Chapter Twenty-One
Mallory wakes up at Julie’s with the realization that she has nowhere to go and nothing to do the entire day. It’s thrilling and it’s terrifying.
Julie was wonderful to her last night, patiently talking for hours and assuring her she’d “figure it out.” But now Julie’s at work, as is Allison, as is every other regular person she knows. At least now, not everyone she knows is regular.
She messages Bette: Svoboda is overrated.
She doesn’t expect a response. It’s too early for Bette to be among the conscious and functioning. During their overnight, she called waking before ten a.m. “obscene.”
Funny how her definition of obscene differs from Patricia Loomis’s.
Mallory stirs under the covers, trying to remember if there’s any coffee left in the kitchen or if she has to run down to the bodega. Her phone vibrates on the pillow next to her.
Just getting home. What did I miss?
Mallory types back, I think I just blew up my life.
She waits for a response, watching the dots appear then disappear. Then Bette calls instead.
“What happened?” Her voice is gravelly, the voice of an all-nighter.
Mallory gives her the abbreviated version, leaving out the part about Poppy sabotaging her.
“Forget about the job and forget Alec. Think about yourself. I need to get some sleep,” Bette says, then ends the call.
Mallory puts her phone down.
Think about yourself. Interesting advice.
It’s the opposite of the way she’s been raised.
Mallory was supposed to think of others first. Even when it came to choices about her own life.
Deciding against going to law school? That would have been selfish according to her mother.
The only valid self, according to her family, and maybe now, according to Alec, is the version that’s determined and shaped by her parents and school and a culture that has an ironclad sense of what a woman like herself does with her life.
But with one step onto the Blue Angel stage, her sense of self changed so fast it feels like the ground beneath her is shifting tectonic plates.
And it’s exhilarating. So even though she’s worried about her future and financial stability, she also has the deep sense that she’s supposed to follow this delicious impulse.
But is she willing to lose Alec over it?
She could put a stop to this right now. Enlist Allison to find a new job as soon as possible.
Stop spending time with Bette. Meet up with Alec, tell him she’s sorry.
But even as the scenarios play out in her mind, her gut tells her no.
That it’s the wrong way to go. It seems safe, but in fact is the most dangerous thing she can do.
She pulls herself out of the sofa bed and catches her reflection in the IKEA mirror hanging next to Julie’s bookshelves. She looks pale and tired.
I look how I feel, she thinks. And then, What would Moxie do?
The idea comes to her in an image, a pop of color.
She knows how she wants to spend her first afternoon of freedom.
The Bumble and Bumble salon on East 56th Street is a spare, industrial-looking space with poured concrete floors and exposed brick. The stylists are all clad head-to-toe in black and have artful tattoos and piercings.
Allison pulled a few strings to get her a color appointment that afternoon.
She said she wished she wasn’t working so she could “witness the transformation.” Mallory wished she could come with her, too.
But now she’s relieved she didn’t. Because just as she was walking to the 6 train to get to Midtown, Bette called her back.
“I’m heading to Bumble and Bumble to dye my hair red,” she told her.
“I’m on my way!” Bette said. “Don’t start without me.”
Mallory checks in at the front desk with a reed-thin woman with white-blond hair in a buzz cut. It’s clear to Mallory that the woman barely sees her. It’s as if she’s dressed in the same putty color as the wall behind her, just blending in with the scenery.
“Go in the back to get changed and then up to the third-floor color studio.”
Mallory senses heads turning. Ms. Blond Buzz Cut snaps to attention.
“I’ve brought the champagne,” Bette says, striding over and kissing her on each cheek, European style.
She’s wearing a floor-length faux leopard coat and high-heeled black boots.
Her razor-sharp bob looks inky black under the salon lights, contrasting with her pale skin and her Cupid’s-bow lips stained the same color as her coat.
They ride a rickety elevator to the third floor, where Mallory checks in at another reception desk. They sit on an uncomfortable couch but have barely had time to talk when Mallory hears her name called.
She looks up to find a Kristen Stewart look-alike wearing denim overalls and black combat boots. A Varga girl tattoo takes up her right bicep.
“Hey, I’m Galit. Which one of you is Mallory?”
Mallory introduces herself and then Bette.
“Cool. You here for moral support?”
“Technical support, actually,” Bette says. Mallory notices the eye lock between them.
Galit leads them deeper into the third floor, where she seats them in two spots side by side at a mirrored counter. The space is sleek and minimalist with lots of white and silver. It’s like a salon designed by Apple.
“Did you bring any photos of the shade you’re thinking ’bout?” Galit says.
“Um, no. Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. I’ll show you some swatches.”
Galit produces a binder filled with synthetic hair colored every shade from platinum blond to jet black. She flips through to a section of reds and indicates a soft auburn.
“This would look pretty on you,” she says.
Mallory glances at Bette, who, without hesitation, reaches over and pulls a swatch the color of maraschino cherries.
Galit looks at Mallory, then at the color, then back at Mallory.
“Yeah, she can pull it off,” she says.
Wow. It’s really … red. “Maybe I should ease into it a little?”
“I say do it all the way, or why bother?” Bette says.
“It’s a gorgeous color but you have to own it,” says Galit.
That sounds like a challenge.
“I’m going to do it,” she says.
“Cool. I’ll go mix it. Tell my assistant if you want something from the coffee bar.”
Mallory examines the stiff swatch of faux red hair, numbered 242, holding it up to her face.
“I think you were born to be a redhead,” Bette says.
“Literally, I wasn’t.”
“You overthink everything. I forgive you because now, thanks to you, I’ve met the gorgeous Galit. I think I’m in love,” Bette says with a mischievous smile.
“Go for it,” Mallory says.
“Nah. I’m a one-night-stand type of gal, and that usually doesn’t go well with people I meet during the light of day.”
“That seems somewhat … limited,” Mallory says, swiveling in her chair to face her.
“It’s the opposite of limited. It’s limitless. I’m focused on my career right now.”
Mallory remembers she’s unemployed. She forgot to ask how much the color was going to cost, and now she’s afraid to.
“Bette, I got fired.”
“Don’t tell me it’s because your boss saw you at the show.”
“Not at the show, in the show. And yeah, that’s why.”
She’s tempted to tell Bette that she suspects Poppy set her up, but she doesn’t want to start trouble. Besides, she can’t prove it.
“Well, fuck it. You hated that gig anyway. And now you don’t have to worry about late nights.
Come back to the club. I think Agnes has some sort of hard-on for you.
When I explained why you lost it at the show she understood—sort of.
Besides, she doesn’t have anyone else. All the girls want to get billed as performers. ”
Mallory considers it. She can use the money. It’s not a law firm paycheck, but it’s better than nothing.
Wait—what is she doing? Is she having a quarter-life crisis?
“I think I need to just lay low for a while,” she says.
“You mean wallow.”
Galit returns smelling like fresh cigarette smoke and wearing clear plastic gloves. She sets a black plastic bowl filled with goop down on the counter.
“Maybe what you really need is a vacation,” Bette says as Galit starts applying the thick concoction to her hair with a paintbrush.
“I’m going to L.A. this weekend. Come along.
I’m being put up at a gorgeous hotel in West Hollywood.
All you have to buy is your plane ticket.
Everything else will be on the house. I went last year and it was one of the best times I’ve ever had. ”
“I don’t understand—who’s paying for this?”
“Justin Baxter. Just say yes. It will take your mind off things, and maybe a change of scenery will give you some clarity.”
It’s tempting. Still, she hesitates.
“Also,” Bette adds. “You need your debut as a redhead.”
Mallory looks at her reflection in the mirror. What would Moxie do?
It’s time to pack her bags.