Chapter 2
Chapter 2
“I didn’t expect a strip joint to draw a crowd like this,” Dan Wheeler admitted. The group at the adjacent table wore formal attire, as though they had arrived from the sort of dressy event that occurred nightly in the ballrooms of the luxury hotels lining Park Lane and Piccadilly. Other people were dressed respectably, as they would when dining in Mayfair’s more upscale establishments.
“It’s a cabaret,” Lou retorted. She turned to her partner, adding, “He didn’t want to join us. Maybe he’s worried people will think we’re a throuple.”
“That possibility never crossed my mind.”
“Chill,” Lou said. “Enjoy. We’re celebrating your birthday. Better late than never.”
Kelly smiled at him. “And your new status as Director of Operations.”
“Different title. Same duties.”
Lou made a derisive sound. “As a company finance officer, I happen to know your compensation increased. Next time we go out, you’re paying for drinks.”
Kelly shook her head. “Stop teasing your boss.”
“He’s used to it. When he wrote my brilliant annual review, he referenced my appealing sense of humor.”
With mock sternness, Dan said, “Ms. Ridley, if you don’t mind your manners, there will be an addendum. Forcing me to attend a peep show could be regarded as a violation of the moral turpitude clause in your employment contract with Latimer London Estates, Limited.”
“You won’t,” Lou said. “I’ve always wanted to see Stella Nue in person.”
“Not jealous,” Kelly murmured. “Not much. I mean, not at all.”
Lou sipped her cocktail. “My primary reason for coming here is to watch Dan blush when the ladies disrobe.”
His companions, paired by a lesbian dating app, were a testament to the occasional value of the similar algorithm that had let him down so many times. He marveled that his brash Director of Finance had found a soul mate in the serene artisanal baker who shared her Shepherd’s Bush flat.
Lou stirred the contents of her glass. The pink plastic swizzle stick had the shape of a naked woman in profile. “I never asked what birthday present you got from your dad.”
“A voucher for Angler’s Attic, the rod and tackle shop not far from Thornbury and Tayer Court. His unsubtle and unnecessary reminder that I’m due for a visit. Brian drew a picture for me. A fish, according to the note his rehab specialist enclosed.”
“Did your mum send anything?”
“No.”
Not a card or a letter or a present. No telephone call.
He was relieved to see a disembodied hand parting the crimson swags of the curtain. The compere, wearing formal attire, stepped out.
“On behalf of the Archway Cabaret stars and staff, I warmly welcome you to the second show,” he said, beaming. “Please be attentive to our protocol. Photography, videography, and audio recordings are forbidden while an act is in progress. Table-hopping during a performance is not allowed. Kindly refrain from rude gestures or shouting inappropriate comments. At the conclusion of each act, feel free to express your appreciation, enthusiastically but respectfully. The curtain call is your opportunity to take pictures—without flash. Take as many selfies as you like outside. Pose under the arch. Stand at the entrance. We want our sign to be visible.”
His listeners laughed at this aside.
“Most important of all, enjoy the program! Club regular Holly Hollywood is our opener. Also featured tonight, the ever-popular Audrey in Amethyst. And Luscious Liz, recently returned from her tour of the shires. Following a brief interval, headliner Stella Nue will grace the stage.”
The friendly, informative oration drew heavy applause. As it waned, two showgirls sporting feathery headdresses swept in from either side of the protruding half-moon stage. Turning their backs on the audience, they cocked their knees and wiggled their bottoms to the drumbeats produced by the sound system. Each one took hold of a curtain, placed a hand on a hip, and marched in opposite directions, pulling the heavy fabric as they went.
Platinum blonde Holly Hollywood, sheathed in a strapless, hot pink satin gown and wearing opera gloves of the same material, perched on the top step of a gleaming white staircase. Her rhinestone jewelry—earrings, necklace, and bracelets—sparkled beneath the stage lights. Dan, who favored vintage films, recognized her attire as a facsimile of Marilyn Monroe’s iconic costume from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, and wasn’t surprised when the sound system erupted with the familiar strains of “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” Unlike the movie star, Holly didn’t sing or lip-sync—or keep her dress on. She shimmied and swayed, removing the tearaway skirt before taking off the bodice, corset, bra, and knickers. As the tune faded, she strutted off, wearing sequined circles over her nipples and a diamond-shaped thong, recipient of applause, cheers, and wolf whistles.
A girl in a revealing halter top and shorts darted onto the stage, smiling and winking, as she gathered up the scattered clothing.
“We didn’t get the full Monty,” Dan murmured. “Will we?”
Lou shook her head. “Unlikely, in the Borough of Westminster. I reckon there are restrictions.”
Prince’s “Purple Rain” set the mood for Audrey in Amethyst, a statuesque Black woman sporting a shag haircut like the late singer’s. She peeled off a succession of violet-hued draperies.
Luscious Liz, who wore a sequined jumpsuit, stripped to a frenetic disco number.
“Enjoying yourselves?” Dan asked his table companions during the interval.
“Definitely,” Lou replied. “You?”
Curling his hand around his tumbler of whisky, he replied, “Of course.” Given his work colleague’s habit of friendly mockery, he withheld overt admiration of the ladies who had pranced upon the stage. Not that he fancied any of them.
This place, in addition to being unfamiliar, was far livelier than his usual evening haunts. At the end of a normal working day, he abandoned his Latimer Row office and climbed the stairs to his top floor flat. After a solitary supper, he reviewed financial and property news online or in print, streamed an old movie, or watched sports pundits analyze recent football matches and speculate on the outcomes of future ones. Before a fishing weekend, he researched possible waterways and suitable accommodations. A regular supply of complimentary tickets was one of many benefits derived from his employer’s prominence as a lord of the realm and owner of a compact but immensely valuable section of Mayfair. Dan used them, if the play or concert appealed to him. Once or twice a week he dined at his gentlemen’s club, exclusively masculine and populated by members of his dad’s generation and a lesser contingent of his own contemporaries. Hearing them overshare about wives and mistresses and children and dogs, none of which he possessed, he was convinced he needed to shake up his staid routine.
Tonight was a start. Although he didn’t envision becoming an Archway regular.
The host’s reappearance enticed the audience from the bar and lobby back to their tables.
“The entire Archway Cabaret family are honored by the return of a lovely and talented lady who needs no introduction. She enjoyed her earliest international success here, and ever since has drawn capacity crowds wherever in the world she performs. My friends, we proudly present Stella Nue in Everything’s Coming off Roses.”
The curtain pullers carried out their task less demonstratively than before, accompanied by lilting chords from a harp. The set consisted of three pieces of furniture. Sheer curtains enclosed a circular bed covered in pink satin. A bench and narrow table were positioned to one side of the stage. Various toiletry items were arranged on the gleaming white surface: hairbrush, hand mirror, oversized powder puff, old-fashioned scent bottle with squeeze bulb, and a bouquet of pink roses.
Riotous applause, clapping, and whistles drowned out Stella Nue’s entrance music. She was a petite young woman whose reddish hair flowed to her waist. Her face was heart-shaped, with large eyes set beneath smoky brows. Bright red lipstick accentuated her mouth. She was more delicately built and less voluptuous than the performers who had preceded her.
Slowly she made her way to the table, her diaphanous pale pink robe fluttering with her movements, synchronized to a classical piece that Dan vaguely recognized and eventually identified. She held up the mirror and pressed the powder puff to her brow and cheeks, chin and neck. With a suggestive sideways smile, she reached inside her garment to swipe the tops of her breasts. Picking up the flowers, she held them close to her face and inhaled.
Dan didn’t notice the satin pointe shoes until she rose onto her toes and began to dance. Her version of the Rose Adagio from Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty score was scaled down to fit the limitations of the performance space. He was acquainted with the ballet, firmly embedded in the repertoires of London’s major and minor dance companies.
A series of arabesques moved Stella Nue and her flowers upstage to the bed. She parted the draperies and placed her roses on the pillow. Lying beside them, she closed her thickly lashed eyes.
A handsome dark-haired man vaulted out from the wings, the black tails of his coat floating behind him and whipping about during a brief solo that roused the slumbering lady. Leaving her bed, she joined in a romantic pas de deux punctuated by several daring lifts. Facing the audience, she pulled the thin fabric from each shoulder, letting it fall to rest on her hips. She plucked the sash and opened the robe to reveal a transparent nightgown. Slipping off the outer garment, she offered it her partner, who executed multiple turns and carried it into the wings.
Bending forward, she unfastened ribbons at the back of the gown and took it off. Her remaining layer was a pink satin corset and lacy underpants. Waving the filmy fabric like a banner, she returned to the bed, granting her audience an enticing glimpse of her shapely back and bottom. A pink sequin rose was positioned over each rounded cheek.
Reclining against satin sheets, she ran her hands up and down her torso. She kicked and scissored her bare legs. As if summoned by her frantic, sexualized motions, a second man, a near-twin of the first, appeared. He seized her hand and pulled her towards him. As the music swelled and cymbals crashed, they performed a dramatic dance duet before he waltzed away.
Smiling at the audience, she sat on the bed. Gradually, enticingly, she unlaced her corset and let it fall open to expose the rose-shaped sequin pasties attached to her breasts.
The stage lights went out. When they came on again, Stella—in her peignoir—curtsied in every direction and extended her arms to the male dancers. Each of them clasped a hand and kissed it.
After they led her away, Lou murmured, “She’s a gorgeous ginger. I wonder whether the carpet matches the curtains.”
“Don’t be crude,” Kelly objected.
“She’s got a natural redhead’s skin tone but dark eyebrows. Probably penciled in.”
The entire cast came onto the stage to bump and grind and shimmy and blow kisses. The host, after announcing that Stella Nue would be the featured act for the remainder of the month, wished everyone goodnight.
Dan followed his companions into the lobby. A queue stretched from the merchandise display to the opposite wall. Stella Nue fans could purchase perfume or lingerie or autographed boudoir photos.
“I’m peckish,” Lou announced. “Let’s go somewhere suitably festive, but not far from Green Park tube station.”
“I know the perfect place,” Dan announced.