Chapter Nine #2
Mallory wonders if she’s being paranoid. The three of them are squeezed into the back seat of a cab and Poppy is glaring at her. But what could she have done to trigger animosity?
“Give me one good reason to stay in a job you hate,” Bette says.
For the past few minutes, Mallory has been confessing her creeping doubts about her choice of a legal career.
She hadn’t intended to talk about it, but once she started she couldn’t stop.
Somehow, it’s easier to admit what she’s thinking to a near-stranger than to her closest friends—or even to Alec.
“Well, money for one thing. I need to support myself.”
“Bullshit,” Bette says. “The most successful people are ones 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 why jobs like mine come with ‘golden handcuffs.’ Besides, I went to law school. You don’t just throw that away.”
“Ah. The psychology of previous investment,” Bette says.
Mallory looks at her in surprise.
“What?” Bette says. “You think I didn’t have choices to make when I decided to perform full time? I graduated college with honors. I could find a more traditional job, a steady paycheck. But once I got a taste of this life, I couldn’t go back.”
Mallory is still absorbing this information when the cab pulls up to a shop on University Place, its hot pink awning impossible to miss.
Inside, as is typically the case in Manhattan, the store is small.
But it’s also intense. Lingerie is artfully arranged on custom brass racks and glass-topped tables, with silk slips, lace bralettes, and satin corsets arranged by hue.
Each piece has display lighting. In the center of the store, a tufted ottoman.
Velvet armchairs in deep plum or olive are tucked into corners beside antique mirrored vanities.
Poppy picks up a pair of black lace French knickers, checks the price tag, and says, “You’ve gotta be crazy to spend this kinda money.”
Bette turns around, frowning. “If you’re going to be negative, Poppy, why don’t you do us a favor and just leave?”
Poppy looks like she’s been slapped in the face. She drops the underwear on a table.
“Fine. I will.” She leans close to Mallory and says, sotto voce, “Have fun spending all the money you make at your miserable job.”
She storms out, and Mallory considers following her. She doesn’t know what’s going on between those two, but she suddenly feels like she’s the unwitting third wheel.
“Mallory?” Bette calls out from the back of the shop. “Come to the dressing rooms.”
A saleswoman appears and escorts her back to where Bette is waiting.
The fitting rooms are draped in thick curtains, and Mallory smells the faint scents of rose and sandalwood.
“Try these on.” Bette hands her a bundle of black lace. “Oh—and these.” She adds a pair of thigh-high black stockings.
“Um, Poppy just left. She seems upset.”
“Oh, she’s such a diva. She’ll be fine. By tonight we’ll kiss and make up.”
Is that just a figure of speech?
“I’ll be right out here if you need help,” Bette says, ushering her into the dressing room and closing the curtain.
Inside there’s a floor-to-ceiling mirror, textured wallpaper, and framed, calligraphy-style quotes about confidence and desire.
The only place to put things down is a small leather ottoman.
She drops the pile of lingerie Bette hands her and tries to sort through it.
She examines something that has hooks like a bra and four straps, dangling like legs.
It’s like a strange lingerie arachnid. What is it?
Mallory peeks out from the curtain, holding up the mystery item.
“What’s this?” she says.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
“It’s a garter! Don’t tell me you’ve never worn one before.”
“I haven’t. And I’m not sure I want to start.”
“How do you keep your stockings up?”
“I wear … you know, pantyhose.”
Bette looks appalled. “Okay, well that has to stop immediately. That is not hot.”
Mallory thinks of Allison’s parting comment after brunch: If your boyfriend brings you to a burlesque club on your birthday …
“Fine. I’ll try the garter. Can you show me how to wear it?”
“Absolutely. But you have to take off your clothes first.”
Mallory shakes her head. “I’m just going to try it on over my clothes.”
“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, Alec won’t be kissing me once he knows what you’re rocking under those corporate clothes.”
Mallory is speechless. She knows Bette didn’t mean to hurt her feelings, but the words sting.
“Okay. Give me a minute and I’ll call you in when I’m ready.”
Mallory closes the curtain again and faces herself in the mirror.
Fortunately, she dressed in decent underwear today.
Nothing spectacular, just cream-colored, lace boy shorts from the Gap and a white demi bra.
But it’s an improvement over the worn out floral cotton pairs she falls back to when she’s behind on her laundry.
She unzips her navy pinstriped skirt and lets it fall to the floor.
It’s overly warm in that small space, and her skin is slightly moist under her white blouse.
Observing herself in the mirror, she thinks, Not bad.
Not as good as Bette or Poppy—they’re perfect.
And no, not all of the performers meet mainstream beauty standards.
Bette and Poppy are in a league of their own; their bodies are works of art as surely as the costumes and the dances themselves.
But for a twenty-five-year-old lawyer (or, almost lawyer), Mallory is in good shape.
Still, she resolves to join a Pilates class soon.
She pulls on the sheer black thigh-highs Bette 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, wearing just her shirt and the garter, opens the curtain half an inch.
“May I come in?”
Bette joins her in the tight space. Mallory was expecting instruction for the garter, not hands-on help.
“Okay—now put it around your waist. It should just rest on your hips. No—those straps have to hang down …”
Mallory hooks the contraption around her waist and then rotates the entire garment around so the hooks are in the back—the method she employed when she first got used to wearing a bra.
Bette kneels by her side and adjusts one of the straps.
“Okay, now these latch onto the stockings,” she says, fastening one. “Now you try the other.”
Mallory bends down and attempts to secure the metal latch against the thin fabric, but it doesn’t work. She feels clumsy. Do 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 is self-conscious having Bette so close, but relaxes a little when she catches sight of herself in the mirror. She likes what she sees—more than she has in a while. Maybe more than ever.
Bette adjusts the length of the garter straps, then stands and appraises Mallory’s reflection as well.
“Wow. You were made for this stuff.” She runs her hand down her lower back, trailing lightly over her ass. Mallory shivers, once again highly aware of the thin layer of perspiration under her blouse.
“Wait right here. I want you to try something else,” Bette says, leaving her alone with her tumbling thoughts.
Mallory turns to check out her ass in the mirror. How is it possible that undergarments have the power to make her feel so much more desirable? She slips back into her heels, then looks herself over from her toes up to her stomach framed in black lace.
“You’re definitely going to need help with this,” Bette says, reappearing to produce, with a flourish, a magnificent black satin corset. Mallory takes it from her, surprised by its weight.
“The back is reinforced with steel boning,” Bette says. “It’s gonna sculpt your waist.”
Along the back, a row of satin lacing threads through silver grommets. Inside, the corset is lined with silk charmeuse.
“This is unreal. Like a costume.”
“Wait till you see how it feels on.” Bette loosens the elaborate back lacing, then looks up at Mallory, who’s watching her work. “You’re going to have to take off your shirt and bra to wear this, you know.”
Mallory begins to unbutton her blouse, hands trembling. She throws her shirt on the ottoman, then hesitates just for a moment before removing her bra. She crosses her arms over her breasts.
Bette, finished with her preparations on the corset, makes no attempt to disguise the fact that she’s checking her out.
“Why are you so bashful?” Bette says.
“I’m not.”
“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 swallows hard. Yes.
“Here—step in.” Bette wraps the corset around Mallory’s torso. “Hold the front while I lace up the back.” She pulls tight, and Mallory loses her breath.
“Oh my god!” She laughs giddily at the feeling.
“I know. Amazing, right?”
Mallory turns her body so she can see the back of the corset.
Bette is intent on her lacing task, her shiny dark hair falling across her face.
Mallory watches her slim, pale fingers work quickly down the back of the garment, her blood-maroon nail polish shiny in the fitting room light.
She imagines those fingers touching her but immediately shakes the thought away.
“Now fasten the hooks in the front,” Bette says.
Mallory starts at the bottom. The corset is so stiff she can barely get a few hooks fastened without one coming undone.
“Take your time,” Bette says.
Mallory begins to perspire again, but she takes a deep breath and concentrates on the task. When she’s finished, she again looks in the mirror.
And what she sees is someone else entirely.
“I can’t believe it,” she breathes. She’s doesn’t look—or feel—like a woman who belongs at a desk. She looks like a woman who belongs on the Blue Angel stage.
“I can,” Bette says. “This is how I see you. And how you should see yourself.”