He wasn’t wrong: ever since I’d started dancing, I couldn’t shake the smell of the club from my hair. The other girls didn’t seem to have this problem, they drifted around in clouds of patchouli and Victoria’s Secret Love Spell, edged with tequila and jojoba oil. I, on the other hand, reeked of cigarettes, hotel sheets, cramped male sweat. I smelled like an airport bar, the tang of the lonely with hours to kill. I smelled like someone’s deadbeat dad.