I absorb the state of play in the changing room at a glance, soaking up the bevvy of near naked flesh, all those perfectly formed butts and breasts. To me, it’s as ordinary a sight as grass and trees. At the far end, Jane is already sitting at her desk. There is no sign of Jasmine.
Amy is seated in her usual spot at the near end of the room. By the look of her, she seems to have sobered up. Then again, as I study her reflection in the mirror, I find her pupils needle-sharp. That, and she is picking insistently at a fingernail.
Coke.
Amy could do with some sort of hobby or interest to settle her down, maybe a boyfriend – someone decent – but it is hard for dancers to find a good guy. It’s one of the reasons why dancers hook up with security and bar staff, even clientele, or with losers,
