Never did Clare imagine that life's twist and turns would see her holding court scantily clad among the soft blues and pinks of in-house Fred Astaire stage lighting.
Like Cinderella before the ball she was a young rogue girl in cut-off jeans and a haphazard ponytail applying the signature smokey eye with precision, dabbing blush and blotting lips with a bit of wild child grace while the stylist rolled and coiffed her hair to make sure her alter ego was ready for the evening's suitors.
A last look in the mirror as she buckled her patent leather Mary Jane heels and headed downstairs to a bustling crowd of beautiful boys who were caught up in bachelor revelry and impatient men wanting to relive the adolescent effervescence that was deeply sedate in their loins.
Night after night she mixed and mingled with clients whose hands were dressed with pretty cocktails as dancer and guest were cloistered together in a dimly lit room that was heavily soaked with idle chatter; all cleverly designed to make your character questionable and the wallet a bit loose.
They put her on a pedestal... for five minutes at a time, where she shook her ass for senators and pretended to listen to the lonely. Good girls get lost all the time they would say... her soul was outside, left on the street, deluged in regret and in search of a viable savior.
The voicing is both subtle yet sassy and once-removed matter-of-fact. Despite its being before my eyes, I don't know how you achieved it, but it was a delight for both eye and inner-hearing as I read along, absorbing all the rich sensory description you expressed. I could read 394 pages of this, and would pay to do so.
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