Blue Angel (8 page)

Alec came, and Mallory felt relieved that they would soon be out of the bathroom.

They quickly pulled on their clothes, and when they stumbled out of the stall, Mallory was appalled to find a young woman standing in front of the mirror. The woman didn’t bother pretending to be applying makeup or combing her hair or doing anything but exactly what she was obviously doing: listening to Alec and Mallory.

“Have a good night,” Alec said calmly, while Mallory rushed out of sight.

“It’s off to a great start,” the girl said.

“Damn,” Alec said outside the bathroom. “I think she would have joined in.”

Mallory shook her head.

“I hope you’re joking,” she said as they left the club

“Why would I be joking?”

“That wasn’t enough for you?”

“Babe, it was amazing—and yes, you are enough for me. More than enough. But sometimes I’m just open to different, interesting things. I think you are, too. That’s what makes us a good match. Didn’t you like it when Bette kissed you?”

“Um, yeah. I mean, I think so.”

“Did you mind that she kissed me?”

“It was a little weird for me, Alec. I don’t like seeing you kissing someone else—to think that someone else is turning you on. That you think about having sex with someone else. That’s supposed to be between us.”

“Are you upset?”

She
was
feeling a little upset, now that he called her on it.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Mallory, listen.” He tried to steer her to a bench outside of a falafel restaurant, but she resisted.

“It’s cold. And it’s two o’clock in the morning. Let’s just get a cab.”

She hailed one, the big minivan kind where they wouldn’t even be sitting close together in the seat. That was fine by her.

“Can you listen to me now?”

She knew she might as well agree to hear him out because he wouldn’t stop talking until she did.

“Fine. I’m listening.”

He pulled on her arms, which were crossed in front of her chest.

“Jeez. Your body language is terrible.”

“Just say what you have to say, Alec.” The champagne buzz was souring to a sugar crash.

“You know I love you. You’re my partner—have been since the day we got together four years ago. Anything we do with another person is just adding on to what is between us. It’s not about them—it’s just something different. Fun.”

“The subtext is that we’re not enough—I’m not enough.”

“Are you less attracted to me because you kissed Bette?”

“No.”

“Are you less in love with me?”

“No.”

“Then why can’t you accept that it’s the same for me? I adore you, Mallory. You are my soul mate, and kissing some other woman or bringing some other woman into bed with us for a fun night doesn’t diminish that—not even close. Look at it this way—you got up on stage at a burlesque club. It was something you’d never done before, and it was thrilling. But it didn’t change who you are. It’s not like you’re going to drop everything, stop being a lawyer, so you can get on stage every night. It was just a fun thing to do. It didn’t change anything, did it?”

“No,” she said.

But deep down she had to wonder.

M
allory closed the door to her office.

“Okay, I can talk now,” she told Allison.

“I just wanted to hear how the rest of your night was.”

“Why were you MIA yesterday? I called you three times.”

“I was with Andrew. He’s a big fan of the Sunday afternoon date. Such a romantic.”

“Ahh . . .
Andrew
. When do we get to meet
Andrew?
”

“Soon. And that’s another conversation. So spill it—what happened at the Slit?”

“It was . . . interesting.” She glanced at her office door. Patricia Loomis had just e-mailed her that she would be stopping by to discuss the memo that was due at the end of the week. “I can’t get into it now. But Allison—I cannot focus on work. I don’t know what it is. The past few weeks . . . the hours pass so slowly here. I used to get lost in the research, it was like a great puzzle, and when I was done putting together the cases and wrapping up the memos, I felt a rush. Now I’m dragging myself to the finish line.”

“We all feel like that sometimes. Work sucks. Just focus on doing a decent job, make some bank, and you’ll live your life outside of the office. You don’t have to live for work.”

“I know. I just . . . If I feel like this now, what will I be like in five years?”

“You’ll hate it more, but will be well compensated for hating it more.”

“Yeah. That’s not really consoling me right now.”

“You just have the Monday blues. Let’s grab a drink later.”

Patricia opened the door and marched into the room. Mallory quickly hung up her cell.

“Harrison wants the memo tomorrow,” she said—no greeting, no preamble. She wore a putty-colored suit, her hair in a bun. Her T-zone was shiny even though it was only eleven in the morning and thirty-five degrees outside.

“What? Last Friday you said end of this week?”

“And now it’s Monday. And I’m telling you tomorrow.” She turned on her heel and paused by the door. “And we expect strong work, Mallory. Don’t think this firm will keep lowering its expectations to meet your performance level. Have you reregistered for the bar?”

“Yes. It’s in early February.”

“I know when it is. Harrison wants to make sure you’re on track.”

“I’m on track.”

“Well . . . good. Let’s just hope you can cross the finish line this time.”

Mallory slumped in her seat. She texted Alec.

I’ll be home really late tonight
.

Back at her computer, she logged onto Westlaw. Her cell rang.

“What’s going on?” Alec asked.

“The memo I thought I had another week on is due tomorrow. Alec, I’m stressed. Patricia never liked me, but now that I failed the bar she’s like contempt walking. She’s just waiting for me to fuck up.”

“Don’t let her get to you.”

“I’m trying not to. But I don’t know—I’m really doubting myself lately. I never questioned doing this—of course I would be a lawyer like my parents. And law school was difficult but, you know, stimulating. It felt right. But this . . .”

“You can’t let failing the bar throw you off your game like this, Mal. You’re going to be a great lawyer. You
are
a great lawyer.”

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure I want it anymore.” It was hard for her to admit it, but there it was—it wasn’t just that she questioned her ability. She was questioning her choice of career. And it was terrifying.

“This isn’t you talking, Mal. You’re tired; you’re stressed. . . . Just get through today, and tomorrow things will look completely different.”

“Okay.” She hung up the phone, put her head on her desk, and let herself cry.

Her phone vibrated. She hoped it was Alec. Texting her what? Saying it was okay to think she’d made a colossal mistake choosing to become a lawyer? Or maybe it was Allison, reiterating not to worry—everyone hates her job. Better yet, Julie could chime in with her usual game plan: marry rich and then quit.

But the text was from none of the above. It read:

Want 2 have some fun? We’re costume shopping. Xo Bette

Mallory paused, her hands holding her BlackBerry as if it were a lottery ticket.

I’m at work
, she typed.

Blow it off. Meet us at M&J Trimming, Sixth Avenue.

She looked at her watch. There was nothing wrong with taking an early lunch break, right? She’d be at the office until the middle of the night regardless.

See you there.

*   *   *

Poppy and Bette walked against the wind up Sixth Avenue. Poppy didn’t mind the cold—she was wearing an ultra-heavy faux fur coat that she’d bought at Trash and Vaudeville—but Bette kept stopping to text every few feet, and the fact that she couldn’t give her undivided attention for more than two minutes at a time was irritating.

“Who are you so busy texting?” Poppy asked.

“Just checking my e-mail,” Bette said.

Poppy decided to let it go. After all, one hook-up did not give her the right to know whom Bette was texting or e-mailing. And it was only that—one hook-up. There had been no repeat performance after the night backstage. But Poppy had been thinking about it every day. She was a woman who prided herself on being able to fuck like a guy—no emotions, no attachments . . . no problem. But suddenly she was like a lovesick schoolgirl . . . for this crazy bitch! Maybe it was because guys were always chasing her, and Bette was, well,
not
. Or maybe it was the way she’d touched her, that perfect combination of gentle but expertly confident. And the way she smelled . . . kind of earthy, and sweet like vanilla. The fact that she was so beautiful didn’t hurt. Poppy had been with a lot of hot guys, but none who awed her with his perfection.

“This is the place.”

Poppy needed a stretchy ribbon of black sequins and some beaded fringe for a Morticia Addams costume she was working on. Agnes said she would help her with the costume, but she needed to buy all the material. It could get really expensive, but Bette said M&J Trimming was a reasonable place if you didn’t get too carried away.

“Just go in knowing what you are going to buy and don’t get any extras—no matter how cool or how sure you are that you will use it ‘someday’ for a costume,” Bette warned her. “I have drawers filled with impulse buys—fringe in colors that never work, bags of sequins, tassels that are gorgeous but too big. Just stay focused.”

Even though she wished Bette had given some hint that she wanted to have sex with her again, at least she’d gotten one thing she’d wished for: Bette was taking an interest in helping her make it as a performer. This shopping trip proved it. Poppy planned to secure her place as one of the lead girls, and then no newcomer would be a threat. Especially with Bette as a mentor—Agnes knew Bette was the best thing she had going, and would do anything to keep her exclusive to the Blue Angel. And Poppy would do anything to keep Bette exclusive to her.

It was a good sign that she’d invited Poppy to go shopping. As far as she was concerned, shopping was always foreplay—at least with men. Was it different between two women? Probably not.

Just as she pondered the equation Bette + Poppy + shopping = hot sex, she spotted her. It couldn’t be. Why would Mallory Dale be at M&J Trimming?

“That looks like Mallory Dale.”

“That is Mallory,” Bette said, waving her over.

“What’s she doing here?”

“I invited her.”

Poppy felt her face turn colors.

“Wow. This place is amazing. It makes me wish I could sew,” Mallory announced.

Poppy hated to admit it, but the other girl was terribly pretty, even in her stuffy wool coat and with lank brown hair that needed a good cut. Or highlights. Or both.

“You can’t sew? Like, even a button?” Poppy said. Bette shot her a look.

“No. Nothing. Isn’t it terrible? My mother could make some things and of course hemmed all of my skirts. I just take everything to a seamstress on 82nd and York.”

“I didn’t sew that much until I got into performing. It’s too expensive to buy costumes off the rack. And it’s more personal this way. Although none of us can make costumes like Agnes.”

“She makes things for you?”

“Once in a while. If we have a clear idea and give her the material. I’m having her make an Alice in Wonderland costume for me.”

“She mostly does it for Bette,” Poppy said.

“You’re still fairly new,” Bette said. “She’ll make something for you one day. You just have to earn it.” She smiled at Poppy. Was that a sign? Even though Bette had invited that mousy interloper, there was still something special between them.

The best thing to do was just cut this ill-fated shopping excursion short. Poppy headed to the register with her sequins and fringe, hoping that Bette would follow her. Instead, Bette took it upon herself to give Mallory a tour of the place. Even from the front of the store, she could tell the Mouse—and that was what she would call her from now on, at least to herself—was oohing and aahing at everything, as if Bette had given her the keys to the Emerald-fucking-City.

“Okay, ready to go,” Poppy announced, waving her shopping bag.

“We need to take Mallory somewhere to cheer her up,” Bette said. “She’s having a career crisis.”

Great. Now the Mouse was latching on to Bette with some sob story about her job. From the looks of her clothes, it had to be paying pretty well.

“Are you allowed to just wander off in the middle of the day?” Poppy asked, as sweetly and innocently as she could muster.

“No, actually. I’m technically taking lunch, but I should get back. I have a huge thing due, and I’m going to be there half the night as it is. . . .”

Poppy nodded, the picture of understanding.

“It’s good to be responsible,” Poppy said.

“Don’t be ridiculous! If you’re going to be there late tonight anyway, what difference does another hour make? Let’s shop some more. Is there anything you need to get?”

Now the Mouse was the one turning colors.

“Well,” she said slowly. She had this way of speaking that made you focus on her mouth. “My best friend was just telling me I should invest in better underwear.”