Rose Laine was a performance artist. While the audience watched, she knit herself into a dress made of acrylic, chunky-weight, cream-coloured tweed flecked with red, constructed on 12.75 mm needles. Occasionally the needles doubled as weapons.
No one had ever seen a gal knit herself into a dress in a strip club before. It was fast work. She came on stage with only a few rows left to knit. The audience could neither confirm nor deny the presence of her nipples jutting through the loose knit. They looked like the red tweedy bits in the wool. Obviously, well, it WAS meant to be titillating.
Her unraveling act unwound against a backdrop of grazing sheep. She pulled a loop and then unspooled, slowly of course. From the bottom up. Then stopped. Took a tippy-toed strut. Shook. Then came the top down. Stopped. Long-legged stride. Jiggled. Then a parade around the pole baaaing and bleeting as she modeled her shrunken chunky mini dress. Sometimes the audience baaaed back.
Art was mysterious.
When Harry saw her performance, he knew she was the face – and body – for their spinning business, “Twist of Fate”.