Blue Angel (10 page)

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. And talking to Bette about it today just confirmed that it’s not normal to hate what you do every day. To dread waking up Monday morning. I can’t live like that. I need to figure out what I want to do and not just continue down the wrong path because it’s the one I started on.”

“Okaaay,” he said, as if talking to a small child. “What else would you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Maybe something creative. I mean, Bette went to Michigan, but she found her passion in life. . . .”

“I can’t believe you’re letting that girl fuck up your head like this. Jesus, Mallory. We spent three years apart so you could go to law school. You spent the last two summers securing your place at this firm. We’ve planned our future talking about your legal career and my journalism career, and how we would balance the two and make a life together. Now you’re going to mess up everything you’ve built the past few years because you got carried away at a burlesque show?”

“I got carried away? You’re the one who had your hands all over her under the table. It’s fine for you to want things—but I should just tow the line . . . not make waves?”

“So that’s what this is about. You’re trying to make a point—punishing me for admitting that I want to have a three-way.”

“Oh, my God! This isn’t about you.”

“You’re right—it’s about you being unable to accept that, unlike in college, the real world isn’t going to constantly affirm the greatness of Mallory Dale.”

“You are such an asshole.”

She gulped her wine, slammed down the glass, and stormed off to the bedroom. Alec followed her.

“You’ve been nervous and nitpicking and basically a mess ever since you moved to New York. You resent Billy for taking so much time away from us; you resent my job for consuming my attention; you want to ditch your legal career because it’s not falling into place easily enough for you. . . .”

“And you’re escaping into your job because you don’t want to deal with our relationship. This whole threesome thing is just a way for you to solve your boredom with us without doing the hard work of breaking up with me.” By now the tears that had started on the couch had morphed into racking sobs. She dragged her overnight bag down from the top of the closet and folded her work clothes into it.

“I don’t have some magic word that is going to convince you that I love you, that I want this relationship. You’re going to have to figure that out for yourself. Along with everything else, apparently.”

“Sure. I’ll get right on that.”

And she left.

*   *   *

Outside, she called Julie and then Allison, but neither picked up her phone. She hailed a cab and took it to Allison’s place in Soho, but when she buzzed her apartment, no one answered.

“Fuck!” She was probably with that new guy. And Julie was all the way back uptown on the Upper West Side. Stupid—she should have tried there first.

She sat on the steps of Allison’s building and scrolled through her phone. She paused on Bette’s text from earlier—had it really only been that morning?—and hesitated only a minute before typing
Are you around? I need to talk.

Seconds later she got her reply.

114 East 4th Street. #2A. I’ll buzz you up.

Bette Noir’s apartment was a small one-bedroom. But it was fantastic, with vivid color everywhere: blue walls, translucent green plastic tables, and a retro white couch. A faux zebra rug covered most of the living room space, and four photos lined the wall behind the couch, a striking series of half-naked women dressed in garters and corsets.

“Your place is amazing,” Mallory said.

“Thanks. Now listen, I only have vodka. But since you felt the need to come here at midnight in the middle of the week, I suggest you do a shot. I’ll join you.”

She disappeared into the alcove kitchen, and returned with two full shot glasses. They sat on the pristine white couch.

“Svoboda,”
Bette said, raising her glass.

“Svoboda,”
said Mallory. They downed the vodka. It was perfectly chilled.

“That’s ‘freedom’ in Russian.”

“Are you Russian?”

“My mother is Russian. My father is French. Terrible combination, just for the record. But you’re not here to talk about my parents,
n’est-ce pas?
”

“No. I’m not. But it might be nice to hear about them just to get my mind off things.”

“Sometimes you have to keep your mind on things to solve the problem.”

“I know.” Mallory looked up at the photograph series. The redhead was stunning. “I always wanted to dye my hair that color,” she said.

“Why don’t you?”

“Oh . . . no. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Why on earth not? It’s not surgery. If you don’t like it, you dye it back. God, Mallory. What is the point of being a woman if you don’t have fun with it?”

“I don’t know. That’s a good question.”

Mallory settled back on the couch. She contemplated asking for another shot.

“I’m guessing that it wasn’t a quest for the perfect hair color that brought you here tonight. So why don’t you tell me what’s up.”

“I had a fight with Alec. I know it sounds stupid, but I just couldn’t stay there tonight. I called my best friends but neither of them was around. And I thought of you—because you were so nonjudgmental earlier.”

“What would I be judgmental
about
?”

“The whole job thing.”

“What’s the big deal? So you don’t like your job.”

“I told Alec, and he freaked, basically implied that I don’t like it just because it’s not falling into place easily for me. I told him I’m having second thoughts about my legal career, and he turned it into a referendum on my character.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t know Alec. He expects a lot of people—himself included. He’s not good with failure or weakness.”

“You didn’t fail.”

Mallory nodded. “I did. I failed the bar exam.”

“Can’t you take it again?”

“Yeah, I’m going to. In February. But that doesn’t change the fact that I failed it the first time.”

“Do you know how many auditions I went on before I got my first booking?”

“You had to audition?”

“Of course. What, you think I just walked into the Blue Angel and signed up like it was a school talent contest?”

“I guess I didn’t think about it at all.”

“I had to learn how to perform, practice, feel stupid and bad at it. Then I got better, but I still didn’t know how to get a club to take me seriously. I got laughed off the stage when I auditioned at the Slit. Then I got my chance at the Bell Jar, then at a few private parties for a well-known patron of the arts. And then Agnes heard about me and gave me an audition at the Blue Angel. And I’ve been performing there for two years. But I didn’t say ‘I failed my audition here or wherever so I’m a bad performer.’ ” She patted Mallory’s knee. “I’m going to get us another shot.”

Mallory rested her head on the arm of the couch, gazing up at the redhead in the photograph. She imagined herself with red hair, like the model Karen Elson. It might actually look good. She wondered what Alec would think, then remembered that it might not matter anymore.

“What’s the word for freedom, again?” Mallory asked, putting back the shot.

“Svoboda.”

“Yeah. Well, you know what they say about freedom.”

“Nothing left to lose?”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t believe that,” Bette said. She set her shot glass on the coffee table. “You like those photographs?”

“Yeah. They’re amazing.”

“I have better ones to show you. Follow me.”

Mallory followed her across the living room, almost tripping over the edge of the zebra rug. She would not have another shot—two was enough.

Bette’s bedroom was painted robin’s egg blue. One entire wall was mirrored. A series of photos in black frames hung above her bed—three in an even row. From across the room Mallory knew instantly they were of Bette. That short black hair and pale ivory skin was iconic.

In the first she wore a black corset, seamed stockings, and long black opera gloves. In the next, she wore just the stockings and high red patent leather heels—her back was to the camera; she was bent over and peaking at the camera from below. The third photo showed her sitting against a white wall, wearing knee-high argyle stockings and black Mary Jane heels, with her arms crossed in front of her breasts but her legs spread to show her vagina.

“Wow. Those are . . . incredible.”

“Thanks. My friend Evangeline took them. She’s an amazing fashion and fetish photographer. Next time she’s in town I’ll introduce you.”

“Were you embarrassed to do that photo?”

“No. Why would I be embarrassed?”

“It’s so . . . personal.”

“Relationships are personal. That’s art.” She sat on the edge of the bed, then waved Mallory over to her. “Stand in front of me.”

“Why?” Mallory asked nervously.

“Because I want to look at you.”

“No,” Mallory said with a nervous laugh.

“Why not? You look at me all the time.”

“You like being looked at!”

“All women like being looked at. Some of us are just better at admitting it than others. So come on—stand in front of me.” She tugged on Mallory’s hand, and Mallory complied reluctantly. “There you go—indulge me,” Bette said with a wink. She suddenly looked as animated and excited as a school girl.

“Wait here and don’t move!” she said. “Actually, turn this way.” She tugged on Mallory so she faced the mirrored wall. “Okay—now close your eyes.”

Mallory half closed her eyes.

“No, really close them tight. I want to see wrinkles.”

“I don’t have wrinkles yet.”

“Well, close them so tight you create them! Yes—perfect. Be right back.”

Mallory heard drawers opening and closing. “Don’t open them,” Bette called from across the room.

“I’m not.” But she was dying to. For one thing, the two shots of vodka were making it hard to maintain her balance with her eyes shut.

“Keep them closed.”

Mallory could tell Bette was getting closer again, and then she felt soft fabric against her face; she was blindfolded.

“Bette! What are you doing?”

“I’m giving you the chance to be like a photograph—observed, not observing. I really think you need to let go and allow yourself to be objectified. It’s very liberating.”

“This feels a little
too
liberating to me. I like limits. . . . I mean, I’m a lawyer. I need boundaries . . . structure.”

“You’re not a lawyer—you failed the bar, remember? Now chill and just go with it.”

“So I should just stand here while you stare at me. And this is supposed to be liberating?”

“No, you’re supposed to stand there and take your top off. Then we’re getting somewhere.”

Mallory let out a half laugh, half giggle. “I am not taking my shirt off.”

“Of course you are. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Only if you leave the room. And I mean it—I want to hear the door close, and you have to talk to me from the other room so I know you’re out there.”

“How can you experience being observed if I’m not here to observe you, silly? Here, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll turn around while you take it off.”

“Oh, my God—as if!” Mallory was laughing now. And she was vaguely aware that for the first time for as long as she could remember, she wasn’t worried about or thinking about anything beyond the moment.

“Just do it—it will take your mind off of Alec. Seriously, if you wanted to just wallow on a couch all night, you might as well have gone to your friend’s place.”

“What friend?”

“The Stepford Wife you brought to the show with you the other night.”

“Allison? She’s not a Stepford Wife.”

“She will be—trust me. So I don’t see what you’re so afraid of—it’s not like I don’t have tits of my own. Great ones, if I say so myself.”

Mallory couldn’t argue with her there.

“Besides,” she continued. “I already saw you half-naked in the dressing room at La Petite Coquette. So just humor me and take off your shirt. Or do you want me to do it for you?”

Something about Bette’s last question made her stomach do a tiny flip. And, as if the other woman could sense that, Mallory felt Bette’s hands on the top button of her blouse.

“I like this shirt,” Bette said. “Where’s it from?”

“Thomas Pink,” Mallory said in a whisper.

She felt air on her skin, her shirt fully unbuttoned. Bette moved behind her and eased it off her shoulders. She traced her fingers down Mallory’s spine, then up again, pausing to unhook her bra. Mallory considered stopping her, but she couldn’t think of one good reason why.

Her bra fell to the floor, and she felt Bette tugging off her blindfold.

“Now look at yourself,” Bette said. Mallory opened her eyes, gazing straight ahead into the mirror. But she couldn’t look at herself—instead, she was focused on Bette, who had also removed her own T-shirt. Although Mallory had seen her naked breasts twice already, it was as if she was seeing Bette for the first time.

“Don’t look at me—look at yourself. See how beautiful you are?”

And then she reached around and cupped Mallory’s breasts. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Mallory felt something electric pulse in the center of her.

Bette brushed her fingers across Mallory’s nipples, bringing them to points. She pressed her own breasts against Mallory’s back, and Mallory felt herself grow wet.

“Turn around,” Bette breathed against her neck. Mallory moved to face her, and when Bette pressed her mouth against Mallory’s, she eagerly opened her lips. She realized she had been, on some level, imagining this moment since that first butterfly kiss in the Standard Hotel bathroom.

Bette pulled her onto the bed, easing off Mallory’s skirt and then her own jeans. Mallory felt a pang of anxiety. Was she supposed to touch Bette? She was lost. All these years of being fucked by men, and she had no idea what to do with a woman. How was that possible?

“Just be still,” Bette said, as if reading her mind. Mallory lay back, and Bette bent her mouth to Mallory’s breast. Her lips were so soft, and Mallory was aware of how warm Bette’s mouth was—it felt different than with a guy. Bette sucked and ran her tongue over Mallory’s nipple, then bit her lightly, her hands running down the inside of Mallory’s thighs. Mallory lifted her pelvis removing her underwear, shocked at how much she wanted Bette’s fingers inside of her.