Chapter Sixteen
Mallory has never felt more like an insider than she does now, late at night at the Blue Angel when the stage is dark.
She’s in Agnes’s personal office, which doubles as a design studio.
Bette stands in the center of the room, draped in half-pinned feathers and tulle, with Agnes kneeling by her side and squinting at her work.
The room smells faintly of perfume, powder, and hair spray—lived-in glamour. A sturdy, scarred wooden worktable takes up most of the space, its surface layered with fabric scraps and pattern pieces.
Walls are lined with shelves crammed with boxes of trims, buttons, ribbons, and zippers—each one neatly labeled.
Hanks of fabric are rolled and stacked by type and color: jewel-toned satins, sheer organza, and black lace.
In one corner, an iron and steaming station are ready for action.
Mallory sits next to it, on a velvet ottoman.
“Bette, what I am going to do with you?” Agnes says. “You need an audience even for a costume fitting.” She adjusts pins in the baby blue satin corset cinched around Bette’s torso.
“Mallory’s not my audience, Agnes. I brought her here for you.”
What? This is news to Mallory.
Agnes gives her a perfunctory glance.
“What do I need with her?”
“She can help with the show next week.”
Mallory doesn’t know what Bette’s talking about and tries to catch her eye. She doesn’t have any luck.
“Since you promoted Kitty to performer, Mallory can take her place.” She turns to Mallory. “All you have to do is wear a cute outfit and pick up the clothes between sets.”
“Bette, I can’t do that.” The thought’s absurd. She has no interest in being onstage. She’d done it once—for reasons she still doesn’t fully understand. But she isn’t looking for a repeat performance.
“Why not? It’ll be fun. You need to do something to break out of your rut.”
“I’m not in a rut,” Mallory says. Is she?
“Poppy is covering the job,” Agnes says, to which Bette replies: “Poppy doesn’t want the job. She sees it as a demotion. And when she’s miserable, it kills the whole vibe. So why not make things simple and let Mallory stand in?”
Agnes eyes her from head to toe.
“How do I know she can do it?”
Why are they talking about her like she’s not in the room? Mallory stands up.
“I don’t think—”
“She’s a lawyer. She can figure out how to pick up clothes. And she’s gorgeous. Just look at her!”
Agnes does. “You’re a lawyer?”
“Well, not technically. But I do work at a law firm.” She has no idea why she’s lobbying for a gig she has no intention of taking!
“That’s all well and good,” Agnes says, looking her over. “But smarts doesn’t make you a star onstage. That takes moxie and you seem like a quiet little mouse.”
She’s not a “quiet little mouse.” But maybe she’s been acting like one. Maybe that’s precisely her problem.
“Quiet?” Bette says, sounding as indignant as Mallory feels. “You saw me pull her out of the audience the night of my ‘I Put a Spell on You’ performance. She got right up onstage and rolled with it.”
“That was you?”
Mallory nods.
“Fine. I’ll give you a chance. But just one chance. No screwups. What will you wear?”
“I’ll take care of that,” Bette said. “You just worry about what I’m wearing that night.”
“Don’t tell me what to worry about!” Agnes snaps. “This is my show and everything on that stage is my business, down to the panty liners you wear in your thong. So what are you going to wear, Ms. Lawyer?”
“I’m flattered,” Mallory says, not looking at Bette. “But you’re probably right. It’s not a good idea.”
“Well, now Bette has me convinced it is a good idea. You do the job, it keeps the peace. Everyone’s happy. How do I get in touch with you?”
Mallory hesitates, and Bette tells her to write down her number, explaining, “Agnes is analog.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Agnes snaps. Mallory looks through her bag for a scrap of paper and decides it easiest to just give her a business card. At least she’s finally using it for something.
As she hands it over, Poppy bursts in. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, her blue eyes shining.
“I thought I heard voices in here. What’s going on?” she says.
“Costume fitting,” Agnes says. “I thought you left after rehearsal.”
Poppy glances at Mallory but doesn’t bother saying hello.
“I forgot my phone,” Poppy says, then turns to Bette. “You should have invited me to your little party here. I love costume fittings.”
“Speaking of parties: How was Justin Baxter’s?” Bette says. Mallory doesn’t know who that is, but Poppy’s cheeks turn an even brighter shade of pink.
“Fine. Great, actually.”
Bette arches an eyebrow but says nothing.
“So Poppy, thanks to Mallory you’re off the hook,” Agnes says.
“What do you mean?”
From the look on Poppy’s face, Mallory is pretty sure she won’t be getting much thanks.
“She’s gonna fill in for Kitty.”
Her face turns even more red. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. She isn’t even a performer!”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Agnes said.
“Agnes loves American clichés,” says Bette.
Poppy turns and walks out.
Agnes turns to Mallory. “She’s jealous. She must see something in you. I’m hoping to see it myself.” Then, to Bette. “Fine. You win.” And then, back to Mallory, “Impress me, lawyer.”