“And you know why it works? Because all men are afraid. And what are they afraid of?”
She looked around the room. There was silence. I knew I knew the answer, but for some reason I was having a mental block. What was the damn answer? Finally one short skinny woman in the back said in a small voice, “Getting it up?”
Coco pointed at her. “Bingo!”
Of course. How could I forget?
“They all live in fear that they won’t be able to get it up. This motivates everything they do. And chances are, the more successful he is, the more he has to prove. And why is striptease so effective?”
Again, she waited for someone to answer. A woman with black hair and blond streaks gave it a shot. “Because he just gets to sit there and watch?”
“Not only does he sit there and watch. He is denied. Deprived. No privileges. No rights. No mercy. Striptease is the ultimate hard-to-get. That’s why it works. The more he’s denied, the more he wants it. So what’s the most important thing for you to do?”
No one dared speak. I too waited for her to continue. It was as if I was hearing everything for the first time. Never before had I listened with the intent to actually try out what she said.
“Go slowly! Draw it out. Don’t just tease him. Torture him. It’s like a mystery novel. Let the suspense kill him. Get him so he’s dying to get to the last page. To know who the killer is. To see you naked. Any of you ever been to a strip joint?”
Only two of the women raised their hands.
“So what happens,” Coco asked, “when the stripper gets naked?”
The two club veterans started to speak, then shrugged.
“Once she’s naked,” Coco said, “she’s done! Oh, sure, she may dance around a little longer, but basically, the story is over.”
She didn’t go into the lap dance phase of the event.
“The audience wants to start with someone new. Because once the mystery is solved, it’s not interesting anymore. They’re all ready to solve the next mystery. And each of you, no matter what you look like under those clothes, is a story waiting to be told.”
Was this profound? Or was I losing my mind.
Coco had all the women stand in rows. I put on that song from the seventies, “Midnight at the Oasis.” It was so languid, it usually got people going. Even I started to sway with it.
She had everyone mimic her. The bump. The grind. I did my own mini bumps and grinds. She tried to get them to thaw out their pelvises. “Move those hips, ladies! Imagine you’re trying to touch every wall! Make your bodies take up as much room as possible!” She happened to notice me moving to the music, raised her eyebrows, and grinned. “That’s right, go for it!”
My first impulse was to stop moving. After all, I didn’t want her to have the pleasure of thinking she was “getting through to me.”
But then I decided, what the hell. Let her be pleased. I kept on dancing. Allowed my bumps and grinds to get less mini. She gave me a happy nod. It was almost embarrassing to get her approval. I blushed and felt dizzy, like the room was swaying, but it was only my hips.
chapter thirty-one
i caught the end of their fight when I was coming out of the locker room.
“But you’re always working! I thought we could at least do something together on your night off.”
“I’m really exhausted. I just want to relax.”
“Fine. Let’s go to my place.”
“I really think I should go home.”
“All the way to Astoria? Why?”
“Tara . . . I’m just really tired.”
That’s when she saw the little grin on my lips, which had some of my mother’s Hard Candy “Daringly Diva” lipstick on. Which the salesgirl at Sephora had said went perfectly with the Hard Candy blush, mascara, and eye shadow.
We three got on the elevator.
Silence all the way down.
Tom seemed puzzled by my altered appearance. I tried not to wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
As we got off the elevator, Tom said to me, “So how is it going?”
“Not bad . . .”
Tara turned to Tom. “I’ll walk you to the subway, then.”
“That’s okay.”
“Oh. I see.” Tara gave me a dirty look. “Fine.”
She left, and Tom turned to me. “You were saying?”
“Was I saying something?”
“Things aren’t bad?”
“Oh, yeah, not bad.” I tried not to rub my fingers in my eyes.
“You want to get a bite to eat? I heard there’s this really great place in the Village. I’ve never been down there. You wanna go?”
The Village was in the opposite direction of Astoria. I tried not to jump up and down with excitement. “Sure.”
We headed for the “1” train.
The waiter gave us the wine list and a menu. Tom ordered us each a fourteen-dollar glass of Cabernet and the cheese sampler plate. “My treat,” he said, after the waiter left.
“Are you sure?”
“Have to have some fun with my slave wages.”
Tell me this wasn’t because of the damn cosmetics.
I began our conversation on safe ground: my anxiety over the upcoming banquet. “I’ve been practicing my choux paste at home. I really want them to turn out perfectly. It’s tricky, because if you add too many eggs, the dough won’t hold its shape.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
“He’ll find something wrong with them no matter what.”
“His culture says women shouldn’t be chefs, but he can see you have talent. It probably scrambles his brains. Plus, you’re attractive.”
“Maybe,” I said, my heart skipping about three hundred thousand beats. I suddenly wanted to check my makeup. Receiving the compliment made me insecure about my looks all over again. That was the trap, wasn’t it?
“So how’s it going at L’Etoile?”
“The job is okay.” He took a sip of wine. “But it’s getting kind of awkward.”
“Oh?”
He looked down at his empty place setting. “I think Tara got me the job because she’s attracted to me. And . . . well . . . you know . . . she is pretty, and smart . . .”
“You can skip this part.”
“Sorry.” He looked back up at me. “I guess she’s not your favorite person in the world.”
“I didn’t want to be her archenemy. It just seems to have evolved.”
The waiter brought our plate of cheese: Brie de Meaux, “grassy flavored with a hint of nuttiness”; an aged goat’s-milk Gouda, “tangy and smooth”; and a Bleu d’Auvergne, “herbaceous and pungent.” I took a bite of the Bleu. It was so good. I took another bite and spread it on a slice of baguette. Very tasty. Took a sip of wine. It was particularly sweet for a Cabernet. Oh, yes. A person could live off this. I was happy.
“You look different,” he said.
I spread some Brie onto a slice of baguette. “Do I?”
“Did you do something to your face?”
“I might’ve put a little makeup on this morning. I’ve been so careless about that since starting school . . .”
“Oh.” He wrinkled his eyes, scrutinizing me. I waited for the compliment. It didn’t come. “So anyway,” he said, taking a piece of Brie, “things with Tara. It’s getting to be more than I can handle.”
“Really,” I said, going for a sliver of the Gouda.
“Working for her father and everything . . . She seems to be into me more than I’m into her. And I’m not sure what to do about it.”
A warning light was flashing in my head. Was he using me as a pal to discuss his love life? Or was he confessing this because he was attracted to me? And were they or were they not having sex together? And did he or did he not want to have sex with me?
“Which one is your favorite cheese?” I asked.
“I don’t know. They’re all good in their own ways, don’t you think?”
After we’d each had ano
ther glass of wine and finished off the sampler and every scrap of bread in the basket, I was feeling quite dizzy. “Let me take you home,” Tom said.
We strolled down Bedford Street through a really old, pretty part of the city where there were still lots of turn-of-the-century redbrick brownstones adorned with eyebrow-like shutters and festive flower boxes that made me think of dollhouses. What would it be like to live in one of these houses? Could life possibly measure up to the appearance of serenity? It sure was tempting to think so. You could imagine going down the winding lane one beautiful evening a hundred years ago in a horse-drawn carriage with gas lanterns lighting the way.
For once I felt thankful that the train was crowded, because we were forced to sit squished up against each other. We didn’t even try to carry on a conversation, just sat there swaying against each other every time the train accelerated and slowed down. I luxuriated in our private bubble, oblivious to the crowd around us. I wished Tom would put his arm around me so I could lean my head against his shoulder, but he didn’t, which made me want him to do it even more.
As we pulled out of Penn Station, my dizzy high was deflated by the realization that Coco was most likely going to be home. And so I really couldn’t let him up. No way I was taking that risk, especially at this critical juncture. Much as I would’ve liked for him to come over, it was not going to happen, so there was no reason for him to bother to get off with me, and I had to let him know that before we got to Times Square.
“You know what,” I said, “you should just stay on the train.”
“But I want to walk you home.”
“I don’t want to inconvenience you. And this will take you straight back.”
“I’m not in any hurry to get home. To tell you the truth, it’s sort of dull out there. I thought maybe you’d show me your place.”
“Oh. Well. You know . . .” Damn! What to say? “It’s a mess. And I have to study my notes. And I’m really kind of tired.”
“Oh, okay.” He shrugged. “Sure.”
The train pulled into the Forty-second Street station. “So . . . good night.”
“Good night.” I hesitated, thinking maybe I should just invite myself to his place.
“You’d better move,” he said, “or you’re going to miss your stop.”
I popped up out of my seat, dashed to the door, ducked under someone’s arm, stepped on about three people’s feet, and barely remembered to yell, “Thanks for the wine!” as I hopped onto the platform of the grubby station. Hordes of people headed towards me on the narrow platform. I snaked through them to the dirty cement stairs and emerged up on Forty-second and Seventh Avenue, which had to be one of the most crowded streets in the world, except maybe somewhere in Bangkok. As I made my way through the chaos of cars, buses, cabs, sirens, street vendors, tourists, and commuters, I felt utterly anonymous. Such a contrast to the quiet closeness I’d just had down in that underground tunnel with Tom. Up here, people were lining up for ultimately disappointing movies, wandering out of ultimately disappointing plays, searching out strip clubs and peep shows for ultimately disappointing encounters, spilling out of bars and restaurants celebrating their short, sorry little lives.
What a world.
chapter thirty-two
c oco, Ralph, and I stood in front of the two tall white double doors of Kingsley’s town house in the Village. Ralph lifted and dropped the brass knocker in the shape of a hand. Kingsley, wearing brown corduroy pants and a white button-down shirt, opened the door. “Welcome!”
“What a lovely home,” Coco said, as we stepped into the elegant foyer that was all wood beams, wainscoting, and Oriental carpet.
“Isn’t it? I can’t take any credit, though, it’s a sublet from a friend.”
“Lucky you.”
“I’m glad you could make it. Good to see you again.”
Coco looked out of place—but hot—in gold stilettos, black leather pants, and a gold Lycra bandeau top. I was wearing white Pumas with white bell-bottom jeans, and the lilac plaid halter top I’d gotten at H & M. As much as I’d resisted Coco’s advice that day, I felt grateful to her now. Though I was relieved there was a chill in the air so I had an excuse to wear a sweater over it. “Ralph, Ginger. I’m not used to seeing you in street clothes.” Did I imagine a look of approval as he looked me up and down? Did I dare take off my sweater? Not yet.
He led us to the living room. “Come in!” It was Nigel Sitwell. “Don’t be afraid!” His voice boomed with a regal but swishy British accent. About two hundred pounds overweight, bald, mustached. He ruled the room from his spot in a huge easy chair. “Did you find your way here without getting lost? I always get lost in the damn Village, and my driver was talking on his cell phone in some godforsaken Creole patois not paying attention to where the hell he was going and there was about five goddamn inches of legroom. With my gout, let me tell you, I was suffering. Had to keep my foot turned sideways the whole time!”
“The food is almost ready,” Kingsley said, “so please relax and help yourself to some wine, and the marvelous duck liver pâté with pistachios that Akiko made.”
Akiko?
When Kingsley went through the swinging door to the kitchen, Ralph and I both caught a glimpse of an Asian girl. She looked like she was still in her late teens. I wondered if Kingsley had hired her just for this, or if she lived here with him.
“So nice to meet you,” Coco said, as she poured us each some wine.
Ralph and I sat on an antique love seat facing Sitwell. It was creaky and stiff, like it wasn’t really meant to be sat on, with carved, curvy wooden arms. Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
“So you are Robert’s students!” Sitwell exclaimed. If only I could be back in the kitchen helping Kingsley cook, not out here.
“They’re Robert’s favorite students,” Coco said.
“And you are?”
“Coco, Ginger’s sister.”
Ralph nudged me in the ribs.
“And I suppose you have another sister named Cream of Tartar?” Sitwell exploded with laughter. I couldn’t help but crack a twisted smile.
“I read in Food & Wine,” Ralph said, “you’re coming out with a new cookbook.”
“Am I? Who keeps track anymore? They want me to write another, but I have nothing left to say. Even my ghostwriters have run out of ideas!”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Coco said, perching on the arm of an empty easy chair kitty-corner to him. “You look like a man who has something to say about everything.”
“And you look like a whore. Where did you get those fantastic tits?”
Coco burst out laughing. “Where the hell do you think? Mother Nature?”
“Not unless Mother Nature is a very horny man.”
It was apparent why Kingsley had asked Coco. They were a perfect match—tactless and crass.
“I just had to go back for a mammogram. Let me tell you, it’s like having a garage door close on your dick.”
“I have a male cousin,” Sitwell said, “who had breast cancer.”
“Really.” Coco sampled Akiko’s pâté. “That must’ve been embarrassing.”
“He died, actually.” Sitwell laughed. “Imagine being a man and dying of breast cancer!”
“How gauche,” Ralph said, then mouthed the words “He’s insane!” to me.
“Have they ever figured out why men have breasts?” Coco asked.
“Actually”—I dared enter the conversation—“it is possible for men to breastfeed. Biologically, they have everything you need to do it.” Cultural anthropology, freshman year. “It’s just a convention of society that they don’t.”
“That’s disgusting,” Ralph said.
“I don’t fucking believe you,” Sitwell said.
“Why would a man want to do that?” Coco said. “He’d choke the kid with his breast hairs.”
“Sisters, you say,” Sitwell said, pointing his cane at both of us. “Lots of rivalry between the two of you, I imagine?”
“No, not really,” I said. “She’s prettier. I accept that.”
“Bullshit, darling. You hate her and wish she’d get hit by a car and die an agonizing death.”
He laughed again. I felt lousy that no one tried to contradict me and say that I was in fact the prettier one. I was, after all, making an attempt. Did anyone else notice how hot it was in that room? I took off my sweater.
“Is anyone else going to eat this stuff?” Coco spread some pâté on a cracker. “It’s fantastic.” She looked at Nigel. “Would you like?”
“Poison!” Nigel said. “Cholesterol, it’s bad for my gout. But what the hell!” He laughed.
Kingsley came into the room and announced that dinner was ready. I’d never seen him so nervous. I didn’t like seeing him kissing up to someone more prominent.
We all moved to the dining room, where there was a beautifully set table. The room had bay windows, a huge chandelier, a tall, very grand-looking fireplace, more wood paneling all around. Akiko made an appearance, and Kingsley introduced her. She was petite and quite adorable and bowed at everyone. Then Kingsley sat down with us and let her serve the food. It was incredible. Something he called gnudi, like gnocchi, but made with sheep’s-milk ricotta dusted in semolina, pan-fried in butter and topped with sage and Parmesan. Tuna tartare with wasabi roe. Roasted asparagus with a saffron-mustard sauce.
“So,” Coco said to Kingsley, “how is your restaurant out there doing? Not too well, I imagine, or you wouldn’t be teaching, right?”
Nigel Sitwell harrumphed, but was concentrating on fitting an asparagus into his mouth. I wished Kingsley would say something to her like It’s none of your fucking business, but he didn’t seem annoyed. And my ears did perk up, since I was still wondering why exactly he had decided to come to our school.
“Zin is doing quite well. My staff keeps it going. We have a new menu this year. You do always have to try new things, or people get bored, but luckily my reputation seems to keep people coming around.”
I couldn’t tell if business was bad and he was trying to cover it up. Or maybe he was being gracious towards Coco because she had no idea how famous he was.
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