Chapter Thirty-Five
Power is the world’s greatest aphrodisiac. Violet’s heard it said before, and she believed it. But now, standing in the Blue Angel dressing room and addressing the performers—her performers—she feels it.
It’s her first day at the helm, and she’s assembled everyone for a meeting: All the bitches who got in her way now answer to her. And they know it; they can’t even look at her. Most have their eyes on the floor. Even Rude Ralph is keeping his mouth shut.
But really, most of them have nothing to worry about. Violet always rewards loyalty; she’s already rehired Irene Cho. After she fucked her last night.
“So yes, the rumors are true: I’m the new owner of the Blue Angel.”
No one reacts. She knows this isn’t news. Page Six wrote about it (thank you, Billy Barton’s publicist). But it’s fun to pretend that she’s dropping a bombshell.
Oh, she wishes she could have seen Agnes’s face when she learned Violet was the name behind the anonymous deal. The lawyer told her and Billy that the old lady tried to back out. But she was too late.
The one disappointment is Poppy. Violet didn’t anticipate that she’d quit. But then, girls like Poppy are never in short supply. She’s facing a room full of them.
“First item of business: Don’t assume you’re automatically still working here.
” This gets everyone’s attention. “I’ll be holding auditions the rest of this week.
And anyone who’s still doing that old-fashioned, boring shit—just save us both the trouble and leave now.
” She gives a dramatic pause, daring someone to get up and walk out. But no one so much as breathes.
Until the door bumps open and in walks Mallory Dale.
“Or, you can come work for me,” she announces.
Violet feels the rest of the room waiting for her reaction.
So she keeps very, very still. She can’t take the bait; if she loses her calm, it will give Mallory more credibility than she deserves.
But then someone in the room giggles—giggles—and Violet grabs Mallory by the arm, hard enough to bruise.
“You’re trespassing.”
Mallory shakes her arm away, rubbing the spot that had been in Violet’s grip.
“Don’t worry. I’m leaving.”
Violet is relieved. Until she sees half the room file out the door along with her. It takes all of Violet’s effort not to throw something against the wall. Again, she needs to show no reaction. She can’t afford to show weakness in front of what’s left of her performers.
Whatever Mallory thinks she’s doing, she just made a big mistake. It was pathetically easy for Violet to take her precious Blue Angel.
Next time, Mallory won’t get off so easily.
Mallory invited Agnes to dinner at Belweder Palace, an iconic Eastern European restaurant in Midtown.
Mallory has never been before and doesn’t know if Agnes has, either.
But it’s the perfect setting for the conversation she hopes to have.
The old-school European luxury straddles the fine line between elegance and excess, and it hasn’t changed in the last century. Just like Agnes.
The décor is red and gold, and the whole room shimmers like a jeweled box.
The booths are a crimson leather, the chandeliers dripping light across gilt mirrors, the waitstaff are in white uniforms. Silver service gleams on the tables, the fine glassware artfully catching the light.
The wallpaper is a deep hunter green, and against one wall glass cases exhibit Fabergé eggs and eccentric art pieces.
It smells of butter, red wine, and expensive perfume.
Agnes seems impatient with the whole scene.
Tonight, as always, Agnes is dressed in all black.
For the umpteenth time, Mallory is struck by how little she knows of this woman’s past. Why does this woman, who makes such beautiful costumes for others, wear only plain dark clothes?
Did she leave more than ballet behind in Poland?
Maybe she’s a widow. Mallory has a feeling that no matter their professional relationship, there are some things about Agnes she’ll just never know.
“I don’t know what could possibly be so important you had to drag me here,” Agnes says.
Mallory invited her to talk, because the more she thought about the way the sale of the Blue Angel happened, the more she knows Agnes didn’t sell the club for the money.
She sold it because she was heartbroken.
She felt like the best of burlesque was already gone.
The best part of her own self. Here she is, a gifted costumer, but no one wants to create or buy handmade costumes when they can order them from .
And how many dancers make it their life’s work these days.
But ironically, Agnes’s fear that Violet Offender is the future of burlesque helped make it a reality.
It was like the Henry James story “The Beast in the Jungle.” And Mallory doesn’t want Agnes’s story to end that way.
“First, I want to take the time to properly thank you for everything you’ve done for me.
Not everyone would have given me not only a chance at the best burlesque club in the city, but the confidence to keep trying.
You made me feel like I belong on that stage.
” The waiter arrives with two tumblers of chilled Belvedere vodka.
“You do belong on a stage,” Agnes says.
They toast, and after Mallory’s first biting sip, she sets her glass down and leans closer.
“And you belong in charge of one.”
Agnes mouth gives an odd twitch, and she shakes her head. “You American girls. You talk too much. Talking doesn’t change anything, you know. It just creates more noise.”
Mallory isn’t going to talk anymore. Instead of telling her the news, she’ll show her.
She pulls a folded stack of papers from her handbag and passes them across the table.
“What’s this?” Agnes says, glancing at them but not looking closely.
“It’s the lease on a commercial space in Nolita. Just off Mulberry. The soon-to-be site of our new burlesque club, the Moxie.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Justin Baxter and Martha Pike and Alec and me.”
Now Agnes examines the paperwork. She comments on the square footage and the location—it once housed a popular speakeasy.
“I didn’t know that!” Mallory says, delighted. She’s tempted to text Alec about it but resists getting sidetracked. “Well, that makes me even more excited about making our new burlesque home there. But it won’t really be our burlesque home without you.”
Agnes gives her solemn nod. “I will visit.”
Mallory shakes her head. “No, that’s not good enough.”
The waiter appears and Mallory asks for another moment with the menus. When he’s gone, she leans forward and says, “We have something else in mind. We need you as our producer and costume designer. We want something to help set us apart. And that’s you.”
Agnes’s lips turn into a rare smile. She opens her menu.
“Let’s eat.”