Chapter Six
Half a year into her life in Manhattan, Mallory still can’t understand why people line up every weekend for overpriced eggs.
The line outside Sarabeth’s on the Upper West Side stretches down the block.
The only reason she’s willing to put up with this insane Manhattan ritual is because Allison and Julie want to have a belated “happy birthday” brunch.
Finding a night where all three of them are free has proven to be an exercise in futility.
Her phone vibrates with a text from Allison: RU here? We’re in the front of the line and don’t want to miss getting seated—hurry!
Mallory checks the time: She’s five minutes early, and Allison and Julie are still managing to act like she’s late. Her friends are so Type A.
I’m in line half a block down.
Allison turns from her spot at the front of the line and waves her over. No wonder Mallory didn’t spot them—they’re dressed in jeans and long black coats that blend in with the rest of the crowd.
“Happy birthday, Mally boo!” Allison says, pulling her into a hug.
“How long have you been waiting?” Mallory asks, joining them in line.
“A half hour.”
“Why’d you get here so early?”
“We knew there’d be a wait.”
“Delmar party?” the hostess calls out. She’s blond and around their age and looks stressed out.
Allison puts her hand up like they’re in class, and they follow the hostess to a cute, sun-filled table near the front window.
“Did you have a great birthday?” Julie says. “I hope Smart Alec found something worthy of your twenty-fifth.” Allison coined the nickname their senior year of college, when she decided Alec was arrogant. “Arrogant, but hot,” she’d said.
“It was interesting.” Mallory shrugs off her coat. The room is warm and smells like syrup. The chatter from nearby tables puts the overall volume at a ten.
“Interesting?” Allison and Julie echo in unison.
“Yeah, he, um, brought me to a burlesque show.”
Allison and Julie exchange a look.
“Wow. Okay. Happy birthday to him,” Julie says.
“Seriously. Where will you go on your anniversary? Scores?”
Mallory feels instantly defensive on his behalf.
“You guys are so harsh. It was fun! It was different and I really had a great time. I mean, it was a show just like if we went to a play or something.”
“Yes. A play with strippers.”
“They aren’t strippers—at least, not the way you think. It’s very artistic—the music, the costumes … each dance is a narrative.”
Julie and Allison look at her like she’s lost her mind.
The server appears, a young guy who has the chiseled face of an aspiring actor.
“Can I have a mimosa, please?” Mallory says.
Allison tells the server to bring them a pitcher.
Mallory takes the moment to reset. It’s really important to her that her friends approve of her relationship.
She’s not sure why. Maybe it’s because lately, she has her own doubts.
She and Alec had been so great together in college.
But lately, it feels like she cut a perfect flower and is trying to replant it in different soil, wondering if it will continue to grow.
“In his defense, the night was partly work-related,” Mallory says. “Alec interviewed one of the performers for an article. We went to this crazy room on the top of the Standard.”
Allison’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you got into the Boom Boom Room.”
Mallory nods, suppressing a satisfied smile.
It’s rare for her to get to a hotspot before Allison, who works for a very glam, top-notch PR firm.
Her phone is a Who’s Who of New York City.
For the past few years, Allison and Julie have been the ones with interesting work stories and gossip.
While Mallory was grinding it out in law school, they were already making their way in the media and celebrity worlds.
“What was it like?”
“I felt like Alice in Wonderland.”
Julie and Allison look at one another.
“We’re jealous,” Allison says.
“Don’t be.” Mallory has an idea. “Come to a burlesque show with me Saturday night.”
Julie immediately shakes her head.
“No, thanks. Not my scene.”
“I’m in,” Allison says. “Can I bring someone? Or is that a bad idea for a third date?”
Now Mallory and Julie are the ones to share a pointed look.
“Third date? You’re holding out on us! Who is he?” Mallory says.
“He works for Bloomberg. We did this amazing event for the mayor’s office at the Guggenheim. We just hit it off. What can I say?”
“Name?”
“Too soon to share. It’s only been two dates. We’ll see.”
When Allison says We’ll see, it’s not her being concerned that the guy will stop calling—it’s her worry that she’ll lose interest. “So can I bring him?”
“Sure. I’d say seeing how a guy reacts to dancers wearing only tassels and a G-string is a good litmus test,” Mallory teases.
“Hmm. I guess that raises the bar for me. Better make a trip to La Petite Coquette,” Allison says, name-dropping an upscale East Village lingerie boutique.
“I would never spend that kind of money on underwear,” Mallory says.
Allison flips through her menu.
“If your boyfriend brings you to a burlesque club on your birthday, maybe you should start.”
The Blue Angel has been transformed. Sequined snowflakes hang from the ceiling, fluffy fake snow dusts the floor, holly and tinsel line the bar, and the Rodeo Guy is dressed like a vaguely sinister elf.
The clipboard woman inside the door wears a sexy Santa’s helper costume: a skintight red dress cinched at the waist with a wide, black, brass-buckled belt. The dress has quarter-length sleeves with white fur cuffs and small jingling bells dangling from the bottom.
“I believe we’re on the list,” Alec says, giving their names. He wasn’t thrilled to learn Allison would be tagging along, but he didn’t argue with Mallory when she insisted.
“How many people in your party?” An older woman with a European accent appears from behind the curtain.
She has long white hair and is wearing an old-fashioned, Edwardian-style long black dress.
Her deep-set eyes are heavily made up with dark eyeliner and metallic shadow, making them look even more creased.
“Three,” Alec says. He tells her that they’re guests of Bette Noire.
The woman frowns and peers over the shoulder of the woman with the clipboard.
“She never listens! Only one guest per performer. So two of you have to pay,” she says, then disappears behind the curtain.
Alec hands over his credit card.
“Enjoy the show,” Santa’s helper says with a smile.
Inside, Mallory takes in the room, this time comfortable enough to actually notice some of the details: an opulent pressed-metal ceiling, fleur-de-lis wallpaper, plush purple banquettes, and Victorian moldings.
“Y’all have a reserved table.”
Mallory recognizes the woman leading them to their seats as the performer who retrieved the discarded clothes and props in between acts. The MC had introduced her as “Kitty Klitty.” Tonight she wears an obscenely sexy red bodysuit and crown-like gold antlers on her head. “You’re Mallory, right?”
She nods.
“Bette wants y’all front and center.”
With a wink, she saunters away. Her skirt is so short they can see the bottom curve of her ass.
“Interesting,” Allison says. “I need a drink.”
“I’ll get a round,” Alec says.
He kisses her and heads over to the bar.
Mallory reads the printed one-sheet program on her table.
It’s a green postcard with a drawing of a woman wearing a short elf costume, bending over far enough to reveal her ass, her arm reaching back to spank herself with a paddle.
It reads Ho, Ho, HO … Blue Angel Burlesque presents its third annual Holiday Spanktacular.
Featuring: Bette Noire, Cookies ’n Cream, Scarlett Letter, Missy Pink, Poppy LaRue, Kitty Klitty …
and hosted by your favorite MC—Rude Ralph.
“Glad you could make it,” says a now-familiar smoky voice.
Mallory looks up. Bette is dressed in the leopard coat she was wearing the first time Mallory saw her. Her red lips are bright crimson and impossibly glossy, shiny like the pottery Mallory used to make in arts and crafts and coat with shellac.
How odd it is, how impossible to believe, that Bette’s mouth has touched her own.
Allison turns to her, waiting for an introduction.
Mallory hesitates, finding it somehow absurd to introduce Allison to someone named Bette Noire.
Before she can get the words out, Alec appears back at the table—without drinks.
He must have spotted Bette’s approach, because he pulls her aside to give her a little pre-backstage pep talk.
“Just take note of what everyone’s wearing, what they’re talking about, any hints of rivalry. Are they drinking? Getting high? Any and all insights into the subculture.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Bette waves her back over, then takes her by the hand, leading her across the room. The other patrons watch them with interest, and she feels the curious gaze of the white-haired woman wearing Victorian mourning attire.
“Who is that older woman?” Mallory asks.
“Agnieszka Wieczorek. She’s the owner. And ball-buster extraordinaire.
She used to be a ballet dancer and understands the art of performance—which is what I love about the Blue Angel versus some of the other clubs in town.
But she doesn’t like the modern music we neo-burlesquers use.
She has to loosen up about that because I think the audience enjoys it more than traditional stuff. ”
Mallory nods encouragingly, hoping she keeps talking. Hearing that the club is owned by a former ballerina makes her even more interested in the place.
Mallory danced ballet for eight years, but quit when she went off to college.
After all, as her parents constantly reminded her, there was no “real world” application, and it was a distraction.
So she packed away her love of dance with her high school journals—and everything else that wouldn’t serve her ambitions to become a lawyer.