by Logan Belle
“Then we’re going to have a problem.”
16
Mallory and Justin Baxter were among the last few left at Nolita House, a bar and restaurant around the corner from The Painted Lady. Alec was deep in conversation with one of his old cronies from his days as a staff writer at the magazine Gruff, leaving Mallory to make a run to the bar for one last round. Justin joined her to pay the tab.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said.
“I want to,” he said. “Martha and I are so happy with everything you and Alec have accomplished so far with the club. If things continue at this rate, we might actually make a profit by the end of our second year.”
“Well, I appreciate that, but remember we’re riding on the buzz of being new,” Mallory said. “We need to make sure we continue the momentum. That’s why I’m putting so much energy into the LVBF, and I’m trying to make sure the girls feel that passion to win. Plus, the prize money could go back into your pockets and maybe help you feel even better about keeping the train rolling.”
“Don’t worry about that, Mallory. What I’m trying to tell you is that we do feel good about it. And I know you’re focused on the LVBF, but when that’s done, you should think about your wedding. I know that’s where Alec wants to invest his time.”
She looked at him suspiciously. Was he being reproachful? Had Alec said something to him about her not exactly being Martha Stewart–esque about the wedding planning?
“Jeez, I just got engaged a few days ago, and I have a flurry of events on deck—not least of which is your party for Martha.”
“Oh, I know,” he said with a smile, and she realized he was just making conversation, not judging her. “And speaking of Martha—she wanted me to make sure you knew that if you had any trouble booking the venue for the wedding, she’d be happy to call in some favors. You know how places get booked so far in advance.”
“Oh, that’s really sweet. But I’m not in a rush… . I’m sure we’ll find something for next year. But I really appreciate it. Martha’s the best.”
A pained look crossed Justin’s face.
“What is it?” Mallory asked. “Is something wrong with Martha?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s me. Can I tell you something that’s strictly between us?” he asked. Mallory glanced at Alec across the room. He caught her eye and smiled at her, holding up his index finger to indicate one more minute. She nodded to let him know she was fine.
“Um, sure,” she said, not at all certain she wanted to hear whatever it was Justin was going to share with her. But she wanted to be supportive. He’d been a good friend to her and Alec. He and Martha both had.
“I met a woman. And I crossed a line I shouldn’t have crossed,” he said.
Mallory nodded, not sure what she was supposed to say. So she said the first thing that came to mind.
“But don’t you and Martha have an … open relationship?” she asked. She’d heard the stories—from very reliable sources—about the Baxters’ sexcapades. She couldn’t imagine what constituted “crossing a line” in their world. But then again, there had been a time when people had assumed she and Alec had an open relationship, but in the end the only thing “open” about their extracurricular activities were the wounds they created.
“Compared to most couples, yes. But we have what you’d call our own rules. And I’m violating them and I can’t seem to stop.”
He was so visibly upset, Mallory put her hand over his to calm him down.
“I know from my own relationship how hard and confusing it is to have a relationship in which, with the best of intentions, you give each other some ‘freedom.’ Alec and I tried to make it work for a while, and then we realized that we had to close ranks in order to protect what we had—that our intimacy was more valuable than freedom. Maybe it’s time for you and Martha to do the same. You guys are a great couple, Justin. I’m guessing that she makes you happy in ways that have nothing to do with sex. I know you both have been really adventurous, but maybe it’s opening you up to temptations that just aren’t fair—to yourself or to her.”
“It isn’t the freedom that’s the problem. It’s that I’ve genuinely fallen for someone else.”
“Oh, Justin!” Mallory put her head in her hands. She hated to see this happen to the Baxters. They were quirky, yes—perhaps even a bit subversive. But also one of the most lively, creative, inspiring couples she’d ever known. She had believed that their shared love of art and pussy made them bulletproof.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Try taking some time away from the other woman,” Mallory said. “Go away with Martha. Or, bring someone else home for the two of you. Find some way to connect with her.”
“Okay,” Justin said. But Mallory could tell his response was rote. He was already halfway out the door, and he wanted permission to close it behind him. She could not give him that.
She looked across the bar at Alec and thought of how close they had come to losing each other. She thought of something Agnes had once told her about what sustains a marriage: A marriage lasts when there is never a time that both people want to end it at the same moment. “Because everyone thinks of leaving at one time or another,” she said.
“Everyone thinks of leaving sometimes,” Mallory said to Justin, wanting to impart some bit of Agnes’s wisdom and let him know the feelings were normal so he wouldn’t do anything impulsive.
“I feel like I should tell her,” he said.
“No!” Mallory said, so loudly and vehemently she surprised even herself. “Don’t. Trust me. It will only hurt her. You need to try to get past this on your own. And if you do, she never has to know. Martha loves you. I think this is what she would want. Don’t you?”
He nodded. “I just don’t know what I want,” he said.
Alec made his way over to them and put his arm around Mallory. She leaned into him, breathing in his smell and resolving to be more proactive about their wedding plans. She would take Martha up on her offer to find a venue.
“Ready to go?” Alec asked, kissing the top of her head.
“Ready when you are,” she said.
“You’re a lucky man,” Justin said to Alec, doing his best to smile. If Alec noticed that their boss’s usual bravado was absent, he didn’t let on. Mallory twisted her engagement ring, thankful the days of doubt and drama between Alec and her were long behind them.
She planned to keep it that way.
*
Justin opened the door to his apartment, thinking that just five hours earlier he’d walked in with Gemma by his side. He hoped his bed still smelled like her.
“Hey, baby—surprise!” Martha roused her bulky frame from the couch and greeted him at the door.
“Jesus! You startled me. What are you doing back so soon?”
“Business is booming, but I missed my hubby. Is that so wrong?”
He let her embrace him, and as he put his arms around her thick frame, he felt conflicted. He wished he could confide in her how he felt about Gemma. In most ways Martha was his best friend, and she would probably understand how he felt. She was a woman of huge appetites herself. She’d noticed Gemma at their party the opening night of The Painted Lady and had given him the go-ahead to bring her upstairs for the two of them. If he confessed now and promised to stop, she would forgive him. There would be damage, sure—but not irreparable.
The problem was, he knew he wasn’t ready to stop.
His thoughts turned immediately to the state of the bedroom. What condition had he left it in? And had she been upstairs already?
“Why didn’t you text me that you were coming home early?” he said.
“I wanted to surprise you!” she said, clearly without guile. Justin thought that if his evening had gone as originally planned, she would have been the one surprised. “Did you go to the club tonight?”
“Yes,” he said, hiding the lie he was about to tell by walking to the bar and pouring himself a sc
otch. “It was a packed house. Mallory had Nadia dance some sort of modern ballet hybrid that was a hit even though she didn’t take off her costume. And then afterward we all went to Nolita House for drinks. I wish you’d told me you were back. You could have met us there.” He sat next to her on the couch.
“I’m too exhausted for any of that,” she said, smiling. “I’m just happy to be here and see your gorgeous face.”
“I’m happy to see you, too,” he lied. Actually, it was half-true. He was happy to see her. He just wished he’d had the good sense to keep their relationship on a freelance basis.
Justin had been twenty-six years old when he’d met the then thirty-two-year-old Martha, a self-made millionairess who ran her own sex toy empire. He had just been fired from his job at a Wall Street firm on an ethics violation. He’d never work on Wall Street again, and after a few months of living off his savings, had few options other than returning to his hometown of Roslyn, Long Island, with his tail between his legs to work at his father’s car dealership. That’s when he’d met his old girlfriend from NYU, Lexy Kleiner, for drinks one night. Lexy was one of the few people around whom he could relax his male ego and confide his dire financial situation. Lexy was as much of a scrappy, streetwise gambler as himself. And sure enough, when he’d told her he was broke and virtually unemployable, she had said she had the perfect gig for him: She and a friend were running a male escort service.
And it was a perfect job: He was handsome, sexually insatiable, and genuinely loved women. Not just beautiful women, but women of every shape and type. For Justin, variety really was the spice of life—a quality that made for troubled relationships, but excellent performance in his new gig as Manhattan’s most in-demand gigolo. Three months into his tenure, when he was taking home enough unreported income to not only be able to pay off his debt but also to save for a down payment on an apartment in Tribeca, he started working with his most steady client: Martha Pike. She provided not only a reliable flow of cash, but insight into what it meant to be truly wealthy: the private planes, the A-list parties, the VIP treatment at the best restaurants and stores in the city. Suddenly, his pocket money was looking like chump change.
Before long, she had him booked every weekend. Sometimes she had a female escort along for the ride. Justin couldn’t believe he was getting paid for the nights of fine dining, exclusive clubbing, and three-way sex. Then the day came when she asked him to not see any other clients. Justin was fine with that arrangement—he made more than enough money with Martha alone. One day, she suggested a new business arrangement: They could get married. He would have access to all of her homes, cars, and entrée to the places he had come to know and love through his association with her. She would set him up in the business of his choosing. And they would still endeavor to have adventurous sex—sometimes with other people. The only stipulation was that he had to sign her ironclad prenup, and he was not allowed to have sex with other women without Martha’s being present. He had eagerly signed on the dotted line.
For five years, it had been the perfect partnership. They traveled the world. They hosted parties that were the talk of both coasts. They were patrons of the arts and sexual connoisseurs. Martha called him her inspiration, and even named a line of dildos after him. Their relationship deepened, their notoriety spread, and her fortune grew. Justin knew most people assumed he was just with her for her money. But their friends knew it was more than that—knew that he loved her in his own way. And he truly did. Never, in all this time, had his head been turned by someone else for more than a few hours. Until now.
“The show was excellent tonight,” he fabricated. “Mallory and Alec are really giving it everything they’ve got. But I’ve been thinking we could do something more to shore up the buzz on The Painted Lady.”
“Oh? What?”
“We need to lock in the costume designer. Make sure she doesn’t work for the competition. I think the look and feel of the club is what sets it apart, and if someone else can get that look for the right price, we’re going to lose our edge.”
“Don’t be silly. Agnes said she barely has time to fulfill all of our work. She’s not helping the competition.”
“Agnes isn’t doing all the work—it’s her assistant making the costumes. She’s young and trying to make a name for herself. She’s bound to get her name out there to other clubs. I think she’s the real brains and talent behind Agnes’s operation, and I don’t want her working for someone like Violet or anyone else who is just waiting for the novelty of The Painted Lady to wear off.”
“So what are you suggesting?” Martha asked, squinting at him. He knew she was switching out of doting wife mode and into shrewd business mind mode.
“I say we put her on retainer. Give her a contract. She does all of our work and no one else’s. We pay her a flat monthly rate for all the costumes, no matter how many.”
“Or how few,” she countered.
“It will be a lot of work.”
Martha stood and walked to the bar. She eased the strain on her hip by leaning heavily on her cane. The trip had clearly taken a toll on her.
“Let me do that for you,” he said, stepping in to pour her vodka.
“How much are you thinking?” she said.
He told her the amount, and she laughed.
“That’s absurd. For that blond girl? Honey, if you’re paying her that much money, she’d better be giving us something more than costumes. And since I haven’t seen her pussy yet, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt that she’s not. The answer is no. We pay her and Agnes per show. I don’t mind putting money into this club, but I’m not that little chippie’s benefactor.” She took her glass from him, and her eyes were hard and unusually cold to him. “And you’d better not be either.”
17
The monstrous, illogical event that was Martha Baxter’s birthday bash incurred a major glitch one week before the party. Justin happened to mention to Mallory how many people were invited, prompting Mallory to check the fire ordinance legal occupancy limit of the club. Of course, Justin’s guest list exceeded it.
“You have to move the party,” she told him.
“I’ll just pay the fine,” he told her.
“It’s a safety hazard!” Mallory insisted. And so he agreed to move it to the only possible alternative venue on such short notice: his apartment.
Fortunately, 40 Bond Street was dramatic enough to make the transition from club to apartment relatively painless. Gemma worked her magic and transformed the living room into an Oscar night venue in Old Hollywood style. In keeping with the theme of Hollywood’s Golden Age, guests were instructed to come dressed in their finest mid-twentieth century ensembles. As for the dancers of the The Painted Lady, Poppy, Mallory, Nadia, and Bette had spent weeks preparing to perform as their silver-screen alter egos: Poppy would be Grace Kelly circa To Catch a Thief. Bette would perform dressed as Marlene Dietrich in her role as Lola Lola in, of course, The Blue Angel. And Mallory and Nadia were dressed as the Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Aniston of the 1950s: Elizabeth Taylor and Debbie Reynolds.
It had been Mallory’s idea. Nadia didn’t know the story of what was the biggest entertainment industry scandal of its day.
“Elizabeth Taylor was this stunningly beautiful diva, and Debbie Reynolds was America’s sweetheart, married to Eddie Fisher. He left her for Elizabeth.”
“Really?” said Nadia.
“Yes. Haven’t you ever wondered why Carrie Fisher is so screwed up?” said Mallory.
“I thought it was from not being able to escape the Princess Leia association.”
As promised, Mallory choreographed a dance for the two of them to share the stage. She hoped Nadia would be able to go through with stripping, but if not, the audience would never know that she was supposed to. She could play right into the good girl / bad girl fantasy.
“I don’t know why you coddle her so much,” Bette said, already dressed in her cabaret costume of frilly knickers, gartered stocki
ngs, and top hat. They were using the guest bedroom as a dressing room. Justin was keeping Martha out until eight, by which time all of the guests should have arrived. Gemma was busy with last-minute stage settings, and Nadia and Poppy were scouting out another few bottles of champagne.
“I’m not coddling her. I’m encouraging her. She’s a great dancer who’s trying something new. You’re too judgmental.”
“Agnes would never waste time on someone who couldn’t go through with a performance. She’d be so out on her ass.”
“Yeah, I know. And maybe Nadia will never come through. But I think I see some of myself in her—the way I was when you showed me your wicked ways,” she said with a smile.
“The difference is, it only took me about three minutes to get your clothes off.”
“Okay, let’s not go there. I’m almost a married woman,” Mallory said, waving her ring finger.
“Yeah. So when’s the big day? Shouldn’t you be getting all bridezilla about now?”
Mallory sighed and gestured for Bette to help her get into her Liz Taylor as Cleopatra costume. “I should,” Mallory said. “But I’m too busy thinking about Vegas.”
“Is that all there is to it?” Bette said.
“Yes. Of course. What else would it be?”
“I don’t know. Just checking.”
“Well, thanks for your concern, but I’m fine. I will set a date and think about actually getting married when things slow down.”
“And Alec is fine with that?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t he be? Besides—I need to coordinate with your schedule.”
“Why with my schedule?”
“How can I get married without my maid of honor? Or, in your case, maid of dishonor.”
“Are you serious?”
“Sure. Why do you look so surprised?”
“I thought you would ask one of your happy housewife friends—Julie or Allison.”
“I’ve known them for a lot longer, it’s true. But I really don’t believe Alec and I would be together today if it weren’t for you. You forced both of us to change in ways that saved our relationship.”