Chapter Thirty-Three
Mallory stands in the quiet Upper East Side dance studio, the faint smell of chalk and perspiration hanging in the air.
Her burlesque career is over. Still, she has her rehearsal space until the end of the month, and she’s going to make use of it.
Dancing is still the best stress relief. Well—second best.
She’s thankful that she and Alec found their way back to one another. And it feels different this time—more solid. She can’t explain why, except that they both came frighteningly close to the point of no return.
She should feel liberated by the news of the Blue Angel deal being closed. It’s done. A closed chapter. She doesn’t even have to feel guilty for quitting anymore, because leaving would have been inevitable. She never would have worked for Violet.
Turning to the mirror, one hand on the barre, she rises onto demi pointe, ankles strong, testing her balance.
Looking at her reflection in the mirror, dressed in her favorite gray sweatpants, a T-shirt, and her well-worn black ballet slippers, she feels a pang.
She’ll miss the rehearsal space. She’s already finding it difficult to stop thinking about choreography every time she hears a song that she likes.
She’s been working on a routine to the Eurythmics’ “Love Is a Stranger,” and while she’ll never get to perform it onstage, she still wants to master it.
There’s just something about the song, achingly beautiful and hypnotic, that speaks to her.
Each time she plays the song, she doesn’t remember so much as she feels the ballet moves she learned so long ago, buried now deep in her muscle memory.
The only way she can think to perform to the song is to do a ballet/burlesque hybrid.
But first, her warm-up, and for this she plays the Black Keys album El Camino.
Her feet are in first position, heels kissing, toes turned out, and she begins a series of pliés, feeling the stretch through her calves and inner thighs.
Her hands rest lightly on the barre, not gripping, just enough contact for stability.
The door opens and Alec walks in, surprising her. She’d expected they’d meet up back at the apartment.
“Hey,” she says. She can tell by his face something’s happened. His eyes are bright and he’s got a palpable, bouncing energy. “How was your meeting?”
“Well, good and bad. Look, the Blue Angel is gone—Billy’s really doing this.
But when I was standing there in his office, looking at his smug little face, I realized I was wasting my time.
What I should be doing—what we should be doing—is talking about opening our own club.
Compete with Billy and Violet. And I mean compete. ”
This wasn’t what she expected to hear. And she can tell by the conviction in his voice that he’s not just tossing ideas around. He’s not riffing. This is serious.
“How?” It’s the only thing she can think to say.
“Well, we’d need a backer, obviously. My first thought is Martha, of course. And we’d operate lean the first year or two—you and I can do the work … production, back office, promotion—the whole thing. Whatever it takes. We roll up our sleeves and we make this thing happen.”
“Alec, let’s be real,” she says. “You don’t have time for this. You’re just about to get even busier once that Emma Holland piece publishes. And you’ll be traveling—”
“I quit.”
“What?” Malory leans back against the barre. He loves that magazine. There had been times in the early days of their life in New York together when she thought maybe he loved the magazine more than her. She’s never been a fan of Billy Barton, but she could never argue with the value of Alec’s job.
“It just struck me on the way over there why I like burlesque so much. And it has nothing to do with the women. Present company excluded.”
Mallory rolls her eyes.
“It’s about control … ownership. Of your body, of the room, of everything. And I think that’s what attracts women to it: The real world doesn’t usually let women feel in control.”
“Come on, Alec. This idea of yours has nothing to do with feminism.”
“No, I’m not saying it does. But for some reason, burlesque pressed some buttons in me that I didn’t really know existed. And while it might be technically idiotic to do something so left field, something in my gut says I should try. That we should try.”
“Okay.” She nods slowly. “Let’s try. I’ll call the Baxters.”
Poppy knew, even during her greatest moments of denial and delusion, that she’d someday have to fess up to Patricia. She just didn’t expect that day to come so soon.
The restaurant Téle is nestled on the top floor of the Shops at Columbus Circle building.
Despite the stunning views of Central Park and the oversized arrangements of foxtail lilies, the muted austerity of the room makes her feel like she’s on the witness stand.
Even the uniformed waitstaff seem like court officers. Or maybe it’s just her guilt.
Champagne is uncorked, poured, then nestled in a silver ice bucket.
Patricia is celebrating a new client. Typically they don’t go out for dinner on Poppy’s show nights, but Patricia made the reservation early so it wouldn’t interfere with her call time.
Except what Patricia doesn’t know is that she’s not going to the club.
Not tonight, not ever. Not if it means working with—or worse, for—Violet.
She shudders. As much as it hurts to give up the club, her priority is never seeing Violet again. For the sake of her relationship.
“Don’t worry, Poppy. We’ll be out of here in plenty of time,” Patricia says, opening her menu. Poppy wants to hide behind her own.
The food at this place is too elevated for Poppy’s tastes.
She doesn’t understand this New York City thing of expensive restaurants always changing their menu.
If you like something, and are willing to pay a lot of money for it, isn’t it better to know you can come back for it again and again?
Apparently not. Plus, the portions are microscopic, and she doesn’t recognize anything.
Why do restaurants think people want food that has to be explained to them?
So there they are, at the least comfortable place in the world to confess to having an affair (and a tawdry one at that!).
But when Poppy tells her that she’s not going to work tonight, that she quit the club, Patricia—her inquisitive legal mind never at rest—is going to have questions. And the answers are damning.
She’s too stressed out to decide what to eat, and Patricia orders the prix fixe for each of them. The bill at this place is always astronomical. She’d have to work for weeks to pay for the meal—one week alone for a bottle of wine. Patricia treats her like a princess. And this is how she repays her?
She can’t take it another second.
“I’m not going to work tonight,” she says, as soon as the waiter collects the menus and they have some privacy.
“Oh?” Patricia says, sipping her champagne. The oh is weighted. The oh says that she knows something is not right. Maybe has known.
Poppy wishes she hadn’t just taken a bite of the crusty bread. She’s finding it difficult to swallow.
“I’m quitting.”
“Why? What happened?”
Poppy reaches for her water glass, breaking out in a sweat. She wants to crawl under the table and die. Anything to avoid admitting what she’s done to her smart, wonderful girlfriend. But unfortunately, she keeps breathing. There’s no way out but the truth.
“Patricia, I don’t know how to say this. I am really, really sorry. But I slept with someone from the club. And I never want to see her again and so I’m never going back.”
She pulls her handbag over her shoulder. This is the point where Patricia will no doubt tell her to move out—that she never wants to see her again.
“When?” Patricia asks calmly.
“What?”
“When did this happen?”
“Um, recently. It was nothing. It was like—”
“Are you in love with her?” Patricia asks calmly.
The question takes her by surprise. It’s so far from the reality she almost laughs.
“What? No! I don’t even like her.” Saying this, she starts to cry. Pathetic! Patricia is the one who has the right to break down in tears. Not her.
But Patricia just nods. She sips her champagne, silent. Excruciatingly silent.
“Do you want me to leave?” Poppy asks.
Patricia looks her in the eyes. “No.”
Relief pulses through her. “I’m so sorry,” she says, crying, aware that she’s making a scene. She can feel the burning glances of disapproval from the diners nearest them. She’s ruining the perfect order and curation of the room with her messy emotions.
“Poppy, this hurts,” Patricia finally says. “I can’t say it doesn’t. But I’m also older than you, and I guess this sort of thing comes with the territory with a young and gorgeous girlfriend. So I don’t blame you, exactly. But I also can’t set myself up to be hurt further.”
Poppy can’t believe it. Is there an opening for her to fix this?
“It will never happen again. I swear. All I ever wanted was to love someone and be loved back and I found it with you. I made a terrible mistake and I wish I could undo it. But I can’t.
But I promise you from now on, it’s just you and me.
Even if that means giving up burlesque.”
Patricia shakes her head. “You don’t have to give up performing. And you shouldn’t. There are other burlesque clubs in the city.”
“I don’t know.” The truth is, she’s not sure she wants to try. This whole thing with Violet has completely shaken her confidence.
Her phone rings with a call from Mallory, and she ignores it. It rings again. Then Patricia’s phone rings, and she takes the call.
“Yes, she’s with me,” Patricia says, eyeing Poppy. Then she listens and nods, ending the call with “Okay. I’ll tell her.”
The restaurant staffer who seated them comes by to admonish them for cell phone use at the table. Patricia doesn’t apologize.
“That was Mallory. She asked me to tell you they’re having a meeting at the Baxters’? She said you know where it is—and what this is about.”
Poppy isn’t sure what it’s about, not specifically. But it must be important for Mallory to call Patricia’s cell. The only reason Mallory has the number is because Patricia used to be Mallory’s boss when she worked at her law firm.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Poppy says.
Their first course arrives. They begin to eat in silence. It’s excruciating.
“I think,” Patricia says, “all this is partly my fault. I work constantly, and I let us really compartmentalize our professional lives. I’m at the office or in court all day and you work late at night. So let’s fix that.”
Poppy feels hopeful for the first time since they stepped into that uptight room.
“How?”
“For starters, I think you should go meet up with Mallory. And I’ll come with you.”
“Now?” Poppy says. Patricia nods. “What about dinner?”
“Fuck dinner. Let’s go do something real together.”