she scoffs, “we were never going to be the girls who would make doe-eyes at you from the crowd while you staggered on stage. we couldn’t giggle like they could; into red-nail-painted hands, spluttering sticky sweet compliments into your ringing ears. to us, you are void of mystery. void of status. we had our own stages to saunter across. we knew taste. the workings of it. we knew the score.”