The bravado Mallory had showed in Harrison’s office lasted approximately fifteen minutes after she walked out the front doors of Reed, Warner, Hardy, Lutz, and Capel for the final time.
By the time she reached the subway she was fighting back tears. Her only consolation was that she didn’t have to go home and admit this debacle to Alec.
“Julie, it’s me,” she sniffed into her cell phone.
“What’s wrong?”
“I got fired.”
“What? Why on earth would they fire you?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Come to my office—I can’t sneak away for coffee or anything but we can talk in my cube.”
Mallory reversed direction and walked the few blocks to the HarperCollins building at 53rd between Fifth and Madison, where Julie was the assistant to a top editor who published literary fiction. Julie’s boss was often out of town, joining famous authors at their readings or taking them up on invitations to visit the sets of the films that were being adapted from their books or traveling to foreign rights book conferences in London and Frankfurt. It seemed incredibly glamorous to Mallory, though Julie assured her it wasn’t.
“Andrea works like a dog, believe me,” she’d said more than once.
Mallory signed in with security. I wonder what he’d think if he knew security had just escorted me out of a building.
“So what happened?” Julie said, pulling her into Andrea Tolen’s office and closing the door. Mallory immediately began examining the wall of books.
“Can I take one of these?”
“Yeah, but first things first—what happened? This wasn’t because of the bar exam, was it?”
“I wish,” Mallory said. “Are you sure we can sit in here?”
“Yes—stop talking about Andrea’s office and spill it.”
“Okay, here goes.” She gave the unabridged version of the events—including her theory that Poppy had gotten her busted.
Julie looked slightly shell-shocked.
“Mal, this might seem like an obvious question—but what possessed you to do that?”
“I don’t know. I was curious, I guess. And it was fun—if this hadn’t happened today, I’d be really excited about it.”
“Okay, this is what we need to do. We’re going to call Allison and get her new hotshot boyfriend who is majorly connected in this city to find you a job with a new firm. I’m sure he has some favor he can call in.”
“I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know? Don’t worry about it—that’s the way things happen. It’s no big deal.”
“I mean I don’t know if getting another legal job is what I should do. Maybe this is a sign.”
“Yeah, a sign you should stop hanging out with those crazy dancers before you ruin your life!”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“How can you say that? In the few weeks you’ve been hanging out at the Blue Angel, you and Alec have broken up, and you’ve lost your job. Even I can do that math.”
“There were problems with Alec and with my job before I ever set foot in the Blue Angel. I just didn’t realize how bad the problems were.”
“Well, now you know, and now it’s time to fix them. So go to my apartment; get your resume in order. We’ll ask Allison how to deal with this Reed, Warner fiasco, because she is good with damage control. And get some sleep. You look like shit.”
“Gee, thanks.” Her BlackBerry rang. “Oh, my God, it’s Alec.”
She put her fingers to her lips for Julie to be silent, and answered with her heart pounding.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey. How are you?”
“I’m okay. How are you?”
“Okay. I got your messages. Sorry it took me a while to get back to you.”
“That’s okay.”
“I’ve just been thinking a lot.”
“Me too.”
“Maybe you’re right. We should talk.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Come to the apartment tonight after work?”
After work. Oh, what had she done!
“Um, sure. See you later.”
She put her phone back in her bag and looked at Julie.
“Alec?” Julie said. Mallory nodded.
“Why do you look so upset? I thought you were dying to talk to him.”
“I was. . . . I am. But now on top of everything else, I have to tell him about getting fired.”
“It’s just a job, Mal. You’ll find another one.”
“You’re not listening to me. I seriously don’t think I want another job in law. It sounds crazy, but I think all this stuff happened for a reason.”
“Just talk to Alec tonight. Fix that. The rest will follow.”
Mallory wasn’t so sure. But then, she wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
The minute she set foot in the apartment, she ached for Alec in a way she had managed to stave off for the past few days. Every part of her wanted him. She couldn’t sit still waiting for him to walk through the door. She retouched her eyeliner, rinsed the dishes in the sink, paced the living room, flipped through ninety cable channels. And when she finally heard the key in the lock, her heart started racing.
He dropped his gym bag on the floor and moved toward her, pulling her into his arms without a word. A sob caught in her throat. She hadn’t forgotten the way he smelled, but it was as overwhelming and surprising as if she were experiencing it for the first time. She had told him not too long ago—and this was true—that if someone could bottle and sell his scent, it would be the best aphrodisiac for her. He had replied, “That’s love, baby.”
They kissed hard, and he pulled her into the bedroom. He kissed her face, her neck, all the while unbuttoning her blouse while she wiggled out of her pencil skirt. He pressed his face between her legs, and she felt his warm breath through her thin lace panties. She started tugging them down, and he helped her, kissing her inner thighs on the way back up. She pulled his face into her pussy in that shameless way she had never done with anyone before him, and he obliged her, licking her, his few days of stubble rough against her slippery wetness. She couldn’t help thinking that while she had enjoyed being with Bette—there was something new and soft and taboo about their bodies pressed against one another—it could never be this: strong arms encircling her waist, rough skin against her softness, a hard cock pressed against her, signaling how much she was wanted.
“Come here,” she said, pulling at him to move up. She wanted to say, I want you inside of me, but she had a hard time expressing things like that—talking dirty. Of course, she didn’t have to say a word—he knew what she wanted. He pulled up next to her and she stroked his cock.
“I don’t want to rush,” he said. “I’ve missed you so much. . . . I just want to take you in.”
She felt the same way, and what she wanted even more than to feel that first push of him inside her was to take him in her mouth.
“Lie down,” she said, and he lowered himself next to her. She kissed his chest, running her tongue over his nipples, then down to his belly button, further until she reached the base of his cock. She ran her tongue along his shaft, and he groaned, roping his fingers through her hair. After she moved up and down the length of him a few times, she closed her lips around the tip, circling it with her tongue, then taking him into her mouth. She used her hand to stroke him in rhythm with her mouth, and she tasted the first bead of semen. She worked her hand and mouth faster, taking him deep into her throat, but trying to control him so that he didn’t push too far. She remembered once she had been giving Alec a blow job, and she had gagged a little and felt embarrassed. But Alec told her it turned him on—the fact that it was something uncomfortable for her made it hotter somehow. “I don’t want you to be upset or hurt or anything, but sometimes little things change the dynamic or make it more intense.”
She’d shared this little tidbit with Julie and Allison, who were appalled.
“First of all, there is a difference between giving a guy a blow job and a guy fucking your mouth so hard you almost puke,” Allison said.
“There’s a name for that, you know,” Julie had put in.
“Yeah—fellatio.”
“No. When you give fellatio, that’s the woman being active and the guy being passive—receiving. Some guys can never be passive in bed, so even when you are trying to give them a blow job, they are essentially fucking your mouth, and that’s called irrumation.”
Mallory didn’t tell them that Alec was into irrumation sometimes. She could tell by the way they were talking that they viewed it as overly aggressive. But that was one of the things that got her so hot about Alec. He was such an alpha dog. She loved that he pushed her around in the bedroom a little. But at the same time, he was incredibly generous and was so tuned in to her body, he sometimes knew what she wanted better than she did. Like right now.
“Get on my cock,” he said, his voice hoarse. She slid up and hooked her legs around his hips, lowering herself slowly on top of his penis. She felt like it was throbbing inside of her, like he could come at any second.
“You feel so good,” she breathed, bracing her arms on either side of him, moving her pelvis so he could go deeper inside of her.
He moved his hand to her ass, his finger circling her anus while she rode his cock. She felt the first wave of spasms in her pussy, and he must have felt it too, because he pressed his finger into her ass at the exact same moment, making her come in shudders that shook her entire body.
She pressed her head against his chest, his cock still hard inside her. His heart was pounding almost as fast as her own.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “That felt so amazing.”
“Come here, baby—turn around.”
She slid off of him, and he pressed her gently onto her stomach. From behind her, he pulled her hips up so that her ass was readily available to him. She braced herself on her forearms, not sure what he wanted. Did he want to fuck her in the ass? They didn’t have anal sex often—she couldn’t take anything more than his finger without it hurting. A few times she had almost relaxed enough to feel good, but those moments were few and far between. For the most part, she did it for him—because she couldn’t say no to him. She didn’t want to say no. In her mind, a good sexual partner was someone who was willing to go places even if there wasn’t a physical payoff—even if it hurt. Maybe even especially if it hurt.
She felt his face against her ass, his tongue licking the outer lips of her pussy from behind. He pressed one finger deep inside her while his tongue worked outside, and she felt herself start to come again. Sometimes it was like that with him—he got her to this plateau where she was so turned on, she could just orgasm repeatedly. Once she was in that state, he could do anything to her; those were the times when she could let him fuck her in the ass, and it almost didn’t hurt.
But he wasn’t going for that tonight. Instead, he eased his cock into her pussy with extraordinary slowness. She reached behind her and grabbed for him, trying to signal him to go all the way inside her. He knew what she wanted, and he was ignoring her—it made her crazy.
She pulled away and flopped over on her back.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“You’re teasing me.”
He lay next to her, stroking her hair.
“God, I missed you so much. We have to work this stuff out, Mal.”
“I know. I’m miserable.”
He kissed her face, then her breasts, cupping them and running his tongue over her nipple.
“I want you to come,” she breathed.
“Wow. You’re almost talking dirty,” he said. “If a few days apart gets you talking dirty, maybe a little arguing is okay now and then.”
“Shut up!” she laughed. And then his hand moved between her legs, and she couldn’t talk anymore. Her breath quickened.
“You’re so wet,” he said.
“You keep making me come.”
He moved on top of her, and she grabbed his ass as he entered her. As he moved inside of her, he looked into her eyes, and the intensity of feeling she had for him in that moment almost brought tears to her eyes. She loved him, there was no doubt. Whatever issues there were, they had to figure them out. She couldn’t lose him.
She felt his cock pulsating inside her, the way it did just before he came. She felt herself cresting one more time, and it was the most intense sensation she’d ever experienced. She felt flooded with love for him, an absolute certainty that she was his and he was hers.
He cried out as he came, and her physical pleasure was intensified by hearing how good she made him feel, too. When he collapsed on top of her, she wrapped her arms around him, and he kissed her forehead, her nose, her brow.
Her body was covered in his sweat when he rolled off of her. They lay side by side, and she looked over at him. This was always when he looked the most beautiful to her—his cheeks were flushed, his blue-gray eyes bright.
She hooked her arm over his chest. He leaned over and kissed the top of her head.
“I don’t even know why we were fighting,” she said.
He sighed.
“What?” she said.
“This all goes back to that original conversation—I think you’ve been feeling insecure about this relationship ever since you moved to New York, and now you’re insecure about your job because you failed the bar, and you’re questioning both, even though both are just as right for you now as they were last year.”
“First of all, I love you, Alec. There’s no question about that. And I’m not second-guessing our relationship. I tried to tell you I was rethinking my career in law, and you jumped all over me and turned it into a referendum on my character.”
“I wasn’t judging your character. I think you were being reactive to some recent bumps in the road, and I wanted you to put things in perspective. And instead of thinking calmly about all of this, you ran off and did something crazy and impulsive and hurtful with that dancer.”
“You’re right—I wasn’t thinking calmly. But I wasn’t trying to hurt you, either. You constantly talk about other women, about wanting to see me with another woman; you take me to a burlesque show on my birthday. I didn’t think that what I did was outside the scope of our relationship.”
“Okay, well, let’s try to put that behind us. No more burlesque craziness. I’m ready to focus on you and us, and I hope you can do the same. And I think it’s important that you give this job a chance, Mal. You’re so smart, and you’re good at this—I know you are. We both need to be strong in our careers in order to be strong in this relationship. You always said you wanted an equal partnership, and I think work is a big element in that. So promise me—no more Blue Angel. Focus on work and us.”
This is not good, Mallory thought.
“Yeah. About that. I . . . got fired today.”
Alec pulled away and sat up.
“What are you talking about?”
“Harrison fired me.”
“Yeah, I got that part. Why?”
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“Mallory, just tell me what happened.”
“Okay, just hear me out before you freak.” She took a deep breath. “I was hanging out with Bette, and she gave me the chance to participate in the show last night—just picking up between acts, nothing major. Not dancing or anything. It was fun—I got to wear a costume, and they even gave me my own burlesque name. . . .”
He looked at her stone-faced.
“Um, so it was all fine, except when I looked out at the audience—you won’t believe this part—Patricia Loomis was there.”
She thought it best to leave out the part about being set up by Poppy. Let him think it was just an unfortunate twist of fate.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No. So she told Harrison, and they fired me.”
“Mallory, what were you thinking? You have the bar exam soon, and this is how you’re spending your time?”
“I really don’t need you judging me—again.”
“Anyone would judge this! It’s so stupid!”
She jumped off the bed and started pulling on her clothes.
“What? Did you think I was going to tell you they were crazy to fire you? Mallory, you’re at one of the best law firms in the country. Excuse me, you were at one of the best law firms in the country.”
“No, I didn’t expect you to take my side in this. In fact, this is exactly what I expected—and that’s the problem. It’s supposed to be you and me against the world, Alec. Remember that? But I guess that was only as long as I was doing what you approved of.”
Alec reached out for her.
“Sit down. Don’t run out again. That isn’t solving anything.” She sat on the edge of the bed, her clothes balled up in her lap. She felt like crying. Alec ran his fingertips across her back, and it made her shudder. “I’ll help you find another job—maybe a smaller firm. We’ll figure it out. The important thing is to move on from this.”
“I don’t know if I want another law job,” she said.
He stopped touching her.
“Did you sabotage your job on purpose?” he asked slowly.
“No! You think I somehow got Patricia at the show to get busted? I’m mortified! I would never . . .”
“No. Not what happened last night. Did you tank the bar exam?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m upset that I didn’t pass the bar.”
“Maybe on some subconscious level you didn’t want to pass.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, what’s done is done. I think you should still take it again in February.”
“No, I’m not going to.”
“When did you decide that?”
“I don’t know. Today. Just now.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“I don’t think so.”
He sighed.
“What do you want to do? Maybe Allison can hook you up with a job?”
“Maybe. The thing is . . . I know it sounds crazy, but I can’t stop thinking about performing. It felt exhilarating to be on that stage. I’m not sure I want to settle into corporate life just yet.”
“You’re thinking about going back to the Blue Angel? I thought you said it was a onetime thing.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“Mallory, this is irrational. You’re acting out over something, and I don’t know what it is. But I don’t want to be a part of it.”
“You’re breaking up with me because I want to try something new?”
“How can I rely on you, plan my life around you, if you are someone who can just throw away a three-year investment in a legal career? What happens when you decide this relationship is too tough, or someone bright and shiny comes along and you don’t want to do the work in this relationship anymore? Oh—wait. Someone already did. And you fucked her.”
“You are the one who is being irrational. God, Alec! This isn’t about you. I’m still figuring out my life. Just because you were lucky enough to know from tenth grade that you wanted to be a journalist doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t stumble a little along the way.”
But she could tell she was wasting her breath. Alec turned completely away from her and started pulling on his clothes. “So that’s it?” she said.
He shrugged. “I love you, Mallory. But I’m not happy.”
“I’m not happy either. But I don’t want to break up over this.”
“There’s no ‘this.’ It seems to be everything lately. We’re in different places. Or, I should say, you seem to be looking for something, and it doesn’t feel like something that’s going to make this relationship work. I’m going for a walk. I think maybe you should be gone when I get back.”
She lay back on the bed and covered her eyes with her arms. She didn’t let herself start crying until she heard Alec leave the apartment, the door closing with a sharp click behind him.
She woke up at Julie’s in the morning with the depressing realization that she had nowhere to go—and would not have anywhere to go for a while.
Julie was great, as always. Talking to her late into the night, assuring her she would help her find a new job—or not, whatever she wanted was okay with her (but just for the record she really thought Mallory ought to get a job, not just for money, but for her sanity’s sake). But now Julie was at work for the next eight hours, as was Allison and every other normal person she knew. Of course, there was one person she knew who wasn’t normal, and looking for her BlackBerry to text her was the only thing that got Mallory out of bed.
I’ve got “svoboda,” all right: no job, no boyfriend. Now I’m wondering, what comes after svoboda?
Of course, it was only nine in the morning and too early for Bette to be among the conscious and functioning. She had called being awake before 11 a.m. “obscene.” Funny how her definition of obscene differed from Patricia Loomis’s.
Mallory sank back into the sofa bed. She jumped when her phone rang.
“Hello?”
The first thing she heard was a languid yawn.
“I’m going to sleep for a few hours,” Bette said. “Come to my place at two. And then we’ll talk about your freedom. Time to figure out yourself.”
And she hung up.
Herself. When had she ever taken the time to think about “self”? It seemed to her that “self” was a set notion, a fait accompli, determined and shaped by her parents and school and the ironclad sense of what a girl like herself did with her life. But those notions weren’t so hard and fast after all, because, with one step onto the Blue Angel stage, that feeling of who she was started slipping so fast she felt like the ground beneath her was shifting. It was exhilarating, and even though she knew she should be worried about the future and about money, there was something so right about this feeling, she just had to go with it for now. She just wondered why she had to lose Alec over it. Why couldn’t they make it through this? It felt like she was being forced to choose between the man she loved and, well, herself. If she stepped back from where her life was taking her just to assure Alec that she was someone he could count on, or the same girl he fell in love with, or whatever it was that was freaking him out so much, how could she trust him? How could she be in a relationship that didn’t allow for mistakes and trying new things in life, changing course every now and then?
Intellectually, she knew she had to let him go. But it hurt so much. She was tempted to call Allison and ask her to help her get a new job as soon as possible, to not see Bette this afternoon but instead beg Alec to meet her for lunch so they could work this out. And yet as she worked out that scenario in her mind, something in her gut told her it was the wrong way to go. It sounded safe, but it was in fact the most dangerous thing she could do.
She pulled herself out of bed and looked at herself in the wide, bronze-framed mirror next to Julie’s bookshelves. She looked tired and washed out.
What would Moxie do?
And then she had an idea of how she would spend her first afternoon as a liberated woman. She texted Bette to meet her on East 56th Street.
When a woman moves to New York, she needs her friends to hook her up with two key things: a good gynecologist and a place to get a haircut. Mallory found both thanks to Allison, who introduced her to Christine Catora, M.D., and Bumble and bumble salon on East 56th Street .
She stood at the check-in counter of Bumble. It was a spare, industrial space, and the stylists were young, clad in all black, and attractive with an edge. A very different scene from the fancy, feminine salons her mother took her to when she was growing up on Philadelphia’s Main Line.
“Are you here to check in?” a thin guy with a white-blond buzz cut asked her.
“Yeah. I have a two-thirty color appointment with Galit? Annie referred me to her.”
“You’re Mallory? Okay, you are checked in. Go in the back to get changed and then up to the third floor color studio.”
She was about to explain that she needed to wait for her friend, but Bette managed to breeze in at that precise moment. Even in this jaded, hipster beauty mecca, heads turned.
“So what are we doing here?” Bette asked.
“I’m going to dye my hair red, and I need you to help me make sure I’m doing the right shade.”
“Phenomenal! Why didn’t you say so in your text? This is momentous. I would have brought champagne.”
They took the elevator to the third floor, checked in at another reception desk, and were met by a Kristen Stewart look-alike wearing denim overalls and black patent leather heels. Her left bicep was covered with a Vargas girl tattoo.
Mallory could have sworn she heard Bette gasp.
“Hey, I’m Galit. Which one of you is Mallory?”
Mallory introduced herself and then said, “And this is my friend Bette.”
“Cool. You here for moral support?”
“Technical support, actually,” Bette said. Mallory noticed the eye lock between them.
Galit showed them back to seats in front of thin, white-framed mirrors. It looked like a salon designed by Apple.
“Did you bring any photos of the shade you had in mind?”
“Um, no. Is that a problem?’
“Not at all. I’ll show you some swatches.”
Galit brought out a binder with pages filled with synthetic hair colored every shade from platinum blond to black. She opened to a section of red, and pointed to a soft auburn.
“This would look pretty on you,” she said.
Mallory looked at Bette, who, without hesitation pointed to a swatch the color of maraschino cherries.
Galit looked at Mallory, then at the color, then back at Mallory.
“That’s bold, but she can pull it off. You were born to be a redhead, babe,” she said.
“Wow. That’s really . . . red. Maybe I should ease into it a little?”
“If you’re going to do it, just go for it. If she hates it, you can tone it down, right?” Bette said to Galit.
“I can always tone it down. But I think you should only do the color if your heart is in it. It’s a gorgeous color, but you have to own it.”
“I’m going to do it,” Mallory said.
“Great. Let my assistant know if you want coffee or a menu from the café while I go mix it.”
Mallory looked at the glossy swatch of faux red hair, numbered 242. It was attached with Velcro, so she pulled it out and held it up to her face.
“Jesus, she is smokin’ hot,” Bette said.
“Yeah, she’s really pretty. She looks like that actress Kristen Stewart. Or Joan Jett. They look the same to me ever since I saw that movie, The Runaways. You should get her number.”
“I don’t have time to date.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I intend to be famous as soon as possible. Having a girlfriend is a distraction I don’t need.”
“I think love is important.” Mallory’s eyes teared up, and she dug around in her bag for one of the tissues she’d been relying on nonstop for the past twelve hours.
“Oh, no. What happened?
“First, I got fired.”
“Because your boss saw you at the show?”
“Not at the show, in the show. And yeah, that’s why.”
She was tempted to tell Bette that she knew Poppy had set her up, but she didn’t want to start even more trouble. Besides, she couldn’t prove it.
“Well, fuck it. You hated that gig anyway. Now you can do something you want to do. And you should start by working at tomorrow night’s show. Agnes digs you even though you had a minor freak-out. When I explained why, she understood—sort of. Besides, she doesn’t have anyone else. All the girls who come to her want to get billing as performers.”
“I don’t know. I’m not in the right headspace. Alec broke up with me, and I’m really . . . I can’t believe it.”
“Maybe you need a break.”
“That’s what my friend Julie says.”
“I have an idea—something that will take your mind off of Alec. I’m going to LA for a long weekend. Come with me. I’m being put up at a sick hotel in West Hollywood. All you have to pay for is your plane ticket. Everything else will be picked up. I went last year, and it was one of the best times I’ve ever had.”
“Who’s paying for it?”
“A guy named Justin Baxter. He used to come to the Blue Angel all the time, then started hiring me to perform at his birthday parties and Christmas parties, that sort of thing. He’s loaded and has places in LA and Miami and London . . . and a ridiculous apartment here on Bond Street. Seriously, just say yes. It will take your mind off of things, and maybe being in a different place will help you figure things out.”
“Maybe.”
“You need a debut as a redhead. Come on—I won’t take no for an answer. Let yourself have some fun. You’ll have plenty of time to worry when we get back.”
“I’ll make a deal with you: I’ll go if you get Galit’s phone number. I’m not taking a leap if you don’t.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Moxie. Get ready to pack your bags.”
* * *
Poppy knocked on the door of the Blue Angel. She had a fitting with Agnes for the first costume the owner had offered to make for her. She was thrilled about this, of course—finally, she was starting to feel that she was becoming accepted as a real Blue Angel.
Agnes opened the door, looking annoyed.
“This isn’t a brothel, you know,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
She followed Agnes to the dressing room, where an outrageously large bouquet of dark red poppies was arranged in a square vase.
“What is that?” Poppy asked.
“They came for you this morning.” She stormed out of the room. God, she was so rigid. This couldn’t be the first time a performer had been sent flowers at the club, could it? And it’s not like she could control what customers did.
She opened the card.
Thanks for a fun night. We hope to see you again soon.
Justin and Martha
Ugh! The nerve of him. She wished she had his phone number so she could give him a piece of her mind.
She pulled out her BlackBerry and dialed the number for the florist, Ovando.
“Hi, this is Poppy LaRue. I just received a gorgeous delivery from you guys from a customer named Justin Baxter. I don’t have his number, and I’m dying to thank him. Could you give me that information please? I want to tell him what an amazing job you guys did with the flowers.”
She jotted down the number and didn’t wait more than a beat to dial.
“This is Justin,” he said.
“This is Poppy LaRue.”
“What a pleasant surprise! Delighted to hear from you, darlin’. I hope you’re a fan of your namesake.”
“You know what I’m not a fan of? Your little bait and switch the other night. And, for the record, I’m not a prostitute.”
He laughed. Bastard!
“You didn’t seem to have a problem taking the money.”
“Yeah, well, I’m broke, and you seem to have plenty to throw around, so I’m not going to lose sleep over it.”
“You absolutely shouldn’t.”
“Okay . . . well. As long as we understand each other.”
“Wait—don’t hang up. I don’t want there to be any hard feelings. Although, hearing your voice, I do feel hard. . . .”
She couldn’t help laughing.
“Let me make it up to you,” he said. “We’re hosting an incredible private show tonight. Strictly A-list.” He rattled off the names of the actors, musicians, and socialites who would be attending. “Please join us. It’s at the apartment, ten sharp. Cocktail attire.”
Poppy knew she shouldn’t go—that she should have some pride, or at the very least stay out of trouble. But she couldn’t help thinking that if she went to the party, she might be invited on the LA trip. She knew Bette and two girls from the Slit were going, and she felt completely left out.
Agnes reappeared in the doorway. “I’ll try to make it,” Poppy said quickly, and hung up.
Agnes stood in the dressing room doorway, white satin fabric in her hands and pins pursed between her lips. She placed the pins side by side on one of the vanities and pulled a tape measure from her pocket.
“Are you ready to do costume or am I interrupting social hour?” she said.
“Sorry,” Poppy said. She stripped down to her underwear and Agnes knelt beside her, taking measurements.
“The problem with you girls is no focus! When I was your age I was practicing ballet ten hours a day. No talking on the phone, no drinking at night. And no men! You know who my relationship was with?”
Poppy shook her head.
“My feet! An artist lives for her art. What do you girls live for? Money? Romance?”
Poppy didn’t say anything. Fine, so Agnes was a great dancer in her day. But what did she have to show for it? She was old and alone. Poppy wanted to be the best performer at the Blue Angel, but what was the point if she was going to be alone for the rest of her life? Without love, she would feel like a failure. But if she was a famous burlesquer, of course she would find love. Or love would find her.
“I think romance is important,” Poppy said.
“Fine. You want love, good luck. But if you’re going to be with a man, make sure he’s a rich man. Love don’t pay the rent,” she said.