TheOddball
Allons-y!
Hope this is sufficient! @Alexander Valent
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The Petits Chéris burlesque was safely tucked away in one of the many side streets of the East End; it sat right at the back of the dead-end of street, which was home to a number of shady off-licence shops and tattoo parlours. It was a tall, narrow building which appeared smaller than it was; it had four floors, including a basement and was home to about ten people. A total of thirty people worked there, and the place was always abnormally busy compared to the rest of the street. The establishment was run by a Mrs Moreau, a highly respected lady in her late fifties. Despite her somewhat frail appearance, she struck fear into the hearts of her workers and her customers. She was a French immigrant who had been in the country for more years than she’d like to admit, and had set up her burlesque over five years ago. She thought there would be an appetite for that kind of entertainment, and she was correct. Her burlesque incorporated classic entertainment to draw in older, and curious younger customers. They offered the same kind of experience and exotic dancing of a stereotypically strip club too, but Mrs Moreau knew how to make customers feel as though they were being classy, as well as offering more substantial entertainment.
The inside of the burlesque was decked out in the usual deep shades of red, pink and black. It had a main stage surrounded by tables and chairs, a bar, and a doorway to a side stage for more specific shows. The space behind the stage led down into the basement, which was used as a dressing room and storage for the bar. The floors above were two separate flats with three bedrooms shared by some of the girls who worked there, and a room for Mrs Moreau of course. Once such girl was Rhian Kendrick; to look at, many people thought she was of a southern European origin with her dark complex and hazel eyes, dark bronze blonde hair and subtly curved figure. When she spoke however, she revealed herself to be a rugged Valley’s girl, her Welsh accent making her sing-song voice more prominent. This made her all the more intriguing, and Mrs Moreau fell in love with the girls’ contrasting nature. Rhian had been there for a year, celebrating her ninteenth birthday on stage. She sung mostly, typical burlesque-style songs between dances where her colleagues had to change. She had good rhythm and could dance, but as Mrs Moreau said to her, she might as well have been the lost child of Shirley Bassey. She was one of the lucky few that Mrs Moreau had offered a room to, only asking for a small amount of rent that also covered Rhian’s utility bills. It was a shared room, but it was a room in London for a cheap price so Rhian could hardly complain.
Rhian considered herself very lucky. Her past had been one of poverty, underachievement and an alcoholic father – it was fair to say she had it tough and getting to London was a miracle. The only thing she had ever been good involved either performing or being creative, so at the age of seventeen she began auditioning, working substandard jobs and living in hostels. Her eighteenth birthday opened up more opportunities for the young woman. Mrs Moreau, by chance, came across her at an audition for exotic dancing at a nightclub her friend ran. The employers asked her to sing to test her confidence and Mrs Moreau fell in love with her voice. She snatched Rhian up quickly and got her to work at her place instead – Rhian was glad of it, the burlesque was a safer environment and Mrs Moreau didn’t stand for drug use or any funny business in the bedrooms. She got to do what she loved most, perform.
Despite her stroke of luck, Rhian felt held back. She wanted to be in the West End, not singing for a bunch of drooling men. Money wasn’t a huge motivator, but she thought, with more it, she could start trying out for things that weren’t burlesque. She was incredibly naïve about her dream at times, hoping that someone would walk in one day and she’d be talent spotted. For now though, she’d try and make the most out of her experience. She had friends at her workplace, a decent place to sleep and good food in her stomach which was more than she had a few years ago. It was a Friday night, one of the busiest nights of the week. The main old-fashioned burlesque show was held on that night and it drew in dozens of customers. Rhian was in the dressing room, preparing to go on stage for her number. She was in a long burlesque style dress with a split for one of her naturally tanned legs to spill out of invitingly. She wore a few feathers in her hair and applied her make-up generously, Mrs Moreau always complained about her cheeks that were dusted in freckles.
“Luv, you’re up in a minute” came the familiar voice of Roger the curtain man from the top of the stairs. He was around the same age as Mrs Moreau and Rhian always secretly hoped the two would get together, the thought made her chuckle.
“Thank you” she called back to him, rolling her shoulders back as a force of habit to prepare to go up on stage.
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The Petits Chéris burlesque was safely tucked away in one of the many side streets of the East End; it sat right at the back of the dead-end of street, which was home to a number of shady off-licence shops and tattoo parlours. It was a tall, narrow building which appeared smaller than it was; it had four floors, including a basement and was home to about ten people. A total of thirty people worked there, and the place was always abnormally busy compared to the rest of the street. The establishment was run by a Mrs Moreau, a highly respected lady in her late fifties. Despite her somewhat frail appearance, she struck fear into the hearts of her workers and her customers. She was a French immigrant who had been in the country for more years than she’d like to admit, and had set up her burlesque over five years ago. She thought there would be an appetite for that kind of entertainment, and she was correct. Her burlesque incorporated classic entertainment to draw in older, and curious younger customers. They offered the same kind of experience and exotic dancing of a stereotypically strip club too, but Mrs Moreau knew how to make customers feel as though they were being classy, as well as offering more substantial entertainment.
The inside of the burlesque was decked out in the usual deep shades of red, pink and black. It had a main stage surrounded by tables and chairs, a bar, and a doorway to a side stage for more specific shows. The space behind the stage led down into the basement, which was used as a dressing room and storage for the bar. The floors above were two separate flats with three bedrooms shared by some of the girls who worked there, and a room for Mrs Moreau of course. Once such girl was Rhian Kendrick; to look at, many people thought she was of a southern European origin with her dark complex and hazel eyes, dark bronze blonde hair and subtly curved figure. When she spoke however, she revealed herself to be a rugged Valley’s girl, her Welsh accent making her sing-song voice more prominent. This made her all the more intriguing, and Mrs Moreau fell in love with the girls’ contrasting nature. Rhian had been there for a year, celebrating her ninteenth birthday on stage. She sung mostly, typical burlesque-style songs between dances where her colleagues had to change. She had good rhythm and could dance, but as Mrs Moreau said to her, she might as well have been the lost child of Shirley Bassey. She was one of the lucky few that Mrs Moreau had offered a room to, only asking for a small amount of rent that also covered Rhian’s utility bills. It was a shared room, but it was a room in London for a cheap price so Rhian could hardly complain.
Rhian considered herself very lucky. Her past had been one of poverty, underachievement and an alcoholic father – it was fair to say she had it tough and getting to London was a miracle. The only thing she had ever been good involved either performing or being creative, so at the age of seventeen she began auditioning, working substandard jobs and living in hostels. Her eighteenth birthday opened up more opportunities for the young woman. Mrs Moreau, by chance, came across her at an audition for exotic dancing at a nightclub her friend ran. The employers asked her to sing to test her confidence and Mrs Moreau fell in love with her voice. She snatched Rhian up quickly and got her to work at her place instead – Rhian was glad of it, the burlesque was a safer environment and Mrs Moreau didn’t stand for drug use or any funny business in the bedrooms. She got to do what she loved most, perform.
Despite her stroke of luck, Rhian felt held back. She wanted to be in the West End, not singing for a bunch of drooling men. Money wasn’t a huge motivator, but she thought, with more it, she could start trying out for things that weren’t burlesque. She was incredibly naïve about her dream at times, hoping that someone would walk in one day and she’d be talent spotted. For now though, she’d try and make the most out of her experience. She had friends at her workplace, a decent place to sleep and good food in her stomach which was more than she had a few years ago. It was a Friday night, one of the busiest nights of the week. The main old-fashioned burlesque show was held on that night and it drew in dozens of customers. Rhian was in the dressing room, preparing to go on stage for her number. She was in a long burlesque style dress with a split for one of her naturally tanned legs to spill out of invitingly. She wore a few feathers in her hair and applied her make-up generously, Mrs Moreau always complained about her cheeks that were dusted in freckles.
“Luv, you’re up in a minute” came the familiar voice of Roger the curtain man from the top of the stairs. He was around the same age as Mrs Moreau and Rhian always secretly hoped the two would get together, the thought made her chuckle.
“Thank you” she called back to him, rolling her shoulders back as a force of habit to prepare to go up on stage.
