Chapter Fourteen
Mallory forgets sometimes that Bette’s become famous.
But when they go to grab a quick dinner in the East Village, she draws so much attention Mallory can’t really talk to her about anything real.
So instead of going out to a club after as planned, they go back to Mallory’s apartment, where their evening activity will be Bette helping her to dye her hair.
“You really shouldn’t use box color. It’s very damaging.”
“I don’t have the patience to wait for an appointment,” Mallory says.
Mallory has the irresistible urge to make her hair darker, from deep sable to something inkier—near black. The last time she felt this particular itch, she dyed her hair cherry red. And that time, like tonight, she’d been questioning her relationship with Alec.
Bette has set up a little salon in the bathroom, lining the tub ledge with towels, making a little seat for Mallory with even more towels, and using a computer lap pad as a tray while she mixes the color. Mallory waits in position, her neck braced by towels on the tub ledge, head back.
Bette begins to paint her scalp with the chilly dye, and asks, “So what’s going on with you and Alec?”
“Is it that obvious?” Mallory says.
“Well, the last time you dyed your hair you two broke up.”
“We didn’t break up. But you’re right, we were in a bad place. You have a good memory.”
“Well, it was a pretty memorable weekend.”
That’s true for many reasons. Bette met the pop star who made her a celebrity in her own right, and Mallory performed for the first time the night of the Baxter’s party.
And yes, for the briefest of moments, the two of them were lovers.
That had been a positive experience. Unlike what happened at The Plaza.
Mallory, with a little shiver, tells Bette about that night.
“Well, none of this surprises me,” Bette says when she’s finished.
“It doesn’t?”
“No! What did I tell you on the phone earlier today? Violet is bad news.”
Mallory wants to shake her head but keeps still. “I can’t just blame Violet. Alec acted on his own free will.”
Her phone rings, but it’s out of her reach.
“It’s Alec,” Bette tells her. “Speak of the devil.”
Mallory sits up to take the call, careful to keep her head at an angle that won’t let the dye drip into her face. Bette pulls off her latex gloves so she can check her own phone.
“I just wanted to say good night before it gets too late there. I love you,” Alec says.
He sounds like he’s rushing. She checks the time—it’s only seven there.
“I love you, too. What’s your plan the rest of the night?”
“I’m meeting Emma Holland for a drink.”
Okay.
“I thought the interview is tomorrow?”
“The official one,” he says. “But you know the subjects always open up more if you have some time off the record first.”
“Of course,” she says, wondering exactly how “open” Emma Holland will get.
And then she tells herself she’s being ridiculous.
Alec doesn’t cheat on her. She’s got to view the incident at the Plaza for what it was: one bad night.
A miscommunication. It’s not the end of her relationship. Not unless she makes it so.
“Mallory, I know things aren’t great between us right now.
But can we just put that aside until I get home?
And then we will figure out how to get back on track.
I love you and I would never do something to intentionally upset you.
If I wanted to sleep with someone else I could lie and sneak around like every other guy, but I thought we were all having fun that night.
Why else would I do it in front of you like that? ”
“Let’s not do this over the phone,” she says. He’s right about putting a pause on things until he gets back. So she adds, “Well, good luck with your pre-interview.” She tries not to sound like she’s saying it with air quotes.
“Thanks. I’ll call you in the morning,” he says, tells her he loves her, and then it’s goodbye.
She resumes her position resting against the tub, carefully leaning back at an angle that gives Bette access to her hair without breaking her own back. Bette quietly resumes the methodical application of the foul-smelling gel.
Mallory’s stomach churns with jealousy. She mentally repeats to herself, He’s there for work. But following such a disturbing weekend, it’s hard to think rationally.
“You all right?” Bette says.
“Not really. But I have no real reason to be upset. He told me he’s going to interview Emma Holland, and of course he is—that’s why he’s out there. It’s his job. But it feels shitty.”
“Why? Don’t you trust him?”
“I don’t know. No. Okay, no, I don’t. I don’t even trust that we’re in agreement over what I should be trusting him with.” Hearing the words come out of her mouth, Mallory’s eyes fill with tears. “That’s a big problem, isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” says Bette.
Mallory’s phone rings again.
“Speak of the devil—again.”
“It’s Alec?” Bette says.
“No. Violet.”
“Let it go to voicemail,” Bette says. And she does.
When the phone is finally silent, they both look at it like it’s a grenade that landed in the middle of the bathroom.
“Be careful with her,” Bette says.
Mallory nods. She will.
Violet turns off her phone in a cold fury.
She’d been unable to resist the urge to call Mallory, and now she’s shown her hand—her weakness. Mallory either didn’t take the call or missed the call. She’ll never know which one.
The thought makes her toss her phone to the floor, where it clatters and gets the attention of everyone in the dressing room.
They all stare at her for a second, then return to changing and texting and getting ready for the next phase of their night.
All except Poppy, who still can’t seem to take her eyes off her.
Violet pulls on her jeans and well-worn combat boots, throws her bag over her shoulder, and strides to the exit. As she passes Poppy, she says, “Come with me.”
During the long cab ride to her apartment in Brooklyn, Violet soothes herself by imagining all of the degrading things she will do to Poppy. She starts by blindfolding her with a spare set of stockings from her costume bag as soon as they reach the Williamsburg Bridge.
“You don’t get to see where I live,” she announces. Poppy doesn’t protest.
Violet’s apartment is on the top floor of a brownstone that once housed a famous poet.
At least, that’s what the person who rented her the space told her.
When the cab deposits them at the address, Violet gets out first and walks around to open the door for Poppy and guide her up the wide cement stairs.
Poppy, wearing high heels, leans into her so she doesn’t stumble.
Inside, Violet helps Poppy off with her coat, tossing it on the floor and leading her to the bedroom, where she ties her, still blindfolded, to the wrought-iron headboard.
Poppy’s breathing is heavy. Violet doesn’t know if it’s the exertion from four flights of stairs in heels, or nerves, or excitement. Or all three. Nor does she really care.
“I like that you’re quiet,” Violet says, looking through her closet for some clothing to inspire her. Each session as a dominatrix is as much a performance as the one she gives on the Blue Angel stage. In some ways, even more so. “Conversation can be so tedious.”
She strips off the clothes she saves for wearing only after a show, the same old jeans and a shirt she’d had so long she didn’t care if they’re ruined with glitter or if they get lost or stolen backstage.
Also, sometimes she likes moving through the world dressed like a civilian.
She feels like a ghost, almost invisible.
Almost.
Violet changes into a crotchless leather catsuit and thigh-high patent leather boots. She rifles through her drawer of masks and decides on a Victorian studded favorite of hers that she’d bought at a fetish shop on West 22nd Street.
A quick perusal of her supply shelf yields a strong leather blindfold to replace the stockings. And as a bonus, switching the blindfold will give Poppy the chance to see her costumed as Mistress Violet; she wants Poppy to have an accurate mental image while she’s being defiled.
She strides over to the bed and unties Poppy’s arms.
“Sit up,” she says. Poppy obeys immediately. Violet bends forward, untying the stockings.
She steps back so Poppy can get a good look at her.
The expression on her face is the perfect blend of awe and trepidation.
Violet secures the leather blindfold in place and instructs her to lie back down.
She ties her arms again, this time with her highest-quality bondage rope that’s unlikely to leave marks.
“I need to get something from the other room. Don’t move an inch while I’m gone. Not even a single finger.”
Silence.
“Do you hear me?”
“Yeah,” Poppy says.
“Good girl. Do not speak again unless I tell you to. And remember to stay perfectly still.”
Violet walks to the door, opens and closes it, but doesn’t leave the room. She waits for Poppy to do what’s inevitable: try to move her arms and peek out from under her blindfold. Minutes pass. She doesn’t.
Violet smiles. People rarely surprise her. Maybe Poppy isn’t such a bad consolation prize.