by Shenda Paul
“I’m interested in any work,” I hastily say.
“Well—you could dance at Liaison.”
“You’d be brilliant! Members would go nuts for you,” Amy interjects.
“Amy!” Sarah admonishes her with a pointed look.
“Liaison is an exclusive gentlemen’s club,” Sarah tells me. “I could introduce you to the owner, Mr. Cordi. He’s very particular about employees and would have to personally approve you.”
“What do you mean gentlemen’s club? Is it a strip club?” I ask, horrified at the thought of them working in such a place—of me dancing in a place like that.
“It’s much more tasteful. The members are respected men, and we don’t strip. We do wear pretty skimpy clothes, though, but nothing inappropriate happens while you’re dancing,” she adds at my raised brow. “The club has very strict rules about public behavior.”
“It’s all very civilized; I promise,” Amy adds.
“I…I don’t know. I’m grateful that you’re trying to help, but I don’t think I could do that.”
“Of course you can. Just think about it?” Amy suggests. “Just meet Mr. Cordi and see how you feel?” she encourages, sensing me falter.
“I’ll think about it,” I concede.
12
M y face heats under his scrutiny. He’s assessing me as if I’m an animal about to auctioned off.
“Your name’s Angelique Bain?” he asks, even though I’d just said that.
“It is,” I say, mad at myself for sounding so timid.
“Very nice…” he replies cryptically. He’s trying to rattle me, I can tell, and much to my annoyance, he’s succeeding.
“Tell me about yourself and why you want to dance at Liaison, Angelique?”
“Uhm… well,” I clear my throat. “Dancing’s what I know best, and I need the money, so Sarah suggested that I might be interested… uhm… that you might be interested in hiring another dancer.”
“I’m not looking for a dancer, Miss Bain. Sarah tells me you’re new to Boston—why are you here?” he demands. I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders and look him in the eye.
“I left New York for personal reasons, Mr. Cordi. I need the money, and at the moment, I have no other option. If it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t be looking to dance in a club.”
“Well, you have some spunk, it seems. Perhaps there’s more to you than meets the eye. I need to make a few inquiries. If I’m happy with what I find, I’ll allow you to demonstrate your talents.”
He stands; I’ve apparently been dismissed. I thank him for his time and leave, feeling sure I’ll never hear from him again. I don’t know how to feel about my failure to impress the man. I dislike him—intensely—but I need a job. I’ve tried almost every dance studio within commuting distance to see whether they needed teachers for evening classes. “No market for ballet classes at night. If you could teach ballroom or Latin American, I could use you,” or some version of that, appeared to be the standard response.
Three days later, and I’m still at a loss when Sarah calls to say Mr. Cordi wants me to perform at the club on Friday night. “In front of an audience?” I ask.
“I suppose. He didn’t say; he never does, he just expects,” she replies. I try not to worry about what that means.
“What type of dance does he want me to perform, and what am I supposed to wear? Is there a costume?”
“We’ll work it out. Why don’t you ask Jeanette you and I can rehearse there this week?”
“Great idea, thanks. Let’s try for tomorrow. What time suits you?”
“Five? That would give us a couple of hours before the first evening class.”
If you don’t hear from me, I’ll see you then,” I say and thank her again before hanging up.
Jeanette readily agreed, and Sarah and I met at the studio, where we still are. We both arrived armed with music suggestions, so, that became our first subject of discussion. After much debate, we settled on the soundtrack to ‘Let It Flow’ by Toni Braxton and turned our minds to choreography. I devised and then quickly demonstrated a sequence, a meld of contemporary and classical movements. “That’s fabulous and sensual, but I think you should amp it up. You know—make it sexier,” she said.
“I’m not aiming to titillate, Sarah,” I replied a bit tersely because the dance I choreographed could, perhaps, be viewed as sensual, but I hadn’t deliberately set out to achieve that. To, me, it’s simply a result of the rhythm of the music, how it made me feel and fluidity of motion.
“That’s what the members expect,” she argued, but I wasn’t swayed.
“Mr. Cordi will either like it, or he won’t,” I said, and I meant it. I’ve already compromised myself looking for work in men’s club; I have no intention of performing like a stripper.
Sarah stopped protesting by my third run-through. In fact, she remarked that there’s no other dancer like me at the club, that my grace, coupled with the unexpected inclusion of classical ballet makes the dance unique. “They’re going to love you,” she’d said, exaggerating, I have no doubt, but I didn’t argue.
Sarah then produced a couple of outfits for me to choose from. I was shocked not just by the amount of skin they’d show but the parts of the body that would be on display. They’re downright scandalous, in my view.
“I wear this. Are you saying I’m tacky?” she asked, looking hurt.
“Of course not, but you have more confidence than me. This,” I held up a garment, “isn’t me. I need to feel comfortable onstage,” I explained. Sarah huffed but didn’t press the issue. And that’s the point we’re up to now.
“Well, what are you thinking of wearing?” she asks, packing her costumes back into her duffle bag.
“This,” I say, revealing the black unitard I brought. Sarah reluctantly agrees. We discuss hair and makeup next, and, as a compromise, I agree to leave my hair down.
“You’ll look beautiful, Angelique; but you have to understand that if Mr. Cordi decides to employ you, he’ll almost certainly insist that you wear what the other dancers do,” she warns.
I don’t argue. I resolve to wait for the outcome of the audition and silently vow to stick to my guns if I succeed.
“This is the Grand Room,” Sarah says as we stand in the doorway of a vast, timber-panelled room. The name is very apt because it is, indeed, impressive. Smoke-colored mirrors that reach the ceiling top the panels. They reflect the soft glow of the hanging chandeliers and many table lamps dotted around the room. Deep, tan leather armchairs, arranged in groups of two, four, or six, complete the look of luxurious masculinity.
Many of those seats are occupied. Predominantly by men, I note, which is hardly surprising, given that we’re in a gentleman’s club. What does strikes me as odd, though, is that all the women appear to be no older than thirty-five. Many of their male companions, on the other hand, are quite old, certainly old enough to be my father—some could even have been my grandfather. “None of your business. You’re here to land a job as a dancer,” I tell myself.
Sarah’s said I should expect to earn a hundred dollars for each performance and that it would last no more than half an hour. Just five dance sequences, less than three hours a week, would pay for the rise in Mom’s costs and allow me to save a bit for future emergencies. That’s all I need to think about, I conclude.
Sarah points out a raised, curtained area at the front of the room, which I’d assumed to be a window. “That’s the stage,” she says just as Marvin Gaye starts singing Sexual Healing. The curtains open to reveal Amy, suspended upside down on a dance pole. I’m gawping but can’t help myself; I’m so shocked. She’s practically naked in an outfit that leaves nothing to the imagination. It barely covers her private parts. Ballet costumes are revealing, yes, but they show off body shape, not body parts. And there’s good reason for that; they’re designed to ensure the dancer’s comfort and ease of movement and to allow the audience to appreciate each nuance of the dance.
&nbs
p; I watch, dumbstruck, as she performs an extremely provocative routine. Not that I’ve personally experienced one, but, to me, her performance seems much more like a stripper’s act than a dance routine. I expected applause, loud cheering even—another stereotype I suppose—but there’s only hushed silence. Some men, I’ve noticed, are discreetly fondling their female companions, while others simply watch Amy in lustful silence. I turn away, repulsed. What was I thinking? What would Mom say; what would Dad think if he could see me now?
Sarah, probably sensing my panic, leans over. “It’s just a dance,” she whispers. “When you’re up there, don’t think about where you are, or who’s watching. You can do this; just pretend you’re dancing a role.”
I shut my eyes and inhale deeply, in, out, in out. Pretend you’re Salome,” I tell myself because that ballet had inspired the adaptations of the classical elements in my routine for tonight.
“Are you okay?” Sarah asks, full of concern. I nod. “Then let’s go,” she says, taking my arm. “You have half an hour before you’re on.”
The dressing room is a large, communal space, with partitioned areas down one wall with mirrors and make-up tables along the other. “These are available,” Sarah points out three cubicles at the end. “You can use the mirror directly opposite the one you choose. Bathrooms and showers are just down there. I’ll let you get ready,” she says, and then, with a quick hug, leaves.
Grateful for the time to compose myself, I change into a long-sleeved, black unitard and pointes before covering myself with a robe to sit at the mirror and apply my makeup. I shade my eyes with a dramatic smoky color and let my hair flow down my back. The remaining ten minutes is spent on deep breathing and basic exercises, using the back of the chair as I would a barre.
“Your music’s cued, I’ll show you to the stage when you’re ready,” Sarah says, poking her head through the door.
I check my appearance in the mirror one last time before joining her. “You look great,” she squeezes my hand when I reach her, and then leads me down a corridor to a door predictably marked, ‘Stage’. Sarah wishes me luck. “Amy and I will be out front watching,” she says and turns away.
The stage is shrouded in darkness with only a dim light coming from the wing where I entered. I move to the center, inhale a deep breath and exhale slowly before striking my opening pose, eyes closed, head bowed as I wait.
The curtain peels back slowly. I sense rather than see the movement, and, then, at the first strains of melody, a single spotlight shines on me. I dance, allowing the music to direct my every move.
As the last notes fade, I sink into my resting position, stunned into immobility by the prolonged silence. Uncertain, I do what comes naturally; I rise and sink into a deep, curtsy, and then, just as I’m about to leave the stage, a lone person starts clapping.
A man stands and continues to applaud; ignoring the many heads turned his way. He’s tall and blond-haired, I can tell. Another man, slightly darker, who’d been sitting with him, also stands to clap. More and more join in; their clapping, quiet at first, grows louder. Just before I leave the stage, my gaze finds Mr. Cordi, seated at the first man’s table, motionless as he stares at me.
Back in the dressing room, I rush to change into my street clothes, not bothering to remove my makeup. I’m preparing to leave when Sarah and Amy enter.
“You were amazing!” Amy gushes. “Holy cow, Senator Wade applauded. He’s never done that … hell, no one’s done that before….”
“Calm down, Amy,” Sarah says, clearly amused by her exuberance “She’s right, though, Angelique. You were amazing.”
“Thanks. Especially you, Sarah, I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Of course you could, there’s nothing I can teach you about dance. I can only dream of being that good.”
“Obviously not good enough. Mr. Cordi wasn’t impressed.”
“Don’t worry about that; he never shows what he’s thinking. Anyway, he told me to let you know he’ll be in touch.”
“Really?” I ask, hope flaring in my chest.
“Yes; and Amy’s right, Senator Wade did like you,” she teases
“Who?” I ask dumbly.
“Senator Justin Wade, the gorgeous guy who clapped. Youngest senator elected to this state, and his dad was also a one …” Amy responds. “I think he’s grandfather was too. Anyway, he’s practically Massachusetts royalty, and he liked you.”
“Well, that’s great, but he’s not the one who’s going to give me a job… or not.”
“You never know…” Amy says suggestively.
“Amy!” Sarah admonishes, sharply this time.
“Just saying—” she responds cheekily as Sarah continues to glare at her.
“Did Mr. Cordi say anything else?” I ask Sarah.
“No, but if he wasn’t interested, he’d have said so,” she replies confidently. Cheered by that piece of news, I leave with Sarah. Amy’s apparently accepted an invitation to join a member for a drink.
A week goes by without any word, and when I do hear from Mr. Cordi, it’s through Sarah again. I have a strong suspicion the man enjoys power games. He expects me to meet him at his office at Liaison the next evening, Sarah tells me. I’m not sure how I feel. I’m pleased about the opportunity to earn the money, but I’m not exactly thrilled about dancing in a men’s club—especially after seeing Amy’s performance. Only two months ago, if anyone had told me I’d be doing that, I would have called him or her mad.
“That was quite a performance the other night,” Mr. Cordi says at our meeting.
“Thank you.” I murmur, not sure whether I’ve been paid a compliment or not.
“Yes, quite a performance,” he repeats, his eyes glinting with what looks like pleasure. “The members seemed to appreciate your style. Tell me; are you professionally trained? There’s a discernable difference between you and the other supposed professionals I’ve watched dance.”
As much as I hate revealing details of my past, especially with this man who makes me nervous, I suspect lying won’t serve any purpose. “I’m a trained ballerina. An injury put an end to my professional aspirations, so I now teach.”
“If you have a job, why do you want to work here?” he asks rudely.
“Teaching ballet to little girls doesn’t pay much, nor does my part-time job at Starbucks, Mr. Cordi,” I say, deciding that’s all I’ll tell him, no matter how hard he presses.
He scrutinizes me, and I try not to fidget, cursing myself inwardly when I feel my cheeks heat. For just a fleeting moment, his thin lips lift in a semblance of a smile, no doubt pleased with his attempts to intimidate me.
“Well, Angelique, how many nights should I let you perform?” he finally speaks.
“I was hoping for five?” I ask, relief flooding me.
“I’ll give you two,” he says, and even with the little I know of him, I should have known he’d do this. I should have said seven, and he would have given me three of four. Beggars can’t be choosers, I remind myself. Until something better comes along, I have no option but to accept.
“Fine. Which nights would you want me to dance, Mr. Cordi?”
“Wednesday and Saturday. You’ll perform last on both nights, and you start this Saturday; be onstage at ten. Get here one hour before, and unless a member invites you to stay, you’ll be expected to leave the club by eleven. See Mick O’Flaherty on the way out. He’ll complete the paperwork and provide details about your pay.” He dismisses me by standing up.
I thank him, make my way downstairs and ask the guy behind the bar where I can find Mick O’Flaherty. He smiles, introduces himself as Gary and points to the manager’s office down the corridor.
Mick O’Flaherty is more welcoming than Mr. Cordi, thank goodness. He informs me of the pay, which is exactly what Sarah said. I’ll earn two extra hundred dollar a week, but it’s still not enough.
13
T he senator’s here, just as he’s been for each of my performances
over the last two weeks. Sometimes, like tonight, the man I saw him with before accompanies him. He no longer applauds; in fact, no one does. He stares at me instead. During the entirety of my performance, from the table closest to the stage, I sense his eyes on me. He didn’t sit there that first night, but he seems to have claimed that spot since. No one occupies those seats now, even if they arrive before he does.
His eyes bore into me, and, despite the ability to close my mind to extraneous things while performing, and I find it difficult to ignore his searing gaze. My dance comes to an end, and, I slowly sink to the floor, forehead resting on my extended arms. The same, hushed silence I’ve come to expect greets me. I rise slowly, my eyes involuntarily finding his. His face breaks into a slow, easy smile. I can’t resist responding.
Sarah rushes in while I’m changing. “Senator Wade wants you to have a drink with him,” she announces as if I’d just won the lottery.
“Angelique? Did you hear me? Justin Wade’s asking for you.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “I may be naive, but even I can tell there’s something odd about this place. I’m here to dance, not socialize, Sarah.”
“I should have told you before, I suppose, but you seem so innocent, and you were desperate for money.” She sits down, suddenly serious. I sit too, nausea already rolling in the pit of my stomach because I’ve noticed things—the way couples never arrive together, the girls as Mr. Cordi calls female workers, appear to wait to be summoned by members, and they change women as often as they do their obviously very expensive suits. Couples disappear during a performance, only to reappear during the next. I probably wouldn’t have seen this if I hadn’t taken to watching other dancers from the wings.
“Mr. Cordi runs a high-class escort service. Liaison’s members are respectable, wealthy men, who want to meet women and socialize in private,” she explains as if it’s normal, everyday practice.
