The Naked Room by Diana Hockley Page A

little eyes glared watchfully out of its broad face, ears flattened to its skull. When I thought no-one was watching, I would touch the wet-looking nose and apologise for the animal’s indignity, repulsed by the barbarity of its artificial existence.
    Mrs Minowski’s music room was cluttered with sheet music, text books and half-finished glasses of water which, rumour had it, held gin.
    I soon learned if I made mistakes, it would prolong my lesson and save me from the school thugs who circled like piranhas in the playground, lying in wait for the four-eyed island parrot. My teacher was not fooled for long. ‘What is this, child? I know you are a pianist far advanced for your years. Today you are playing as a two-year old!’
    She twirled the piano stool around so I was facing her. For a long moment we eyeballed each other, before she glanced out of the window, nodded as though satisfied of something important and spun me back again to face the keyboard. ‘We will finish your lesson, and then you will play a duet with my next pupil, who you know well. Then we go together across to the classroom! This is the way it shall be from now on.’ Her lips folded in a determined line. Thank you thank you thank you, God.
    ‘Thank you, Mrs Minowski!’ I sighed with relief, safe for the foreseeable future. A knock came at the door and my best friend, Pam entered, flushed and panting.
    ‘Aha! Pamela! You are on time. Good.’ She pushed me forward, beaming from ear to ear, teeth clacking as she chewed the menthol cough lozenges to which she was addicted. We fell to giggling and pushing each other. Mrs Minowski clapped her hands and admonished us to behave.
    Pam got her flute out of its case and Mrs M’s eyes glittered with excitement. She grabbed Pam by the sleeve of her uniform blouse and propelled her into position beside me at the keyboard.
    ‘Now, the Lullaby. One, two, three!’
    Brahms Lullaby filled the room; Mrs Minowski clasped her hands, tears welling.
    ‘My wee ones,’ she sobbed, ‘so beautiful. Never have I had two so talented children at once, never! You will be famous, I know it.’ I still send her my CDs when they come out and receive voluminous letters in return, which contain a great deal of advice, much of which I am grateful for.
    Pam and I were accepted into the Conservatorium of Music. Our mothers leased a three-bedroom flat for us which, unbeknownst to them, had been previously occupied by two call girls. The lavish décor, an African jungle motif, should have alerted us to something untoward, but we only discovered this from the neighbours after we had lived there for a couple of weeks.
    We needed another girl to help out with the rent, but despite advertising and asking around, it was about three weeks before tall, slim and self-contained Jessica Rallison, also from Townsville, stood on our doorstep. Her olive skin glowed; her long, black hair fell in a thick, glossy plait. She oozed over the threshold and sauntered through the unit, eyeing our photos, furniture and general mess.
    Pam and I fluttered behind her like acolytes to a priestess, trying to resist the temptation to snatch cardigans, books and clutter and stuff it under cushions. If we had worn white robes and crawled on the floor behind her, we couldn’t have grovelled any harder. All that was left was to make a sacrifice in her honour.
    We designated the smallest bedroom for a third flatmate. A momentary wrinkle sullied her perfect forehead when she saw it, but her eyes gleamed when she was shown the bathroom. The call girls had obviously designed and installed it for their pleasure. It was our pride and joy too.
    A deep, claw-footed tub under a shower, chequerboard tiles and faux gold fittings were complemented by a set of cupboards running the full length of the wall. These were supported by a wide bench top, with a huge mirror screwed to the wall. The full length makeup bench, inset with two deep hand basins was polished granite.
    We