Chapter Nine
By Monday morning, the weekend feels like a dream. Mallory closes the door to her office, assesses the mountain of work on her desk, and reaches for the phone. She hasn’t had the time or the privacy to debrief with Allison or Julie, and she needs to. Immediately.
She figures, what’s one more day of falling behind on her billable hours?
Allison answers her call on the first ring. Clearly, she’s not ready to get to work, either.
“Hey—I’ve been dying to talk to you,” Allison says. “How was the Slit?”
“It was … interesting.” Her email inbox pings with a message from Patricia Loomis: She wants to discuss a memo that Mallory’s drafting on yet another tight deadline. Shit. “I have to jump off this call, actually. I can’t focus on work!”
“It’s the Monday blues, babe. We all get them.”
Mallory wishes it were that simple. But she’s afraid it’s something more fundamental.
“I don’t know. 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 figured something out I felt a rush.
Now I’m dragging myself to the finish line. ”
“We all feel like that sometimes. Work sucks. Just do your best, make some bank, and you’ll enjoy 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.”
Patricia walks into her office. Mallory ends the call.
“Harrison wants the memo first thing tomorrow morning,” Patricia says. She’s dressed in a putty-colored suit, her hair in a bun. Her T-zone is shiny even though it’s only eight thirty a.m. and thirty-five degrees outside.
“What? I thought I had more time.”
“Well, you don’t. It’s tomorrow morning.” Patricia turns on her blocky heels and pauses at 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 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.”
With that, mercifully, Patricia leaves. Mallory slumps in her seat and texts Alec, I’ll be home really late tonite. Seriously, don’t wait up.
He immediately calls her.
“What’s going on?” he says.
“Time crunch. I’m behind. And Alec, I’m stressed. Patricia never liked me, but ever since 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, Mal. You’re going to be a great lawyer. You are a great lawyer.”
“Thanks.” She can’t admit that the biggest issue isn’t that she doubts her ability. It’s that she’s doubting her will. And it’s terrifying.
“This isn’t you talking, Mal. You’re tired, you’re stressed … just get through today, and tomorrow things will look completely different.”
She gets to work, and she doesn’t look up until her stomach growls and she realizes it’s past lunchtime. She reaches for her silenced cell phone to order a salad just as it pings with a new message.
We’re costume shopping. Wanna join? Xo Bette
Mallory pauses, her hands holding her phone like it’s a cross between a ticking time bomb and a lottery ticket.
I’m at work, she types back.
Take a break. We’re at M&J Trimming, Sixth Avenue.
She checks the time. She’s going to be here until midnight anyway. There’s no harm in taking a lunch break, right?
Poppy and Bette walk against the wind up Sixth Avenue.
Poppy doesn’t mind the cold because she’s wearing an ultra-heavy faux fur coat that she bought at Trash & Vaudeville.
But Bette keeps stopping every few feet to text, slowing them down.
The fact that she can’t give her undivided attention for more than two minutes hurts her feelings.
“Who are you so busy texting?” Poppy asks.
Bette ignores her. And Poppy decides to let it go.
After all, one hookup doesn’t give her the right to know who she’s talking to.
And it was only that—a single hookup. Since that one time it’s been a friend-zone vibe.
But Poppy’s been thinking about it every day.
Usually she prides herself on being able to fuck like a guy—no emotions, no attachments …
no problem. But suddenly she’s like a lovesick schoolgirl …
for this crazy bitch! Maybe it’s because guys are always chasing her and Bette is, well, she’s not.
Or maybe it was the way she touched her, that perfect combination of gentle but expertly confident.
And the way she smelled … kind of earthy and sweet, like dirty vanilla.
The fact that she’s beautiful doesn’t hurt.
She’d been with a lot of hot guys, but none who awed her with their sheer perfection like Bette.
“This is the place.”
Poppy needs a stretch ribbon of black sequins and some beaded fringe for a Morticia Addams costume she’s working on. Agnes offered to help her with the costume, but Poppy needed to supply all the material. Her budget was tight but Bette said M&J Trimming was reasonable if she stays disciplined.
“Just go in knowing what you are going to buy and don’t get any extras—no matter how gorgeous or how certain you are that you’ll need it for a costume someday.
” Bette warns 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 Bette hasn’t given any indication that she wants to have sex with her again, at least she’s gotten one thing she’d wished for: Bette’s mentorship.
It seemed like too much to hope for, but this shopping trip proves it.
The quickest way to climb the Blue Angel ladder of success is to get Bette’s approval.
And really, she hopes it goes much farther than that.
As far as she’s concerned, shopping is foreplay—at least with men. Is it different between two women? Probably not. But as she ponders the equation Bette + Poppy + shopping = hot sex, she spots her.
It can’t be. Why would Mallory Dale be at M&J Trimming?
Bette notices her at the same time, waving her over.
“What’s she doing here?” Poppy says.
“I invited her.”
Poppy feels her face turn colors.
Mallory walks toward them, dressed in a gray wool coat with a hood. It’s long, past her knees, and fastened with wooden toggles. Hideous.
“Wow. This place is amazing. It makes me wish I could sew,” Mallory says, looking around wide-eyed.
Poppy hates to admit it, but she’s terribly pretty, even in her stuffy coat and lank brown hair that needs a good cut. Or color. Or both.
“You can’t sew? Like, even a button?” Poppy says. Bette shoots her a look.
“No. Nothing. Isn’t it terrible?”
“I didn’t sew until I started performing,” Bette says. “It’s just too expensive to buy costumes off the rack. And it’s more personal this way. Although none of us can make costumes like Agnes. But that’s only once in a while. I’m having her make an Alice in Wonderland costume for me.”
“She makes custom designs only for Bette,” Poppy clarifies.
“You’re still fairly new,” Bette says to her. “She’ll make something for you one day. You just have to earn it.” Then she gives her a dazzling smile.
Is it a sign? Maybe, even though she invited that mousy interloper, there’s still something special between them. She decides the best thing to do is just cut this ill-fated shopping excursion short.
She heads to the register with her sequins and fringe, hoping that Bette will follow her lead.
Instead, Bette takes Mallory on a tour of the place.
Even from the front of the store, she can tell that the Mouse—and that’s what she’ll call her from now on, at least to herself—is oohing and ahhing at everything like Bette had given her the keys to the Emerald fucking City.
“Okay, ready to go,” Poppy announces, waving her shopping bag.
“We need to take Mallory somewhere to cheer her up,” Bette says. “She’s having a career crisis.”
Great. Now the Mouse is latching on to Bette with some sob story about her job. From the looks of her clothes, it’s not in the fashion industry.
“Your job can’t be that bad if you can wander off in the middle of the day,” Poppy says.
“I’m technically taking lunch but, yes, I should get back. I’m going to be there half the night as it is …”
Poppy nods, the picture of understanding. “It’s good to be responsible.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bette says. “If you’re going to be there late anyway, what difference does another hour make? We’re going to La Petite Coquet just to browse for inspiration.”
Now the Mouse is the one turning colors.
“Well,” she says slowly. She has a way of speaking that makes you focus on her mouth. “My best friend literally just told me I should invest in sexier underwear.”
What an operator! Wow, Poppy really underestimated her. But what’s her game? Why does she want to get close to Bette? And how does she know Bette’s obsessed with lingerie? She has a collection that requires storage space in one of those places with a billboard near the Holland Tunnel.
“Well, there’s no better place for that. Let’s go.”
Poppy looks at her. “I don’t know if you’ve been there before, but that place is really expensive.”
Mallory nods. “The one good thing about my job is the paycheck.”
And the fact that you have to get back there soon, Poppy thinks to herself.
But not soon enough.