Blue Angel

by Logan Belle

  “Fine. I will,” she said, and then, sotto voce, “Have fun spending all the money you make at your miserable job.”

  Poppy stormed out, and Mallory thought maybe she should go after her.

  “Mallory—come on back here,” Bette called. “I’m by the dressing rooms.”

  “This way,” a young salesgirl said, leading her to Bette.

  “Try these on.” Bette handed her a pile of black lace. “Oh—and these.” She added a package of thigh-high black stockings.

  “Poppy left. Maybe you were a little harsh with her?”

  “Oh, she’s such a diva. She’ll be fine. By tonight we’ll kiss and make up.”

  For most people, that expression was a cliché. Coming from Bette, Mallory suspected it was a bit more literal.

  “I’ll be right out here if you need help,” Bette said.

  She closed the curtain on the small dressing room, leaving Mallory to contemplate the pile of underwear and . . . what was that thing?

  Mallory opened the curtain.

  “What is this?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.” It was black and had hooks like a bra, but had four straps hanging from it. It was like some strange lingerie arachnid.

  “It’s a garter! Don’t tell me you’ve never worn one before.”

  “I haven’t. And it’s really not my style.”

  “How do you keep your stockings up?”

  “I wear . . . you know, panty hose.”

  “Okay, well, that has to stop immediately. That is not hot.”

  She thought of Allison’s parting comment after brunch, if your boyfriend is bringing you to burlesque clubs on your birthday . . .

  “Okay. Just . . . show me how to wear this thing.”

  “Absolutely. But you have to take off your clothes first.”

  “I’m just going to try it on. . . .”

  “Over your suit? Mallory, I can tell you have a hot little body. Why are you so bashful? I’m going to help you get some things to show it off for that gorgeous guy of yours. Believe me, he won’t be touching my leg under the table next time when he knows what you’re rocking under those lawyer clothes.”

  Mallory’s stomach knotted up. So he had been touching Bette’s leg under the table. Well, of course—they had kissed, so it should not surprise her. Still—it stung.

  “Okay—give me a minute, and I’ll call you in when I’m ready.”

  Mallory closed the curtain again, and faced herself in the mirror. God, she was glad she’d worn decent underwear today. Nothing spectacular—just cream-colored, lace boy shorts from the Gap and a white demibra. But it was better than the five-year-old, well-worn, floral cotton panties she sometimes fell back to when she was behind on her laundry.

  She unzipped her blue pinstriped skirt and let it fall to the floor. It was a little too warm in that small space, and her skin was already slightly moist under her white blouse, but she wasn’t taking that off. Observing herself in the mirror, she thought, not bad. Not as good as Bette or Poppy—they were nearly perfect. Not all of the dancers were like that. But those two—their bodies were art as surely as the costumes and the dances themselves. But for a twenty-five-year-old lawyer (or almost lawyer), Mallory had to admit she was in good shape. Still, she resolved to go back to Pilates the following week. Maybe even twice.

  She removed her panty hose and replaced them with the sheer black thigh-highs Bette had picked out for her.

  “What’s the holdup in there? I know you need help getting the new stuff on—I didn’t know you needed help getting the old stuff off!”

  Mallory opened the curtain.

  “Ready,” she said, holding out the garter.

  “Okay—now put it around your waist. It should just rest on your hips. No—those straps have to hang down. You really are lingerie illiterate!”

  Mallory hooked the contraption around her waist and then turned the hooks around to the back—the method she used when she first got used to wearing a bra.

  Bette knelt by her side and pulled one of the straps.

  “Okay, now these latch onto the stockings,” she said, fastening one. “Now you try one.”

  Mallory bent down and tried to secure the metal latch against the thin fabric, but it wasn’t working. She felt like an idiot. Did other women really do this routinely?

  “Here—you slide this back, put the stocking here, and then slide this up. There! You got it. I’ll do the ones in the back because that takes a more experienced hand.”

  Mallory felt self-conscious having Bette behind her like that, but less so when she saw herself in the mirror. She liked what she saw—more than she had in a while. Maybe more than she ever had.

  Bette adjusted the length of the garter straps, then stood behind her and appraised her in the mirror as well.

  “Wow. You were made for this stuff.”

  And then Bette ran her hand against Mallory’s lower back, and over her ass. Mallory shivered, the thin layer of perspiration under her blouse turning cold.

  “Wait right here. I want you to try something else,” Bette said, leaving her alone with her tumbling thoughts.

  Mallory turned and looked at her ass in the mirror. How was it possible that another woman was making her feel more feminine than any of her boyfriends ever had?

  She slipped back into her heels, then looked herself over from her toes up to her flat stomach framed in black lace.

  “You’re definitely going to need help with this!” Bette said breathlessly, and produced, with a flourish, a black satin corset.

  “That is gorgeous!”

  “Wait til you see how it feels.” Bette got to work loosening the elaborate back lacing. She glanced up. “You’re going to have to take off your shirt and bra to wear this, you know.”

  Mallory began unbuttoning her blouse, hands shaking slightly. She hung it on a hook, then removed her bra. Bette, finished with her preparations on the corset, made no attempt to disguise the fact that she was watching her.

  “Why are you so bashful?” Bette said.

  “I’m not,” Mallory said.

  “Well, that’s obviously not true. Come on—you’ve seen me take my clothes off twice already.”

  “Yeah—but that’s what you do! I mean, you like having people watch you take your clothes off, right?”

  “Of course I do. It’s exhilarating to be objectified. Don’t you like the fact that I enjoy looking at you—that I obviously think you’re beautiful?”

  Mallory swallowed hard.

  “Here—let’s get this on.” Bette wrapped the corset around Mallory’s torso. “Hold the front while I lace up the back.” She pulled the laces tight, and Mallory lost her breath.

  “Oh my God!” she laughed giddily.

  “I know—amazing, right?”

  Mallory looked at them in the mirror. Bette was intent on her lacing task, her shiny dark hair falling across her face. She watched her pale fingers work quickly down the back of the garment, her blood maroon nail polish shiny in the fitting room light. Mallory imagined those fingers against her flesh, but immediately shook the thought away.

  “Now, do those hooks in the front.”

  Mallory started at the bottom. The corset was so stiff it was difficult to get more than a few hooks fastened without one coming undone.

  “Slow down,” Bette said. Mallory felt herself beginning to perspire again, but she took a deep breath and concentrated on the task. When she finished, she turned to look at herself in the mirror.

  And what she saw was someone else entirely.

  “I can’t believe it,” she breathed. There was no difference between the woman she saw in the mirror and the women she saw on the Blue Angel stage.

  “I can,” Bette said. “This is how I see you. And how you should see yourself.”

  8

  “Anybody home?”

  The apartment seemed suspiciously quiet considering Alec had promised to be there when she finally got home fr
om work. But the living room was dark, as was their bedroom. Maybe he’d gotten tired of waiting since she hadn’t left the office until ten.

  Mallory turned on lights as she moved through the apartment. Maybe it was just as well—she could put away the new additions to her wardrobe and make them a surprise over the weekend.

  She heard his key in the lock just as she was arranging her corset in her underwear drawer. It took up a lot of space and probably needed to go on a shelf in her closet but she’d have to leave it for now. She folded up the La Petite Coquette bag and shoved it the drawer, too.

  “Hey, I’m in here,” she said.

  “I meant to be here when you got back, but Billy called me to meet him for a quick drink, and you know Billy. . . . One turned into four.”

  “Oh. No problem,” she said. But hearing he had been with Billy burned her up a little. Alec knew she’d had a rough day at work and would want to maybe have a glass of wine with him, but once he’d had a drink or two he usually was done for the night. “Do we have any bottles of that cabernet left?”

  “I think so. Want me to open one for you?”

  “Yes—thanks.”

  She moved to the couch, relaxing a little. He was home now; he was getting her a glass of wine. . . . They just needed to spend time together. And after testing the waters with Bette by admitting aloud how much she hated her job, she was ready to tell Alec.

  “I would have a glass with you but I already had a few beers with Billy,” Alec said, predictably, handing her a glass.

  “Um,” Mallory responded.

  “So did you make a dent in the memo?”

  “I did. A dent. But this is a major crunch. I should have stayed later tonight, but I just didn’t have it in me.”

  “Did you at least go out to pick up lunch? It’s important to get outside for a short break during the day. I know the culture there is very order in / eat at your desk, but if you take a short break it’s better for you.”

  “Actually, I got out for quite a bit this afternoon. Bette texted me that she was shopping for costume material and invited me to meet up with her and that blonde, Poppy.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know.” Suddenly Mallory felt on the defensive. “Maybe she thought you were still looking for details for your article.”

  “Well, you can tell her the article is closed, and she can stop bothering you.”

  “It wasn’t a bother. I had a miserable morning and getting out for an hour saved my sanity.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic.”

  “I’m not, Alec. I hate that fucking job.”

  He looked at her.

  “Since when?”

  “I don’t know. Lately. Always.” She felt tears in her eyes. “I made a huge mistake going into law. It’s not right for me. School was challenging and interesting, and I thought I’d be great at putting it into practice. But I hate the firm; I hate the culture. I can’t imagine doing this for another year, let alone the rest of my life.”

  “Okay, you need to calm down. Sweetheart, I think this is just stress talking. You’re still upset about failing the bar—which I’ve told you is not a big deal; you have to let it go and not see it as indicative of your future as a lawyer—and you’re anxious because Patricia is busting your balls. But you’re going to be a brilliant lawyer. This is just a rough patch.”

  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.”

&nb
sp; “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.”