Chapter 8 Arabella #2
I follow her gaze into the crowd. Behind a hooting gaggle of older women led by Mrs Ellis of Naughty Knitting Club fame, I’m surprised to see Dora’s husband, Mike.
He stands with his arms folded and a sour expression – not at all the face I’d expect a man to wear when he’s about to see his beautiful wife swing around a pole.
Mike is one of only a handful of men in the crowd.
Komal makes a face at her arch-rival, Augustin Durant, who stands in the doorway, shaking hands with everyone as they enter and reminding them that they can vote for him in the upcoming mayoral race.
He spends a particularly long time chatting with Alyra and her friends.
Komal seethes. “What’s he doing here? He doesn’t get to ogle us while he schmoozes for votes!” she hisses at me. “He’s not even dancing. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind!”
Before I can stop her, she stomps over to Augustin and tries to kneecap him with her yoga mat.
Augustin leaps out of the way, upsetting the table holding Beth’s green smoothies and making everyone in the room sigh with relief.
Komal continues to berate him in a rapid-fire string of half-English, half-Hindi insults while he wipes green goo off his tie and tries valiantly not to stare at her breasts bouncing in her tiny workout bra.
I have lived long enough and read enough romance novels to recognise a future rivals-to-lovers storyline when I see it.
“Welcome, everyone!” Beth claps her hands, cutting Komal off mid-insult.
“I’m so happy that you came to see what the new Zen and Tonic studio is all about.
As well as our fabulous range of organic, natural skincare treatments, infused with secret ingredients to increase longevity and improve skin condition, we have a full schedule of wellness classes, including yoga, tantric yoga, and our brand-new beginner pole dancing classes. ”
Beth does a little back hook spin and body roll, and her captive audience hoots with delight.
“Why pole dancing? Well, it’s good for core strength, flexibility, tone, and cardio fitness.
It works the whole body and nourishes the soul, too.
Everyone should get the chance to feel beautiful and sexy in their skin, and that’s what pole dancing is all about.
” Beth points to a poster on the wall. “Did you know that pole dancing originated with this unnamed erotic dancer in Paris? She danced for Gustave Eiffel at one of his infamous parties, using a steel pole, and that gave him the idea for the luscious angles and elegant proportions of the Eiffel Tower. She brought the pole idea back to her erotic theatre in Paris, and it’s been a staple of striptease ever since. ”
My eyes bug out of my head. How did she get that?
It’s a Toulouse-Lautrec poster advertising La Petite Mort, although Beth has whited over my theatre’s name with her studio.
It wasn’t the first time I ever sat for Henri – I’ve graced many of his works, but this was one of the most popular.
I’m holding my pole and facing away from the audience, my legs draped artistically while the other arm holds out a mirror.
You cannot see my face in the mirror, but you can see the details of the scarab beetle clasped at my throat, and above it, two tiny dots that might’ve been mistaken for blemishes in the paint.
Fang marks – a signal to the bohemian Upyr of Paris that they were safe in my theatre.
I thought all copies of that poster had been destroyed after my theatre burned. How did one survive?
The back of my neck prickles.
Staring at this image of my past reminds me that as much as I’ve tried to lie low, someone, anyone, could find me and take it all away again.
My nails dig into the flyer I’m still holding, crumpling the edge.
Celeste watches me, her eyes asking questions I have no way of answering.
Beth is still yammering on about the history of pole, but I don’t hear her, too mesmerised by that vision from my past. “We honour the origins of pole and the strippers and sex workers who perform it. Pole is expanding out of the club and into studios like this. To demonstrate the fun you can have in this invigorating, sensual and body-positive space, I’ll be leading some volunteers in a short pole class.
Let’s cheer them on! Ladies, to your poles! ”
Komal bounces on her feet with excitement. Behind her, Augustin’s cheeks redden, but he doesn’t look away.
Maisie groans. Isis struts across the floor wearing a purple tie-dyed bodysuit. Dora has gone white as a sheet.
I grit my teeth as I shrug off my bomber jacket, revealing the matching lilac workout set underneath. My Louboutin heels click against the floorboards. If I’m going to make a fool of myself for Beth’s business, I’m at least going to look incredible doing it.
Beth leads us through a quick warm-up, shows us some basic spins and how to climb the pole, and then demonstrates the routine she wants us to learn.
“You do a forward spin, back hook, and then twirl to the floor, body roll, point your yoni to the sky – give it a little sexy attitude, ladies, we’re celebrating our divine feminine! ”
“This is not the divine feminine,” Dora mutters. “This is the divine comedy.”
Everything Beth demonstrates is pretty simple and not that different from the moves I performed at La Petite Mort. Sexy dancing hasn’t changed much throughout the ages. Beth puts on some floaty music, and as my fingers wrap around the pole, my body remembers.
I remember dancing. I remember losing myself in the music. I remember the warm thrill skittering down my spine when I gazed out at the crowd to rapturous applause. I remember flowers thrown at my feet and men prostrating themselves before me, mesmerised by what I could do with movement and music.
I remember the power in my body – a body that was mine to use and control, even when very little else in the world was mine.
I remember telling stories, speaking truth without saying a word, condemning everyone in the audience for their sins while making them worship me.
The music courses through me. I step. I spin.
I hook my leg. I point my toes. I toss my head and run my hands over my body.
My limbs wake up. My muscles groan with the weight of memories.
My fangs drop and my lips curl into a smile.
I grip the pole behind my knee and lean back, hanging upside down while blood rushes to my head.
I feel alive.
“What are you doing?” Beth cries out. “That’s not in the routine. You could hurt yourself.”
“Wow, Arabella, you’re really good.” Dora thuds to the floor.
“How do you make that look so graceful?” Maisie groans, her legs akimbo and her hand gripping the pole so hard her knuckles are white.
“Beth, help! I’ve trapped my hand!” Komal calls out as she hangs upside down, her hands gripping the pole in terror.
I ignore them all, focusing on moving with the music, memories releasing as my muscles loosen up. As I spin around the pole, my gaze catches someone in the corner of the room, standing beside Alaric, a rapt expression on his stupid, handsome face.
What is Gideon doing here?
And why is he staring at me like that?
If he’s staring, says the vengeful voice inside my head, give him something to bite down on.
Isis is right. My plot to destroy Gideon using the tools at my disposal is fun. By the end of tonight, he will be at my mercy.
Then I can start figuring out how to take Sanctus from him.
I begin the choreography again, this time adding even more of my flair. The music hums in my veins. I roll my body and pretend to lick the pole. Gideon shifts uncomfortably. Triumph surges through me.
Even after one hundred and fifty years, I can still bring him to his knees.
I climb, gripping with my knees. I arch my back. I hang and twirl and flip to the floor.
I look around. Isis has fallen over. Mina has managed to climb halfway up her pole and is now stuck.
Maisie’s legs go in opposite directions, and she yelps in pain as she accidentally does a perfect middle split.
Winnie isn’t dancing. She slumps against the base of her pole, watching me through a curtain of golden hair.
While Beth is distracted by their nonsense, I sashay over to Gideon. My skin prickles, aware that I’m dressed in skin-tight workout clothes and spiked heels while he’s in a full suit. But I’m the one who has the power.
“Gideon, what a surprise to see you here.” I toss my head. If I still had hair, I’d have flipped it.
“I’m supporting this local fitness initiative,” he says with a perfectly straight face. His eyes never leave mine, but I can tell it’s taking every ounce of self-control he has not to look down at my body.
I want to strangle him. I want to dunk his head into Beth’s mushroom juice until he stops wriggling. I want him to suffer. I want him to beg.
He will beg. I have to be patient. I have to stop being distracted by those peacock-blue eyes.
“How very community-spirited of you.” I brush an invisible bit of dust from my top, trying to get his gaze to drop. “Be careful. You don’t want to strain something.”
His eyes follow my fingers. He lets out a low groan.
Got you.
I turn on my heel, accidentally-on-purpose rubbing my derrière against his crotch before sashaying back to help Dora untangle herself from her pole.
“Alright, dancers.” Beth claps her hands. “You’ve had time to practise. Let’s come together for a group performance.”
Komal groans as she picks herself off the floor. Dora looks utterly terrified as she lines up behind her pole. I cast my eyes out to the small audience. Everyone is clapping and cheering, except for Mike, whose face has become a black storm cloud.
My eyes meet Gideon’s, and suddenly, I’m not in the studio any longer. I’m back in Paris, the oil lamps burning low as sultry music wafts overhead, and although we have a full house, I’m dancing for one person only…
Beth starts the track. The bass line pounds in my chest.
“Three, two, one…” Beth counts us in, and I throw my head back and spin.
My eyes flick away, then meet his again as I complete the spin. I throw myself around the pole. The music hums through me, waking up long-slumbering bones.
A body roll. I break from Beth’s choreography to freestyle, spinning and flipping, climbing and twisting my body.
My skin burns where it grips the pole, but it’s a good kind of burn.
I drop to the floor in the splits, eliciting a gasp from the audience.
Gideon’s eyes never leave my face as I crawl across the floor, raising my fingers to beg for him. He bites his lip.
I run my hands over my body, arching my back, telling a story with my movements – a story that Gideon will recognise. Cool nights walking the streets of Paris with him, a secret garden, a salacious painting, a night that I told him meant nothing but that is etched permanently on my bones.
A betrayal.
A burning.
The music finishes. The whole room falls silent. I can feel every eye in the place on me, but there’s only one pair I can see.
I’m dancing for him.
What am I doing?