Chapter Four
It’s called the Boom Boom Room.
They meet Bette outside the Standard Hotel, and she’s oddly quiet as they make their way past the line at the velvet rope that looked like a casting call for America’s Next Top Model.
She’s wearing a black velvet trench coat, and her bobbed hair is so shiny and dark it looked almost purple in the evening light.
“We’re guests of Billy Barton,” Alec tells the brawny guy at the door with the headset. And with that, the seas part, and they walk inside. Mallory feels the hostile glare of the wannabes behind her, people wondering, Who are they?
Patricia Loomis and Reed Warner seem very far away.
The club is on the eighteenth floor of the hotel, and it’s the most decadent, intense space Mallory had ever stepped into.
The room is somehow retro and futuristic at the same time, with curved pale banquettes, chandeliers like starbursts, and 360-degree views of Manhattan and the Hudson River.
It’s as if the entire city was created as a mere backdrop.
So there they are, in one of the hardest rooms to get into in all of Manhattan—a city run on exclusivity and closed doors. Bette’s stipulation for doing the interview in such a place feels like a scavenger hunt task. Or a dare.
Mallory has always felt reasonably attractive, but not here.
Everyone is photo-ready, gleaming in sleek dresses and leather pants and shoes and bags that cost more than her monthly paycheck.
Men in suits, models in every corner, A-list actors talking to Manhattan socialites. Still, all eyes are drawn to Bette.
Across the room, Mallory sees Billy Barton watching them—until he turns away, pretending not to be. He had given them a wave and wink when they walked in, but didn’t approach to say hello.
Once they’re seated in one of the banquettes, Alec begins the interview.
Mallory, feeling like an awkward appendage just sitting there listening, stands to take a walk and find drinks.
But Bette insists she stay nearby. “I like to have a witness to make sure I’m not misquoted,” she says, taking Mallory by the hand and seating her between herself and Alec.
The physical contact gives her an odd little thrill. Like a barely perceptible shiver.
“Blue Angel is Agnes’s vision,” Bette says to Alec. “She makes it different from any other burlesque shows in New York.”
It’s too loud for Alec to reliably record the conversation on his phone, so he scribbles notes on a small notepad.
Watching him intently focused, his brow furrowed, reminds Mallory of their college days, and she feels a rush of affection for him.
Possessiveness, even. And she’s glad she’s there.
She’d never be able to focus on work knowing her boyfriend was out on the town with one of the sexiest people she’d ever met in her life.
Alec nods along to what she says, adding, “I know—the first time I went I was completely blown away. That’s why I wanted Mallory to see it.”
“And what did you think?” Bette says, turning to her.
“Me?” Mallory says. She’s just an observer. She’s not supposed to be part of the conversation. She glances at Alec and he shrugs. “Um, it was … interesting.”
“Interesting? Wow. Damned with faint praise,” Bette says.
“No, it was more than that. I mean, I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
“Do tell! What have you been thinking?” Bette focuses her pale blue eyes on her. Her black eyeliner goes up with a swoosh in the corner, a “cat’s eye.” She’d tried doing it once herself and ended up looking like someone had punched her in the face.
She looks at Mallory expectantly, waiting for her answer.
“I think Alec wants to interview you … not have you interview me,” Mallory says with a shaky smile.
“Oh, I’ve got nothing interesting to say.” Bette waves her hand in front of her face dismissively. “I’m meant to be seen in the flesh, not quoted.”
Mallory looks helplessly at Alec. He flicks his eyes toward the other side of the room. She knows what he is thinking: Mallory’s a distraction, and if she doesn’t want them to be stuck there all night she should probably make herself scarce.
“I’m going to excuse myself … use the restroom. If I can find it.” She stands, though the thought of crossing the room alone is intimidating. In her basic white blouse and black pencil skirt she’s a pigeon in a crowd of peacocks.
“Where’s the restroom?” she asks a cocktail waitress dressed like the sexiest flight attendant on the face of the planet, then follows the woman’s directions to a corridor near where they’d first walked in. She’s had just half a glass of champagne, but she feels disoriented.
The bathroom is composed of only a single stall and has floor-to-ceiling windows. How is she supposed to pee in front of a gigantic window overlooking Manhattan?
She decides to just touch up her minimal makeup. A lipstick rolls around in the bottom of her bag, and she uncaps it for the first time in months.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Um, someone’s in here,” she says.
“I know. It’s me, Bette—open up.”
“I’ll be out in a second,” Mallory says quickly, shoving her lipstick back in her bag.
“Just open the door.”
For a second she stands there frozen, debating what to do. Just leave the bathroom! But when she opens the door and steps out, Bette pulls her back inside and closes the door behind them.
“Cool space,” Bette says, walking over to the window and pressing herself against the glass.
“I prefer my bathrooms with a little more privacy,” Mallory says.
Bette turns to her. “Hmm. You must not have very strong exhibitionist tendencies. I thought you might have, after last night.”
She locks eyes with her, and Mallory feels unsteady on her feet.
“Come over here and check out this view,” Bette says. “Might as well appreciate it even if you don’t approve.”
Mallory reluctantly takes a few steps to stand beside her. She can smell the musk of her perfume.
“Put your hand on the glass. Don’t you feel like you’re on top of the world?”
“Yes.” It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff.
Bette turns and, with a casual gesture, reaches out to brush the hair away from Mallory’s face. She trails her hand down her back, resting it between her shoulder blades.
“I’m not usually a fan of long hair. But on you, it’s hot,” she says.
Mallory keeps her eyes focused on the city stretched out beneath them.
Bette walks to the toilet and starts pulling up her skirt.
“Oh! I’m going to give you some privacy. I’ll …”
But before she can leave Bette starts peeing, her fishnet stockings around her ankles.
“What’s the big deal? We’re both girls,” Bette says nonchalantly, pulling her skirt into place and using the sink.
She turns back to Mallory.
“You can go too, if you want. I won’t peek.”
“No—that’s okay. I’m fine.”
“I dare you.”
“What?”
Bette laughs, a full, throaty laugh that would’ve been contagious if Mallory weren’t so very unnerved.
“Just kidding.”
Mallory walks back to the mirror and pulls out her lipstick. She needs something to do with her hands.
“Wait!” Bette practically shouts, startling her.
“What?”
“Don’t put that on.”
Mallory looks at the tube of lipstick, then back at Bette.
“Why not?”
“Because,” Bette says, stepping closer to her. “I’m just going to mess it up.”
And with that, Bette puts her hands on Mallory’s face and brushes her lips against hers. The touch is so faint, Mallory can almost tell herself she imagined it.
“See you back out there,” Bette whispers.
And with that, she’s gone.
Mallory accepts a third glass of champagne from the waitress, drawing a look of concern from Alec. He knows she’s a lightweight.
“The best part of the show happens away from the audience,” Bette is saying. “If you want the real inside story, you should have Mallory hang out with me backstage.”
Alec, not drinking at all tonight, is starting to get irritated.
“I’m writing the article, not Mallory.”
“Yes, but you’re a guy. I could never bring you into the dressing room. But it’s different when it’s just us girls, right, Mallory?”
The image of her with her fishnets around her ankles flashes through Mallory’s mind.
Alec turns to her. “Do you have any interest in doing that?”
Interest in going backstage at that burlesque club? She doesn’t know how to answer because it’s both yes and no. Yes, because it would be fascinating. And no, because she doesn’t entirely trust herself around this woman.
“Of course she does,” Bette says. “We’re doing our holiday show next Saturday night. It’s pretty crazy.” She turns to Mallory. “Are you in?”
Her phone vibrates. It’s a text from Patricia Loomis. She feels like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight. She turns off her phone.
“Mal, what do you think?” Alec says.
“I’m in.”