Chapter 17 #2
He plays “Express,” bringing out a chair to show me how to kick up in the air and spin my rear amid the beats.
(Me: Whee!) During Michael Bublé’s “Feeling Good,” he leads, telling me at what points I’ll be spinning in someone’s arms. (Tyler: But it’s burlesque, so the women are really in charge.
Men are YOUR props!) Little by little, I feel an inner humming, and my body follows.
And by the time we get to Britney Spears’s “Circus,” I’m
singing. (Tyler: Now we know who’s listened to this fifty million times when no one else is in the car!) Pieces of me I haven’t felt in twenty years awaken. August never pressured me into performing tonight. He opened a door, but
I willingly chose to walk through.
“I just might be able to do this . . .” I mutter as I mimic Tyler’s sexy straddling of a chair before stomping my heel on
the seat and twirling a long red ribbon.
“Might? You’ve got it. Just go with everything. And that pretty bra . . .”
I cock my eyebrow.
“It’s your show. No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to. But I’m just saying, if it feels right to rip off that thing and show your fierce beauty to the world—you fucking do it!”
We’re standing on the stage in the darkness. I’m poised with my ostrich fan flared out across my chest. There’s about twelve
of us onstage, half in cranberry corsets and half in vests and bowler caps. One of the vested dancers positions himself beside
me, where we’ll do a little waltzy thing when the music starts.
I try not to look at the crowd. It’s an old nerve-calming technique from my show choir days—don’t look, just focus on my world
up here. Nonetheless, my heart pounds.
“Looking good, Dr. Wells,” August whispers from beside me with a wink.
I do a double take in the shadows. Black liner accentuates his eyes, and a bowler cap covers his hair. He sure was spot-on
about the naughty vest. Black with sparkly silver rivulets threaded throughout the fabric like a night sky, its one and only
purpose is to accentuate August Dansworth’s bare, beautiful, toned arms.
I gawk like a fish.
The “Feeling Good” melody starts and a soloist in a vest costume belts out the first stanza.
August takes me in his arms as I try to remember the steps. But I stumble, then move against him when I should move back,
move back too early as he pulls me in. The fan feels heavy and awkward in my right hand. We’re wildly out of sync and it’s
Philip’s voice I hear in my head.
When are we going to take those dancing lessons, Lizzie?
I freeze with sad regret.
“We’re swaying now,” August whispers against my ear as the beat picks up, and I’m pulled back to the present. He dips me dramatically over his bent leg, then I rise, swinging my fan over his shoulder before I melt into him and then back again.
Sure, Philip and I swayed at some wedding receptions, but we never really danced. Not like this. That was a world I left behind after high school.
Again, I try to refocus as we dance past the soloist, all the couples forming a wide circle.
Follow your curves, Tyler mouths to me as he sways gracefully past with his vested partner.
I close my eyes, inhaling August’s fabric and faint floral cologne as he grips my hand, twirling me away from him. I twirl
back, delightfully like a yo-yo. I push away all thoughts except the present, feeling the weight of the bustle, my breasts
under the fancy bra.
As the song ends, August and I twirl and spin and dip into a strong finish.
“Bravo!” he whispers as we bow breathlessly onstage.
I’m definitely warmed up by the next song.
Gertie sings, and the corsets mostly perform with chairs while the vests dance and twirl around us like a spinning constellation.
I stomp my sparkly heel on the chair seat, swinging my hips, catching Tyler’s eye from beside me before we twirl on the seats.
I’m out of breath, but far from exhausted. I suppose the stimulating gummy could still be strumming through my veins or the
sloe gin must have loosened me up. But I’m happy, at ease, and confident.
The final line hits, and while the vests kneel at the corners of the stage, I mimic the corsets as we straddle our chairs
one more time.
We’re approaching the last chant, and we chair dancers all bring our hands to our chests. Some anticipatory cheers sound from the audience.
Oh no.
I keep smiling, and we pause, teasingly, while Gertie draws out the last line.
No, this is what women in Chadwick Hall novels do.
It makes us objects for the male gaze. It’s derogatory.
Then again, maybe I’m just afraid. It’s not like I’ll be topless.
Show your fierce beauty to the world.
We all smile teasingly, and the cheers grow louder.
The corsets come off in one sweep.
Except for mine.
I chickened out.
After a five-minute break, and a few prop exchanges, we’re ready for “Circus.”
This time, Tyler’s the soloist, and he looks unbelievably awesome in a red corset costume with a flashy silver sequined skirt.
I wonder, fleetingly, if he thinks of Freddy as he performs. I can’t imagine he doesn’t.
I take my place beside him, determined to have fun on this one. No more nerves as I stand by Tyler in the dark.
“Having fun?” he whispers.
“Fucking time of my life.”
“Then this one’s yours.”
“What? Wait!”
He hands me the mic.
“No . . . no . . . no . . .”
But he’s already snapping the removable silver skirt around my waist.
“You’ve got this, Lizzie.”
Do I?
I break my rule and look out into the sizable crowd lingering around high, round wooden tables.
Little quirky vases of bright carnations accent the tabletops and bar.
The place is packed. I see an artsy, warm crowd wearing drag—colorful gowns, fun tuxedos, and sparkly tiaras.
I see wigs and, even in the dim lights, dramatically dark brows honoring Dita Von Teese and Jean Harlow.
In this moment, I’m a rogue Victorian-in-mourning, and I feel wonderful.
The music starts.
I’ve got this, and I love this crowd. I stretch my free hand out to them as I grip the mic and belt out the first part of
the song.
Now the corsets part away from me as August and the other vests weave between us. But I strut forward. This is my show.
The corsets behind me straddle and swing on the chairs, twirling giant red ribbons. As the beat picks up, I pull off the removable
skirt and—oh why the hell not?—I toss it into the crowd amid roaring cheers. I wink as a drag queen in a pink gown catches
it.
August and another vested dancer lift me up into the air as I sing loudly, with a confidence I’ve long forgotten.
They bring me down and twirl away while I swing my foot up onto my chair. While the corseted dancers flank me, twirling the
giant red ribbons, Tyler tosses me a large silver one from somewhere. My voice quavers, surprised, until I remember I’m in
charge here.
Claps and cheers sound as I flick and twirl the ribbon in front of me, gripping the mic still in the other hand. I spin with
the ribbon a few more times, before handing it off to August as he twirls by. Then I spin on my chair, syncing a nice leg
kick with Tyler. Are my moves perfect? No. I’m far from a Rockette. But I’m having the time of my life, and the crowd knows
it.
And then, when I’m almost down to the last stanza, I hear Philip’s voice in my head.
When are we going to take those dancing lessons, Lizzie?
I’m dancing again now, Philip. I’m dancing now!
I belt out the last part of the song with everything I have.
Two more lines.
I’ve torn off the skirt. Can I take more off?
Oh gosh . . .
It’s now or never. My row waits for their cue. This isn’t about the male gaze. I might love this crowd, but I’m not doing
this for them. I’m doing this for me. I put everything into the last line.
And I rip the corset off as the crowd erupts in cheers and whistles.
“You were brilliant!” Tyler gushes as he hands August and me to-go cartons of the bar’s lamb scouse and walks us out to our
waiting Uber. Both he and Gertie were beyond pleased and wanted me to stay longer to hang out with the cast. Unfortunately,
it’s almost one o’clock in the morning. I texted Ms. Fernsby and Henry to let them know I’m safe and fine, and I would be
late. I told Ms. Fernsby not to wait up for me. But I’m losing steam now. The excitement of dancing, the adrenaline rush from
the touch of stage fright, and likely the gummy have worn off.
“Tonight was wonderful, a beautiful dream,” I say to Tyler as he kisses me on the cheek goodbye. He’s wearing a long jacket
over his costume in the cool night air. I’ve changed back into my own clothes, but the spell isn’t broken. Although exhausted,
I’m deliriously happy.
“Ab-so-lutely!” Tyler says as we hug. We’ve already exchanged numbers and plan to stay in touch. After August and I load into the car, Tyler pulls one of the ostrich fans out from inside his jacket. “Here, take this. As a souvenir.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, smiling. “But you need to promise me you’ll use it again.”
“I promise,” I say, taking the fan and squeezing his hand one more time before the car window goes up. I catch a glimpse of
the wrist tattoo again. He blows us a kiss and turns to walk back into Fin de Siècle as the Uber drives away.
Both of us starving, August and I dig into the cartons of steaming scouse; warm bites of lamb, carrots, and gravy flood my
mouth.
“You’re welcome,” August says cheekily after a big bite of stew.
Like me, he’s back into his normal clothes, but hasn’t washed off the eyeliner yet.
“Thank you. I needed that more than you know.”
As we pull up to the row house, we stuff the empty cartons and plastic spoons into the trash bag. I move to get out of the
car, and he lightly touches my arm. “Late-morning coffee in Westminster tomorrow morning—eleven o’clock-ish?”
I smile. “You bet.”