Chapter Ten
The small theater just off Varick Street has plush armchair seating and full food and beverage service.
The room holds an audience of maybe three dozen people, one of whom is the star himself.
Mallory can immediately tell most of the people in the room are press or industry.
When the crowd at an exciting event is low-energy it’s usually a clue that it’s filled with pros who are either jaded or pretending to be.
But even this seen-it-all group of scenesters takes notice when the three of them walk in.
It’s because of Violet. She’s impossible to ignore with her platinum short hair and a full sleeve of tattoos on her right upper arm, an ace of spades on her shoulder blade, and a bouquet of—what else—violets above her left breast. Tonight, she’s dressed in torn black jeans, a black bustier top, and a leather jacket.
Mallory sits between Alec and Violet for the two-hour action film.
The whole time, she’s extremely aware of Violet next to her in the dark.
Her presence demands its own energy, like she’s an electronic device using Mallory to charge her battery.
There’s something unnerving about her, and by the time the movie credits roll, Mallory is ready to go home.
But even before the applause dies down, the film’s director and producer take the stage for a conversation.
Mallory sees Jarod Marks slip out the exit.
“You ready to get out of here?” Violet whispers to her, slipping her hand under Mallory’s skirt to rest on her inner thigh. Mallory’s wearing sheer black stockings, but Violet’s touch feels like it’s seared her bare skin.
Mallory jumps up.
“Excuse me—going to use the restroom,” she says.
“You good?” Alec asks.
“Yeah. Sure. Be right back.”
But she’s not good. She hates to admit it, but sitting next to Violet in the dark and then feeling her sudden touch made her a little wet.
It’s been a while since Mallory felt attracted to another woman.
Last year, when she and Alec were broken up and she took a trip to L.A.
with her burlesque mentor, Bette Noire, they had a little fling.
But while she found sex with Bette to be extremely hot, it didn’t make her want to be in a relationship with her.
If anything, she felt more longing for the complete, multidimensional physical and emotional relationship she had with Alec.
Ironically, her experiment with sexual liberation made her more convinced that monogamy is the only way to sustain a long-term romantic partnership.
She and Alec both agreed that every romp with someone outside their relationship was a tiny paper cut in their intimacy.
Paper cuts are tiny, but if you have enough of them, you could probably still bleed to death.
Since then, she and Alec agreed to have a conventional monogamous relationship. And they’ve been deeply happy since—no matter what Allison and Julie seem to think.
Whatever she’s feeling right now around Violet, she needs to get away from it. The last thing she needs is a regression to that type of drama.
The bathroom, a single stall, is so poorly lit she can barely see her reflection in the mirror.
It’s difficult to tell if she’s pale and needs blush or if it’s just the lighting.
Lately, she feels a little like the Plain Jane in burlesque.
She can’t keep up with the peacocking among the performers.
She’s always the one without tattoos, without dramatically colored hair or a haircut, and without nude photos of herself on Fleshbot.
For her day job, or by street standards, she’s attractive and maybe even interesting-looking.
But in the burlesque world, she’s practically demure.
Sometimes it feels like a part of her is still holding back, one foot in the real world in case she doesn’t “make it” in burlesque.
But what does making it in burlesque actually look like?
Is it just about making enough money to pay her bills, or is it more?
Does she have the drive to become as big as Bette Noire, or as buzzed about as Violet?
Does she want to be? Like Julie and Allison said: What’s the future in this?
Or maybe she’s just letting them get to her.
Well, she won’t be shamed into second-guessing herself.
Tonight she’s out with like-minded people, and she’s going to have more fun than small-minded people like Julie and Allison can even begin to imagine.
She touches up her lipstick and heads back to her seat.
“Let’s get out of here,” Violet says, casually putting her hand on Mallory’s knee like a possessive girlfriend. “There’s a party at the Plaza—one of Mischa Brown’s events. I say we blow out of here and check it out.”
Mallory has heard about Mischa Brown. He’s a twenty-three-year-old former DJ who declared the New York velvet-rope-and-bottle-service club scene over and, tapping into a network of tastemakers and beautiful people, created an underground roving party scene of pop-up parties.
They’re always in a different location: a candlelit, abandoned warehouse in Chinatown; an Art Deco loft apartment in SoHo; a suite at a five-star hotel.
“Sounds good,” Alec says.
“Sure. Why not,” Mallory agrees.
Violet smiles. “There’s just one thing: We need hats to get in.”
“What kind of hat?”
Violet shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”
“So we have to go back to our apartments, find hats, and meet out again?” Mallory says.
“No, that would be ridiculous. We can stop by Village Costume. It’s just a few blocks away. And then we head uptown,” Violet said.
“Is it open this late?”
“It’s always open late on weekends—you’d be surprised by how many people need a last-minute costume on a Saturday night.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Mallory says.
“My roommate used to work there. She told me that costumes increase your chance of getting laid by sixty percent.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Mallory.
“Really?” says Violet. “You think Halloween is so popular for the free candy?”
Mallory hasn’t been to the Plaza Hotel since she was six years old and her mother took her to see where Eloise lived.
Now, twenty years later, she’s wearing a fedora and following her heavily tattooed, bleached-blond, pirate-hat-wearing co-worker into the entrance leading to the new private residences.
A white-gloved door attendant shows them to the elevator, pushing the button for the penthouse. When the gilded door slides closed, Violet says, “One more thing—you have to have a tattoo.”
Mallory and Alec look at each other.
“We don’t have any tattoos, Violet. You should have said something earlier,” Alec says, irritated. Obviously, Violet herself is in the clear.
Mallory had avoided the temptation to get a tattoo in her early twenties because of her former ambitions in corporate law. Then, by the time she changed course, it no longer held any appeal for her.
“I wasn’t finished,” Violet snaps. “If you don’t have a tattoo, someone there will give you a temporary one.”
“Like the kind kids wet and press on?” he says.
“Why don’t you just wait and see?”
Mallory and Alec exchange another look. With a smile, he rolls his eyes like when in Rome … let’s just have fun and go with it.
The elevator opens to an enormous room bathed in warm, golden light, but instead of traditional chandeliers, there are massive, custom-made crystal installations—almost sculptural—hanging in clusters at different heights.
The walls are paneled in pale blush and cream lacquer with gilded trim, but with a high-gloss finish that catches the light like jewelry.
The ceilings are hand-painted in Rococo-inspired larger-than-life roses and clouds.
Small, round tables are covered in champagne-colored silk with mirrored tabletops reflecting the flicker of hundreds of candles in Lucite candelabras.
The party smells like a heady mix of the tightly packed arrangements of pale pink garden roses and white orchids combined with the sickly sweet scent of a vape pen.
A DJ is spinning French house and disco remixes.
“Welcome, gorgeous,” says a super skinny, tall blonde.
It’s not clear exactly who, of their group, she’s specifically greeting.
The woman wears a towering purple hat festooned with feathers and semiprecious stones.
Something about her is familiar—Mallory might have seen her photo in Page Six.
“Welcome! I’m Penelope.” She immediately gravitates to Violet.
“Do you mind if I take a photo of your tattoos? It’s for an art project. ”
Violet shrugs.
“I loooove this,” the woman says, twirling her finger in the air to circle the purple flowers on Violet’s chest. She aims her digital camera for the shot, then proceeds to take photos of Violet’s back and arm. Mallory looks at Alec, and he winks at her.
“Okay, I’m going to excuse myself to find a drink. Be a doll and point me to the bar?” Violet says. When she slips away, Penelope turns her attention Mallory.
“I know you,” she says.
Mallory looks at her more closely, trying to place her.
“Really? I don’t think we’ve met.”
“I’ve seen you in my club. I never forget a face from my club,” Penelope says.
“What’s your club?”
“The Slit. I’m Penelope Lowe.”
Now Mallory knows why she looks familiar. Penelope Lowe is a notorious party-girl heiress. Most true burlesque performers bristled at Penelope calling her club burlesque—The Slit features what’s more accurately described as highly sexualized performance art.
“Oh, sure. Great place. I saw your Christmas show last year. My friend Bette Noire brought me.”
“I love Bette! How is she? No one sees her anymore now that she’s a celebrity.” Penelope puts her hand on Mallory’s arm. “You should do a show with us sometime.”
“Thanks, but I’m exclusive to the Blue Angel.”