Mallory closed the door to her office.
“Okay, I can talk now,” she told Allison.
“I just wanted to hear how the rest of your night was.”
“Why were you MIA yesterday? I called you three times.”
“I was with Andrew. He’s a big fan of the Sunday afternoon date. Such a romantic.”
“Ahh . . . Andrew. When do we get to meet Andrew?”
“Soon. And that’s another conversation. So spill it—what happened at the Slit?”
“It was . . . interesting.” She glanced at her office door. Patricia Loomis had just e-mailed her that she would be stopping by to discuss the memo that was due at the end of the week. “I can’t get into it now. But Allison—I cannot focus on work. I don’t know what it is. The past few weeks . . . the hours pass so slowly here. I used to get lost in the research, it was like a great puzzle, and when I was done putting together the cases and wrapping up the memos, I felt a rush. Now I’m dragging myself to the finish line.”
“We all feel like that sometimes. Work sucks. Just focus on doing a decent job, make some bank, and you’ll live your life outside of the office. You don’t have to live for work.”
“I know. I just . . . If I feel like this now, what will I be like in five years?”
“You’ll hate it more, but will be well compensated for hating it more.”
“Yeah. That’s not really consoling me right now.”
“You just have the Monday blues. Let’s grab a drink later.”
Patricia opened the door and marched into the room. Mallory quickly hung up her cell.
“Harrison wants the memo tomorrow,” she said—no greeting, no preamble. She wore a putty-colored suit, her hair in a bun. Her T-zone was shiny even though it was only eleven in the morning and thirty-five degrees outside.
“What? Last Friday you said end of this week?”
“And now it’s Monday. And I’m telling you tomorrow.” She turned on her heel and paused by the door. “And we expect strong work, Mallory. Don’t think this firm will keep lowering its expectations to meet your performance level. Have you reregistered for the bar?”
“Yes. It’s in early February.”
“I know when it is. Harrison wants to make sure you’re on track.”
“I’m on track.”
“Well . . . good. Let’s just hope you can cross the finish line this time.”
Mallory slumped in her seat. She texted Alec.
I’ll be home really late tonight.
Back at her computer, she logged onto Westlaw. Her cell rang.
“What’s going on?” Alec asked.
“The memo I thought I had another week on is due tomorrow. Alec, I’m stressed. Patricia never liked me, but now that I failed the bar she’s like contempt walking. She’s just waiting for me to fuck up.”
“Don’t let her get to you.”
“I’m trying not to. But I don’t know—I’m really doubting myself lately. I never questioned doing this—of course I would be a lawyer like my parents. And law school was difficult but, you know, stimulating. It felt right. But this . . .”
“You can’t let failing the bar throw you off your game like this, Mal. You’re going to be a great lawyer. You are a great lawyer.”
“I don’t know. I’m not even sure I want it anymore.” It was hard for her to admit it, but there it was—it wasn’t just that she questioned her ability. She was questioning her choice of career. And it was terrifying.
“This isn’t you talking, Mal. You’re tired; you’re stressed. . . . Just get through today, and tomorrow things will look completely different.”
“Okay.” She hung up the phone, put her head on her desk, and let herself cry.
Her phone vibrated. She hoped it was Alec. Texting her what? Saying it was okay to think she’d made a colossal mistake choosing to become a lawyer? Or maybe it was Allison, reiterating not to worry—everyone hates her job. Better yet, Julie could chime in with her usual game plan: marry rich and then quit.
But the text was from none of the above. It read:
Want 2 have some fun? We’re costume shopping. Xo Bette
Mallory paused, her hands holding her BlackBerry as if it were a lottery ticket.
I’m at work, she typed.
Blow it off. Meet us at M&J Trimming, Sixth Avenue.
She looked at her watch. There was nothing wrong with taking an early lunch break, right? She’d be at the office until the middle of the night regardless.
See you there.
* * *
Poppy and Bette walked against the wind up Sixth Avenue. Poppy didn’t mind the cold—she was wearing an ultra-heavy faux fur coat that she’d bought at Trash and Vaudeville—but Bette kept stopping to text every few feet, and the fact that she couldn’t give her undivided attention for more than two minutes at a time was irritating.
“Who are you so busy texting?” Poppy asked.
“Just checking my e-mail,” Bette said.
Poppy decided to let it go. After all, one hook-up did not give her the right to know whom Bette was texting or e-mailing. And it was only that—one hook-up. There had been no repeat performance after the night backstage. But Poppy had been thinking about it every day. She was a woman who prided herself on being able to fuck like a guy—no emotions, no attachments . . . no problem. But suddenly she was like a lovesick schoolgirl . . . for this crazy bitch! Maybe it was because guys were always chasing her, and Bette was, well, not. Or maybe it was the way she’d touched her, that perfect combination of gentle but expertly confident. And the way she smelled . . . kind of earthy, and sweet like vanilla. The fact that she was so beautiful didn’t hurt. Poppy had been with a lot of hot guys, but none who awed her with his perfection.
“This is the place.”
Poppy needed a stretchy ribbon of black sequins and some beaded fringe for a Morticia Addams costume she was working on. Agnes said she would help her with the costume, but she needed to buy all the material. It could get really expensive, but Bette said M&J Trimming was a reasonable place if you didn’t get too carried away.
“Just go in knowing what you are going to buy and don’t get any extras—no matter how cool or how sure you are that you will use it ‘someday’ for a costume,” Bette warned her. “I have drawers filled with impulse buys—fringe in colors that never work, bags of sequins, tassels that are gorgeous but too big. Just stay focused.”
Even though she wished Bette had given some hint that she wanted to have sex with her again, at least she’d gotten one thing she’d wished for: Bette was taking an interest in helping her make it as a performer. This shopping trip proved it. Poppy planned to secure her place as one of the lead girls, and then no newcomer would be a threat. Especially with Bette as a mentor—Agnes knew Bette was the best thing she had going, and would do anything to keep her exclusive to the Blue Angel. And Poppy would do anything to keep Bette exclusive to her.
It was a good sign that she’d invited Poppy to go shopping. As far as she was concerned, shopping was always foreplay—at least with men. Was it different between two women? Probably not.
Just as she pondered the equation Bette + Poppy + shopping = hot sex, she spotted her. It couldn’t be. Why would Mallory Dale be at M&J Trimming?
“That looks like Mallory Dale.”
“That is Mallory,” Bette said, waving her over.
“What’s she doing here?”
“I invited her.”
Poppy felt her face turn colors.
“Wow. This place is amazing. It makes me wish I could sew,” Mallory announced.
Poppy hated to admit it, but the other girl was terribly pretty, even in her stuffy wool coat and with lank brown hair that needed a good cut. Or highlights. Or both.
“You can’t sew? Like, even a button?” Poppy said. Bette shot her a look.
“No. Nothing. Isn’t it terrible? My mother could make some things and of course hemmed all of my skirts. I just take everything to a seamstress on 82nd and York.”
“I didn’t sew that much until I got into performing. It’s too expensive to buy costumes off the rack. And it’s more personal this way. Although none of us can make costumes like Agnes.”
“She makes things for you?”
“Once in a while. If we have a clear idea and give her the material. I’m having her make an Alice in Wonderland costume for me.”
“She mostly does it for Bette,” Poppy said.
“You’re still fairly new,” Bette said. “She’ll make something for you one day. You just have to earn it.” She smiled at Poppy. Was that a sign? Even though Bette had invited that mousy interloper, there was still something special between them.
The best thing to do was just cut this ill-fated shopping excursion short. Poppy headed to the register with her sequins and fringe, hoping that Bette would follow her. Instead, Bette took it upon herself to give Mallory a tour of the place. Even from the front of the store, she could tell the Mouse—and that was what she would call her from now on, at least to herself—was oohing and aahing at everything, as if Bette had given her the keys to the Emerald-fucking-City.
“Okay, ready to go,” Poppy announced, waving her shopping bag.
“We need to take Mallory somewhere to cheer her up,” Bette said. “She’s having a career crisis.”
Great. Now the Mouse was latching on to Bette with some sob story about her job. From the looks of her clothes, it had to be paying pretty well.
“Are you allowed to just wander off in the middle of the day?” Poppy asked, as sweetly and innocently as she could muster.
“No, actually. I’m technically taking lunch, but I should get back. I have a huge thing due, and I’m going to be there half the night as it is. . . .”
Poppy nodded, the picture of understanding.
“It’s good to be responsible,” Poppy said.
“Don’t be ridiculous! If you’re going to be there late tonight anyway, what difference does another hour make? Let’s shop some more. Is there anything you need to get?”
Now the Mouse was the one turning colors.
“Well,” she said slowly. She had this way of speaking that made you focus on her mouth. “My best friend was just telling me I should invest in better underwear.”
No! What an operator. But what was her game? Why did she want to get close to Bette? And how did she know Bette was obsessed with underwear? I mean, they all liked underwear, all bought their share of garters and thongs and the whole bit. But Bette had a collection that necessitated outside storage space.
“Done. Have any particular place in mind?”
“Um. Maybe La Petite Coquette?”
Poppy and Bette exchanged a glance.
“You can drop that kind of coin?” Poppy asked.
“Yes,” Mallory said. “The only good thing about my job is the paycheck.”
And the fact that you have to get back there soon, Poppy thought to herself.
But not soon enough.
Mallory didn’t want to be paranoid, but she could swear Poppy was glaring at her from across the backseat of the cab. What had she done to piss the blonde off so badly?
“Give me one good reason to stay in a job you hate,” Bette said. At the fabric store, Mallory had confided how rattled she was by her recent doubts about her legal career. Somehow, it was easier to admit this to Bette than to her closest friends—even to Alec.
“Well, money for one thing. I need to support myself.”
“Bullshit,” Bette said. “The most successful people are people who do what they love.”
“Yeah, but a lot of people are broke doing what they love. That’s why they have expressions like ‘starving actor.’ And ‘golden handcuffs.’ And I went to law school. You don’t just throw that away.”
“Ah. The psychology of previous investment,” Bette said.
Mallory looked at her.
“What?” Bette said. “You think I didn’t have choices to make when I decided to perform full-time? I went to Michigan. I was an English major, psych minor. I could have an office job, a steady paycheck. But once I got a taste of this life, I couldn’t go back.”
The cab pulled up in front of the store on University Place, its hot pink awning unmistakable. Inside, Poppy picked up a pair of black lace French knickers.
“This place is expensive,” she sniffed.
“I know. That’s why I need my job!”
Bette made a beeline for the back of the store, calling over her shoulder, “If you’re going to be negative, Poppy, why don’t you do us a favor and just leave?”
Mallory cringed. Poppy looked as if she’d been slapped, and tossed the underwear on a table.
“Fine. I will,” she said, and then, sotto voce, “Have fun spending all the money you make at your miserable job.”
Poppy stormed out, and Mallory thought maybe she should go after her.
“Mallory—come on back here,” Bette called. “I’m by the dressing rooms.”
“This way,” a young salesgirl said, leading her to Bette.
“Try these on.” Bette handed her a pile of black lace. “Oh—and these.” She added a package of thigh-high black stockings.
“Poppy left. Maybe you were a little harsh with her?”
“Oh, she’s such a diva. She’ll be fine. By tonight we’ll kiss and make up.”
For most people, that expression was a cliché. Coming from Bette, Mallory suspected it was a bit more literal.
“I’ll be right out here if you need help,” Bette said.
She closed the curtain on the small dressing room, leaving Mallory to contemplate the pile of underwear and . . . what was that thing?
Mallory opened the curtain.
“What is this?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No.” It was black and had hooks like a bra, but had four straps hanging from it. It was like some strange lingerie arachnid.
“It’s a garter! Don’t tell me you’ve never worn one before.”
“I haven’t. And it’s really not my style.”
“How do you keep your stockings up?”
“I wear . . . you know, panty hose.”
“Okay, well, that has to stop immediately. That is not hot.”
She thought of Allison’s parting comment after brunch, if your boyfriend is bringing you to burlesque clubs on your birthday . . .
“Okay. Just . . . show me how to wear this thing.”
“Absolutely. But you have to take off your clothes first.”
“I’m just going to try it on. . . .”
“Over your suit? Mallory, I can tell you have a hot little body. Why are you so bashful? I’m going to help you get some things to show it off for that gorgeous guy of yours. Believe me, he won’t be touching my leg under the table next time when he knows what you’re rocking under those lawyer clothes.”
Mallory’s stomach knotted up. So he had been touching Bette’s leg under the table. Well, of course—they had kissed, so it should not surprise her. Still—it stung.
“Okay—give me a minute, and I’ll call you in when I’m ready.”
Mallory closed the curtain again, and faced herself in the mirror. God, she was glad she’d worn decent underwear today. Nothing spectacular—just cream-colored, lace boy shorts from the Gap and a white demibra. But it was better than the five-year-old, well-worn, floral cotton panties she sometimes fell back to when she was behind on her laundry.
She unzipped her blue pinstriped skirt and let it fall to the floor. It was a little too warm in that small space, and her skin was already slightly moist under her white blouse, but she wasn’t taking that off. Observing herself in the mirror, she thought, not bad. Not as good as Bette or Poppy—they were nearly perfect. Not all of the dancers were like that. But those two—their bodies were art as surely as the costumes and the dances themselves. But for a twenty-five-year-old lawyer (or almost lawyer), Mallory had to admit she was in good shape. Still, she resolved to go back to Pilates the following week. Maybe even twice.
She removed her panty hose and replaced them with the sheer black thigh-highs Bette had picked out for her.
“What’s the holdup in there? I know you need help getting the new stuff on—I didn’t know you needed help getting the old stuff off!”
Mallory opened the curtain.
“Ready,” she said, holding out the garter.
“Okay—now put it around your waist. It should just rest on your hips. No—those straps have to hang down. You really are lingerie illiterate!”
Mallory hooked the contraption around her waist and then turned the hooks around to the back—the method she used when she first got used to wearing a bra.
Bette knelt by her side and pulled one of the straps.
“Okay, now these latch onto the stockings,” she said, fastening one. “Now you try one.”
Mallory bent down and tried to secure the metal latch against the thin fabric, but it wasn’t working. She felt like an idiot. Did other women really do this routinely?
“Here—you slide this back, put the stocking here, and then slide this up. There! You got it. I’ll do the ones in the back because that takes a more experienced hand.”
Mallory felt self-conscious having Bette behind her like that, but less so when she saw herself in the mirror. She liked what she saw—more than she had in a while. Maybe more than she ever had.
Bette adjusted the length of the garter straps, then stood behind her and appraised her in the mirror as well.
“Wow. You were made for this stuff.”
And then Bette ran her hand against Mallory’s lower back, and over her ass. Mallory shivered, the thin layer of perspiration under her blouse turning cold.
“Wait right here. I want you to try something else,” Bette said, leaving her alone with her tumbling thoughts.
Mallory turned and looked at her ass in the mirror. How was it possible that another woman was making her feel more feminine than any of her boyfriends ever had?
She slipped back into her heels, then looked herself over from her toes up to her flat stomach framed in black lace.
“You’re definitely going to need help with this!” Bette said breathlessly, and produced, with a flourish, a black satin corset.
“That is gorgeous!”
“Wait til you see how it feels.” Bette got to work loosening the elaborate back lacing. She glanced up. “You’re going to have to take off your shirt and bra to wear this, you know.”
Mallory began unbuttoning her blouse, hands shaking slightly. She hung it on a hook, then removed her bra. Bette, finished with her preparations on the corset, made no attempt to disguise the fact that she was watching her.
“Why are you so bashful?” Bette said.
“I’m not,” Mallory said.
“Well, that’s obviously not true. Come on—you’ve seen me take my clothes off twice already.”
“Yeah—but that’s what you do! I mean, you like having people watch you take your clothes off, right?”
“Of course I do. It’s exhilarating to be objectified. Don’t you like the fact that I enjoy looking at you—that I obviously think you’re beautiful?”
Mallory swallowed hard.
“Here—let’s get this on.” Bette wrapped the corset around Mallory’s torso. “Hold the front while I lace up the back.” She pulled the laces tight, and Mallory lost her breath.
“Oh my God!” she laughed giddily.
“I know—amazing, right?”
Mallory looked at them in the mirror. Bette was intent on her lacing task, her shiny dark hair falling across her face. She watched her pale fingers work quickly down the back of the garment, her blood maroon nail polish shiny in the fitting room light. Mallory imagined those fingers against her flesh, but immediately shook the thought away.
“Now, do those hooks in the front.”
Mallory started at the bottom. The corset was so stiff it was difficult to get more than a few hooks fastened without one coming undone.
“Slow down,” Bette said. Mallory felt herself beginning to perspire again, but she took a deep breath and concentrated on the task. When she finished, she turned to look at herself in the mirror.
And what she saw was someone else entirely.
“I can’t believe it,” she breathed. There was no difference between the woman she saw in the mirror and the women she saw on the Blue Angel stage.
“I can,” Bette said. “This is how I see you. And how you should see yourself.”