Chapter Twenty-Four
Poppy stands still on the wobbly wooden platform in Agnes’s office, arms lifted just enough for Agnes to work. The freshly designed costume clings to her curves in raw silk and sequins, glittering even under the flat overhead light.
She’d known she really made it at the Blue Angel when Agnes offered to make a custom costume for her. That was a perk for only top-of-the-roster performers. It had taken Poppy a lot of time to become one of them, and she treasures every fitting. Except this particular one.
Agnes is in a terrible mood. She’s already jabbed her with a pin twice, and Poppy’s not entirely sure it’s accidental. “Are you upset with me?”
Agnes’s hands move quickly, almost violently, tugging at a stubborn seam that won’t cooperate. Her shoulders are hunched, her mouth pressed thin, a tape measure hanging around her neck; it swings against her chest like a pendulum with every movement.
“No,” Agnes says.
Poppy, not brave enough to push the issue, says nothing more. But then …
“Ow!” Poppy flinches at a pin jab under her arm. “Agnes!”
“I’m sorry.” Agnes looks up from the fabric, then takes a step away, hands dropping to her sides. She looks defeated.
“It’s fine but … I just don’t want my skin to look like I’m a human pincushion,” she says.
Agnes busies herself with a tape measure. “Moxie quit.”
Poppy must be hearing her wrong. Mallory Dale would never quit. If anything, since Bette left, she’s the only other person Poppy feels is equally devoted to the Blue Angel.
“Did you say Mallory quit?”
She steps down from the platform and sits on it. Agnes admonishes her. “You’re wrinkling, and I don’t have hours to steam it!”
Poppy jumps up. “What happened?”
“The same thing that always happens! Your generation has no dedication, no passion, and no courage. Still, you want to make art, and yet without those three things it’s impossible.”
Agnes’s landline rings. She shuffles over to her desk to answer it.
Poppy smooths her skirt, admiring the way it moves. There’s such a difference between having something custom-made and buying off the rack. If she weren’t a performer, she might never have learned that.
She can’t wait to wear it onstage.
“I told you I don’t do email. Just send a fax,” Agnes says, slamming down the receiver. Poppy has never slammed down a receiver, but it seems very satisfying.
“I can help you with email,” Poppy offers. It’s the least she can do as part of the lazy, no-passion, no-courage generation.
“Let him do it my way—hot shot,” Agnes mutters. “Big fancy lawyer. He calls first thing this morning for someone who wants to buy the club. The buzzards are circling.”
Weird. “But you’re not going to sell, right?”
Agnes shrugs. “Maybe it’s the right thing. Burlesque has lost its meaning.”
Poppy refuses to believe she means that. But if she does, Poppy has to find a way to help.
“Agnes, I don’t want you to think that way. It’s not true.”
“What do you care? You girls all leave eventually.”
Poppy’s smile fades. Agnes puts a few pins between her pursed lips and crouches by her feet to examine the hem. Her work is gentler now, more cautious.
But Poppy still feels the fury in every stitch.
Mallory, running on three hours’ sleep, swipes her ID card into the office lobby turnstile. She’s considered not going in at all, but after a lengthy middle-of-the-night conversation with Julie, she changed her mind: She’ll officially resign her legal job in person.
She made the right decision going to Julie’s, even though taking a late-night emergency cab had been a lot less mortifying when Julie had her own apartment.
Now that she’s engaged and living with her fiancé, Mallory’s late-night, emergency visit feels a little juvenile.
Yet another reason for her to get her act together.
The elevator is full and seems to stop on every floor on its way up. Usually this is frustrating, but this morning it gives her time to think, to fortify herself.
As always, talking with Julie gave her clarity: No matter what the future holds in store for her, she can’t rebound from Alec by falling into bed with her boss. Not even if he’s no longer her boss.
“There’s no universe in which that ends well,” Julie said. And she’s right. She’d been right about things at brunch the day Mallory got angry and didn’t listen. But she’s listening now.
Since Gavin Stone & Associates only has one associate—her—there’s no room to hide, no place to stall. She walks in and Gavin is standing right beside her desk at the copy machine.
“Good morning,” he says. His expression is pleasant, almost neutral. It’s not as if nothing happened last night—there’s some frisson—but it’s close. As she stands there in the clear light of day, it’s hard to believe that less than twelve hours ago they were wrapped around each other.
“Gavin,” she says, making no move to put her bag down or get closer to her desk. “I need to talk—”
He puts one finger to his lips and gestures to his closed office door. “Client,” he whispers. “Let’s talk at lunch.”
She shakes her head.
“I’m not staying.” She walks to her desk and starts opening drawers, tossing some things in the trash and others into her oversized shoulder bag.
Gavin watches her, not saying a word. When he retreats down the hall to his office, she thinks, Well, that’s the end of that.
Her heart starts pounding, and she feels like an idiot.
She doesn’t know if this situation is his fault, or her fault, or both—but she does know she’ll be the one who pays for it.
She checks the file cabinet where she stashes her emergency lipsticks and pasties for show nights. This, too, gives her a pang. So much change.
“Mallory.”
She looks up: Gavin is back. He hands her a business card. “I told them I have a great candidate for their opening. You have an interview on Friday if you’re interested. And if that’s not the right fit for you, just let me know. I’ll keep paying your salary until you find something that is.”
She takes the card, and their fingers brush. He gives her an apologetic smile, and it brings out the dimples in his cheek.
“Thank you,” she says. They lock eyes, and she can’t look away. She waits for the client to emerge from his office, or the phone to ring—anything to sever the electrical current running between them.
Instead, Gavin asks, “Are you free for dinner tonight?”
And she says yes.