Chapter Thirteen
Mallory is relieved to be at the office Monday morning. Here, she can lose herself in the depositions piled high on her desk. Work isn’t the same escape as dancing, but it’s better than nothing.
“Good morning,” Gavin says, walking into her office with his overcoat thrown over his arm.
He’s dressed in a navy blue pinstriped suit.
She wonders what it would be like to have a boyfriend like him.
She’s certain that his ex-wife had never watched him stick his cock in someone else.
“Just a quick check-in on my way to court. Everything good?”
“Yeah,” she says, and at the sight of him, things do feel surprisingly good. At least, better. “I’m going through the Marchand depositions.”
“Great. I need that by the end of the day tomorrow. “
“I know—I’m on it,” she said. “Good luck with Klein.”
He smiles. “Thanks for all your help on that one. You never know with Judge Draver, but I think we’re going to get good results.” He looks at her strangely. “Is that a bruise on your arm?”
She looks down. She’s been trying so hard to not think about what happened Saturday night, she forgot to remove the painted Varga girl.
“Oh—no … it’s paint. A temporary tattoo. Just a … it’s a private joke.”
Gavin smiles at her, shaking his head.
“Why do I get the feeling there’s a lot about you I’ll never know?”
She starts to say something to contradict this, then realizes he’s just joking.
At least, she thinks he’s joking. She’s a little paranoid since she was fired from her last law firm when they discovered her moonlighting as a burlesque dancer.
The smartest thing right now is to keep her mouth shut, and her expression neutral, nothing to see here …
His phone rings, and he takes the call and gives her a quick wave before heading out.
Relieved to be alone, she turns back to the depositions on her desk.
But now her concentration is broken and unwanted images from the weekend rush in: She can smell the slight muskiness of the Plaza hotel corridor.
She feels the tickle of the paint brush against her skin, and Violet’s warm breath between her legs.
She thinks about Alec underneath Jocelyn.
There’s no one she can talk to about this.
That’s the worst part. Julie and Allison are conversationally off-limits, because what are they going to say except Told you so!
And they’d be right. Maybe there is something inherently flawed in her relationship with Alec, or maybe it’s just that the world they’re in perpetually reduces them to their worst instincts.
Whatever the reason—fundamental, environmental, or both—her great love seems doomed to fail.
Mallory turns her attention to a file marked Klein v.
Klein. Working in divorce law makes it had not to be cynical about love.
In this case, Gavin is representing a woman named Marcy Gold Klein.
Marcy is a successful producer of fashion shows, and her soon-to-be-ex-husband is a hedge fund guy.
They have the town house, the Hamptons house, the A-list party invites from coast to coast, and beautiful twin daughters.
But theirs is one of the nastiest divorces Mallory has ever witnessed, not just at the firm, but even in the tabloids.
It amazes her that people who at one time pledged their lives to loving each other and making each other happy could then turn around and spend a lot of money trying to destroy that person.
When she expressed this to Gavin, he said that he’s no longer surprised nor particularly affected by anything he hears from clients, but he did concede that the burnout rate for matrimonial attorneys is high.
“How do you keep any kind of open mind or positive attitude toward relationships when you deal with this every day?” she once asked.
“It would be easy to become cynical. But I’m trying to remain an optimistic. A romantic, even.” He said this wistfully, and now, after a decidedly unromantic weekend, she couldn’t help but recall this conversation a little wistfully herself.
Her phone rings. She’s sure it’s Alec calling to check in from the airport on his way to L.A.
All day yesterday they both tried to act like everything was normal, but even a casual observer would have noted the tension.
It was clear they both knew they had to talk about what happened at the Plaza, but also that it was probably too much to get into the day before he flew to the West Coast for a three-day work trip.
But the call is not from Alec. Instead, it’s the one person she actually wants to talk to—even if she hadn’t consciously realized it until that moment.
“Bette, you have good timing,” she says.
“Hey, gorgeous. Where am I catching you?”
“I’m at work—the law firm I told you about.”
“Ugh. I thought I’d rescued you from the clutches of corporate America.”
“Yeah, well, living la vida loca doesn’t exactly pay the rent.”
“It does for me.”
“And that is why you’re an icon,” she says affectionately. “Are you in town?”
“I will be for the Halloween show.”
That’s in two nights. “Okay, well, let’s make plans this time. I need some quality time.”
“We’ll do that,” Bette says. “But in the meantime, what do you know about the new girl?”
A hot flush of anxiety makes her damp with perspiration under her button-down: Has Bette heard about what happened Saturday?
How would she? Unless Violet talked. And the truth is, Mallory has every intention to tell Bette what happened.
But she doesn’t want it to be out there like that.
Gossip is to the burlesque scene what coke was to the disco scene.
“Violet?” she says, barely able to push the name through her lips. “Nothing. Why?”
“I’m just hearing bad things about her through the grapevine. I know Agnes doesn’t trust me since I left, but maybe you can warn her.”
“What kind of bad things?” Mallory says, her heart beating fast.
“Just dark energy shit. Trust me, she’s bad news.”
“I believe you,” Mallory says.
She just found out the hard way.
Violet waits behind the stage wearing a long brunette wig, cropped leather jacket, and thigh-high, six-inch heeled biker boots.
She peeks out from behind the stage curtain at the audience.
The Blue Angel is packed. Monday night is a surprisingly popular one at the club—the “weekend extender,” they call it.
Lots of single guys and women who can’t face their empty apartments alone after a weekend of partying.
It’s a good night for the performers because the tips are always generous; people are so damned grateful to escape themselves.
Mallory never works on Monday nights, but Violet couldn’t help hoping maybe tonight would be the exception.
It’s a very strange feeling for her, but she’s been impatient to see her again.
Saturday night only confirmed what Violet sensed from the first time she saw Mallory: She’s the hottest thing walking.
Her body, her attitude—even her pathetic attachment to her boyfriend—all turn Violet on.
Still, she thought that once she fucked her she’d get it out of her system—“one and done,” as Violet likes to say.
But no. Mallory is the rare person who leaves Violet wanting more.
The old lady rounds the corner holding a piece of paper.
“Violet, this is the order. No changes this time: Poppy closes and you open.”
Violet hates going first. The crowd is always overeager for the first performer, like an annoying puppy. But at the same time, no one ever remembers the first performer after an entire show. How’s she going to grow her following when they treat her like the warm-up act?
Unfortunately, fucking Jarod Marks hadn’t increased her exposure; the paparazzi didn’t catch her leaving the club with him or leaving his hotel.
And he hadn’t tried to contact her or return to the club.
It’s her own fault—she had held back in fucking him.
If she had unleashed Mistress Violet on his skinny ass, he would have been back for more.
Any woman can give a man pleasure. But few can inflict pain.
Still, Jarod hadn’t been a total waste of time.
It gave her the excuse to invite Mallory to the screening.
Violet commends herself for playing things exactly right.
Sure, the party at the Plaza gave her the perfect opening—literally.
But even without it, Violet had every intention of fucking Mallory that night. And Violet always gets what she wants.
Except the chance to close the show.
When the curtain rises, she’s in a foul mood. The White Zombie song “More Human Than Human” cranks over the sound system. Tonight’s choreography is perfect for venting her frustration. It’s aggressive and somewhat hostile, and she’s sure Agnes will hate it.
She instinctively peeks to her right, stage side, and catches Agnes watching with her eyes narrowed and jaw clenched.
In contrast—almost comedically so—Poppy looks on with obvious awe.
For the first time, Violet considers fucking her.
But no, she’s actually not interested. There’s only one Blue Angel pussy she wants, and now that she’d had a taste she has every intention of going back for more.
After her performance, Agnes is waiting for her in the corridor between the stage and the dressing room.
“I told you we do burlesque here, not stripping,” Agnes says.
“That was burlesque.”
“Not by Blue Angel standards.”
“Get with the times, Agnes. No one wants to see fat chicks waving around a bunch of feathers to ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.’ That’s why people come here as a warm-up before going to the real party at the Slit.”
“Then perhaps that is where you belong. One more show like that and you’re out.”
“I’m the best performer you’ve got and you know it,” Violet says.
Agnes crosses her arms, a stubborn little grin on her face.
“I’ve seen dozens of you come and go. And every one of you thinks you’re something special. The truth is you’re all replaceable.”
That’s what Agnes says, but what Violet hears is You’re worthless.
It takes a lot of restraint not to slap her smug old face. Instead, she’ll do something better: She will leave. And she’ll take Mallory with her.