Chapter Nine
In the morning, the party continues.
The heart of the café is the sprawling, slightly chaotic counter filled with trays of oversized cookies, croissants, and pretzel croissants stacked high.
Chalkboard menus list the day’s offerings, and behind it all is the open kitchen where bakers work in full view.
The iconic hot chocolate station, with its massive vat of thick, molten chocolate and handmade marshmallows bobbing in a separate bowl, is surrounded by a cluster of people.
“Happy birthday, birthday girl!” Allison rushes over to her with a delicious, vanilla perfume-scented hug. They’ve known each other since they were eighteen years old, and when they’re together Mallory feels that age again. With Allison and Julie, she suspects she always will.
Julie, always practical, gives her a wave but is clearly on the hunt for a table. The place is bi-level, and tables are a mismatch mix of communal wooden farm tables, small round café tables, and counter seating along the windows.
When they’re securely ensconced at a corner table on the upper level, Julie offers to take everyone’s order and go down to get the food. The place is cafeteria-style, and if a group wants a table, someone has to stay behind and guard it.
“Okay, but first …” Allison opens her suspiciously large handbag to reveal that she’s smuggled in a bottle of Krug.
“We’re going to get thrown out of here,” Julie says, glancing around. She works in book publishing, and if she has one flaw it’s that she never breaks a rule.
“You worry too much,” Allison says, popping the cork with a flourish and filling three paper cups. She works in PR and would never be accused of following any rules except the ones that suit her game.
“So you were at the club last night?” Julie says while Allison is busy with their contraband.
Mallory nods. “Yeah. Work night.”
The glasses are full, and Allison raises hers first.
“To Mally boo!” her friends say in unison, a callback to her college nickname. They toast, and that’s when Mallory notices …
“Julie? Um, what is that giant object weighing down your ring finger?”
“Wait—what?” Allison says, following her gaze. She looks at Mallory, and then the two of them jump up to hug their newly engaged friend. The woman at the table next to them moves her stroller out of the way so they don’t bump her offspring in the midst of their excitement.
“Yeah, Jonathan proposed last night,” Julie says, so obviously glowing that Mallory doesn’t know how she missed it. “I was dying to call you guys but I knew if I just waited twelve hours I could tell you in person.” She looks down at her ring lovingly, like it’s a pet.
“Where’d he do it?” Allison says.
“So he asked me where I wanted to go to dinner—said pick any place. And I said honestly, all I really want right now is a burger from the that place in Madison Square Park.”
“Shake Shack?” Allison says incredulously.
“Yes! Shake Shack. We got there and the line went all around the park. It was like a big lawn party. So even though we had to wait for like forty-five minutes, it was fun. Then we took our stuff to a bench near the Fifth Avenue side. And we were just sitting there eating, and there were pigeons kind of milling around waiting for scraps of food. And so Jonathan got down on one knee and I swear I thought he was feeding the pigeons or doing something like that, and the next thing you know he’s holding out this gorgeous ring and asking me to marry him!
And it was just like in a movie—after I said yes and was hugging him, the people on the bench across from us started clapping. ”
“Julie, I’m so happy for you,” Mallory says.
And she truly is. If there’s anyone she can see getting married, it’s Julie.
Even in college, Julie was a little more mature than Allison and Mallory—though neither of them would admit it.
She’s always known what she wants, and most importantly Julie and Jonathan truly seem to be perfect match.
She and Allison have so many questions they talk over each other until Julie shuts them down. “All I know is, I love Jonathan. We’ll figure out the wedding soon enough.”
“You really have to plan ahead for the dress, so don’t wait too long to figure it out,” Allison says.
“I’m not making a big deal about the dress. I just want something simple and white.”
Mallory nods. “I’d feel the same way if I were getting married.”
“Really?” Allison and Julie said in unison.
“Yes.” The look on their faces makes her stomach tighten. “Why is it surprising I want a white wedding dress?”
Allison and Julie looked at each other, then down at their food.
“What, because I do burlesque my wedding dress should be red—for the scarlet letter you apparently think I should be wearing?” She can feel her face flushing, but she doesn’t know how to dial down her indignation.
“Nooo,” Julie says, reaching forward and squeezing her arm. “I just meant you’re such a freethinker. It just seems like your thing.”
“My thing? I’m mean, it’s tradition,” Mallory says. “I believe in tradition.”
After a moment of awkward silence, Julie redirects the conversation with a non sequitur: “Eating here reminds me of the dining hall freshman year.”
Allison is quick to play ball: “If school served food like this, it might actually have been worth the tuition.”
Mallory understands the script that is being handed to her. She knows this is the moment to defuse the tension by playing along. So she says, “Don’t knock the old alma mater.” And tries to smile. She really needs coffee. Or hot cocoa. Or both.
“Says the only Ivy League–educated burlesque performer on the planet,” Allison says lightly. But somehow, it’s still offensive. Really, what does that even mean?
“For your information, not only am I not the only Ivy League burlesquer on the planet, but I’m not even the only Ivy League burlesquer in New York.”
Allison shakes her head. “Higher education isn’t what it used to be.”
Mallory feels her stomach tighten. That’s it. This isn’t joking around. This is pointed.
“Do you have something you want to say to me, Allison?”
Again, Julie and Allison look at each other.
Mallory knows this must be about burlesque.
They don’t approve, and they don’t understand.
Why would they? They both took the expected paths: Allison works for a top PR firm.
Julie is the assistant to an award-winning book editor.
Or maybe they’re jealous—she’s taking a risk. She’s following her passion.
“It’s just … please don’t be offended,” Julie says. “But we worry about you. The future and all …”
“What Julie means is,” Allison says, refilling her own cup with more champagne.
Mallory had forgotten all about her drink and reaches for it now.
“Where is this burlesque thing really going? I mean, we get that it’s interesting and novel and it’s great that you took a leap and did it for a year.
But really, Mallory—there’s no future in this. ”
Before Mallory can defend herself, Julie jumps in. “And it’s probably not great for your relationship. I mean, look at all that drama you had last year. You survived it, but why even put yourselves in those situations?”
Mallory can’t believe how judgmental they’re being!
“You know what? This doesn’t feel like brunch.” She pushes her tray away and stands up. “It feels like an intervention—for a problem that doesn’t exist.” She stands and walks away, shaking off Allison when she follows her down the metal stairs to the ground level.
The checkout lines are all the way to the back of the café, reaching the mac ’n’ cheese section and the salad bar. Mallory is thankful for the crowd, because it enables her to slip away from Allison without another word.
Outside, she keeps walking until she reaches Fifth Avenue, then stops for a breath. Her heart is pounding, and she wonders if she’s overreacting. The things they said hurt. But it’s more than that. It’s not only that what they said hurt.
It’s that she’s afraid, deep down, that they’re right.
Poppy and Patricia spend Saturday morning at the farmer’s market on 82nd Street. The entire block is filled with fruit and produce stands.
“Look at these apples,” Patricia says. “You won’t find anything like this at D’Agostino’s.”
Poppy really wants to share her enthusiasm, but she grew up around farms. She didn’t move to New York City for the produce. But then, she’s already accomplished what she came to find in Manhattan: She’s a performer. And once she became a performer, she realized that what she was missing was love.
Now she has love, and what’s missing is hot sex.
Oh, it started out fine. But it’s just become so predictable. No, worse than predictable: It’s become an afterthought.
“We should stay in and cook tonight,” Patricia says, loading up her NYPL tote bag with yams.
“Neither of us cooks,” Poppy says. She’d been hoping she could convince Patricia to try the new Korean place in the East Village.
“Maybe we should start,” Patricia says with a smile. “Besides, I have some reading to finish.”
Of course you do, Poppy thinks, then immediately regrets the snarky sentiment. She’s such an ingrate! Sure, Patricia works all the time. But that’s why she gets paid so well, and why Poppy is enjoying such a major lifestyle upgrade. She’d better find a way to improve her attitude.
But how?
Dancing is the best antidote to stress. It’s always been that way for Mallory, ever since she started ballet lessons in elementary school.
She’d been an anxious child and struggled with school.
Her parents signed her up for dance lessons to give her some sense of discipline.
Instead, what it gave her was a sense of freedom.
So after leaving brunch, she goes to the Ballet Academy on the Upper East Side where she rents rehearsal space.