice barely rising above the groan of the espresso machine. “That’s the entire sum of our savings. Four hundred and sixty pounds until Jamie finds something, and the rent is due in nine days.”
Jess stirred her oat milk latte with the tip of her finger, watching the swirl with a practiced indifference that only made her grey eyes look more calculating. She was dressed for a late lecture, the kind of fitted blazer that suggested professionalism until you noticed the way she wore it, all undone buttons and implied secrets. “And the job hunt?”
“He’s had three interviews. Three. One of them asked him if he was ‘really sure about the commute’ when he walked in, because apparently he looks too small for the role. Another said they’d go with a stronger candidate. The third hasn’t called back.”
Jess made a sympathetic noise that was probably genuine, given that she and Charli had shared enough late-night wine sessions to know when the other was faking it. “What about your tutoring? Those high school kids must be drowning in homework right about now.”
“I had to drop two of them. The parents couldn’t afford it anymore. You know how it is, the first thing to go when money gets tight is the nice-to-haves.” Charli let her head fall forward until her forehead nearly touched the table. “I’ve got three hours a week of physics tuition left and it doesn’t even cover our grocery shop. I’m doing my masters and I can’t even fix our own budget, the irony is suffocating.”
A group of men in cheap suits had taken the table by the window ten minutes ago. They were mid-thirties, the kind of finance types who wore their watches like armour and snuck glances at women with the subtlety of bulls in a china shop. One of them, the youngest with sandy hair and an unfortunate moustache, had been looking at Charli since he sat down. Not in a sleazy way, but in that hungry, hopeful way that she had grown used to since she filled out properly at seventeen.
Jess noticed. She always noticed everything.
“See that?” she said, nodding towards the window table with a small tilt of her perfectly groomed head. “That’s the third time he’s looked over since we sat down. And he’s not the only one.”
Charli didn’t bother to check. She knew. She always knew when eyes were on her, that faint prickle on her skin that told her she was being observed and catalogued and, in some quiet corner of a stranger’s mind, undressed.
“They do this every time,” Charli muttered. “I just want coffee and to complain about my life without being visually appraised like a show pony.”
“Exactly.” Jess sat back, crossing one long leg over the other, the motion catching the light on her tanned skin. “That’s what I’m saying. You sit here for twenty minutes and you’ve already got three men absolutely captivated. And you’re wearing a student hoodie and yesterday’s mascara. Imagine what you could do if you actually tried.”
Charli frowned. “What are you suggesting? That I become a catcaller’s dream? Start selling signed photographs of myself on the internet?”
“I’m suggesting something a little more lucrative and a lot more legal.” Jess leaned forward, her voice dropping to that conspiratorial register she used when she was about to reveal something important. “You know where I work. The Velvet Club.”
The name hung there between them for a moment, all neon and dark corners and the faint smell of expensive perfume and cheap intentions. Charli knew about the club, of course. Jess had worked there for the better part of two years, ever since her student debt had started to take on a life of its own. They had an agreement: Jess never volunteered the details, and Charli never asked. It was a line they both respected, a gentility that protected their friendship from the edges of Jess’s double life.
“I’m listening,” Charli said slowly, though her stomach had begun to twist itself into something tight and complicated.
“They’re not just looking for dancers, you know. They have servers too. Girls who work the floor in, well, very little, honestly, but they’re not performing. They’re serving drinks to the clients, making conversation, making them feel special. It’s still good money. Better than any shift you’ll pull at a café.”
“I’m not dancing,” Charli said firmly. “I’m not stripping. That feels like the line.”
“And I’m not suggesting you do.” Jess’s expression softened, losing some of its razor edge. “I’m suggesting you consider the server side. You’d make a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty a night in tips. Good nights, more. And it’s not forever. It’s until Jamie finds something, until your masters is done, until things are different.”
Charli pictured it. She pictured herself in some sliver of black fabric, carrying a tray of champagne through a haze of cigarette smoke and cologne, backs of men’s heads turning as she passed, that familiar prickle of appraisal on her skin. She pictured Jamie’s face if he knew. She pictured his small hands trembling, his gentle brown eyes filling with something between hurt and confusion, that quiet devastation he wore when the world was too big for him.
“Jamie would hate it,” she said, but the words came out weaker than she’d intended.
The coffee shop lingered between them for a long moment, the espresso machine hissing like something impatient. Charli traced the rim of her cold mug, feeling the weight of what Jess had just offered pressing against her chest like a hand.
"I'll think about it," she said, though even as the words left her mouth she knew they were a promise disguised as hesitation.
Jess smiled, small and knowing, and gathered her bag. "That's all I ask. Text me if you have questions. I mean that, Charli. Any questions at all."
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of lectures and library corners, of graphite on paper and equations that refused to resolve themselves. Charli sat in the third row of the thermodynamics seminar and stared at the whiteboard without seeing a single symbol, her mind elsewhere, orbiting the neon glow of a possibility she kept trying to dismiss and kept failing to.
She cooked dinner that evening. Pasta, because it was cheap and filling and Jamie always smiled when she made it. He sat at their small kitchen table, his laptop open beside his plate, refreshing job boards with the mechanical despair of a man watching the tide go out. He was wearing his soft blue jumper, the one with the hole in the elbow, and his hands looked so small and tired wrapped around his fork.
"Any luck?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Not yet," he said, and the words had a frayed quality to them, like they'd been said too many times already. "There's a graduate scheme I've applied for. Data analytics again, but more junior. Less pay, but it's something."
"Something is good."
He nodded, and they ate in the kind of silence that couples grow into when they're tired of saying the same comforting things to each other. After dinner, he retreated to the sofa with a film he'd seen half a dozen times, and within half an hour his breathing had evened out into the soft, rhythmic snore that Charli had come to know better than her own heartbeat.
She sat at their desk in the corner of the bedroom, phone in her hand, the screen glowing a pale rectangle in the dim light. Her thumb hovered over Jess's contact for a long time. Long enough that her thumb began to ache. Long enough that she could hear Jamie's snoring change pitch through the thin wall, a sound that anchored her to their small flat, to their small life, to the man who loved her and the secret she was about to keep from him.
She typed before she could think better of it.
*Okay. What would I actually be wearing?*
The reply came almost instantly, as if Jess had been waiting with her phone in her hand.
*Depends on the night. Standard is a black bikini top and shorts, but the shorts are more like underwear. High cut. You get used to it. On theme nights it gets more interesting. Christmas is always fun if you have a Santa thing.*
Charli stared at the words, her stomach doing something complicated.
*How high cut?*
*A picture is worth a thousand words. Sending you the uniform.*
A moment later, three photographs landed in the chat. The first showed a simple black two-piece, the bottoms high-cut enough to be almost non-existent, the fabric a V that would sit just above her hip bones. The second was a mesh overlay number, dark and sheer, more suggestion than coverage. The third made Charli inhale sharply, a tiny scrap of red lace attached to strings, the kind of thing she'd never owned and would never have had the courage to buy.
*These are the options?* she typed back.
*The third one is what I wear. It tests well. Men like red.*
*I can't wear that.*
*You absolutely can. You'll make more in one night than Jamie makes in a week at his old job.*
The words landed like a punch. Because it was true. Because that was the whole point, wasn't it? She was sitting in their cramped flat with the radiator that clanked and the landlord who kept ignoring their emails about the damp patch in the corner of the bathroom, and she had a body that men could not stop looking at, a fact she had resented her whole adult life and was now being asked to weaponise.
*What else?*
*What else do you want to know?*
Charli chewed her lip. She typed, deleted, typed again.
*Do you have to do anything? With the men. Besides serving?*
*No. There's a strict no-touch policy. The bouncers enforce it hard. You serve, you smile, you make them feel like kings. That's it. Some of them will try. You say no, you walk away, you get a bouncer if you need one. Trust me. I've never been touched in two years. Well. Not at work, anyway.*
A pause, then another message.
*Send me a photo. Of what you'd wear. Just so I know the sizing.*
Charli's brow furrowed. *I haven't got anything like that.*
*Then send me a photo of you. In something close. Just so I can picture it. We've been friends for years, Charli. It's not weird. It's practical.*
She stood up, her heart beating hard against her ribs. Jamie's snoring continued through the wall, regular as a metronome. She pulled off her jumper and her jeans, standing in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the wardrobe door. Her reflection looked back at her, all dark hair and darker eyes, the curves she'd been cursed and blessed with in equal measure. She'd bought a red lingerie set months ago on sale, a splurge she'd justified as something for Jamie's birthday. He'd barely seen it. She dug it out of the bottom drawer now, the fabric cool and slippery between her fingers.
She took the photo with the flash off, the dim light of their bedroom softening the edges of her silhouette. It showed her standing in the red lace, her hair loose over her shoulders, one hip cocked the way she'd practiced for Jamie on good nights. She looked at it for a long moment before she sent it, a stranger looking back who shared her face.
*Jesus Christ. Charli.* Jess's reply came through with three flame emojis. *You're going to clean up. The men won't know what hit them.*
Charli's face was hot. She set the phone down face-up on the bed, staring at the ceiling, her pulse a steady drum in her ears. The conversation had done something to her, awakened something she hadn't expected. The thought of being looked at that way, openly and hungrily, seeking her out because she was desirable, because she could make money by simply existing as she was, had lit a wire inside her that sparked and crackled.
*One shift,* she typed. *I'll try one shift.*
*That's all I ask. I'll pick you up tomorrow night. We'll get you sorted.*
She put the phone on charge and walked out to the living room, where Jamie lay on the sofa with his mouth slightly open, the film long since finished and the screen cycling through a menu screen. His chest rose and fell with that soft snore, his sandy hair falling over his forehead, looking so peaceful and small and innocent.
Charli watched him for a long moment. Then she turned off the TV, pulled the blanket up over him, and went back to the bedroom.
The dildo was in the drawer on her side of the bed. She'd bought it on a whim months ago, a six-inch length of silicone that Jamie had laughed about when she'd shown him, a little too brightly, a little too quickly. He'd given it to her as a joke gift wrapped in newspaper, and they'd used it twice, always after they'd had a little too much wine, always with a self-consciousness that neither of them acknowledged.
She hadn't touched it in weeks. But now, with the heat of the conversation still prickling her skin, with the thought of red lace and dark rooms and money she was about to earn in a way she had never imagined, she pulled it from the drawer. Her fingers found her phone again, thumbing through the grainy thumbnails of her porn history until she found the one she returned to on nights when she was alone.
It was a simple enough scene, the angles staged carefully, two men and one woman. She'd never told Jamie about it. She barely admitted it to herself. But there was something about the thought of being wanted that completely, that thoroughly, from every side at once, that made her veins hum with a current she couldn't name.
She plugged in her headphones, the muffled sounds filling her ears, and lay back on the bed. The dildo was cool against her stomach before she moved it lower, gasping quietly as she pressed it inside herself, imagining those red lace bottoms hiked high, a room full of eyes, and the slow, knowing smile she'd wear while the world watched her.
The climax came in a shuddering wave, her hips arching off the mattress as she bit down on her own knuckle to keep quiet. For a moment, the world was just that bright, pulsing afterglow, the headphones still murmuring in her ears, and then it receded, leaving her breathless and hollow and terribly, achingly awake.
She lay there in the dim light, the red lace bunched around her hips, staring at the ceiling. The dildo slipped out of her grip and landed on the duvet with a soft thud, and she let it lie there, too spent to move it.
Somewhere beyond the wall, Jamie shifted in his sleep, murmuring something soft and unintelligible, and her heart squeezed in her chest.
She pulled the headphones out and set the phone face-down on the nightstand, then dragged the duvet up to her chin, curling onto her side. Morning would come whether she was ready or not, and with it, the car ride with Jess, the unfamiliar building, the eyes. She closed her eyes and tried to picture it, and found she couldn't. The future had gone blurry, washed out like an overexposed photograph.
The last thing she thought before sleep finally took her was that she wished she knew which version of herself she was going to wake up as in the morning.
Then the dark closed over her, and she knew nothing at all.
The ping came as she was teetering on the edge of sleep, that soft chime from her phone cutting through the dark like a needle through silk. Charli's eyes snapped open, her heart lurching in that unpleasant way it did whenever her phone went off at an ungodly hour, always expecting bad news, a cancelled shift, a bill reminder, something that would require her to scramble.
She reached for the phone, the screen blazing white in the darkness of the bedroom. An Instagram notification, a direct message from an account she didn't recognise. No profile picture, a string of numbers and letters for a handle, the kind of anonymous presence that should have been an immediate red flag.
But the message itself made her breath catch.
*£300 for five pictures of your stomach. Natural light. No face. Paypal or bank transfer, half up front.*
She stared at it, the words swimming in front of her eyes. Three hundred pounds. For five photographs. For a body part she had never once considered a commodity. It was less than a day's work for Jamie at his old job, but more than she'd make in a full week of tutoring.
She checked the profile. Zero posts, zero followers, following three accounts. One of them was hers.
The notification offered a preview of the wider conversation, a group chat, public posts. Nothing else. No breadcrumb trail back to whoever had found her, whoever had decided her stomach was worth three hundred pounds of their money.
Charli sat with her thumb hovering over the reply box, her pulse a dull drum through her temples. The red lace was still bunched around her hips, her skin cooling in the night air, the memory of what she'd just done to herself still thrumming beneath the surface.
She typed, deleted, typed again.
*Who is this?*
The reply came almost immediately, as if they had been waiting in the dark, watching for her to bite.
*An admirer. You don't need to know who I am. Just need five clear pictures. Stomach, front, side, back. No face, no identifying marks. Money moves as soon as I confirm.*
Three hundred pounds. Five pictures. She could pay the electric bill. She could buy real groceries, the kind that weren't yellow-stickered and near their sell-by date. She could look Jamie in the eye without feeling that cold twist of shame when he asked how the tutoring was going.
But the thought of it, of some anonymous stranger paying for the sight of her skin, made the same wire light up inside her that the idea of the club had touched. The same current. The same dangerous warmth.
*I'll think about it,* she typed.
*Don't think too long. Offers like this don't stay on the table forever.*
She set the phone down, face-down this time, and lay very still in the dark. The room held its breath around her. Through the wall, Jamie's snoring had changed pitch, softer now, lost in some dream that she couldn't follow.
A battle for another day, she told herself. She closed her eyes and forced her breathing to slow, and somewhere in the grey hour before dawn, sleep finally pulled her under.
Morning came the way it always did, with weak light through the thin curtains and the smell of the radiator clanking to life in the corner. Charli showered, dressed, and stood in front of the bedroom mirror for a long moment, studying the shape of herself in the black exercise shorts and tight vest. They were the most practical things she owned, the kind of outfit she'd wear to the gym on an ambitious day. But the shorts rode high, the fabric clinging to the curve of her hips, and the vest left her midriff bare, a strip of skin above her navel that seemed to glow in the pale light.
Jamie shuffled in behind her, rubbing his eyes, his hair a sandy mess and his t-shirt wrinkled from sleep. He stopped in the doorway, taking her in, and a smile found its way to his face.
"Going to the gym?" he asked, his voice still rough from the night.
"Work, actually." She said it brightly, a little too brightly, the lie already warming on her tongue. "I found a shift at a bar. A friend of Jess's runs it. Just serving, mostly. Tips should be decent."
Jamie frowned, the expression soft and unguarded. "What kind of bar makes you wear that as a uniform?"
The question curled through the air between them, and Charli felt the heat crawl up the back of her neck. She forced a laugh, light and easy, the kind of laugh she'd practiced in mirrors for years.
"It's to get more tips," she said, and the words were the first honest thing she'd told him in days. "You know how it is. The less you wear, the more they pay."
Jamie considered this, his boyish face working through the logic, and then shrugged, a little reluctantly. "Fair enough. Just be careful, alright? Some of those places can get rowdy."
"I'll be careful." She stepped forward and kissed him, soft and lingering, the way she always kissed him before she left. His hands found her waist, small and warm and familiar, and for a moment she wanted to tell him everything. The club. The uniform. The anonymous man in the dark waiting for pictures of her stomach.
But the moment passed, and she pulled away, and she grabbed her bag, and she smiled at him one last time from the doorway.
"I'll be back late. Don't wait up."
She left before he could ask anything else.
Jess's car was a battered little hatchback that had seen better decades, but it purred when it idled, and the inside smelled of vanilla and something that might have been air freshener and might have been Jess. She was already in the driver's seat when Charli slid in, a takeaway coffee in one hand and a bag of something that clinked faintly in the other.
"You look nervous," Jess observed, studying her with those sharp grey eyes.
"I feel like I'm about to jump off something," Charli admitted.
"That's the spirit." Jess handed her the coffee. "It's your first shift. You'll be shit at it. Everyone is. But you'll learn, and they'll love you anyway, because you look like you walked out of a magazine and you have a face that makes men want to confess their sins."
Charli snorted, but she took a sip of the coffee, and something settled in her chest. Not calm, exactly. But closer.
The drive took twenty minutes. The Velvet Club was on the edge of the city centre, a low building with blacked-out windows and a neon sign that hummed pink against the grey afternoon sky. The car park was half full, a scattering of vehicles that ran the gamut from sensible hatchbacks to the kind of German engineering that suggested serious money.
They pulled into a space near the back. Jess killed the engine, and for a moment the two of them sat in the silence, the vanilla air thick around them.
"Ready?" Jess asked.
Charli looked at the building. It was just a building, brick and glass and a sign. It had no idea what it was about to ask of her, what she was about to decide to give it.
She reached for the door handle.
Her fingers closed around the cold metal handle and she pulled.
The Velvet Club's interior was nothing like the squat, forbidding exterior had promised. The door swung open into a lobby of dark carpet and dim amber lighting, the walls upholstered in deep burgundy fabric that swallowed sound and softened every edge. A young woman sat behind a small reception desk, her face friendly and her dress a slip of midnight blue that looked expensive from across the room. She smiled at Jess like an old friend and nodded Charli through with a curious glance.
The music hit her the moment they passed through the second door. It was a thrumming bass that she felt in her sternum, a low, pulsing heartbeat that the floorboards seemed to move with. The main room opened out before her, vast and unexpectedly elegant, with round booths upholstered in leather and a long brass rail running along the bar. The stage was the centrepiece, a wide, polished platform ringed with brass poles, and even at this hour it held a dancer, a tall woman with black hair who moved with the slow, hypnotic grace of someone who had done this a thousand times. She wore a deep green bikini top and bottoms barely more than a suggestion, and she caught Charli's eye as she passed, offering a lazy, knowing smile.
The place was busier than Charli had expected for mid-afternoon. Men in shirtsleeves leaned against the bar, others occupied the booths, drinks sweating condensation onto the dark wood. A few heads turned as she followed Jess across the floor. They lingered on her, catalogued her, and she felt that familiar prickle of appraisal slide across her skin like a cold hand.
"See?" Jess said over her shoulder, raising her voice to carry over the bass. "Told you. Nicer than you thought."
Charli had to admit it was true. There was no sticky carpet, no cracked leather, no smell of stale alcohol and desperation. The air was cool and clean, threaded with something floral that might have been air freshener or might have been the perfume of the women passing. The clientele looked like they could afford the drinks, and the drinks were being served by women in various states of undress who moved with the confidence of professionals.
Jess led her past the bar and through a door marked STAFF ONLY. The corridor beyond was utilitarian, painted a flat grey that was a jolt after the warm opulence of the main room. Doors lined both sides, unmarked, and at the end of the corridor a final door stood ajar, spilling warm light and the low murmur of voices.
"Boss's office," Jess said. "He's expecting us."
She knocked once and pushed the door open without waiting for an answer.
The office was small and cluttered in a way that suggested organization disguised as chaos. Papers covered the desk in precarious stacks, and a computer monitor glowed in the corner, its screen saver drifting through a slowly rotating galaxy. The man behind the desk was in his early fifties, with a thin face and a smile that arrived before the rest of him. He wore a suit jacket over a black t-shirt, the look of a man who had once been slick and had let himself go soft around the edges. His hair was dark and oiled back, and his eyes, when they found Charli, were quick and appraising and not entirely unwelcome.
"Jess," he said, rising. "And this must be the new one. Charli, was it?"
"That's her," Jess said, dropping into a chair across from the desk. "Told you she'd be worth meeting."
The boss, whose name was Danny and who had a handshake that was a little too warm and a little too long, gestured for Charli to sit. She did, feeling the worn leather of the chair give under her. His smile was friendly, even grandfatherly, but there was something behind it, a watchfulness that put her in mind of a man who had spent his whole life reading people and rarely being wrong about them.
"Jess speaks highly of you," he said, settling back into his own chair. "Says you're doing your masters. Physics, isn't it?"
"That's right."
"Smart girl, then. Good. We like smart girls. They don't make the same mistakes the others do." He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. "Now, the way I understand it, you're looking to start on the floor. Serving. Is that right?"
"It is."
Danny nodded slowly, letting the word hang. "I'll be honest with you, Charli. We get a lot of girls who come in saying they want to serve, and it's a fine enough job. You'll make good money, you'll learn the ropes, and if you're good with people you might make a lot more. But." He paused, letting the word sit. "I've seen you. If you don't mind me saying so. And a girl who looks like you, who walks the way you walk, who's got the kind of face that makes men stop mid-sentence to look twice, she could make four, five times what the servers make. Dancing is where the real money is. I'm not saying it to be crass. I'm saying it because it's true, and I'd be doing you a disservice not to offer it."
Charli felt the weight of the offer settle over her. It wasn't crude. Danny had framed it as a kindness, a man sharing the benefit of his experience. But she saw the shape of it underneath, the way a woman's body could be talked into things one gentle compliment at a time.
"I appreciate the offer," she said, and her voice came out steadier than she'd expected. "But I'm not here to dance. I want to serve. That's the line for me, for now."
Danny studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he spread his hands in a gesture of acceptance that seemed almost genuine.
"Your call," he said. "And I respect it. Plenty of girls start on the floor and find their way to the stage on their own time. The door's always open if you change your mind." He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small laminated card, sliding it across the desk toward her. "Staff pass. Gets you through the back door and the changing room. You'll be working with Maria tonight, she'll show you the ropes. We do a floor briefing at six, so get changed and be ready by then."
Charli took the card. It was lighter than she'd expected, the plastic warm from the drawer.
"Thank you," she said.
"Don't thank me yet." Danny's smile returned, a little wider than before. "You might still thank me later, when you see the tips. But if you do end up wanting to talk about dancing, my door is always open. I mean that, Charli. Always."
Danny handed her the bag with a smile that stayed a beat too long, and Charli took it, the weight of it slight and unfamiliar. She thanked him again and followed Jess out of the office, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft pneumatic sigh.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Jess said, leading her back down the grey corridor.
"I think he just tried to sell me on dancing."
"Of course he did. He does that with everyone new. It's like a hazing ritual." Jess pushed open a door marked CHANGING ROOM and gestured inside. "This is you. I'll be on the other side of the club if you need me. Maria should be in there already, she's the one with the snake tattoo who looks like she could kill you with her knees."
The changing room was larger than Charli had expected, a long narrow space lined with lockers and mirrors, the air thick with the scent of body spray and talcum powder. A woman sat at the far end on a bench, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone. She looked up as Charli entered, and her face split into a grin that softened her sharp features.
"New girl," she said, in a voice that carried a faint Eastern European accent. "You must be Charli. I'm Maria."
Maria was tall, with the kind of lean, athletic build that spoke of years of physical work, and the snake tattoo Jess had mentioned coiled up her forearm and vanished beneath the sleeve of her jacket. She was dressed in a black sports bra and shorts that looked like they'd been cut with scissors, and she moved with the easy, economical grace of someone entirely at home in her own skin.
"Nice to meet you," Charli said, setting the bag down on the bench across from her. "Jess said you'd show me the ropes."
"That's me." Maria pocketed her phone and stretched, her spine popping audibly. "You got the uniform?"
Charli opened the bag. Inside was a pair of shorts that were, at first glance, mercifully functional, and what looked like a sporty crop vest. But when she lifted the shorts out, they unfolded to reveal something that made her breath catch. They were cycling shorts in name only, the kind of thing designed to be worn under other clothes rather than as clothing themselves. The fabric was a thick black spandex, but there was so little of it. They would sit high on her hips, the leg openings cut so deep that they would leave the entire curve of her thighs exposed, a triangle of black fabric barely covering what needed covering.
"And the top," Maria said, watching her expression with amusement.
Charli lifted the vest. It was a crop top in the technical sense, but the cut was aggressive, the hem arcing up from the sides to leave her entire midriff bare, from just below her breasts down to the waistband of the shorts. The neckline dipped in a deep V that would put her cleavage on display in a way that no sports bra ever had. She held it up, turning it in the light, and felt a flush creep up her neck.
"This is the uniform?"
"This is the uniform," Maria confirmed. "Don't worry, you get used to it. The customers are there to look, and they'll look at you no matter what you wear. Might as well make them pay for it."
Charli stood there for a long moment, the clothes hanging limp in her hands, the mirror reflecting her own uncertain face back at her. She had imagined the uniform. Jess had sent pictures. But seeing it in person, holding it, knowing she was about to put it on and walk out into a room full of strangers, was something else entirely.
She undressed with her back to the mirror, the familiar motions of pulling off her hoodie and jeans feeling strange and ceremonial. The shorts went on first. They were tighter than anything she owned, the fabric gripping her hips and the rise of her thighs as if it had been painted on. She looked down at herself, at the amount of bare skin visible, and had to resist the urge to tug at the hem.
Then the vest. It settled over her chest like a second skin, the deep V of the neckline doing things to her cleavage that she had never asked for and was now being forcibly introduced to. The hem stopped just below her ribs, leaving her stomach entirely bare. She turned to the mirror and stopped.
Her reflection was a stranger. All that dark hair and those dark eyes, framed by the black fabric that seemed designed to emphasise every curve, every line of her body. Her breasts were pushed up and together, a generous display of cleavage above the V. Her stomach, smooth and flat from years of yoga and sensible eating, was completely exposed. The shorts made her hips look wider, her thighs longer, her whole silhouette something out of a lingerie catalogue.
"Jesus," she breathed.
"See?" Maria said from behind her. "I told you. You look good. And you'll make a fortune."
Charli turned from the mirror, suddenly aware of how exposed she felt, how light. The air of the changing room were cool against her bare skin, and she had the urge to cross her arms over her chest, an instinct she fought down.
"What's the key stuff I need to know?" she asked, forcing her voice to stay level.
Maria stood, grabbing a small earpiece from her locker and fitting it into her ear. "Come on. I'll show you."
They walked out of the changing room and through the back corridor, Maria moving with the easy confidence of someone who had walked this route a thousand times. She pushed through a door and they emerged at the edge of the main floor, the bass of the music washing over them.
"First thing," Maria said, raising her voice to carry over the thrum. "The floor is divided into zones. You've got the bar zone, that's your primary, you're serving drinks to people at the bar. Then you've got the booth zones, the VIP sections along the back wall. They have their own servers, but if one of them flags you down, you're allowed to help. You just don't get a cut of their tips unless you work the booth."
She pointed to a small cluster of men at a corner table, their heads together over drinks. "Those are your regulars. The ones who come every week, spend good money, don't cause trouble. You'll learn their faces. There are also the ones who come once, get drunk, try to grab you." She indicated a table of younger men, still in their shirts and ties, looking around with the nervous energy of boys in a playground. "Those are the ones you gotta watch. If one of them puts a hand on you, you say 'no thank you' nice and clear, and you walk away. If they keep at it, you look at the bouncers and you nod." She gestured to two enormous men in black polo shirts at the edges of the room. "They'll handle it. They love handling it."
Charli nodded, committing the geography to memory. The bar ran along the left wall, a long brass rail with a team of bartenders working behind it. The stage was centre stage, occupied now by a dancer in a red thong and nothing else, who moved with the same hypnotic detachment as the girl she'd seen on her way in. Booths lined the back wall, curved plush seats in shadowy alcoves, each with its own small table.
"Second thing," Maria said, turning back to her. "The drinks. You'll be serving mostly champagne and cocktails, nothing too complicated, but you gotta know the basics. If you're not sure, you ask the bar. They'll help you out. Never pretend you know something you don't, the orders come in fast and mistakes cost money."
She led Charli to the side of the bar, where a small rail of trays and cocktail napkins sat. "Third thing. The customers will want to talk to you. They'll ask you questions, where you're from, what you study, how long you've worked here. Be nice. Be charming. But don't give them anything too personal. You're not their friend, you're not their therapist, you're the pretty girl who brings them drinks. Keep it light, keep it easy, and they'll tip you for the pleasure of your company."
"And the money?" Charli asked. "How does that work?"
"Tips are yours to keep. Cash, mostly, though a lot of the regulars put them on cards now. You'll get your shift pay at the end of the week, but the tips are where the money is." Maria smiled, a flash of white teeth in her tanned face. "The trick is knowing when to linger and when to leave. If a customer's friendly and happy and the tips are flowing, you stay a little longer, let them talk, laugh at their jokes. If he's getting handsy or pushy or his eyes are going glassy, you don't linger. You take his order, you bring his drink, you're gone."
She reached out and adjusted the strap of Charli's vest, a small, maternal gesture that felt strangely reassuring. "You'll be fine. You've got the face for it and the body for it, and you've got a smart head on your shoulders. That's the whole recipe. Now come on, let's get you a tray. The six o'clock rush is about to start."
The shift itself, Charli discovered, was not the ordeal she had steeled herself for. The six o'clock rush arrived like a tide of collarless shirts and expensive aftershave, and she found herself swept up in the rhythm of it before she had time to be afraid.
She learned the bar layout in the first hour. The champagne came in flutes that were colder than she expected, the cocktails in glasses that were heavier. Maria was never far away, appearing at her elbow in the moments between orders with a quiet word of guidance that smoothed the rough edges of her inexperience.
The customers were, for the most part, exactly as Maria had described. They wanted to talk. They wanted to be seen. They wanted to feel like kings for the price of a drink, and Charli was happy to sell them that feeling. She laughed at jokes that weren't funny. She smiled at men who looked at her like she was something they wanted to unwrap. She learned to lean in a little closer when a tip was coming, to let her dark hair fall forward over her shoulder just so, to make eye contact and hold it long enough that something shifted in the air between them.
The shorts were the hardest part.
They rode up almost immediately. Five minutes into her first order, she felt the fabric creep higher, the hem digging into the crease of her thighs, and she had to stop herself from reaching behind to tug it down. She adjusted them the first time. Then the second. By the fifth adjustment, she caught Maria watching her with a knowing smile, and she stopped.
By the end of the first hour, she had accepted it. The fabric had found its resting place, a permanently hiked-up crease that was beginning to resemble a thong more than shorts, the black spandex disappearing into the cleft of her backside with every step. It made her walk differently, her hips swinging a little more freely, her bare cheeks catching the low amber light as she moved between tables. She saw the way men's eyes tracked her, and she learned to feel the shape of that gaze, to measure it and use it without letting it own her.
She passed the stage four times that evening. The first time, she caught a glimpse of a dancer mid-routine, a tall woman with copper hair and a green thong, her body a study in controlled power as she wrapped herself around the brass pole. Charli felt her stomach do a complicated flip and forced her eyes forward.
The second time, she saw Jess. She was up on the stage in the red lace scrap she'd joked about sending pictures of, moving with the same easy confidence she brought to everything, her grey eyes finding Charli in the crowd for just a moment. She winked, and Charli felt something settle in her chest.
It wasn't strange after the first few laps. It became just part of the landscape, the way the dancers moved and the music pulsed and the men at the booths watched with their hungry, hopeful eyes. She was one of them now, in her own way. Not on the stage, but on the floor, in her painted-on shorts and her neckline that dipped to her sternum. A new version of herself that she was still learning to wear.
The shift ran its course. By ten, the rush had thinned to a comfortable hum, and by eleven, Maria was collecting the trays and the last of the stragglers were being guided toward the exit by the bouncers. Charli counted her tips in the changing room, sitting on the bench in front of the mirror, the wad of crumpled notes and loose coins spread out across her knee like a small harvest.
One hundred and ninety-six pounds. Plus her shift pay, which Maria said would land in her account at the end of the week.
She sat there for a long moment, the money in her hands, feeling the weight of it. It was more than she'd made in a month of tutoring. It was more than Jamie had made in a week at his old job. And she had earned it by doing almost nothing more than showing up, being smiling and warm and exactly what those men across the bar had paid to see.
She changed back into her own clothes, the familiar comfort of jeans and a hoodie feeling like armour after the exposure of the uniform. Jess was waiting by the back door when she emerged, still in her stage outfit with a silk robe thrown over her shoulders, her face flushed from the heat of the dance floor.
"How was it?" Jess asked, falling into step beside her.
"Good," Charli said, and the word felt inadequate. "Really good, actually. Easier than I thought."
Jess smiled, that knowing smile that made her look like she'd seen everything twice. "That's how it gets you. Come on, I'll drive you home."
The night air outside was cool and clean after the heavy atmosphere of the club. The city hummed around them, distant lights and the low grumble of traffic, and Charli walked to the car with the money folded thick in her pocket.
Jamie was still awake when she got home, sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop open, job boards cycling through the same worn-out listings. He looked up as she came in, and his face softened into that familiar, tired smile.
"How was it?" he asked.
"Good." She set the folded notes on the table in front of him, watched his eyes widen as he took in the thickness of the bundle. "Really good."
He picked the money up, turning it over in his small hands, and something that had been tight in his shoulders seemed to loosen. "This is incredible, Charli. This is more than I was bringing in at the end."
"It's good work. The people are nice."
He stood up and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his face into her neck, and she held him for a long moment, her hand against the back of his sandy head, the smell of his familiar shampoo filling her nose.
"I'm proud of you," he murmured, his voice muffled against her skin. "You're keeping us afloat while I figure it out. I don't know what I'd do without you."
She didn't answer. She just held him, and the weight of what she was building sat in her chest like a stone she couldn't swallow.
They fell into bed that night with the easy, familiar rhythm of a couple relearning each other. Jamie's hands were gentle and searching, the way they always were, and Charli let herself be held and touched and wanted without thinking about where she'd just been or what the money in her pocket had cost her. It was good, it was warm, it was the kind of closeness that made her forget, for a while, the shape of the lie she was building.
Afterwards, he curled against her with his head on her chest and his breathing slowed into sleep within minutes, the way it always did. She lay awake in the dark, one hand in his hair, staring at the ceiling and feeling the gulf between them widen with every heartbeat.
Morning came too soon, grey light seeping through the thin curtains and the radiator clanking to life in the corner. Jamie was already up when she surfaced, the smell of coffee drifting through the flat, and he pressed a mug into her hands with a sleepy smile before heading for the shower. Charli sat on the edge of the bed, the warmth of the ceramic bleeding into her palms, and reached for her phone.
The notification was from Danny.
*Great shift last night. Maria says you picked it up quick. Everyone's impressed. We'd love to have you back tonight if you're free. Same time. And now we know you can work, we'll get you a proper outfit, the good stuff, lasts longer, fits better. Send me your measurements and I'll have it sorted for you before you come in.*
She read it twice, her stomach doing something complicated. A proper outfit, the good stuff. She typed out her measurements with a thumb that hovered over the keys, the numbers feeling like a small surrender. Thirty-four, twenty-six, thirty-eight. She'd known them since she was sixteen, had never expected to be typing them into her phone to send to a man she barely knew.
She hit send and sat back against the headboard, wondering if that was it.
It wasn't. A minute later, another message buzzed through.
*Those numbers work. Can you send a picture? Just so I can eye up the sizing, make sure we get the cut right for you.*
Charli stared at the screen, the words swimming in front of her. A picture. For a uniform. For work.
She had never sent Jamie a picture in anything less than fully dressed. She'd never sent anyone a picture like that. The thought of it, of some version of herself caught on a camera and delivered into a man's phone, made her skin prickle with heat and something she was reluctant to name.
But it was for work. It was a uniform. Danny was the manager, and he needed to get the sizing right, and she couldn't exactly wear the same ill-fitting shorts and vest forever.
She got up and dug through the drawer where she kept her gym clothes, pulling out a black sports bra and a pair of leggings that were modest enough. She stood in front of the mirror, adjusted her hair, and took the photo with the window light behind her. It was almost innocent, a girl in her gym kit, nothing indecent about it.
Almost.
She sent it and waited, her pulse a steady drum.
*Perfect. You'll look great in the new stuff. One more, if you don't mind. The lingerie from the other night. Just so I can see how the cut might work for you.*
She set the phone down on the bed and stared at it. The red lace was still in the drawer, folded away, a secret she'd already shared with the world without meaning to. Danny had seen it. Jess had seen it. Jamie had never seen it.
*It's for work,* she told herself. *It's just sizing. It's a uniform.*
But her hands were shaking as she pulled the red lace out of the drawer and held it up in the pale morning light. She undressed without meeting her own eyes in the mirror, pulled the lace on, and stood there in the middle of the bedroom, feeling the cool air on her bare skin.
The photo was quicker this time. She took it in front of the mirror, the flash off, her hair loose over her shoulders, one hip cocked the way she'd learned worked. She looked at it for a long moment, at the stranger wearing her face and her body and her underwear, and then she sent it before she could stop herself.
*Perfect,* came the reply. *See you tonight, Charli.*
She set the phone down and sat on the edge of the bed, the red lace still against her skin, her hands folded in her lap. Through the thin walls, she could hear Jamie moving in the kitchen, the clatter of a mug being set down, the soft sound of him humming to himself.
She had sent two pictures to her manager before breakfast. She hadn't sent a single one to the man who loved her.
She pulled the lace off and dressed in haste, shoving the evidence back into the drawer, and went out to the kitchen to drink her coffee and smile at Jamie and pretend that everything was exactly as it had been the day before.
The morning melted into afternoon with the slow, grudging pace of a day she didn't want to live through. She cleaned the flat, a task she usually hated but which gave her hands something to do while her mind worried at the edges of the evening ahead. Jamie went out for a walk, claiming he needed air and a change of scenery for his job hunt, and she kissed him at the door with a smile that felt like it was painted on.
By five, she was in the bathroom, standing under the shower with the water hot enough to redden her skin, scrubbing herself clean with a focus that bordered on ritual. She dried off in front of the mirror, studying the shape of herself in the steamed glass, and pulled her hair back into a low ponytail with the practical efficiency of someone preparing for a shift she'd done a hundred times.
Jess texted at quarter past five. *Outside. Come on, don't keep Danny waiting. He's got a surprise for you.*
She pulled on jeans and a loose jumper, the outfit deliberately casual, nothing that would suggest anything about where she was going or what she was about to put on. Jamie was still out. She left a note on the kitchen counter, simple and bland, and slipped out the door before she could change her mind.
Jess was leaning against the car when she approached, her arms crossed and a knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "You look like you're going to a funeral."
"I feel like I'm going to a funeral."
"Don't." Jess pushed off from the car and opened the passenger door. "Tonight's going to be better than last night. Trust me."
The drive was short and silent, the city sliding past in the grey-blue light of early evening. The Velvet Club appeared on the horizon, its neon sign already humming pink against the dimming sky, and Charli felt the familiar flutter of apprehension settle in her stomach as they pulled into the car park.
This time, when they entered, she noticed things she'd missed in the first blur of nerves. The lobby was warmer than she remembered, the amber lighting casting long shadows across the burgundy walls. The receptionist, the same young woman in the midnight blue dress, nodded them through with a smile that seemed to know something Charli didn't.
"Where are we going?" Charli asked, as Jess led her past the main floor and down a corridor she hadn't taken before.
"Full tour. Danny's orders. He wants you to know the place inside out before you work again."
The corridor opened into a wider space, painted the same utilitarian grey but with a different energy. Doors lined both walls, some open, some closed, and through the gaps Charli caught glimpses of rooms that made her stomach flip.
The first was a changing room, long and narrow like the one she'd used the night before but bigger, with more lockers and a row of mirrors that ran the length of the wall. A bowl sat on a small table near the door, and Charli's breath hitched when she recognised the foil packets piled inside it. Condoms. Hundreds of them, in a plain glass bowl, like mints at a reception desk.
"There's more of those in the private rooms," Jess said, catching her gaze. "Part of the service. Better safe than sorry, right?"
Charli didn't answer. She followed Jess further down the corridor, past a room with a bed that looked more like a chaise lounge, draped in dark red velvet, its surface worn and soft-looking. Another room had no bed at all, just a wide chair with straps hanging loose from the arms, and Charli looked away before she could process what she was seeing.
"Private rooms," Jess said, her voice casual. "For VIP clients. The girls who work these make serious money. Not my thing, but each to their own."
Charli nodded, her mouth dry. She'd known, on some level, that places like this had more to offer than just serving drinks. But seeing it laid out in front of her, the condoms and the velvet and the straps, made the edges of the world she was stepping into feel suddenly, sharply real.
The tour wound back through the corridor and ended at the changing room. This one was smaller than the staff room, with a row of lockers that were all occupied, each one decorated in a way that made Charli stop and stare.
The girl at the first locker was tall and willowy, and her outfit was all legs. A tiny silver slip of a dress, so short that the hem barely grazed the tops of her thighs, designed to make her seem even longer, even more endless. The girl at the second locker was curvier, and her outfit was a corset, all laces and boning, pushing her breasts up into a generous shelf of cleavage that demanded attention. The third girl was athletic, nearly boyish, and her outfit was a sheer mesh bodysuit that hugged every line of muscle, showing off the definition of her arms and shoulders.
Every girl had a look. Every outfit was distinct, tailored to a specific body, a specific feature. Nothing off the rack, nothing generic. Each one was a version of someone, designed to make men look at a single thing and want.
Charli's locker was at the far end, the number matching the card Danny had given her. She opened it slowly, her heart a steady drum in her ears, and pulled out the contents.
The uniform was unlike anything she'd expected.
It was red. A deep, molten crimson that caught the light and seemed to glow from within. The top was a crop, but unlike the ones from last night, this one was engineered with a kind of precision that bordered on artistry. The cups were structured, wired, pushing her breasts up into a perfect, round shelf of cleavage that would be visible from across the room. The straps were thin, barely there, designed to drape over her shoulders without actually supporting anything. The underbust band was tight, fitted, pressing into the soft flesh just beneath her ribs.
The bottoms matched. High waisted, but only in the technical sense, the fabric cutting down her hips instead of up, leaving the entire expanse of her stomach bare. the legs a leather synthetic legging which hugged her bum in the right way.
She stood there in the changing room, holding the outfit up to the light, the other girls going about their business around her as if she weren't standing there with her heart in her throat.
"That's yours?" the tall girl with the silver dress asked, pausing mid-adjustment. "Fucking hell. Danny pulled out the good stuff for you."
Charli nodded, not trusting her voice. She undressed with her back to the mirror, the familiar motions of pulling off her jeans and jumper feeling strange and ceremonial. The top went on first. The wires and structured cups did something to her breasts that she had never experienced, lifting and shaping them into a display that was brazen even by the standards of the room. The thin straps settled over her shoulders, the fabric cradling her chest like a second
Chapter excerpt truncated at the edge.