Chapter Twenty-Seven
Poppy is pleased with herself. Less than twenty-four hours after the Baxter party, she has an interview with Alec Martin.
The only problem is she isn’t sure what to wear.
On the one hand, it’s business. On the other, she wants to look hot, but not in a way that overtly says I’d be happy to fuck you—although she would be happy to fuck him.
If she remembers correctly from the first night she saw him with Mallory at the show, he’s great looking.
And there’d be a certain poetic justice to it: Mallory is living it up in L.A.
with Bette, no doubt fucking her brains out all across Hollywood.
If something happens between her and Alec …
well, that’s life. And if it upsets Mallory, then maybe Poppy can strike a little bargain: Stay away from the Blue Angel, and she’ll stay away from Alec.
She’s in a retro mood and decides to channel Jackie O meets Coco Chanel, wearing red lipstick and a black trench dress cinched at the waist. She pins up one side of her bob with a whimsical rhinestone beret and finishes off the ensemble with a light spritz of Chanel Allure.
Their plan is to meet at Gemma, the restaurant attached to the Bowery Hotel. When she arrives he’s already there, sipping bourbon at a small table for two next to the bar. Somehow, this meeting is more nerve-racking than either of her encounters with Justin Baxter.
Alec looks up and notices her before she reaches the table, and he stands up in that gentlemanly way she’s only seen in the movies. Then he pulls out the seat for her. It’s too much!
She needs a drink. She should have pregamed.
“Thanks for making time to do this,” he says. “Billy speaks very highly of you.” There’s nothing teasing in his tone, not a hint that she and Billy are anything but the most casual of acquaintances. It seems Billy was discreet. Maybe what happens at the Baxters’ stays at the Baxters’.
“Well, that’s nice to hear,” Poppy says.
“Yes, he seems to feel my portrait of the burlesque scene would be incomplete without a few words from you.” He smiles, and it’s boyish and utterly disarming.
He has the faintest dimples and a slight gap between his two front teeth.
She has the urge to stick her tongue in it.
“Do you mind if I record our conversation?”
The question surprises her, but maybe it shouldn’t. Sometimes, she feels like she knows nothing about the world. Every day in the city she learns more than she did in a year in school back home.
“Sure,” she says.
He asks her about how she got started performing, then gets into questions about the Blue Angel and how it all works. Even though he’s recording, he also jots things down on a little notepad.
“Do you consider any of the other performers actual friends, or just colleagues?” he says.
“I don’t know. Like who?” She realizes she doesn’t have a single real friend at the Blue Angel. But fine—whatever. She’s not in New York City to make friends. She left plenty of those behind in Arkansas.
“You tell me,” he says. “Bette Noire?”
“Um, I guess you could say she’s my mentor.” Saying it aloud, she wishes it were true.
A waiter appears with a plate of long, thin breadsticks. She orders a glass of champagne, then reaches for a breadstick, and then another.
“These are addictive.” She gives him a little smile, trying to gauge if he finds her attractive or not. His body language doesn’t give her a clue. But considering most men do, she decides to just work on the assumption that things are in play.
He asks her about the “culture” at the Blue Angel, and why she thinks burlesque is having “a moment.” She feels a lot of pressure to be more interesting than Bette. She thought she’d enjoy being interviewed, but it’s actually exhausting.
“Do you have enough for your article yet?” she says, finishing her glass of champagne.
He looks up from his notepad. “I’m not sure. Why? Are we out of time?”
“No, not at all. I just thought maybe this is getting boring.”
He laughs. “I hope readers don’t think so.”
“Oh, they won’t. I’m sure you know how to keep things interesting.” They lock eyes, and she feels a little spark. She knows this is the moment to get away from the professional chatter and into the personal.
“So, have you been to the club since Mallory started performing?” Performing is an overstatement—really, she’s giving her too much credit. But the question seems to land: His expression clouds over. She wonders for a second if she’s made a tactical error.
But then he seems to shake it off, takes a sip of his drink (his third, but who’s counting?), and says, “No. I haven’t.”
“Oh? Why not? You should.”
He shakes his head. “We’re not here to talk about me. Tell me more about the camaraderie at the club. In what ways has Bette mentored you?”
“Actually, she hasn’t.” Busted! He’s good.
They must teach that at journalism school.
“Okay, maybe what I meant is I want her to be my mentor. She should be—honestly, I’m the best one at the Angel aside from her, and I practically just started.
She’s been there two years—you’d think she’d want to help someone else.
” Someone aside from Mallory, who doesn’t even deserve it.
“So … you’re friends?” He bites on the end of his pen, and it makes her want to kiss him.
“Frenemies, maybe,” Poppy says, feeling clever.
He writes it down.
“How much rivalry exists between performers at the club? In the burlesque scene in general?”
“I can’t speak for other girls or the scene in general. Besides, I thought you said you got enough for your article.”
He glances at his notes.
“Did I say that? I don’t think I said that.”
“Yes, you definitely did.” She smiles her most alluring smile, and he can’t resist smiling back.
“Okay. No more questions. You’re a tough negotiator, Ms. LaRue.”
He signals for the bill. She’s not ready to end the night. Not by a long shot.
“Did you have dinner yet? I’m starving,” she says.
Maybe she’s being aggressive, but she prefers to think of it as assertive.
Besides, she may not know a lot, but she does know about expense accounts.
There’s no way Billy Barton isn’t picking up this tab.
And really, the least that guy can do is buy her a meal.
“We can order food. Sure,” he says. “Why not?”
She’s surprised by how happy this makes her.
She’d started out the night wanting to hook up with him to spite Mallory for taking Bette’s attention away from her.
But she actually likes him. He’s really handsome and he treats her like a lady.
Maybe that little escapade with Billy Barton will pay off more than she imagined.
It would be nice to have a boyfriend in New York.