by Logan Belle
“Agnes loves American clichés,” said Bette.
Poppy turned and walked out.
“Why does she hate me so much?” Mallory said.
Agnes looked at her closely. “She must see something in you. I’m hoping to see it for myself tonight.”
Poppy closed the door to Agnes’s office and clicked the keyboard on the desktop computer. Quickly, Poppy opened Explorer to Google. She typed in Mallory Dale, lawyer.
Bingo. The name of the firm Reed, Warner, Hardy, Lutz, and Capel came up, along with Mallory’s name as a junior associate. And the firm’s phone number. Poppy programmed it into her BlackBerry and logged off.
She waited until she was outside to dial.
12
Mallory sucked in her breath as Bette pulled the laces on her corset.
“Just breathe normally. If you hold your breath, I’m going to make it too tight.” Bette glanced at her in the mirror. “This looks stunning on you. You were made for lingerie.”
She tied the last set of laces at the top, then stepped away to let Mallory appraise herself. She looked unbelievable all right—as in, she couldn’t believe she was looking at herself in the mirror. Her body was poured into the black satin corset, and a lacy black garter rested on her waist, hooked onto thigh-high fishnets. Agnes had wanted her to wear just pasties, underwear, and the garter with fishnets, but she couldn’t do that.
“Size seven?” Agnes appeared beside her, holding out a pair of red patent leather platform stilettos that had to be six inches high.
“Yes! How did you know?”
Agnes rolled her eyes. “Wear these.”
Mallory slipped them on. She felt like Dorothy in a bizarro Wizard of Oz.
“What’s your stage name?” Agnes asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t think about that.”
“Everyone has a name. You think I can announce you as Mallory? You have five minutes to let me know.”
Mallory looked helplessly at Bette, who was busy adjusting her sexy Alice costume. It was genius: Agnes had crafted her a powder blue satin bustier, a short blue skirt with white crinoline underneath to give it structure, and thigh-high white stockings with bows at the top. On her feet she wore chunky, seven-inch black patent leather Mary Janes. Her dark hair was covered with a long blond wig. With the light hair and her fair skin, she looked as ethereal as the young girl who had portrayed Alice in the Tim Burton film.
“Wow. Even the White Rabbit would have a hard-on,” Kitty said, smacking Bette on the ass.
“Five minutes I need a name,” Agnes repeated.
“You said her name earlier,” Bette said.
“I did no such thing.”
“Sure you did: Moxie.”
Mallory stood behind the curtain, heart pounding. Kitty’s number was almost over. Most of the girls had slipped out into the audience to watch her debut and cheer her on, so Mallory was alone with her nervous excitement. The song “Big Spender” was winding down, and Mallory calculated she had about thirty seconds until she had to appear on stage. Rodeo Bob would go out first, lead the crowd in applause for Kitty, then introduce the next performer while Mallory picked up Kitty’s discarded wardrobe.
The stage went to black, and Rodeo walked out. She followed a few paces behind him and looked around for Kitty’s clothes. Her heart was pounding, and the lights were so bright she couldn’t focus. She saw one glove . . . and a stocking. Oh God, this was going to take forever.
“Another round of applause, ladies and gentlemen, for Kitty Klitty’s debut performance.” The crowd erupted, encouraged by the whistling and stomping of the other Blue Angel girls. “And how about a hand for our new stage kitten, Moxie.”
The swell of applause calmed her, made her hands stop shaking as she reached for Kitty’s dress near the edge of the stage. She felt their eyes on her, and she couldn’t bring herself to glance at them. She reminded herself that they weren’t looking at her, they were looking at Moxie. It helped to think of it that way, and it let her feel like Moxie, a woman who wore corsets and six-inch heels and lived in a world that took place behind a blue velvet curtain. Thinking of it this way, she felt emboldened to take a look at the audience.
And there, in the front row, was Patricia Loomis.
Mallory dropped the clothing. She backed slowly away, and when she was far enough from the audience that she could no longer see the fury in Patricia’s face, she ran backstage.
“What the hell are you doing?” Bette said, grabbing her arm.
“Oh, my God, Bette! My boss is in the audience—my boss. How is this even possible? What is she doing here? Why, why, why did I do something so stupid?”
“Okay, chill the fuck out. First, you have to go back out there and get the clothes, or Agnes is going to kick you out of here.”
“I can’t.”
“Moxie—do it,” Bette said. She looked Mallory in the eyes, holding her shoulders. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Mallory took a deep breath. She could hear Rodeo still talking, stalling until someone cleared the stage for the next performer. The damage was already done—Patricia had seen her. She probably thought Mallory had been moonlighting all along. And she’d never liked her anyway. But Bette was offering her something new and wonderful—and Bette believed in her and didn’t judge her.
Mallory walked back onstage.
“Stage Kitten Moxie, did you forget to take some things backstage?” Rodeo said, winking at her. “Ladies and gentlemen, even the most seasoned professionals can lose their wits when confronted with all of this hotness in one place.”
Mallory gathered the pile of clothes back in her arms. She kept her eyes lowered, but couldn’t help glancing at Patricia. This time, her seat was empty.
Her mind went into overdrive as she dropped the clothes backstage. This made no sense whatsoever—why would Patricia be there? Mallory doubted she was a secret burlesque fan. And even if she was, she knew her boss’s work ethic would never allow being out on a weeknight when she could be at the firm working. And then to show up at this particular club, on the exact night Mallory happened to debut as a stage kitten?
“Did you forget how to pick up clothes and bring them back here, lawyer?” Agnes said.
“Sorry . . . I . . . something happened.”
“I don’t have time for this. If you do that again, I won’t even let you sit in the audience, never mind set one foot on that stage.”
“It won’t happen again.”
She noticed Poppy watching them from her perch at a vanity, a strange smile on her face. It was as if she were watching something she expected to see. And then Mallory knew, without a doubt, that Patricia Loomis had not appeared at the Blue Angel that night by some fluke of fate.
After the show. Bette invited her to join the rest of the crew at Elixir.
“The girls want to buy you drinks,” she said. But Mallory wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. The temporary high of stepping on stage, of slipping into the shoes of a glamorous creature named Moxie, was tempered by the reality that she was messing with her career. And on top of that, she suddenly missed Alec with a ferocious ache in her gut.
She walked to a quiet corner of the club, not far from the table where she had sat with Alec and Billy on her birthday. That night seemed like a year ago. Dialing Alec’s cell, she was almost as nervous as she had been stepping onto the stage.
“Hi. It’s me. I miss you, Alec. I think we should talk . . . or something. This feels all wrong to me. Give me a call, okay? I love you. Bye.”
Bette waved to her from across the room.
“You coming?”
“I can’t. I have to get up really early,” she said. “But thank you for everything. It was amazing.”
“Aside from your little freak-out, you did good. I think Agnes likes you. I’ll talk to her—see if she wants you back this weekend.”
“Oh, Bette, I don’t know. This was just a onetime thing. You know, to have the experience.”
&nb
sp; Bette gave her a look she couldn’t begin to decipher.
“Hey, are you coming out with us? I want to buy you a drink,” Kitty Klitty said. She was such a pretty girl—and would be beautiful if there had been even a hint of intelligence in her wide green eyes.
“Oh, no. Thanks, Kitty. Not tonight.”
“Having you step in tonight made me feel like a real performer,” Kitty said to her. “If one of the other girls had to take my job tonight instead of performing, I wouldn’t have felt as good about it.”
“Maybe we can convince her to do it again,” Bette said with a wink.
“Of course she’ll do it again! It’s the Blue Angel.”
The elevator door slid open, and Mallory stepped onto the fifteenth floor of Reed, Warner with relief. It had been an excruciating ride up from the lobby. She thought of the book The Devil Wears Prada, in which the editor-in-chief of the magazine made people vacate the elevators for her to ride alone. She wished Harrison had that policy. Because she had been stuck on the elevator with him after everyone else vacated for their floors, and either she was paranoid, or he had been looking at her with disgust.
“Good morning, Ms. Dale,” Blanca greeted her.
“Good morning, Blanca.”
Maybe everything would be fine. Maybe Patricia Loomis was just as embarrassed to be busted at a burlesque club as Mallory was upset about being busted performing at one. If Patricia told the partners about it, she would have to admit to being there herself.
Unless . . . Again, Mallory thought of the smirk on Poppy’s face. But it was unfathomable that Poppy would somehow get Patricia to the club just to make trouble for Mallory. She would have to be truly paranoid to believe that.
She logged onto her computer, fighting the urge to check her BlackBerry for the twentieth time since waking up at 5:30 in the morning—nothing from Alec. And now she had twelve hours of research ahead of her. At least she could just throw herself into work and try not to think about him until she crawled into Julie’s sofabed, exhausted. Maybe that was what her life would be for a while—working until she was too exhausted to think about Alec.
“Good morning,” Patricia Loomis said, barely two steps into her office. She peered in like someone visiting a patient in quarantine.
“Oh, hi, Patricia . . . I’m just working on the . . .”
“Harrison would like to see you in his office.” She turned on her heel before Mallory could say a word.
This is not good, Mallory said to herself, over and over like a mantra as she looked around her office.
It was possible he was calling her in to talk about the Koomson memo. She’d done a pretty good job on that—even in her ultracritical mind-set about her legal work lately, she was proud of the Koomson research.
Harrison’s office was on the twenty-first floor. The reception area had more flowers than most weddings, and his secretary, septuagenarian Erma Gold, was a stern gatekeeper.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked, glancing at a wide DayMinder calendar on her desk. Erma refused to use a computer, so she had an assistant to handle all of Harrison’s e-mails.
“Patricia said he wanted to see me.”
“I haven’t even had my coffee yet,” Erma grumbled as she picked up the phone, as if this was Mallory’s fault. “Do you want to see Mallory Dale?” she barked. Harrison clearly gave her an earful, or at least more than a simple yes, because she nodded and made thoughtful little noises and, Mallory was certain, even a clucking sound.
“Yes, Mallory,” she said, focusing her milky brown eyes on her as if seeing her for the first time. “Please go right in.”
Patricia was already seated in one of the chairs facing Harrison’s desk. How she got there so quickly was beyond Mallory—she must have used her broomstick.
“Have a seat,” Harrison said, from behind his desk.
Harrison Reed was as round as he was tall, with a surprising amount of silver hair. He wore small, clear glasses perched on the bridge of his sharp nose like a prop, and she had never seen him wear anything but a gray or black suit.
“I assume you know why we are here,” he said.
“To talk about the Koomson memo?” she said hopefully, feeling more naked than she’d ever felt at the Blue Angel.
Harrison and Patricia exchanged a look.
“No, Mallory. We are not here to discuss the Koomson memo. Obviously, Patricia told me that she saw you performing at a strip club last night.”
Mallory’s first impulse was to tell him that the Blue Angel was not a strip club. But she didn’t think that would do much for her case.
“This is disturbing information, Mallory. As I’m sure you can imagine.”
Yeah, she bet he liked imagining it.
“Well, Patricia, I hope you also told him that I did not strip or take my clothes off in any way. I was just there helping a friend—filling in for someone who couldn’t help out between acts.”
Harrison leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk with his palms flat.
“Mallory, perhaps I need to explain this to you, although one would think this would not require explanation: Reed, Warner is one of the oldest law firms in this country. We service some of the largest and most prestigious corporations. This firm has employed Vanderbilts, Astors, and Rockefellers. We are awarded the business of companies like Koomson—which provides us with millions in billings each year because of our reputation and our pedigree. Are you following me?”
“Yes,” Mallory said.
“How do you think Paul McGowan, CEO of Koomson, would feel knowing that one of the attorneys we placed on his team was a sex worker?”
Oh, my God, he had to be kidding. And a company that manufactured paint that made people sick—or dead—was going to judge her for wearing a skimpy outfit on stage?
“I am not a sex worker! Look, with all due respect, I understand that you’re not happy about my being at that club, but I object to the way you are categorizing . . .”
“How do you think Anderson Blount, opposing counsel for The People versus Koomson, would categorize it in court?”
Mallory slumped back in her seat. On the plus side, she wouldn’t have to worry about the bar exam anymore. “I understand your concern. I’m just wondering why Patricia was at the club if it’s such a bad reflection on the firm.”
Take that, bee-atch.
Harrison sighed deeply, as if the labor of continuing the conversation was almost too much to bear.
“Ms. Loomis was at the club because she was told you would be there. She did not believe it, of course, but knowing what a sensitive matter this would be if it did turn out to be true, she used her extremely valuable time to see for herself before leveling such serious allegations against a member of this firm.”
“Someone told you? That’s ridiculous,” Mallory said, turning to face Patricia directly for the first time since stepping into Harrison’s office.
“It was quite ridiculous, actually. I had to take the call for someone looking for you, who said your voice mail was full, but she had to get you the urgent message to . . .” She unfolded a piece of paper in her lap. “Quote ‘not forget my pasties again. The club can’t risk getting busted if she shows her tits again’ unquote. And when I inquired where I might catch your performance, your colleague was kind enough to inform me.”
Mallory resisted the urge to put her head in her hands.
“Security will escort you out,” Harrison said. “Your office is being boxed up as we speak, and your belongings will be sent via messenger. Do you have any questions?”
“Just one,” she said, turning again to Patricia. “Did you enjoy the show?”
“I’m glad you find this amusing,” Patricia said.
“Amusing isn’t the word I’d use.”
“Oh? And what word would you use?”
“Svoboda.”
13
The bravado Mallory had showed in Harrison’s office lasted approximately fifteen minutes after she walked
out the front doors of Reed, Warner, Hardy, Lutz, and Capel for the final time.
By the time she reached the subway she was fighting back tears. Her only consolation was that she didn’t have to go home and admit this debacle to Alec.
“Julie, it’s me,” she sniffed into her cell phone.
“What’s wrong?”
“I got fired.”
“What? Why on earth would they fire you?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Come to my office—I can’t sneak away for coffee or anything but we can talk in my cube.”
Mallory reversed direction and walked the few blocks to the HarperCollins building at 53rd between Fifth and Madison, where Julie was the assistant to a top editor who published literary fiction. Julie’s boss was often out of town, joining famous authors at their readings or taking them up on invitations to visit the sets of the films that were being adapted from their books or traveling to foreign rights book conferences in London and Frankfurt. It seemed incredibly glamorous to Mallory, though Julie assured her it wasn’t.
“Andrea works like a dog, believe me,” she’d said more than once.
Mallory signed in with security. I wonder what he’d think if he knew security had just escorted me out of a building.
“So what happened?” Julie said, pulling her into Andrea Tolen’s office and closing the door. Mallory immediately began examining the wall of books.
“Can I take one of these?”
“Yeah, but first things first—what happened? This wasn’t because of the bar exam, was it?”
“I wish,” Mallory said. “Are you sure we can sit in here?”
“Yes—stop talking about Andrea’s office and spill it.”
“Okay, here goes.” She gave the unabridged version of the events—including her theory that Poppy had gotten her busted.
Julie looked slightly shell-shocked.
“Mal, this might seem like an obvious question—but what possessed you to do that?”
“I don’t know. I was curious, I guess. And it was fun—if this hadn’t happened today, I’d be really excited about it.”