Naked Angel (7 page)

The annual Las Vegas Burlesque Festival was one of the biggest burlesque events in the country, second only to the Burlesque Hall of Fame Weekend. While the Vegas Burlesque Festival was less rooted in the rich history of burlesque, it had a more tangible effect on the world of burlesque: The festival was the brainchild of a film studio scion named Marty Bandinow. The culmination of the festival was a competition that awarded the winning troupe twenty thousand dollars, a feature in a national magazine, and, one year, a walk-on role on a primetime television show. Agnes had never wanted “her” girls to participate—she felt it was an unnecessary distraction and was philosophically against pitting dancers against one another for such high financial stakes.

“My girls do not put on a dog and pony show. This is burlesque, not the circus,” she’d said.

But now that Mallory and Alec were running their own club, it was their decision to make. And they wanted to compete and make a name for themselves. Since costumes were an important criteria to be judged, they were hoping Agnes would agree to help them.

“I’m working on a theme, so maybe next Monday I can come by and we can discuss some ideas.”

“I can’t think about it now,” Agnes said. “Check my calendar with Gemma and have her schedule a day for you to come back.”

Mallory was disappointed by Agnes’s lukewarm response, but not entirely surprised, given how she felt about burlesque competitions.

On the first floor, they found Gemma accepting a delivery. Mallory and Nadia both recognized the unmistakable robin’s egg blue box of Tiffany’s.

As soon as Gemma realized she wasn’t alone, she stuffed the box in her handbag.

“Secret admirer?” Mallory joked. Gemma glared at her. Okay, not one for humor.
Note to self: Stick to business with the cranky Brit
.

“I’m going to run. I’ll call you later,” Nadia said, halfway out the door.

Why was everyone so uptight today?

Mallory turned back to Gemma, who was furiously texting.

“Agnes told me you are handling her calendar? I need to make an appointment to come back and talk to her about costumes for the burlesque festival.”

“Sure. Whatever you need. Just e-mail me sometime and we’ll set it up,” Gemma said, not looking up from her phone.

Great
, Mallory thought.
With all of this enthusiasm, I’m sure we’ll win Vegas
. She wondered if Bette had any ideas about alternate costumers. But no, Agnes would be insulted. Mallory was sure that in the end, Agnes would come through for them.

V
iolet had a problem. Lately, she could not find any sexual satisfaction without some element of voyeurism.

She felt bad about this. It made her feel weak, like the domination clients who used to pay her thousands of dollars an hour to spank them, pee on them, call them garbage, and otherwise humiliate them.

Violet paced outside the “hot sheet” motel where one such former client worked at the front desk. He’d confided in her once that the front desk “security” cameras were actually rigged to video cameras in the pay-by-the-hour rooms. He had told her this while she acted out the part of a policewoman busting him for spying on the hotel clientele.

Now, she was actually considering asking him if she could take a peek at the monitors. Maybe witnessing the sexual squalor of the place would cure her once and for all. Or maybe her desires would sink to a new low.

She wondered if this new fetish of hers had something to do with the long hours she was spending running Violet’s Blue Angel. When she had been simply a burlesque performer, she would do her thing and then leave. But now she spent night after night watching the dancers at her club, and this had somehow wound its way into her psyche, and her sexual satisfaction was now tied into the need to watch, to be tantalized, to experience that moment of breathtaking anticipation.

It was a challenge to feed this visual hunger. Stumbling upon erotic encounters was more difficult than one might imagine—even in a city as crazy as New York. She hated to think she might have to pay for it, but until she got over this particular obsession she just might have to. And as long as she had Billy Barton’s deep pockets to dip into, money wasn’t a huge problem.

Maybe Cookies would volunteer to put on an erotic show for her. And by volunteer, she meant give in to Violet’s coercion.

Speaking of Cookies, where was her report on the opening night of The Painted Lady? She was surprised it had taken her until this late in the morning to remember it. That was the problem with being sexually unsatisfied—it addled her mind.

Violet dialed her cell phone.

“Where are you?” she asked Cookies.

“I’m waiting for you at the club. I thought you said to meet here.”

Sweet Jesus, she really was losing it.

“Don’t move. I’m on my way.”

Nadia hoped she had the right Le Pain Quotidien. In what seemed like a matter of months, the Dutch café chain had sprung up like weeds in every neighborhood in Manhattan. With its communal tables, strong coffee, and fresh bread, it had become a makeshift office for freelancers, and a preferred meeting place for both corporate executives who didn’t want to spend a hundred dollars on lunch and tourists in between sights.

At 11 a.m., the place was between the breakfast rush and the lunch crowd, so she had her pick of the tables along the left side of the wide dining room. She was relieved there was a table for four available. She didn’t want to talk to Max at a crowded communal table, and the two-tops seemed too intimate.

She staked her claim on the table farthest to the back. A waitress handed her a two-sided, laminated menu, and Nadia ordered a pot of coffee.

Was it a mistake for her to have agreed to meet him? She had said yes so impulsively—it was as if some part of her had completely disconnected. Now she felt unprepared and vulnerable.

Mercifully, she spotted Max before he saw her. This gave her the advantage of processing the sight of him before she had to actually deal with him. And the sight of him was, well, quite spectacular. He was tall, well over six feet, and he had wide shoulders and a tapered waist that signaled his perfectly honed athleticism. His hair was shiny and dark, with just a hint of waviness that suggested he’d had curls as a child.

Nadia ignored the stirring inside of her and pretended to be reading the menu, waiting for him to find her.

She didn’t look up until he was at the table, pulling out a chair opposite her to sit.

“Thanks for meeting me,” he said.

“How could I say no?” she replied. “You made it sound like you had something so urgent to discuss it couldn’t be done over the phone.”

“I feel it is urgent,” he said. His eyes were so dark brown, the pupil was almost indistinguishable from the iris, and his long, dark lashes were dramatic against his olive skin.

“Okay, so . . . I’m here. What is it?”

The waitress appeared. He ordered coffee. Nadia was hungry and eyed the croissant at the table next to theirs. Her first impulse was to deny herself, but then she remembered she was no longer dancing ballet.

“And I’ll have a croissant,” she said. She couldn’t help stealing a glance at Max to check if any disapproval registered in those dark eyes, but he was unreadable.

When the waitress was out of earshot, Max turned to her with a seriousness appropriate for a meeting of the National Security Council.

“I think you’re making a huge mistake,” he said.

“It’s just one croissant,” she joked.

“I’m serious, Nadia.” It wasn’t so much what he said, but the intensity and intimate way in which he said it that stopped her cold. “I understand that you’re devastated by what the injury means for your ballet career. But ballet is your home, and if you can’t perform, we will find a different kind of place for you.”

“Why do you care?” she snapped, fighting the threat of tears.

“Ballet is my life, too. I live for it. And everyone knows ballet is not a solitary endeavor—it’s a community. A family. We can compete fiercely amongst ourselves when it comes to the stage, but off the stage, we look out for one another. I saw you dance last year. I know what a loss this is, not just for you, but for all of us. I’m building a company that I hope can make careers, and not just for the dancers onstage. For everyone involved in dance: the choreographers, teachers, costumers, pianists. There is still a place for you in ballet if you can just stop running away, and claim it.”

Nadia realized, in that moment, that Max Jasper could potentially be the biggest personality in ballet since Balanchine. She knew he had the talent, somehow he’d gotten the funding, and she was witnessing the power of his charisma. It would be so easy to let him seduce her into believing she could still find satisfaction in working around ballet in some capacity. But she had never been easily seduced—not in the bedroom, and certainly not by a brooding, dark-eyed smooth talker across a table in a crowded café.

“That’s a lovely speech, Mr. Jasper. But I have a somewhat different perspective on this side of the injury.”

“I’d argue that you have no perspective. That’s why I had to talk to you.”

“Well, thanks for the enlightenment. But despite your myopic view of the world, there are other ways to perform aside from ballet.”

“Such as what? Last night? You call that performing?”

She refused to let herself be baited.

“Maybe not last night. But I’ll get there.”

“Why?” he demanded so loudly that other people turned to look. “Why would you expend your energy and talent on burlesque?”

“I’ll tell you why: I’d rather be center stage in burlesque than sidelined in ballet.”

“That’s an absurd statement, because it’s predicated on the idea that they are two equal options.”

“Well, then I guess that makes this whole conversation absurd, because it’s predicated on the notion that you have any clue about me as a person. Which, obviously, you don’t.”

“I think I have some idea, and not because I’m so insightful. Anna told me you can’t tolerate being around the ballet—that it’s too upsetting for you. You need to get over that.”

“She had no right to talk to you about me.”

He shrugged. “She meant well.”

“I don’t know about that. I can’t imagine she’d think I would want her to bring you to the show last night.”

“And why is that? Are you not proud of what you’re doing?”

“Just stop. I don’t need this, okay?” She stood up to leave. He grabbed her wrist to prevent her from walking away, and his touch stopped her in her tracks.

“Do something—if not for me, for yourself,” he said. “Stop by the studio tomorrow. Around noon. I’m choreographing something new, and I’d love to hear your thoughts. I don’t think anyone at BA is objective at this point.”

“I’m busy tomorrow,” she said.

“Please just think about it.”

“You can save your misguided concern.” She put a ten on the table to pay for her croissant and coffee. And then she walked out.

M
allory climbed the stairs out of the Seventy-seventh and Lexington Avenue subway station to emerge on Third, just a block from her destination: the Atlantic Grill. She was thrilled that her two best friends from college, Julie and Allison, had been able to be spontaneous today and meet her for lunch. She knew, from her own days working in the corporate hell of a law firm, how difficult it could be to sneak away for an hour or two. But when she’d woken up with that ring on her finger, she knew she had to try to get them to meet her.

It had been weeks since she’d seen them, and it made her think of something a TV critic once wrote about the show
Sex and the City:
She wrote that the aspect of the characters’ lives she coveted most was not the expensive shoes or hot sex; it was the amount of free time they seemed to find to hang out with their girlfriends. Mallory finally understood what that writer had meant. Although, seeing one of her favorite shoe stores on the corner, Shoebox, she remembered how much she had wanted those shoes, too.

Julie and Allison were already waiting at the banquette along the wall in the entranceway. The air inside was almost too cold, despite the heat outside. Mallory eyed a frosty martini glass being handed over the bar to a waiter with a tray.