Chapter Twenty-Five
Mallory steps off the plane and into the L.A.
sunshine, marveling that all it takes is a six-hour plane ride and suddenly winter is gone.
It’s just heat, palm trees, and dry air that instantly puts her at ease.
Alec, the law firm, sleeping fitfully on Julie’s couch …
it all seems a million miles away. Even the air smells different, with a sweet muskiness that she inhales deeply.
A professional driver wearing a suit meets them at the luggage carousel. He carries their bags and escorts them to a waiting Escalade. Mallory feels like she’s traded places with someone else, living their life—like a heroine in a Nancy Meyers movie.
But the twenty-minute ride to West Hollywood brings her back to reality, giving her too much time to think. And when she thinks, she misses Alec. More than that, she feels a little stab of fear about what her life might look like without him. She can’t imagine, but she might have to start.
The Palihouse is a boutique hotel with an entrance so discreet it seems like a private club.
A short flight of wide, wooden stairs leads to a sepia-toned lobby with chandeliers, tabletop Edison bulbs, exposed pipes, tufted armchairs in oxblood and forest green, and eclectic decorative touches like typewriters and brass mirrors.
“We’re staying here?” Mallory says, admiring an antique birdcage.
“Right? It’s a mood,” Bette says. “Very steampunk.”
The check-in counter is an antique, polished-wood desk staffed by a slim young man with close-cropped blond hair and chiseled good looks.
He hands them each a room key on a brass ring—an actual key, not a plastic card—and informs them that all the information they need for the weekend festivities will be found in their suite.
They ride the steel elevator up to the fourth—and top—floor. Bette unlocks the door to the room, and Mallory steps in behind her. Pulsating music plays at a low volume, something perfect for the space.
“What song is this?”
“‘I Feel Cream’ by Peaches,” Bette says. “Which is a crazy coincidence—or maybe a good omen—because I’m performing at the party to her song ‘Lose You.’”
The suite has a large living room with an oxblood velvet couch and enough side tables and chairs for a small party, exposed brick, framed pop art on the walls, and brass sconced lighting.
The full kitchen is complete with a marble island in the center, and the bedroom with two queen-sized beds has walk-in closets.
The bathroom is ultra-sleek, with black tiles, adjustable lighting, mirrors for every angle, and a glass-enclosed shower.
“Ooh—a gift basket.” Bette says, unwrapping it to reveal a bottle of Dom Perignon, some products from Bliss Spa, and a medium-sized black box.
“What’s inside?” Mallory asks. Bette hands it to her.
“Take a look.”
Mallory removes the lid. Inside is a pink satin pouch with the word Pike embroidered on it.
She loosens the drawstring to find a hard, translucent rubbery ball and inside, another ball, like a little weight.
The bizarre object has a short braided cord attached with a little loop on the end. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s the famous Pike Kegel Ball!” Bette laughs.
“The what?”
“You are now holding in your hands the secret to having Super Pussy. Martha Pike made a fortune on that thing.”
“I’m so confused.”
Bette sighs, clearly tired of having to explain things to Mallory that are obvious to her.
“You stick this thing up your vag and then tighten your Kegel muscles to hold it in place. It’s resistance training.”
“No thanks,” Mallory says, tossing it to her. Bette ducks and it lands on the couch.
“You have to try it,” Bette says. “Stop being so closed-minded!”
“I’m not being closed-minded … but I am being closed-vagina-ed.”
“With that kind of attitude, I’m going to send you right back to New York.”
Mallory laughs and heads to the bathroom to wash the feeling of travel from her body. She’s still surprised to see her deep, cherry-red hair. But she loves it—her skin tone is creamier and she barely needs any makeup; the recent dark shadows under her eyes are gone, her cheeks rosy.
Bette knocks on the bathroom door and Mallory opens it, patting her face dry with a sumptuous white towel. Bette waves an envelope at Mallory.
“The gift basket includes a massage at Equinox on Sunset. I’m calling for their next appointment.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll go later.”
“No! It’s more fun if we go together. Trust me: I won’t take no for an answer.”
Two hours later, Mallory and Bette sit in white robes sipping cucumber water on the Equinox deck with sweeping views of Hollywood.
“My gym back in New York overlooks a GAP and a hot dog vendor,” Mallory says.
“This is the life. Every time I’m here I think about moving.”
“Why don’t you?”
“The burlesque scene isn’t as strong. Maybe that’s just my experience. Either way, you don’t want to be broke and struggling in L.A. In New York, the fringe is cool and artistic. L.A. on the fringe is desperate.”
“Moxie and Bette?” A woman in an Equinox staff T-shirt calls to them.
“You gave them my burlesque name?” Mallory says.
“Yeah. Out here you’re Moxie. All weekend. I’m serious—try it.”
“I’ll try it if you tell me your real name.”
“I’m offended you’d even ask,” Bette replies with a smile.
The massage room is jasmine-scented, with low lighting and ambient music that washes over Mallory like a warm bath.
The two masseuses introduce themselves as Sabrina and Kenzie, then leave Mallory and Bette to get comfortable on side-by-side tables.
Mallory sheds her robe but keeps her underwear on and quickly climbs under the crisp table sheet.
“Why are you hiding under there?” Bette says, completely naked and stretching out on the table.
Mallory can’t help but look at her perfect breasts—they still amaze her.
It’s hard to believe she’s touched them, held them in her hands, and had her mouth on them. And still, Bette can modesty-shame her.
“We’re supposed to get under the sheet. They told us to.”
“Who? The massage girls? They don’t care. You’re such a little nervous Chihuahua.” The way she says it isn’t critical, just playfully chiding.
“Oh my god, I am not. I’m just trying to have some decorum.”
“Are you saying I lack decorum?”
“I’m saying you’re going to get us thrown out of here.”
“Fine,” Bette says, slipping under the sheet. “Have it your way.”
When their masseuses return, Mallory closes her eyes.
She feels like she’s melting into the massage table as the woman presses her strong, oil-slick hands into her sore muscles.
Mallory’s mind feels floaty, her thoughts very stream-of-consciousness.
She thinks about Alec, that she should be with him at that very moment, getting ready for dinner at their favorite Mexican place.
On the way home, they’d stop by H&H to get bagels and lox so they could avoid the long weekend lines, resuming their ongoing debate of how long you can keep cream cheese in the refrigerator.
Tears fill her eyes and she blinks them back. This is ridiculous—she’s on vacation in L.A., traveling with a new friend. And that new friend is opening up life to her in a way she’s never imagined. A friend who makes her feel beautiful and worthy of being seen.
The masseuse’s hands knead her neck, and she thinks about how Alec used to make her feel beautiful. He was the first person to give her an orgasm. He was the first guy who told her that he loved her. And, most importantly, he was the first guy she’d ever loved.
But somehow they’d stopped working. She was going to have to find a way to live with that. She’s been part of “Mallory and Alec” for so long, she forgot what it’s like to be just Mallory. Maybe she’s never really known.
Maybe it’s time she finds out.