Chapter Twenty-Eight
The line for the nightclub stretches down a full city block, and everyone standing in it looks famous, or at least like they should be famous. Mallory’s thankful she became a redhead before the trip. No matter how crushed she feels on the inside, at least she looks good on the outside.
“Back of the line,” says the guy at the door.
Apparently, not good enough.
“I think I’m on the list—Moxie?” When she texted Bette that she was heading over after all, this is what she’d been instructed to say.
The guy speaks into his headset, then unhooks the velvet rope so she can walk inside. She feels the eyes of everyone behind her in line like daggers.
The club is dark, but it’s impossible to miss the giant, medieval wagon-wheel-style light fixtures.
The air smells like spun sugar and incense.
Two women brush by carrying whips and dressed in identical corsets and thigh-high black patent leather boots.
Off to one side, a man lounges on a chesterfield sofa, totally nude except for a mask.
Bette texts her: Meet me at the photo booth.
Mallory keeps walking, each room feeling more and more dreamlike.
One is wallpapered with film strips from mid-twentieth-century erotic films. Another is mostly exposed brick with one wall serving as a screen for a projector running old black-and-white episodes of I Love Lucy.
Another is carnival-esque, with fun-house mirrors, a stilt walker towering above the crowd, a mime trapped in an invisible box, and a drag queen in a sequined jumper making rounds with trays of candied popcorn.
The music is a blend of electro-swing and dark cabaret—seductive and just a little unhinged.
She finally spots what she’s looking for: an old-fashioned photo booth—the kind she used to enjoy with her friends at the Jersey Shore on the boardwalk. And standing nearby, Bette. She waves her over and gives her a quick hug.
“You made it,” Bette says. Her blue eyes are especially bright, her alabaster skin glistening with a fine sheen of perspiration. Her grin seems a little manic compared to her usual unflappable cool.
“Are you okay?” Mallory says.
“Better than okay. I’m in love.”
Love? Bette usually acts like the entire concept of love is just a myth. It’s obvious that her own heartbreak over Alec is completely alien to her. So what’s the deal? Maybe she’s on molly.
“Are you high?”
“I’m high on life, baby.”
“Maybe someone slipped something into your drink. You have to be careful at places like this. Here, look at me: I’ll tell you if your pupils are dilated.”
“I’m not on drugs! Listen, if anyone can understand this, it’s you: I met my soul mate.”
“Your soul mate? Here?” She looks around.
“Yes! I know—it sounds crazy. But we started talking and I just felt this connection … it’s beyond attraction. It’s like I’ve known her forever. Look,” Bette says. “Here are some pictures we took in the photo booth.”
She pulls a ribbon of photos from her bag. Mallory leans closer to take a look. And she instantly recognizes Bette’s new love interest. Anyone would: She’s one of the most famous pop stars in the world.
“Zebra?” Mallory says.
“I know. The craziest part is she recognized me: She was at the Angel two years ago—before she was famous. She said my performance to ‘Back to Black’ was unforgettable. And I told her I actually just finished choreographing something to one of her songs.”
Mallory glances around. “Where is she?”
“She’s gone already. But I’m meeting her at her hotel later. She invited me to show her my routine.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet she wants you to come to her room and show you something. But it’s not your ‘routine’!”
“I’m in love. Seriously. I can’t wait to get out of here and just be alone with her.” Bette’s smile fades. “You don’t mind that I’m telling you this stuff, do you?”
“No—why would I mind?”
“I don’t know. Because you’re hurting over your breakup. I don’t want to make you feel worse.”
“Bette, no matter what happens with Alec, I’m a romantic. I believe in love. I’m happy for you.”
Bette reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. “I might not be back at our hotel tonight. You okay with that?”
“Of course. I’m a big girl. Go—have fun.
” She checks her phone. Still nothing. Her shoulders feel weighted with exhaustion.
She doesn’t know if it’s jet lag, her silent phone, or the contrast between Bette’s exuberance and her own simmering melancholy, but it’s all too much. “I’m actually going to leave soon.”
“What? You just got here. At least let me introduce you to Justin Baxter.”
As much as she’d like to head out, she knows it would be rude not to at least say hello to their host.
She follows Bette through yet another room, past a bar with mirrored shelves lined with bottles of absinthe. They descend a wide staircase lit by a flickering neon sign: Sanctum Below.
The basement level is cavelike, with wall sconces shaped like groping hands.
The first person Mallory sees is a bare-chested guy, collared and leashed.
A woman in a short red silk robe and black patent leather knee-high boots trails behind him, commanding the other end of the leash.
This room yields yet another bar, and just beyond it, a roped-off VIP section.
The bouncer recognizes Bette and allows them in.
“This club is like a matryoshka,” Bette says to her.
“A what?”
“You know—Russian dolls. Each one containing a smaller one within it.”
Mallory nods. There’s an intimacy to this space, populated by only about a dozen people.
Four blue velvet couches frame an iron-and-glass table laden with thousands and thousands of dollars’ worth of champagne.
On the perimeter of the couches, people in bondage gear lounge on leather divans, some sipping cocktails that practically glow in the dark.
But the people seated on the couches are dressed more normally: women in expensive sheath dresses and men in John Varvatos.
She can tell by the body language of the group which two people are top of the food chain; it’s obvious that a blandly handsome, finance-type guy is holding court.
The beautiful women on the couches tilt their faces toward him like flowers to the sun.
Only the woman sitting by his side seems not to be paying attention to him.
Instead, she watches Mallory and Bette. Out of all the people Mallory’s seen so far tonight, this woman is the most fascinating.
She’s tiny, elfin, with sun-shriveled skin and toothpick arms laden with gold cuff bracelets.
Her brown hair is a nest of disarray, and she’s smoking a cigarette.
Bette marches right over to the woman and gives her a European-style double-cheek air kiss. Then she does the same with the finance bro.
“Justin, Martha … this is Moxie,” Bette says. “Moxie, Justin Baxter and Martha Pike.”
Pike? Why does that name sound familiar?
“Welcome to L.A.,” Justin says, focusing sharklike gray eyes on her. “Glad you could join our little party.”
“Thanks for having me,” Mallory says, still chewing on the woman’s last name. Then, with a start, she makes the connection: The Pike Kegel Ball.
She feels herself blush.
“I love your hair,” Martha says in a raspy voice. “We were just discussing beautiful redheads, weren’t we, darling?”
Justin nods. “That’s right. We came to the reluctant conclusion that Nicole Kidman was terribly miscast in Moulin Rouge.”
Martha nods. “She simply has no sex appeal.” Then, looking directly at Mallory, she adds, “Unlike you.”
Mallory isn’t used to being blatantly and randomly complimented (flirted with?) by a married couple. It’s flattering, but when the duo offers them champagne, Mallory demurs.
“Thank you, but I was just on my way out.”
Bette tells them she’ll be right back and walks Mallory back up the stairs to the ground level.
“Be safe,” Mallory says, giving her a hug. “And—I can’t believe I’m saying these words—have fun with Zebra.”
Bette smiles. “I wish you’d stay.”
“I really just need to sleep. Don’t worry about me. I’m going straight to bed.”
But minutes later, in the cab headed back to the hotel, she’s wide awake. Wired.
She calls Alec one last time. It goes straight to voicemail.