Blue Angel

by Logan Belle

  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 ri
diculous 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.

  14

  Poppy 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.

  In the entrance foyer, she added her shoes to the carefully arranged footwear left by each of the guests. She could estimate at a glance that she was looking at twenty grand worth of shoes.

  Up ahead, the girl in the fishbowl had evolved from coed chic to polished vamp. And just below her, Justin Baxter looked even better than she remembered—and Martha, even worse. Poppy shuddered.

  A glass table was covered with folded seating cards. The only time she had seen that before was at her cousin’s wedding. She hoped she wasn’t seated at the Baxters’ table, but was sure that was filled by the remarkable number of boldfaced names circulating in the foyer, sipping champagne served by handsome young men in tailcoats.

  She took a glass, knowing it would be phenomenal. As she brought the flute to her lips, Justin caught her eye and smiled.

  “Have you seen anyone serving something other than champagne?” a short, pretty blonde asked her. She had a pixie haircut and a smattering of freckles across her nose, and Poppy immediately recognized her from the latest Anne Hathaway movie.

  “Um, no—but I haven’t really been looking.”

  But the blonde had already spotted someone more important to talk to. Luckily, the crowd seemed to be moving to the assigned tables. Poppy downed her champagne, and followed the herd until she could bench herself at table six.

  “Hey, I know you,” said the guy next to her. He was good-looking in an affected sort of way. He had thick, shiny brown hair that was slightly feathered around the sides, and he wore mint green suspenders with a matching cashmere sweater tied around his shoulders. “Poppy LaRue, right?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Billy Barton—nice to meet you. I caught your show a few weeks ago. Brava.”

  “Thanks.” Why did his name sound so familiar?

  “I’ve never seen you at Justin and Martha’s before. I can’t believe I would have forgotten a face like yours.”

  “I just met them recently, so I haven’t really been here before.”

  “Well, you’re in for a treat.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s the show?”

  “One never knows. It will be interesting, have no doubt about that. And the food will be sublime. Somehow Justin always manages to lure some top chef away from his hot, recently opened, and impossible to get into restaurant for the night. God only knows what they pay these people.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Poppy said, shifting uncomfortably.

  The cadre of Calvin Klein model / waiters began circulating with platters. One spooned something unrecognizable onto Poppy’s plate, while another poured her glasses of red and white wine.

  “Don’t they usually ask if you want red or white?”

  “I’m seeing the combination serving more and more lately. Some people swear by it—breaks up the flavors, so the palate stays excited.”

  The tables were arranged i
n a loose circle, so that there was a large space left in the center of the room with a slightly elevated platform. An extremely thin blonde with defined, ropy muscles stepped onto the platform. She wore only a black sports bra and black boy shorts underwear. In contrast to her sporty body and attire, her nails were long and painted deep, glittery maroon, and her eye makeup was sweeping and dramatic, borderline garish.

  The light classical music that had been innocuously filling the background of the evening changed to an ominous, carnivalesque song. The woman began twisting her body into positions that did not seem possible unless she were made of rubber.

  “I just love contortionists, don’t you?” Billy said.

  “Um, yeah. I guess.”

  “So, were you interviewed for the piece Gruff magazine is doing on the burlesque scene in New York?”

  So that’s how she knew his name! He was the guy Bette had been so focused on the night she pulled Mallory on stage.

  “No, actually. And I probably should be, since I’m the hottest new girl at the Blue Angel. And everyone knows the Blue Angel is the best club in the city.”

  Billy looked at her.

  “I agree! Plus, you are staggeringly pretty. I want to get some photos of you for the piece. And I’ll have the writer get in touch with you—Alec Martin. If it’s too late for him to work you into the article, I’ll make sure we have shots of you for the editorial spread.”

  Alec Martin. Mallory’s journalist boyfriend. Finally, a break—something to give her some leverage. Although what that leverage was . . . she didn’t know yet. The first thing she needed was to get Alec Martin alone. Then she was sure she would figure it out.

  “I hope your writer has some time to work me in. I have lots of insider stuff and a different perspective on the scene than the older girls.”

  “I’ll talk to him. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  A handsome Latino waiter replaced her plate with another, and again she wasn’t sure what she had been served.

  “What is this?”