Blue Angel (12 page)

He shook his head. “You don’t get it. All those things were about us, Mallory. What you did last night was about you. But you’re too insecure to see that distinction. Ever since you got to New York, you’ve been threatened by my life here, the life I established here looking forward to the day when you would finish school and join me so we could share it together. I couldn’t wait for you to get here and for us to explore this world together. I’m a journalist, Mallory. A writer. I am always looking for new things, interesting stories, a different way to look at life.”

“I know . . . and I love that about you.”

“You love it, but it threatens you, too. So then you run off last night and do something that you know will hurt me. Did you even think about that for a second?”

“No . . . I mean, I didn’t think you would be upset.”

He looked at her like she’d slapped him.

“You . . . didn’t think I’d be upset?”

She started crying, realizing what a huge mistake she’d made. “No, I didn’t.”

“Then we don’t know each other the way I thought we did. Maybe you were right. We’re not ‘clicking’ lately. I think we need some time apart.”

Now she was the one to look stunned.

“You want to break up? Over this?”

“What do you define as ‘this’? The fact that you slept with someone else? Or the fact that you thought I wouldn’t care? Or the general lack of connection between us lately?”

“You were just looking for an excuse to break up with me.”

“I can’t believe you really think that, but if you do, it explains why you handed me the perfect reason to do it.”

“Fine. I’ll leave.” Her sobs were, at that point, inhibiting normal speech. She started throwing random items of clothing into a suitcase.

Alec retreated to the living room. She sat on the bed, hyperventilating, and dialed Julie.

Poppy was pleased. The Morticia Addams costume was a hit. At least, if you were judging by the reaction of the cute guy in the suit in the front row. She would swear she could see his hard-on from the stage.

She was surprised to see Bette chatting him up after the show. Very unlike her.

In the dressing room, she asked, “Do you know that guy at the front table—the suit?”

“The cute one?”

“Yeah—if you go for that Wall Street type.”

“That’s Justin Baxter. He used to be a regular when this place was totally underground. “

Poppy had heard all about the early days, before Agnes got fined for letting the girls get completely naked and also serving alcohol. Poppy still didn’t totally understand the rules, but it had something to do with cabaret licensing. She also knew the Slit got away with their shows because of payola, but Agnes didn’t play that game.

Bette continued. “He and his wife are art people—they can make careers—artists, dancers, actors. When the Baxters think you are hot, you are hot. I didn’t get my gig at the Blue Angel until after I headlined a Baxter bash.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once or twice a year he hires me for private parties. He and his wife have a shitload of money, and they love spending it. They’re flying me out to LA in a few weeks for his birthday party. It’s going to be insane. They have an . . . open relationship. To say the least.”

Poppy wondered if Bette had ever slept with him. She decided to ask. After all, they were technically lovers now, right? And lovers could ask each other things like that.

“Did you ever sleep with him?”

“Of course not. You know I don’t sleep with men. And I especially don’t sleep with men who come to shows. And I suggest you don’t, either.”

That seemed a bit sweeping, but it wasn’t a point worth arguing at the moment.

“What does he do?”

“Nothing.”

“He doesn’t work?”

“Not that I know of. She’s got the bank. Martha Pike. Ever hear of her?”

“No—should I have?”

“Kegel Queen? Ring a bell?”

Poppy gave her a blank look. “What’s a Kegel? That Jewish noodle dish?” Since moving to New York she’d learned a lot about Jews. She’d certainly never met one in Arkansas, where she grew up.

“Poppy, I need to speak with you,” Agnes called from outside the dressing room.

“No. That’s
kugel
. Ask Agnes about Kegels. She’s the one who taught me all about them.”

“Coming, Agnes.” Poppy pulled on her pink satin robe. She hated not being “in the know.” And why didn’t she ever get invited to private parties by rich dudes? She wondered what Bette got paid.

“Hey, Agnes—what’s a Kegel?” she asked.

“Ugh! You American girls. Do your mothers teach you nothing? The Kegel is exercise for your vagina so it don’t get too loose. Thank God you have me to help you or in ten years you’d be in trouble.”

That couldn’t be what Bette meant. How could that guy’s wife make tons of money off of vagina exercises? She might have to get more specific with this particular line of questioning.

“Have you ever heard of the Kegel Queen?”

“Of course! Her husband used to be good customer. She invent little ball you put in your vagina, and you squeeze and there, tight.”

Good Lord. Yet another thing to tell her friends back home that they wouldn’t believe.

“Now we have business to discuss: Kitty is ready to do her first show next week, but I don’t have anyone to work as cleanup girl between sets. If we don’t find someone, I need you to help out just for a show or two. Kitty has been very patient, and she auditioned for me last night, and she’s ready. She’s been supportive of all you girls and, since you were the last girl to move up to the stage, I need you to just help her out.”

Poppy said nothing. If she spoke at all, she would say something along the lines of,
are you fucking kidding me?
But Agnes couldn’t tolerate swearing. Poppy could not think of a response that didn’t include at least one expletive.

“Thank you, Poppy. You’re a good girl. So remember, next Friday night you’re our stagehand. Hopefully just for one show, and we’ll find our new girl.”

Poppy watched her walk off. She turned to the dressing room, but decided not to go in. If she saw Kitty in there, she might explode.

She walked out to the main room and sat in a chair. Across the room, Mr. Kegel himself was pacing and talking on his cell. Most of the audience had cleared out, and aside from a few stragglers and Kitty Klitty still trying to get some money in the tip jar, it was just the two of them. He eyed her as he finished his call, then strolled over to her.

“Nice performance,” he said.

“Glad you liked it.”

“Justin Baxter.” He held out his hand.

“Poppy LaRue.” She let him take hers. He had beautiful, gunmetal gray eyes.

“I know. You’re making quite a name for yourself already.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. I haven’t been to this club in a year or so, but I had to check out Agnes’s latest and greatest.” Things were looking up! Agnes might try to demote her for a show, but it was too late; the word was out. Poppy LaRue had arrived. “We’re having a little party back at my place. Care to join? My wife always welcomes the addition of an artist to our little get-togethers.”

“Sure. I just have to change.”

“My car is outside. I’ll be waiting.”

Poppy felt his eyes on her as she walked back to the dressing room. She was surprised to feel her heart racing a bit. Was he hitting on her? He did mention his wife, but Bette said they had some sort of open relationship. Of course, she had also said she would never sleep with a guy who came to the shows. But who was she to judge? And she’d made it perfectly clear she wanted to hook up with Mallory—whom she’d met as an audience member. Hypocrite!

Poppy wished she’d brought better clothes, but how was she supposed to know she’d be going home with some hot rich dude after the show? From now on she had to be prepared for anything. This was how she’d imagined her life in New York would be—and how she had imagined it would feel to be a performer at the Blue Angel. She felt, for the first time since moving to New York, special. It had been easy to feel special in Arkansas—she had always been the prettiest; she had been the most adventurous; and, thanks to her German, film-fanatic grandmother, she had been the most cultured. She knew she had impressed Agnes at that first meeting by knowing about the Marlene Dietrich film,
The Blue Angel
. And no one else in her town had ever heard of burlesque. But her grandmother had grown up in Berlin, and she gave Poppy a cosmopolitan sensibility that drove her to New York. The problem was, once she’d arrived, she had felt invisible. She was no longer the standout blonde, the most interesting, the most ambitious. She was just like everybody else—until two weeks ago when she stepped onto the Blue Angel stage as a performer for the first time. Now she was somebody. Justin Baxter had confirmed it.

“We’re going to the Bell Jar,” Bette said.

“Thanks, but I have plans,” Poppy was pleased to announce. Of course Bette just assumed she was waiting around for her.

“Oh? Anything interesting?”

“I’m going to a party at Justin Baxter’s place,” she said smugly.

“That’s not a good idea.”

“You’re just jealous that you’re not the only one he’s interested in anymore.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bette said. “Fine—go. I’ll try not to say ‘I told you so.’ ”

T
he car pulled up to a twenty-two-foot aluminum gate that looked more like a vast modern art sculpture than the entrance to a residence.

“Wow,” Poppy said.

“I know. Very Gaudi-esque, right?” said Justin. She had no idea what he was talking about, but she nodded anyway. The structure practically glowed. Behind it, was the glass façade of a building that was straight out of a Woody Allen movie where people lived in impossibly perfect houses.

Although she and Justin had chatted easily in the car, the awesomeness of his home made her uncomfortable, and they fell silent. For the first time since leaving the club, she wondered why Bette had warned her not to go.

“Sounds like the party has definitely started without us,” he said. Sure enough, the sound of loud music and laughter greeted them. Poppy tried not to look too impressed with the huge entrance foyer. She was thankful she didn’t know anything about art, because she had a feeling that if she did, it would be impossible not to betray how utterly out of her depth she was.

And then she saw it: a giant fish tank hanging high across the room. Except it wasn’t a fish tank—it was a glass cube with a girl inside. She wore a tank top and camouflage cargo shorts, and her dark hair was in a high ponytail. She seemed quite content up there, flipping through a thick, hardcover book and painting her toenails.

“What . . . is that?” she asked him.

“Cool, right? Martha and I kind of stole the idea from André Balazs, but we just couldn’t resist.”

“Does she . . . live here?”

“No! She’s an NYU student. We pay her by the hour. It works for everyone—gives us some nice, live art, and she gets paid while she does her chemistry homework. I’d offer you a shift, but I’m sure we couldn’t afford you.” He winked.

Poppy was speechless.

Someone took her coat. (A butler? Did people still have butlers?)

“Please remove your shoes, madam,” the man said.

Poppy looked at Justin.

“Yeah, my wife is very protective of her floors. They cost a small fortune, so I can’t really argue with her on this one.”

Poppy bent down and reluctantly removed her heels. Thank God she was five foot nine and didn’t need the height boost. But they did do wonders for her calves. Luckily she was wearing jeans.

Justin steered her to an enormous living room, and she could see what he meant about the floors. They were the darkest, shiniest wood she had ever seen, covered here and there by super shaggy, white area rugs. Pale, low to the ground couches were punctuated with small glass tables. Sure enough, the half dozen or so guests were all shoeless. Poppy was happy to gauge that she was the tallest woman in the room.

She tried to guess from the crowd which woman was Justin’s wife. Maybe the well-dressed, slightly older woman with the carefully coiffed blond hair. Or the other blonde—not as put-together as the first, but with a pretty smile and a quicksilver laugh that she could hear across the room.

But then she saw her—with a wink and a wave she greeted her husband. One of the most unattractive women Poppy had ever seen in her life. It wasn’t just that she was grossly overweight, or that her stringy brown hair was in great need of a shampoo, or that her sausage feet were stuffed into ugly shoes (shoes!) that had to be orthopedic or otherwise had no reason to exist. No, it was her facial resemblance to Jabba the Hutt.

The woman hoisted herself from her perch on one of the cream couches, and ambled over to greet them.

“Poppy, this is my wife, Martha. Martha, this is Poppy LaRue—the new girl at the Blue Angel.”

“Welcome! Delighted to have you.” She took Poppy by the elbow and led her around the room, introducing her to the other guests. After each name Martha would tag the person with a profession or accomplishment—“Poppy, this is Alan Mackler, editor-at-large at
Vanity Fair
. . . .” When people asked her what she did, she replied, “I’m a burlesque dancer.” And they nodded and then smiled at each other with looks that said,
stripper
.