Chapter 17
“I thought you were joking when you said you danced burlesque.”
“No, I was joking about wearing the corset.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s very simple,” August says as we pass by Soho’s backstreets of brightly painted storefronts and cafés. “I told you I
work hard to have a life outside the mind. My cousin Gertie manages the performances at The Fin de Siècle, and when she’s
short-staffed, or when I’m just bloody bored, I work there. I’m wearing loads of makeup, a bowler hat, and a very naughty vest—and no one knows who I am. It’s marvelous.
And tonight, you are joining me onstage.”
“You can’t expect me to perform!”
“Come on, now. I promised from day one I was going to break you out of your mind, so here we are.”
“No.”
“Gertie’s in a real pinch tonight—down three dancers.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’ve never performed before? Ever? Even in your high school’s Little Women production? I bet you played the perfect Meg.”
“Well . . . there was show choir.”
“There you go!”
Show choir. My mother, concerned that I was far too shy for my age, urged me to audition my sophomore year of high school.
No one was more surprised than me when I made the cut. It was a year of swirling tulle skirts and red sequined bodices. Amid
my fear and hesitation, that year I let go in a way I haven’t since. My contributing solo to Destiny’s Child’s “Survivor”
helped win us first place in the Midwest Regionals. I felt glamorous, confident, and at-home in my skin in a way I haven’t
since.
But I was sixteen. Now I’m thirty-nine with a son, a PhD, stretchmarks, and real heartbreak. I’m too old and weighted to ever
be that girl again.
Amid some weak protesting, I let August pull me out of the cab and through the back door of Fin de Siècle. I find myself in
a dimly lit dressing room surrounded by beautiful women in full makeup and flouncy, short burlesque costumes. All are about
ten years younger than me. Heavy curtains cover dressing rooms while cosmetics, glittery combs, and colorful fans clutter
the vanities. Ribbon chokers with bright silk flowers dangle from mirrors, and everything smells like sweat, perfume, gin,
and cigarette smoke.
“Gertie!”
“Oh, Auggie! Thank god you’re here!” A young woman hurries to us, lightly kissing “Auggie” on both cheeks.
She’s wearing a cranberry corset with a garter belt, tights, and silver dancing heels; her black curls twist elegantly around her head.
“Both Maud and Penny called in an hour ago, and my replacements are all booked! I’m starting the show tonight and we need more bloody dancers . . . Elizabeth?” She looks me over.
“I’m not dancing . . .”
“She’s marvelous! American show choir circa early 2000s,” August quips, slinging his arm around me.
“Don’t worry, luv, you’ll be fine,” Gertie says. “I’m going to have Tyler fix you up and get you started. We’re on in an hour!”
She hurries away, giving August costume instructions. He winks at me before disappearing behind a dressing room curtain. Yes,
it’s unusual that they’d take someone last-minute. But perhaps they aren’t the most high-production-value place, and they’re desperate and it’s just a chorus role. Fear bubbles up as I contemplate making a complete
fool of myself on a stage in front of strangers. I can run out now. I can leave and catch a taxi back to the row house. I’m
under no obligation here. Yet I stay rooted to the floor, frozen with peculiar yearning as bustling performers hurry past
me, brushing against my elbows with warm bare arms.
“Elizabeth!”
I turn around as Tyler introduces himself. He’s wearing the same outfit as Gertie, with a silk pink rose choker around his
throat, and he sports a long blond wig.
I ask him to call me Lizzie as he leads me to a makeup chair. Tyler’s ease and American accent relaxes me as he slips a makeup
cape around my shoulders and pulls out the drawers for hairbrushes and beauty products.
Gertie sets a tall pink cocktail with a black straw on the vanity. “Our most popular house specialty after the absinthe fountain.
It’s a sloe gin fizz. Not too strong, but just enough to take the edge off before the show.” She pats my shoulder reassuringly
and then raises an eyebrow, pulling my chin toward her. “Add some sparkles to those eyelids, Ty, to make her eyes really pop.”
“On it,” he says, handing me the drink as she hurries away to check on a quick skirt alteration. I take a sip, the flavor
sweet, light, and tart all at once.
“So we have eyelid sparkles, and we’re going to rouge you up a bit for under those lights.” He holds an eye shadow palette
against my skin, cocking his head one way and then the other. Then he starts to prime and powder, skillfully and quickly covering
my face before he works on my eye area.
“What is this place exactly?” I ask as he darkens my eyebrows, narrowing his heavily lined eyes while concentrating with the
brow pencil.
“Sweetie, when it comes to Fin de Siècle, this is the real deal. Best vintage bohemia outside of old Montmartre. We’re everything
granny and modern all at once: these sweet floral drinks, old-fashioned costumes, but we perform with all the fabulous pop
culture fluff. You’ll see and hear it all tonight.”
“Oh.”
He applies plum-colored lipstick and then gently blots my lips with a tissue.
“Show choir, huh?”
“That was years ago. I’m about to make a complete fool of myself . . .”
“Stop. It’s the same concept, different moves.”
“I won’t have to strip, will I? I don’t do that.”
“No, not really. Maybe some peekaboo.”
“What?”
“It’ll make sense when we’re out there. It’s all very organic. And I’m going to give you a quick crash course.”
As he sprays and twists, piling my hair on my head like Gertie’s, he leans in to secure a lock on my scalp with a bobby pin.
I notice a tiny tattoo on his inner wrist, a delicate broken heart surrounding the initials F. W. R. Solidarity swells in me like a curling beach wave.
Gently, I take his wrist and meet his eyes.
He freezes, three bobby pins sticking out between his pressed lips.
“My loss was Philip. He was my husband. I wear his hair around my neck.”
I pull the jet locket out from under the makeup cape.
He swallows hard, removes the bobby pins from his lips. “My loss was Frederick William Roth. My husband.”
He continues pinning and spraying, tackling some loose locks with a curling iron.
“I met Freddy ten years ago, when I was auditioning and waiting tables in New York City. I was sad and lonely, recently moved
from my small life in the Dakota suburbs. But I knew I was in the right place. He ordered sushi at my table and had this adorable
Cockney accent. He left his number on the receipt with a smiley face.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, as he tucks the last piece of hair up with a rhinestone comb.
“Thank you.” He pats the back of my head, making sure everything stays in place.
“I met my Philip in a coffee shop fifteen years ago. And I lost him about two months ago.”
“God. I’m so sorry.” He blinks hard, his eyes dewy. “We’re part of that strange little club no one wants join.”
“Indeed,” I answer.
Gertie walks through, reminding everyone there’s only forty-five minutes until showtime.
After asking for my sizes, Tyler sends me into a dressing room with one of the cranberry corset costumes and a silky black, taupe, and silver strapless bra.
(I gulp, afraid to ask why I need such a fancy bra.) Through the curtain, he passes me fishnet tights, a garter belt, a white silk flower choker, and heeled silver dancing shoes.
In the darkness, I scramble to get dressed, trying not to think about what I’m doing—basically wearing my undies in front of a crowd of strangers and dancing to who-knows-what.
How did August drag me into this? And where the hell is he? I haven’t seen him since he disappeared into the dressing room.
“Ready?” Tyler asks from behind the curtain.
“Yes.”
He steps in, one hand behind his back, and flips on the light. I catch my breath at the sight of myself in the mirror. The
corset fits perfectly, the seams, ruffles, and ribbons lined up in all the right places, the bust accentuating my modest assets.
As I changed, I learned that the corset doesn’t go on like an actual corset—no front busk with little metal tabs and loops.
Rather, it stays together with a vertical strip of Velcro hidden carefully under a ribbon running down my chest. A dark lace-and-tulle
bustle sticks out from my rear suggestively. I worried the makeup, particularly the eye sparkles, would be garish. But it
all looks ethereal and dramatic now that I’m in full costume. I’m like an alter ego of my restrained, daytime widow-self,
obsessed with propriety and everything black.
Although I left Philip’s urn in my satchel in one of the lockers, I kept the locket at my throat, the choker holding it in
place. I stare at my reflection, and I touch the cool jet surface. I remind myself that I’m the same woman who wore the modest
black eyelet dress with tights and loafers earlier this evening.
“Perfect!” Tyler says, pulling out two full ostrich feather fans from behind his back.
“I don’t look like me.”
“Lizzie, you are more you now than ever before. Now, come on,” he thrusts one of the fans into my hands. “We’ve got thirty
minutes.”
The playlist begins with Christina Aguilera’s “Express.”
“How familiar are you with these?” he asks, as he connects his phone to the room’s stereo.
I smirk. “I know I never listen to pop culture singers when I run.”
Tyler smirks back. “And I know you never lie. I’m loving the sass!”
He ticks off the essential burlesque rules and basic choreography of the three songs. He reminds me that like show choir,
it’s about sync and rhythm, except this time I’m supposed to let my body follow the fabric curves of my dress.
“This . . .” he says, gesturing to my bustle with his fan, “blooms out for a reason. Follow it. And when in doubt, stick it out.”
I giggle.