Blue Angel (17 page)

Julie was great, as always. Talking to her late into the night, assuring her she would help her find a new job—or not, whatever she wanted was okay with her (but just for the record she really thought Mallory ought to get a job, not just for money, but for her sanity’s sake). But now Julie was at work for the next eight hours, as was Allison and every other normal person she knew. Of course, there was one person she knew who wasn’t normal, and looking for her BlackBerry to text her was the only thing that got Mallory out of bed.

I’ve got
“svoboda,”
all right: no job, no boyfriend. Now I’m wondering, what comes after
svoboda
?

Of course, it was only nine in the morning and too early for Bette to be among the conscious and functioning. She had called being awake before 11 a.m. “obscene.” Funny how her definition of obscene differed from Patricia Loomis’s.

Mallory sank back into the sofa bed. She jumped when her phone rang.

“Hello?”

The first thing she heard was a languid yawn.

“I’m going to sleep for a few hours,” Bette said. “Come to my place at two. And then we’ll talk about your freedom. Time to figure out yourself.”

And she hung up.

Herself. When had she ever taken the time to think about “self”? It seemed to her that “self” was a set notion, a fait accompli, determined and shaped by her parents and school and the ironclad sense of what a girl like herself did with her life. But those notions weren’t so hard and fast after all, because, with one step onto the Blue Angel stage, that feeling of who she was started slipping so fast she felt like the ground beneath her was shifting. It was exhilarating, and even though she knew she should be worried about the future and about money, there was something so right about this feeling, she just had to go with it for now. She just wondered why she had to lose Alec over it. Why couldn’t they make it through this? It felt like she was being forced to choose between the man she loved and, well, herself. If she stepped back from where her life was taking her just to assure Alec that she was someone he could count on, or the same girl he fell in love with, or whatever it was that was freaking him out so much, how could she trust him? How could she be in a relationship that didn’t allow for mistakes and trying new things in life, changing course every now and then?

Intellectually, she knew she had to let him go. But it hurt so much. She was tempted to call Allison and ask her to help her get a new job as soon as possible, to not see Bette this afternoon but instead beg Alec to meet her for lunch so they could work this out. And yet as she worked out that scenario in her mind, something in her gut told her it was the wrong way to go. It sounded safe, but it was in fact the most dangerous thing she could do.

She pulled herself out of bed and looked at herself in the wide, bronze-framed mirror next to Julie’s bookshelves. She looked tired and washed out.

What would Moxie do?

And then she had an idea of how she would spend her first afternoon as a liberated woman. She texted Bette to meet her on East 56th Street.

When a woman moves to New York, she needs her friends to hook her up with two key things: a good gynecologist and a place to get a haircut. Mallory found both thanks to Allison, who introduced her to Christine Catora, M.D., and Bumble and bumble salon on East 56th Street .

She stood at the check-in counter of Bumble. It was a spare, industrial space, and the stylists were young, clad in all black, and attractive with an edge. A very different scene from the fancy, feminine salons her mother took her to when she was growing up on Philadelphia’s Main Line.

“Are you here to check in?” a thin guy with a white-blond buzz cut asked her.

“Yeah. I have a two-thirty color appointment with Galit? Annie referred me to her.”

“You’re Mallory? Okay, you are checked in. Go in the back to get changed and then up to the third floor color studio.”

She was about to explain that she needed to wait for her friend, but Bette managed to breeze in at that precise moment. Even in this jaded, hipster beauty mecca, heads turned.

“So what are we doing here?” Bette asked.

“I’m going to dye my hair red, and I need you to help me make sure I’m doing the right shade.”

“Phenomenal! Why didn’t you say so in your text? This is momentous. I would have brought champagne.”

They took the elevator to the third floor, checked in at another reception desk, and were met by a Kristen Stewart look-alike wearing denim overalls and black patent leather heels. Her left bicep was covered with a Vargas girl tattoo.

Mallory could have sworn she heard Bette gasp.

“Hey, I’m Galit. Which one of you is Mallory?”

Mallory introduced herself and then said, “And this is my friend Bette.”

“Cool. You here for moral support?”

“Technical support, actually,” Bette said. Mallory noticed the eye lock between them.

Galit showed them back to seats in front of thin, white-framed mirrors. It looked like a salon designed by Apple.

“Did you bring any photos of the shade you had in mind?”

“Um, no. Is that a problem?’

“Not at all. I’ll show you some swatches.”

Galit brought out a binder with pages filled with synthetic hair colored every shade from platinum blond to black. She opened to a section of red, and pointed to a soft auburn.

“This would look pretty on you,” she said.

Mallory looked at Bette, who, without hesitation pointed to a swatch the color of maraschino cherries.

Galit looked at Mallory, then at the color, then back at Mallory.

“That’s bold, but she can pull it off. You were born to be a redhead, babe,” she said.

“Wow. That’s really . . . red. Maybe I should ease into it a little?”

“If you’re going to do it, just go for it. If she hates it, you can tone it down, right?” Bette said to Galit.

“I can always tone it down. But I think you should only do the color if your heart is in it. It’s a gorgeous color, but you have to own it.”

“I’m going to do it,” Mallory said.

“Great. Let my assistant know if you want coffee or a menu from the café while I go mix it.”

Mallory looked at the glossy swatch of faux red hair, numbered 242. It was attached with Velcro, so she pulled it out and held it up to her face.

“Jesus, she is smokin’ hot,” Bette said.

“Yeah, she’s really pretty. She looks like that actress Kristen Stewart. Or Joan Jett. They look the same to me ever since I saw that movie,
The Runaways.
You should get her number.”

“I don’t have time to date.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I intend to be famous as soon as possible. Having a girlfriend is a distraction I don’t need.”

“I think love is important.” Mallory’s eyes teared up, and she dug around in her bag for one of the tissues she’d been relying on nonstop for the past twelve hours.

“Oh, no. What happened?

“First, I got fired.”

“Because your boss saw you at the show?”

“Not at the show, in the show. And yeah, that’s why.”

She was tempted to tell Bette that she knew Poppy had set her up, but she didn’t want to start even more trouble. Besides, she couldn’t prove it.

“Well, fuck it. You hated that gig anyway. Now you can do something you want to do. And you should start by working at tomorrow night’s show. Agnes digs you even though you had a minor freak-out. When I explained why, she understood—sort of. Besides, she doesn’t have anyone else. All the girls who come to her want to get billing as performers.”

“I don’t know. I’m not in the right headspace. Alec broke up with me, and I’m really . . . I can’t believe it.”

“Maybe you need a break.”

“That’s what my friend Julie says.”

“I have an idea—something that will take your mind off of Alec. I’m going to LA for a long weekend. Come with me. I’m being put up at a sick hotel in West Hollywood. All you have to pay for is your plane ticket. Everything else will be picked up. I went last year, and it was one of the best times I’ve ever had.”

“Who’s paying for it?”

“A guy named Justin Baxter. He used to come to the Blue Angel all the time, then started hiring me to perform at his birthday parties and Christmas parties, that sort of thing. He’s loaded and has places in LA and Miami and London . . . and a ridiculous apartment here on Bond Street. Seriously, just say yes. It will take your mind off of things, and maybe being in a different place will help you figure things out.”

“Maybe.”

“You need a debut as a redhead. Come on—I won’t take no for an answer. Let yourself have some fun. You’ll have plenty of time to worry when we get back.”

“I’ll make a deal with you: I’ll go if you get Galit’s phone number. I’m not taking a leap if you don’t.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Moxie. Get ready to pack your bags.”

*   *   *

Poppy knocked on the door of the Blue Angel. She had a fitting with Agnes for the first costume the owner had offered to make for her. She was thrilled about this, of course—finally, she was starting to feel that she was becoming accepted as a real Blue Angel.

Agnes opened the door, looking annoyed.

“This isn’t a brothel, you know,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

She followed Agnes to the dressing room, where an outrageously large bouquet of dark red poppies was arranged in a square vase.

“What is that?” Poppy asked.

“They came for you this morning.” She stormed out of the room. God, she was so rigid. This couldn’t be the first time a performer had been sent flowers at the club, could it? And it’s not like she could control what customers did.

She opened the card.

Thanks for a fun night. We hope to see you again soon.
Justin and Martha

Ugh! The nerve of him. She wished she had his phone number so she could give him a piece of her mind.

She pulled out her BlackBerry and dialed the number for the florist, Ovando.

“Hi, this is Poppy LaRue. I just received a gorgeous delivery from you guys from a customer named Justin Baxter. I don’t have his number, and I’m dying to thank him. Could you give me that information please? I want to tell him what an amazing job you guys did with the flowers.”

She jotted down the number and didn’t wait more than a beat to dial.

“This is Justin,” he said.

“This is Poppy LaRue.”

“What a pleasant surprise! Delighted to hear from you, darlin’. I hope you’re a fan of your namesake.”

“You know what I’m not a fan of? Your little bait and switch the other night. And, for the record, I’m not a prostitute.”

He laughed. Bastard!

“You didn’t seem to have a problem taking the money.”

“Yeah, well, I’m broke, and you seem to have plenty to throw around, so I’m not going to lose sleep over it.”

“You absolutely shouldn’t.”

“Okay . . . well. As long as we understand each other.”

“Wait—don’t hang up. I don’t want there to be any hard feelings. Although, hearing your voice, I do feel hard. . . .”

She couldn’t help laughing.

“Let me make it up to you,” he said. “We’re hosting an incredible private show tonight. Strictly A-list.” He rattled off the names of the actors, musicians, and socialites who would be attending. “Please join us. It’s at the apartment, ten sharp. Cocktail attire.”

Poppy knew she shouldn’t go—that she should have some pride, or at the very least stay out of trouble. But she couldn’t help thinking that if she went to the party, she might be invited on the LA trip. She knew Bette and two girls from the Slit were going, and she felt completely left out.

Agnes reappeared in the doorway. “I’ll try to make it,” Poppy said quickly, and hung up.

Agnes stood in the dressing room doorway, white satin fabric in her hands and pins pursed between her lips. She placed the pins side by side on one of the vanities and pulled a tape measure from her pocket.

“Are you ready to do costume or am I interrupting social hour?” she said.

“Sorry,” Poppy said. She stripped down to her underwear and Agnes knelt beside her, taking measurements.

“The problem with you girls is no focus! When I was your age I was practicing ballet ten hours a day. No talking on the phone, no drinking at night. And no men! You know who my relationship was with?”

Poppy shook her head.

“My feet! An artist lives for her art. What do you girls live for? Money? Romance?”

Poppy didn’t say anything. Fine, so Agnes was a great dancer in her day. But what did she have to show for it? She was old and alone. Poppy wanted to be the best performer at the Blue Angel, but what was the point if she was going to be alone for the rest of her life? Without love, she would feel like a failure. But if she was a famous burlesquer, of course she would find love. Or love would find her.

“I think romance is important,” Poppy said.

“Fine. You want love, good luck. But if you’re going to be with a man, make sure he’s a rich man. Love don’t pay the rent,” she said.

P
oppy stood outside the spectacular gates of 40 Bond. She shifted in her heels, and wondered if she’d made the right decision. And then she saw an Academy Award–winning actress breeze past her, and she followed discreetly behind.