“You look and smell like a hooker,” she said, mimicking her grandmother’s voice as she applied her eyeliner one more time.
In the studio apartments around her, the noise signaled that the other tenants were waking up and that it would soon be evening again. It was a well-known cacophony of sounds: the chinking of bottles, the knocking on doors to bum cigarettes, and the constant traffic to and from the run-down toilet with shower that the contract described as exclusive.
The small society of Danish outcasts from one of the darker streets of Frederiksstaden was now set in motion for yet another evening with no real purpose.
After turning around a few times, she stepped toward the mirror to inspect her face close-up.
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” She laughed with an indulgent smile as she caressed her reflection with her fingertips. She puckered her lips, let her fingers slide up her hips, over her breasts, up to her neck, and into her hair. She picked some fluff from her angora blouse and dabbed a little foundation on a couple of insufficiently covered blemishes on her face before stepping back with satisfaction. Her plucked and painted eyebrows, together with NeuLash-enhanced eyelashes, added to her overall appearance. The makeup, paired with the glow of her irises, gave her a more intense look, adding with ease an extra element of aloofness.
In other words, she was ready to take on the world.
“I’m Denise,” she practiced saying, tensing her throat. It was as deep as her voice could be.
“Denise,” she whispered, slowly parting her lips and letting her chin drop toward her chest. The result was fantastic when she adopted this attitude. Some might interpret her look as submissive, but it was exactly the opposite. Wasn’t it precisely at this angle that the hotspots—a woman’s eyelashes and pupils—best caught the attention of those around her?
Totally in control. She nodded, screwing the lid of her face cream back on and piling her arsenal of cosmetics back in the bathroom cabinet.
After a quick look around the small room she realized that hours of hard work lay ahead of her: clearing away the laundry, making the bed, washing all the glasses, taking out the trash, and sorting all the bottles.
Fuck it, she thought, grabbing the duvet and shaking it and plumping the pillow, convincing herself that when one of her sugar daddies had made it this far, he wouldn’t give a damn about the rest.
She sat on the edge of the bed and checked that her handbag had all the essentials she would need.
She nodded with satisfaction. She was ready to take on the world and all its desires.
An unwelcome sound made her turn to face the door. Click, clack, click, clack, came the limping, loathsome sound.
You’re far too early, Mother, she thought as the door outside between the stairs and the corridor was pushed open.
It was almost eight o’clock, so why was she coming now? It was way past her dinnertime.
She counted the seconds, already feeling irritated as she got up from the bed, when the knock came at the door.
“Honey!” she heard her mother shouting from the other side. “Won’t you open the door?” Denise took deep breaths, remaining silent. If she didn’t answer, her mother would surely just go.
“Denise, I know you’re in there. Open up just for a moment. I have something important to tell you.”
Denise sighed. “And why should I do that? I don’t suppose you brought any dinner up with you?” she shouted.
“Not today, no. Oh, won’t you come downstairs to eat, Denise? Just for today. Your grandmother is here!”
Denise rolled her eyes. So her grandmother was downstairs. The mere thought was enough to make her heart race and cause her to break out in a sweat.
“Grandmother can kiss my ass. I hate that bitch.”
“Oh, Denise, you mustn’t talk like that. Won’t you just let me in for a moment? I really must speak with you.”
“Not now. Just leave the dinner in front of the door, as usual.” Apart from the man with the flabby skin who lived a few doors down the corridor, who had already downed his first beer of the day and was now sobbing in despair over his miserable existence, it was suddenly totally quiet out in the corridor. It wouldn’t surprise her if everyone was pricking up their ears right at this moment, but what did she care? They could just ignore her mother like she did.
Denise filtered out the sound of her mother’s pleas, concentrating instead on the whining coming from the loser down the hall. All the divorced men like him living in studio apartments were just so pathetic and laughable. How could they believe the future might be brighter given how they looked? They stank of unwashed clothes and drank themselves into oblivion in their pitiful loneliness. How could these cringeworthy idiots live with being so pathetic?
Denise snorted. How often had they stood in front of her door in an effort to tempt her with their small talk and cheap wine from Aldi, their eyes betraying hope of something else and more?
As if she would ever associate with men who lived in studio apartments.
“She’s brought money with her for us, Denise,” her mother said insistently.
Now she had Denise’s attention.
“You simply have to come down with me because if you don’t she won’t give us anything for this month.”
There was a pause before she spoke again.
“And then we really won’t have anything, will we, Denise?” she said severely.
“Can’t you shout a little louder so they can also hear you in the next building?” Denise retorted.
“Denise!” Her mother’s voice was now quivering. “I’m warning you. If your grandmother doesn’t give us that money, you’ll have to go to the social services office because I haven’t paid your rent for this month. Or maybe you thought I had?”
Denise took a deep breath, went over to the mirror, and put on her lipstick one final time. Ten minutes with the woman and then she was out of there. She had nothing but shit and confrontation coming her way. The bitch wouldn’t leave her in peace for a second. She would just come with demand after demand. And if there was something Denise couldn’t deal with, it was all the demands people put on her. It simply drained all the life and energy out of her.
It depleted her.
—
Down on the first floor in her mother’s apartment there was a not unexpected stench of tinned mock turtle soup. Once in a while it might be cutlets only just past their sell-by date or rice pudding in sausage-shaped plastic packaging. There wasn’t exactly entrec?te on the menu when her mother attempted to put out a spread, which the blemished silver-plated candlesticks with spluttering candles emphasized.