Chapter Sixteen
On Halloween Eve, Mallory stands outside the Blue Angel, trying to psych herself up for the show.
Alec is still in L.A., and she can’t remember the last time she’s done a performance without him.
He’d come to be her audience of one, the person who inspires most of what she explores and expresses in her act, and the person she trusts with feedback on her performances.
So how could she let what happened at the Plaza rattle her so much? With all that Alec means to her, and for all their years together, surely she has to be able to get past the Jocelyn Incident, as she’s come to think of it.
She spots Poppy striding down the street, her mile-long legs impossible to miss.
“Hey,” Poppy says. “Whatcha doing out here?”
“Just getting some fresh air.”
“But it’s so cold out!” Poppy reaches for the door handle, then hesitates, turning back to Mallory. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
She walks closer to her.
“You and Alec have been in a long-term thing, right?”
“Well, yeah. Although now probably isn’t the best time to be asking me about that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Ignore me. Go on.”
“Okay, well, in all the time you guys have been together, did the sex ever get kind of boring? Like, routine?”
“No,” Mallory says, without hesitation.
“Never?”
“No. Why? What’s going on? Are you and Patricia having problems?” She doesn’t particularly want to hear about the sex life of her former boss, Patricia Loomis, but if she can’t talk about her own problems, the least she can do is listen to someone else.
“Yes. I mean—no. We’re not fighting if that’s what you mean. But I don’t feel attracted to her anymore. The sex is always the same. It was good in the beginning but now it’s …”
“Too predictable?”
“Yes, that. But also … sometimes I’m attracted to other people.”
Mallory nods with understanding. Relationships are so hard. “I think that’s normal. But when you’re in a good relationship, you make the conscious decision not to act on it.” When you’re in a good relationship. Is she hearing herself talk?
Then she realizes that tonight will be the first time she’s seeing Violet since the Plaza.
“So it’s just a mind-over-matter type of thing?” Poppy says.
“Exactly.”
“Okay. I’m going to just keep reminding myself of that. Don’t mention this to anyone.”
“Of course not.” Mallory says. “We should go in before people start showing up.”
The club is decked out for Halloween, with fake gossamer webs stretching along the walls, a liberal dusting of orange glitter, glass jack-o’-lanterns, and a fog machine. The DJ is playing campy Halloween music like “Monster Mash.”
The dressing room, decorated with fake skulls and real pumpkins, is crowded. Even performers not scheduled to perform have shown up to join in the festivities. Mallory is relieved. All the distractions mean she can avoid Violet.
Suddenly a scream erupts. Mallory jumps, then realizes the MC for the night, Rude Ralph, has tossed a fake, decapitated head onto Kitty Klitty’s lap.
“Get out!” Poppy throws a shoe at him.
He laughs and ducks, the shoe hitting the wall with a loud thunk. This gets Agnes’s attention, and she walks in and shoos him away—but not before he bounces a rubber eyeball over to Poppy.
“Eww!” After a rousing chorus of “Get the fuck out,” he leaves.
Violet shucks off her robe and sits next to Mallory at the long vanity wearing just a thong.
“No Alec tonight?” she says.
“He’s in L.A. Interviewing Emma Holland,” Mallory says, keeping her eyes on her own reflection. She doesn’t know why she added that detail about Emma Holland.
“She’s hot,” says Violet.
Mallory focuses on applying her mascara, ignoring the bait.
She runs through her performance in her mind: She’ll portray an innocent Snow White in contrast to the seductress Rose Red, performed by Scarlett Letter.
She’s wearing a black wig, but really she doesn’t need one.
Thanks to Bette’s dye job, her hair matches her mood: extremely dark.
Her costume is a demure white corset, silk slip, white stockings, and short white-lace gloves. The top layer, covering it all for the reveal, is a flowy white satin robe.
Agnes, looking weary and a bit aggravated, returns with a sheet of paper and announces the lineup. “Also, we have two stage kittens tonight because of all of the extra props and who knows what,” Agnes says. “And Moxie, I need to speak to you outside.”
Surprised, Mallory puts down her mascara wand and follows Agnes into the hallway. She can hear the boisterous noise of the audience finding their seats and ordering drinks. She feels a frisson of excitement.
“I see you have someone on the guest list tonight,” she says.
“Yes.” It’s Bette. “I hope that’s not a problem.”
Agnes smiles. “Not at all. Tell her to come by and say hi after the show.”
Mallory is soothed by thoughts of Bette in the audience. She hadn’t forgotten that she’d be there, but with all of her trepidation about seeing Violet, she’d pushed the one bright spot of the evening to the back of her mind. She texts her, See you after the show.
Bette writes back, Why wait? Sneak out and watch the first act w/ us? Table in front. I’m with Martha and Justin.
Mallory types, Agnes will kill me.
To which Bette responds, Blame it on me! We saved u a seat. Get ur hot ass out here.
Mallory smiles. What good is an artistic job if she can’t break a few rules?
Mallory spots Bette immediately because she’s in a red faux fur coat and black Tom Ford sunglasses.
“Hey, beautiful,” Bette says with a little wave and a smile. Mallory feels the eyes of everyone else in the room on her as she makes her way to the table.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Mallory says.
“Hi, doll,” Justin says, hugging her warmly.
Beside him, Martha looks very un-Martha in an extravagant hat, a sweeping arc of black velvet that explodes outward in a crown of lacquered feathers obscuring half her face.
Her makeup is pale and porcelain-like, with dark, defined brows and a oxblood lipstick.
She knows she’s dressed as someone, she can almost place it, but …
“Martha, I love your costume, and I know I should recognize it but … help me out?”
“Isabella Blow,” Justin says.
Of course! What a perfect costume for Martha. Isabella Blow was the English aristocrat who became a major patron of fashion stars like Alexander McQueen—she bought his entire graduate collection from Central Saint Martins in the early 90s and became his muse.
The lights dim, and the audience settles down, the frisson of anticipation in the air. “So what’s the deal with the new one? I hear she’s an interesting character,” Justin whispers.
“You’ll see for herself,” Mallory says. “She’s opening.”
The curtain opens to reveal a stripper pole in the center of the stage. Mallory and Bette look at each other. This is a first. And there’s no way Agnes authorized it because she’s extremely offended by any comparisons between burlesque clubs and strip clubs.
A militaristic, industrial-sounding song fills the room, and Mallory feels the room’s focus sharpen like a blade. Violet appears from stage left, wearing a Belle mask from Beauty and the Beast, a black leather jacket cinched tightly at the waist, black fishnet stockings, and combat boots.
She marches in place, her body rigid and almost robotic. As the song picks up momentum she unzips the jacket, baring her breasts covered only in skull-and-crossbones pasties. The crowd cheers and claps wildly, and Mallory notices that Justin is watching the performance with rapt attention.
The music builds to a crescendo, and Violet jumps onto the pole, clambering up it like an otherworldly creature seeming to defy gravity.
At the midway point, she releases both hands and, supporting herself with only her legs, arches her back in midair.
And then, to the collective disbelief of the audience, she somehow rotates around.
“Oh … my … god,” Bette says.
“I thought I’d seen everything,” says Justin.
Mallory can only imagine what Agnes is thinking; To blur the lines between burlesque and pole dancing was the worst kind of artistic affront. But how did Violet get the stage set up without Agnes knowing? She must have a connection to someone in the stage crew.
Violet continues to wind her body around the pole, finally leaping and tearing off her fishnets, leaving her in only a thong, combat boots, and the Belle mask.
“Whoever wrote Beauty and the Beast must be rolling over in their grave,” says Mallory.
“Agnes is probably digging one for Violet,” says Bette, and they laugh.
The audience whistles, cheers, and stomps their feet in a frenzy Mallory has rarely—if ever—heard.
It will be a hard act to follow.
Mallory waits in the darkness behind the stage curtain.
She hears the whispers and rustling of the audience, waiting until the foreboding opening strings of the Hole song “I Think That I Would Die” fills the room.
The curtain parts, and the stage lights shine brightly to reveal Moxie, wearing angelic white silk and Scarlett in a blood-red satin.
Scarlett wears opera-length black lace gloves, a layered bustle skirt, and black fishnet stockings.
Snow White slowly removes one of her white lace gloves, eyes wide.
Rose Red mimics her by using her teeth to remove her own gloves, tearing at them savagely.
They dance around one another. Rose Red eventually corners Snow White, circling her and toying with the ribbon ties of her robe, tugging them loose.
Rose Red pulls from the folds of her bustle a glittering, sequined apple to further her seduction, and Snow White takes the bait, biting the poison fruit only to collapse in a heap.
When she rises, she unleashes her hair from its tight bun and engages in a seductive dance with Scarlett, mirroring each other’s slow bumps and grinds.
Rose Red kneels behind Snow White, running her hands just above her breasts, teasing off her robe to reveal her corset and stocking legs.
Snow White slowly tugs off her garters and stockings, eyes locked with Rose Red, her audience of one.
Rose Red joins the striptease, shedding her skirt and tossing it aside to reveal her own gartered legs and sheer red lace underwear.
Then off comes her corset and she shimmies the red tassels on the pasties adorning each breast. When Snow White strips down to her own pasties and underwear, Rose Red pulls her down so they drop to the floor together, entwined, like yin and yang, in a pile of discarded lace, satin, and rose petals falling from the “sky.”
The curtain closes, and the audience claps their appreciation.
In the darkness, still on the floor, Mallory breathes heavily.
To a non-pro, it would be hard to notice the difference between the applause for Violet and the applause for Moxie.
But Mallory notices it. And it tells her something: She might be old news in the world of burlesque.
What is happening? Why does everything feel so fractured and just …
off ? Maybe she needs some time away from the club.
She should just focus on the legal job for a few weeks—that, and straightening out her relationship with Alec.
And yes, she suspects that will require a break from the Blue Angel.
Because she’s not sure she can get over the Plaza while still working around Violet—a constant unwanted reminder of bad behavior. That includes her own.
It’s the right thing to do. So before she changes her mind, she looks around to tell Agnes she won’t be coming in for the rest of the week.
She finds Agnes in her office staring into space.
“Agnes? Everything okay?” Mallory closes the door behind her.
Agnes looks up, a bitter expression on her face.
“They liked it.”
“Who? Liked what?” Mallory says, although she’s pretty sure she knows.
“Violet’s pole dance. I’ve never heard them applaud like that.”
Mallory refrains from saying Me neither. “Oh well, they don’t know any better, Agnes. I mean, it’s all just entertainment to them. You can’t expect the audience to be offended by someone not performing classic burlesque.”
“They don’t even want burlesque. I think now they want to see strippers, but feel better about themselves when they can call it burlesque.” She shakes her head. “The art form is dying.”
“Don’t say that, Agnes. We have a full house every night. If people want just plain old stripping, they can go elsewhere. But they don’t. They come here.”
Agnes’s frown deepens. Mallory feels terrible. She’s never seen Agnes Wieczorek down. Angry, yes. Frustrated—constantly. But never … defeated.
“You girls might be the last of the true burlesquers. Watch my words: in a decade, the shows passing for burlesque … we won’t recognize it.”
Now Mallory can’t bring herself to ask for time off.
She doesn’t want Agnes to see that her confidence, too, is shaken.
But deep down, Mallory wonders if Agnes is right: Is burlesque as they know it going to one day be extinct?
If so, there’s not much Mallory can do about it. And it’s a bad feeling.