Chapter Thirteen
Poppy is pleased. The Morticia Addams costume was a hit. At least, if she’s judging by the reaction of the Wall Street types in the front row. She could swear she could see their hard-ons from the stage.
It’s a surprise to see Bette chatting one of them up after the show. Very unlike her. Now that they’re back in the dressing room, she decides to call her on it.
“Do you know that guy from the front table—the suit?”
“The one with the cheekbones? Devastatingly attractive?” Bette smiles like she has a delicious secret. “That’s Justin Baxter. He’s been a regular since the days when this place was totally underground.”
Poppy had heard all about the good old days, back when Agnes got fined for letting the dancers get completely naked.
She still didn’t understand the technicalities, but it had something to do with cabaret licensing.
She also learned that the Slit gets away with their shows because they pay off the right people, but Agnes doesn’t play that game.
“He and his wife are big patrons of the arts. They can make careers—artists, dancers, actors. When the Baxters think you’re hot, you’re hot.
I didn’t get my first serious club gig until after I headlined a Baxter bash. ”
“A what?”
“Once or twice a year they hire performers for private parties. He and his wife have a shit ton of money and they don’t mind spending it. They’re flying me out to L.A. in a few weeks for his birthday. It’s going to be insane.”
Poppy wonders if Bette has ever slept with him and decides she can ask. After all, now they themselves are technically lovers, right? And lovers can ask each other things like that.
“Have you two …”
“Of course not. I never fuck guys who come to shows. And I suggest you don’t, either.”
That rule seems a bit sweeping, but it’s not a point worth arguing at the moment.
“What does he do? Professionally, I mean.”
“Justin? Nothing.”
“He doesn’t work?”
“Not that I know of. His wife is the one who makes bank. Martha Pike.”
Bette says the name like it should mean something to her. But it doesn’t. “Kegel Queen?” she adds.
Poppy gives her a blank look. “Kegel? That Jewish baked noodle dish?”
Since moving to New York she’d learned a lot about Jews. She’d certainly never met one in Arkansas, where she grew up.
“Poppy, where are you?” Agnes calls from out in the hallway.
“No. That’s kugel. Ask Agnes about Kegels. She’s the one who taught me all about them.”
“I’ll be right there!” Poppy pulls on her pink satin robe. Kugel … Kegals … whatever. She hates not being “in the know.” And why doesn’t she ever get invited to private parties by rich dudes? She wonders if Bette makes a lot of money at those gigs.
Agnes is pacing outside the dressing room. As usual, she’s dressed like a twentieth-century war widow.
“Agnes, what’s a Kegel?” she says.
“Ugh! You American girls. Do your mothers teach you nothing? The Kegel is exercise for your vagina so it don’t get too loose. Thank god you have me to help you or in ten years you’d be in trouble.”
That can’t be what Bette meant. How could that guy’s wife make tons of money off a vagina exerciser?
She might have to get more specific with this particular line of questioning.
“Have you ever heard of the Kegel Queen?”
“Of course! Martha. She invented little ball you put in your vagina and you squeeze and there, tight.”
Good lord. Yet another thing to tell her friends back home that they won’t believe.
“Poppy, enough of these silly distractions. It’s business: Kitty will do her first show next week, but I’ve got no cleanup girl between sets. So I need you to help out just for a show or two. Kitty paid her dues and she’s ready.”
“But—”
Agnes holds up one hand to stop her. “She’s been supportive of all you girls and since you’re the newest you must help out.”
Poppy says nothing. If she says what she’s thinking—something along the lines of Are you fucking kidding me?—Agnes might bench her entirely.
“Thank you, Poppy. You’re a good girl. So remember, next Friday night you’re stage kitten.”
With that, she walks away. Poppy heads back to the dressing room but decides not to go in.
If she sees Kitty she’s going to explode.
So instead, she steps out to the main room and finds an empty chair.
Across the room, Mr. Kegel himself is standing in front of the bar talking on his cell.
Most of the audience has cleared out aside from a few stragglers and Kitty Klitty, still trying to get some cash for the tip jar.
The man—what’s his name? Jason? Justin?—eyes her when he ends his call, then strolls over.
“Nice performance,” he says.
“Glad you liked it.”
He’s even more handsome up close. Gorgeous, really. He has olive skin and thick dark hair that she can imagine running her fingers through.
“Justin Baxter.” He holds out his hand.
“Poppy LaRue.” She lets him take hers. He has unusual, gunmetal-gray eyes.
“I know. You’re making quite a name for yourself already.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. I’ve been traveling lately but had to stop by tonight to check out Agnes’s rising star.”
Rising star? Things are looking up! Agnes might try to demote her to stage kitten, but it’s too late. The word is out: Poppy LaRue has arrived.
“We’re having a little party back at my place,” he says. “Care you join? My wife always welcomes the addition of an artist to our little get-togethers.”
Poppy can’t believe her luck.
“Sure. I just have to change.”
“My car is outside. I’ll be waiting.”
Poppy feels his eyes on her as she walks back to the dressing room.
She’s surprised to feel her heart racing.
Is he hitting on her? He did mention his wife, but maybe they have some sort of open relationship.
She’s finding a lot of that in this crazy city.
But then, Bette warned her that she should never sleep with a guy from the audience.
But who’s she to judge? Plus, Bette clearly wants to hook up with Mallory—an audience member. Hypocrite!
She wishes she’d brought cuter clothes with her tonight, but how was she supposed to know she’d be going home with some hot rich dude after the show? From now on she has to be prepared for anything. Exactly how she always imagined her life in New York would be.
She packs her costume into her knapsack, then bends down to lace up the vintage granny boots she bought at a cute place on Bowery.
“We’re going to the Bell Jar,” Bette says from her seat at the vanity mirror.
Poppy stands up, pulling her bag over her shoulder. “Thanks, but I have plans.” Of course Bette just assumes she’s waiting around for her! Well, not tonight, babe.
“Oh? Anything interesting?”
“A party at Justin Baxter’s place,” she says, trying not to look smug.
Bette turns around, her pale eyes dead serious. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Yeah. I bet you don’t. What, I’m not good enough?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bette says. “Fine—go. I’ll try not to say ‘I told you so.’”