Blue Angel (9 page)

No! What an operator. But what was her game? Why did she want to get close to Bette? And how did she know Bette was obsessed with underwear? I mean, they all liked underwear, all bought their share of garters and thongs and the whole bit. But Bette had a collection that necessitated outside storage space.

“Done. Have any particular place in mind?”

“Um. Maybe La Petite Coquette?”

Poppy and Bette exchanged a glance.

“You can drop that kind of coin?” Poppy asked.

“Yes,” Mallory said. “The only good thing about my job is the paycheck.”

And the fact that you have to get back there soon
, Poppy thought to herself.

But not soon enough.

Mallory didn’t want to be paranoid, but she could swear Poppy was glaring at her from across the backseat of the cab. What had she done to piss the blonde off so badly?

“Give me one good reason to stay in a job you hate,” Bette said. At the fabric store, Mallory had confided how rattled she was by her recent doubts about her legal career. Somehow, it was easier to admit this to Bette than to her closest friends—even to Alec.

“Well, money for one thing. I need to support myself.”

“Bullshit,” Bette said. “The most successful people are people who do what they love.”

“Yeah, but a lot of people are broke doing what they love. That’s why they have expressions like ‘starving actor.’ And ‘golden handcuffs.’ And I went to law school. You don’t just throw that away.”

“Ah. The psychology of previous investment,” Bette said.

Mallory looked at her.

“What?” Bette said. “You think I didn’t have choices to make when I decided to perform full-time? I went to Michigan. I was an English major, psych minor. I could have an office job, a steady paycheck. But once I got a taste of this life, I couldn’t go back.”

The cab pulled up in front of the store on University Place, its hot pink awning unmistakable. Inside, Poppy picked up a pair of black lace French knickers.

“This place is expensive,” she sniffed.

“I know. That’s why I need my job!”

Bette made a beeline for the back of the store, calling over her shoulder, “If you’re going to be negative, Poppy, why don’t you do us a favor and just leave?”

Mallory cringed. Poppy looked as if she’d been slapped, and tossed the underwear on a table.

“Fine. I will,” she said, and then, sotto voce, “Have fun spending all the money you make at your miserable job.”

Poppy stormed out, and Mallory thought maybe she should go after her.

“Mallory—come on back here,” Bette called. “I’m by the dressing rooms.”

“This way,” a young salesgirl said, leading her to Bette.

“Try these on.” Bette handed her a pile of black lace. “Oh—and these.” She added a package of thigh-high black stockings.

“Poppy left. Maybe you were a little harsh with her?”

“Oh, she’s such a diva. She’ll be fine. By tonight we’ll kiss and make up.”

For most people, that expression was a cliché. Coming from Bette, Mallory suspected it was a bit more literal.

“I’ll be right out here if you need help,” Bette said.

She closed the curtain on the small dressing room, leaving Mallory to contemplate the pile of underwear and . . . what was that thing?

Mallory opened the curtain.

“What is this?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No.” It was black and had hooks like a bra, but had four straps hanging from it. It was like some strange lingerie arachnid.

“It’s a garter! Don’t tell me you’ve never worn one before.”

“I haven’t. And it’s really not my style.”

“How do you keep your stockings up?”

“I wear . . . you know, panty hose.”

“Okay, well, that has to stop immediately. That is
not hot
.”

She thought of Allison’s parting comment after brunch,
if your boyfriend is bringing you to burlesque clubs on your birthday . . .

“Okay. Just . . . show me how to wear this thing.”

“Absolutely. But you have to take off your clothes first.”

“I’m just going to try it on. . . .”

“Over your suit? Mallory, I can tell you have a hot little body. Why are you so bashful? I’m going to help you get some things to show it off for that gorgeous guy of yours. Believe me, he won’t be touching my leg under the table next time when he knows what you’re rocking under those lawyer clothes.”

Mallory’s stomach knotted up. So he had been touching Bette’s leg under the table. Well, of course—they had kissed, so it should not surprise her. Still—it stung.

“Okay—give me a minute, and I’ll call you in when I’m ready.”

Mallory closed the curtain again, and faced herself in the mirror. God, she was glad she’d worn decent underwear today. Nothing spectacular—just cream-colored, lace boy shorts from the Gap and a white demibra. But it was better than the five-year-old, well-worn, floral cotton panties she sometimes fell back to when she was behind on her laundry.

She unzipped her blue pinstriped skirt and let it fall to the floor. It was a little too warm in that small space, and her skin was already slightly moist under her white blouse, but she wasn’t taking that off. Observing herself in the mirror, she thought,
not bad
. Not as good as Bette or Poppy—they were nearly perfect. Not all of the dancers were like that. But those two—their bodies were art as surely as the costumes and the dances themselves. But for a twenty-five-year-old lawyer (or almost lawyer), Mallory had to admit she was in good shape. Still, she resolved to go back to Pilates the following week. Maybe even twice.

She removed her panty hose and replaced them with the sheer black thigh-highs Bette had picked out for her.

“What’s the holdup in there? I know you need help getting the new stuff on—I didn’t know you needed help getting the old stuff off!”

Mallory opened the curtain.

“Ready,” she said, holding out the garter.

“Okay—now put it around your waist. It should just rest on your hips. No—those straps have to hang down. You really are lingerie illiterate!”

Mallory hooked the contraption around her waist and then turned the hooks around to the back—the method she used when she first got used to wearing a bra.

Bette knelt by her side and pulled one of the straps.

“Okay, now these latch onto the stockings,” she said, fastening one. “Now you try one.”

Mallory bent down and tried to secure the metal latch against the thin fabric, but it wasn’t working. She felt like an idiot. Did other women really do this routinely?

“Here—you slide this back, put the stocking here, and then slide this up. There! You got it. I’ll do the ones in the back because that takes a more experienced hand.”

Mallory felt self-conscious having Bette behind her like that, but less so when she saw herself in the mirror. She liked what she saw—more than she had in a while. Maybe more than she ever had.

Bette adjusted the length of the garter straps, then stood behind her and appraised her in the mirror as well.

“Wow. You were made for this stuff.”

And then Bette ran her hand against Mallory’s lower back, and over her ass. Mallory shivered, the thin layer of perspiration under her blouse turning cold.

“Wait right here. I want you to try something else,” Bette said, leaving her alone with her tumbling thoughts.

Mallory turned and looked at her ass in the mirror. How was it possible that another woman was making her feel more feminine than any of her boyfriends ever had?

She slipped back into her heels, then looked herself over from her toes up to her flat stomach framed in black lace.

“You’re definitely going to need help with this!” Bette said breathlessly, and produced, with a flourish, a black satin corset.

“That is gorgeous!”

“Wait til you see how it feels.” Bette got to work loosening the elaborate back lacing. She glanced up. “You’re going to have to take off your shirt and bra to wear this, you know.”

Mallory began unbuttoning her blouse, hands shaking slightly. She hung it on a hook, then removed her bra. Bette, finished with her preparations on the corset, made no attempt to disguise the fact that she was watching her.

“Why are you so bashful?” Bette said.

“I’m not,” Mallory said.

“Well, that’s obviously not true. Come on—you’ve seen me take my clothes off twice already.”

“Yeah—but that’s what you do! I mean, you like having people watch you take your clothes off, right?”

“Of course I do. It’s exhilarating to be objectified. Don’t you like the fact that I enjoy looking at you—that I obviously think you’re beautiful?”

Mallory swallowed hard.

“Here—let’s get this on.” Bette wrapped the corset around Mallory’s torso. “Hold the front while I lace up the back.” She pulled the laces tight, and Mallory lost her breath.

“Oh my God!” she laughed giddily.

“I know—amazing, right?”

Mallory looked at them in the mirror. Bette was intent on her lacing task, her shiny dark hair falling across her face. She watched her pale fingers work quickly down the back of the garment, her blood maroon nail polish shiny in the fitting room light. Mallory imagined those fingers against her flesh, but immediately shook the thought away.

“Now, do those hooks in the front.”

Mallory started at the bottom. The corset was so stiff it was difficult to get more than a few hooks fastened without one coming undone.

“Slow down,” Bette said. Mallory felt herself beginning to perspire again, but she took a deep breath and concentrated on the task. When she finished, she turned to look at herself in the mirror.

And what she saw was someone else entirely.

“I can’t believe it,” she breathed. There was no difference between the woman she saw in the mirror and the women she saw on the Blue Angel stage.

“I can,” Bette said. “This is how I see you. And how you should see yourself.”

“A
nybody home?”

The apartment seemed suspiciously quiet considering Alec had promised to be there when she finally got home from work. But the living room was dark, as was their bedroom. Maybe he’d gotten tired of waiting since she hadn’t left the office until ten.

Mallory turned on lights as she moved through the apartment. Maybe it was just as well—she could put away the new additions to her wardrobe and make them a surprise over the weekend.

She heard his key in the lock just as she was arranging her corset in her underwear drawer. It took up a lot of space and probably needed to go on a shelf in her closet but she’d have to leave it for now. She folded up the La Petite Coquette bag and shoved it the drawer, too.

“Hey, I’m in here,” she said.

“I meant to be here when you got back, but Billy called me to meet him for a quick drink, and you know Billy. . . . One turned into four.”

“Oh. No problem,” she said. But hearing he had been with Billy burned her up a little. Alec knew she’d had a rough day at work and would want to maybe have a glass of wine with him, but once he’d had a drink or two he usually was done for the night. “Do we have any bottles of that cabernet left?”

“I think so. Want me to open one for you?”

“Yes—thanks.”

She moved to the couch, relaxing a little. He was home now; he was getting her a glass of wine. . . . They just needed to spend time together. And after testing the waters with Bette by admitting aloud how much she hated her job, she was ready to tell Alec.

“I would have a glass with you but I already had a few beers with Billy,” Alec said, predictably, handing her a glass.

“Um,” Mallory responded.

“So did you make a dent in the memo?”

“I did. A dent. But this is a major crunch. I should have stayed later tonight, but I just didn’t have it in me.”

“Did you at least go out to pick up lunch? It’s important to get outside for a short break during the day. I know the culture there is very order in / eat at your desk, but if you take a short break it’s better for you.”

“Actually, I got out for quite a bit this afternoon. Bette texted me that she was shopping for costume material and invited me to meet up with her and that blonde, Poppy.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know.” Suddenly Mallory felt on the defensive. “Maybe she thought you were still looking for details for your article.”

“Well, you can tell her the article is closed, and she can stop bothering you.”

“It wasn’t a bother. I had a miserable morning and getting out for an hour saved my sanity.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

“I’m not, Alec. I hate that fucking job.”

He looked at her.

“Since when?”

“I don’t know. Lately. Always.” She felt tears in her eyes. “I made a huge mistake going into law. It’s not right for me. School was challenging and interesting, and I thought I’d be great at putting it into practice. But I hate the firm; I hate the culture. I can’t imagine doing this for another year, let alone the rest of my life.”

“Okay, you need to calm down. Sweetheart, I think this is just stress talking. You’re still upset about failing the bar—which I’ve told you is not a big deal; you have to let it go and not see it as indicative of your future as a lawyer—and you’re anxious because Patricia is busting your balls. But you’re going to be a brilliant lawyer. This is just a rough patch.”