Chapter Eleven
Bette’s apartment is a small one-bedroom drenched in color: blue walls, translucent green plastic tables, and a sleek emerald couch.
A faux zebra rug covers most of the living room space, and four photos line the wall behind the couch: a striking series of half-naked women dressed in garters and corsets.
“This place is amazing,” Mallory says.
“Thanks. Now listen, I only have vodka. But since you felt the need to come here in the middle of the night, I suggest you do a shot. I’ll join you.”
She disappears into the alcove kitchen and returns with two full shot glasses. They sit on the leather couch.
“Svoboda,” Bette says, raising her glass.
“Svoboda,” Mallory repeats, not knowing what it means. Not caring. They down the vodka. It’s perfectly chilled.
“That’s ‘freedom’ in Russian,” Bette says.
“Are you Russian?”
“My mother is Russian. My father is French. Terrible combination, just for the record. But you’re not here to talk about my parents, n’est-ce pas?”
“No. I’m not. But it might be nice to hear about them to get my mind off things.”
“Sometimes you have to keep your mind on things to solve the problem.”
“You’re right.”
She doesn’t understand what’s happening in her relationship.
It was so exciting when she first moved to the city and into Alec’s apartment.
They went shopping at Bed Bath they would wake up in the middle of the night and reach out, excited by the novelty of sleeping in their bed, and make sleepy love like in a dream.
Or in the morning, he would step into the shower with her when she was getting ready for work and soap up her back … and her front.
But then Alec got busy at the magazine. And once her initial excitement at having a corporate job wore off, she was exhausted by the monotony of her work.
And then Billy Barton invited them to more and more parties, where the women were “model hot” and dressed with the sort of effortless, downtown chic she could never hope to master.
She noticed how Alec looked at them—like they were untouchable but infinitely desirable.
When they went home on the nights of these parties and he didn’t try to make love to her, she took it personally.
She wondered if she just didn’t “do it” for him anymore.
Was it because he was comparing her to all that New York had to offer, or because they had been together for years and that’s what happens to couples?
And then he brought her to the Blue Angel.
Even though she was annoyed at first, the truth was, she liked that he chose to do something unconventional.
Any guy could take her to a fancy restaurant.
Alec was always surprising, and she liked that, even if he pushed her in ways that made her uncomfortable.
When he asked her to dance for him later that night, it excited and embarrassed her at the same time.
She read once that the feelings of fear and the feelings of love are closely related in the brain.
Somehow he had a way of setting her on edge that heightened her love for him.
She’s never experienced that with someone before, and she wonders, if they break up, if she’d ever find it again.
Mallory turns to look at the framed prints on the wall. One of the women is a stunning redhead. “I always wanted to dye my hair that color.”
“Why don’t you?” Bette says.
“Oh … no. I wouldn’t do that.”
“Why on earth not? It’s not surgery. If you don’t like it, you dye it back. God, Mallory. What is the point of being a woman if you don’t have fun with it?”
“I don’t know. That’s a good question.”
She settles back on the couch. Bette puts down her shot glass.
“I’m guessing that it’s not a quest for the perfect hair color that brings you here tonight.”
Mallory shakes her head.
“You wanna tell me what does?”
Mallory hesitates. It’s a conversation that would be so easy with Julie or Allison. But Bette isn’t a friend. And yet, there she is.
“I had a fight with Alec. I know it sounds stupid, but I just couldn’t stay there tonight. I called my best friends but couldn’t reach them. And I thought of you because you were so nonjudgmental earlier.”
“What would I be judgmental about?”
“The whole job thing.”
“What’s the big deal? So you don’t like your job. Most people don’t.”
It’s a relief to hear that, to not be shamed into feeling like something is wrong with her.
“I told Alec and he freaked out. He basically implied that I don’t like it just because it’s not falling into place easily for me. I told him I’m second-guessing a legal career and he turned it into a referendum on my character.”
“Harsh.”
“Yeah, well, that’s Alec. He expects a lot from people—himself included. He’s not good with failure.”
“You didn’t fail.”
Mallory nodded. “I did. I failed the bar exam.”
“You can take it again,” Bette says. Like it’s nothing, as simple as ordering something on .
“Yeah, I’m going to. In February. But that doesn’t change the fact that I failed it the first time.”
“Do you know how many auditions I went on before I got my first booking?”
“You had to audition?”
“Of course. What, you think I just walked into the Blue Angel and signed up like it was a school talent contest? I had to learn how to perform, practice, feel awkward and bad at it. Then I got better, but I still didn’t know how to get a club to take me seriously.
I got laughed off the stage when I auditioned at the Slit.
Then I got my chance at the Bell Jar, then a few private parties for a well-known patron of the arts.
And then Agnes heard about me and gave me an audition at the Blue Angel.
And I’ve been performing there for two years.
But I didn’t say ‘I failed my audition here or wherever so I’m a bad performer.
’” She pats Mallory’s knee. “I’m getting us refills. ”
Mallory rests her head on the arm of the couch, gazing up at the redhead in the photograph. She imagines herself with red hair, like the model Karen Elson. It might actually look good. She wonders what Alec would think, then realizes that it may not matter anymore.
“What’s the word for freedom, again?” Mallory asks, tossing back the next shot.
“Svoboda.”
“Yeah. Well, you know what they say about freedom.”
“Nothing left to lose?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t believe that,” Bette says. She sets her shot glass on the coffee table. “You like those photographs?”
“Yeah. They’re amazing.”
“I have better ones to show you.”
Bette stands up and Mallory follows her across the living room, almost tripping over the edge of the zebra rug. No more shots—two is enough.
The bedroom is painted robin’s-egg blue.
A giant gilt-framed mirror rests against one wall.
Three photos in black frames hang above her bed in an even row.
Even from across the room, Mallory can see instantly they’re of Bette, the contrast between her nearly black hair and pale ivory skin heightened by the photographer’s lighting.
In the first she’s wearing a black corset, seamed stockings, and long black opera gloves.
In the next, her bare back is to the camera, and her head is turned to face it, her pale blue eyes unguarded and totally arresting.
In the third photo, she sits against a white wall wearing knee-high argyle stockings and black Mary Jane heels, with her arms crossed in front of her bare breasts—and her legs spread to show her pussy.
“Wow. Those are …” She trails off. Words elude her.
“Thanks. My friend Evangeline took them. She’s an amazing fashion and fetish photographer.”
“Were you embarrassed?”
“No. Why would I be embarrassed?”
“It’s so … intimate.”
“Relationships are intimate. That’s art.” She sits on the edge of the bed, then waves Mallory over. “Stand in front of me.”
“Why?” she asks nervously.
“Because I want to look at you.”
“No,” Mallory says with a nervous laugh.
“Why not? You look at me all the time.”
“You enjoy being looked at.”
“All women enjoy being looked at. Some of us are just better at admitting it than others. So come on—stand in front of me.” She tugs on Mallory’s hand until she reluctantly gets to her feet. “Thanks. Indulge me,” Bette says with a wink. There’s a spark in her eyes—a playful naughtiness.
“Wait here and don’t move,” she says. “Actually, turn this way.” She indicates Mallory should face the wall. “Okay, now close your eyes.”
Mallory half closes her eyes.
“No, really shut them tight. I want to see wrinkles.”
“I don’t have wrinkles yet.”
“Well, close them so tight you create them. Be right back.”
Mallory hears drawers opening and closing. “No peeking!” Bette calls out from across the room.
“I’m not.” But she’s dying to. For one thing, the two shots of vodka are making it hard to maintain her balance with her eyes shut.
“Keep them closed.”
Mallory can hear her drawing closer, then feels silky fabric against her face: Bette is blindfolding her.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m giving you the chance to be like a photograph—observed, not observing. I really think you need to let go and allow yourself to be objectified. It’s very liberating.”
“This feels a little too liberating to me. I like limits … I mean, I’m a lawyer. I need boundaries … structure.”
“You’re not a lawyer. You failed the bar, remember? So chill and just go with it.”
“So I should just stand here?”
“No. You should just stand there and take your top off. Then we’re getting somewhere.”
Mallory lets out a nervous laugh. “I’m not taking my shirt off.”
“Why not?”