Chapter Thirty-One
Poppy wakes up alone in her bed. Last night was an all-time low: She’s never had a guy turn her down mid-fuck. It’s humiliating.
She spots a small brown mouse nibbling on something in the corner of her room. Where’s the damn cat when she needs it? She picks up one of her shoes and aims it carefully. The mouse is so quick it darts right under the door and back into the kitchen.
Then she thinks of Mallory the Mouse, and how she infiltrated her life just like the little rodents in the apartment. But she’s much more difficult to scare off.
Unless … maybe she’s going about this the wrong way.
If she wants to get Mallory away from Bette, she should be trying to get her and Alec back together, not split them further apart. Why didn’t she think of that last night? Now she has to course correct. Immediately.
She calls Alec and asks him to meet for coffee.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says.
“Just to talk. As friends.”
He’s silent for a beat. Long enough to make her wonder if he’s going to reject her. Again.
“Okay. But just to talk. Can you come uptown?”
He names a place on the Upper East Side. Poppy feels like she has vertigo anywhere above 14th Street.
“That’s sort of out of the way,” she says.
“Not for me.”
She hopes it’s at least a cute place, like Friend of a Farmer with the amazing French toast.
Not having money for a cab, she hops on the 6 train. By the time she arrives at the restaurant on 81st Street, she’s cold, tired, and cranky. Making things worse, it’s just a plain old Greek diner.
Poppy strolls in wearing leggings, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and knee-high UGGs.
Her coat is white faux fur from a vintage store on Greenwich Avenue.
With her aviator sunglasses and careless, unwashed blond bob, she’s by far the sexiest-looking woman on the Upper East Side.
Alec, already in a booth near the window, barely seems to notice.
“So what’s up?” he says.
She slides into the seat across from him. The waiter immediately pours her a coffee. It’s strong and good; the diner has officially redeemed itself.
“I feel weird about last night,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” said Alec. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gone back to your place. It’s not that I’m not attracted to you—because I am. Who wouldn’t be? Christ, look at you.”
Poppy smiles. The trip uptown is suddenly worth it.
“But like I said last night … I love Mallory.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I don’t think you should mention to Mallory that we hooked up last night,” she says.
“Yeah, I was going to say the same thing to you. I was hoping we could maybe just pretend that never happened. No offense.” A pained expression crosses his face. “It’s just that I really want to try to make things work.”
“I totally get it.”
He looks relieved. “I just spoke to her this morning. I told her I interviewed you for the article, but that’s it. Just hearing her voice … it was amazing.”
Just hearing her voice was amazing? It’s too much!
“I don’t understand why everyone loves her so much,” Poppy says, going way off script. But it’s just so infuriating. Mallory gets to be in L.A. with Bette, and go to the Baxter party, and she has Alec waiting for her back home.
“Who’s everyone?”
“You. Bette. Agnes. Probably Justin Baxter. I just want to know why. Can you tell me?”
“Who’s Justin Baxter?” Alec leans forward, his elbows on the table.
“The guy hosting the party in L.A.”
“Mallory has nothing to do with that party. She just wanted to get away for a few days.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure. The Baxters have a way of sucking people into their drama.” She would know.
A server refills their coffee mugs.
“What does that mean?”
“They have these wild parties and let’s just say it’s easy to get caught up in the moment. Bette’s out there to perform for them.”
“Mallory isn’t going to that party,” he says, an edge to his voice.
“Okay, don’t be so defensive. I thought you liked burlesque. You’re the one writing the article about it.”
“Sure. But I don’t want the woman I love hanging out at a place where it’s all about titillating other guys.”
“That’s not what burlesque is all about.”
“Okay, spare me the postfeminist deconstruction of burlesque. I’m a guy, and to guys it’s hot women taking off their clothes. Period. We don’t care about the music and the costumes.”
“Fair enough,” Poppy says.
Another server appears, tall, dark, and impatient to take their order. But Alec waves him off.
“Can I ask you something?” Poppy says. “What does she have that I’m missing? Because let’s be real: I’m ten times hotter than she is.”
“First of all, to me she is the most beautiful woman in the world. Period. And we’re amazing friends and we have great sex. And whenever I think of my future she is the one by my side. I can’t explain it any more than that. I can’t imagine anyone making me as happy as she does.”
Poppy is speechless. No one talks like that except in the movies. Would anyone ever feel that way about her?
“What do you mean by ‘amazing sex’?” she says.
“Oh, come on, Poppy. I can’t get into this with you.”
“Seriously. I have great sex. And it never amounts to anything. It’s like, just a good feeling that evaporates—like eating candy.”
“Maybe it’s because you don’t have the emotional connection. You know, like when you think about that person all the time and can’t wait to talk to them.”
He’s right. She never has. And maybe she never will.
He smiles at her, and she wants to cry. For the first time, success feels totally out of reach.
There’s more to life than just being a burlesque star.
She wants someone to feel about her the way Alec feels about Mallory.
She’s been beautiful and sexy her entire life, and where has it gotten her?
The real prize is to love and be loved. And she has absolutely no idea how to find that.
“Mallory’s a lucky girl,” she says. The waiter returns, but she’s lost her appetite. “I need to get going.” She stands up. Alec makes a feeble attempt to convince her to at least have something to eat.
“No thanks,” she says. She didn’t come all the way uptown for diner food. “But I’ll say this before I go: If you want your relationship to work, keep Mallory away from the Baxter parties.”