Caught in His Gilded World

by Lucy Ellis

  * * *

  Gigi had been falling professionally since she was nine years old, but that hadn’t prevented her flailing backwards and striking her head and her tailbone on the stage boards. She was currently seeing two hands and was not sure which one to take.

  ‘Get up!’ Jacques was hissing at her like a goose.

  The option was taken out of her hands by Kitaev, who plucked her effortlessly off the ground and deposited her on her feet in front of him. Only the room swayed and her legs weren’t co-operating.

  It didn’t help either that she now found herself in the invidious position of having to tilt her head back even though she was five eleven—because he was that big—and he was standing far too close...looking at her.

  Boy, oh, boy, the way he was looking at her!

  Gigi blinked rapidly to clear her vision.

  Sometimes men looked at you as if all they wanted was to see you naked. Gigi accepted this as an occupational hazard even if she hated it. Sometimes they made unwanted and sleazy advances, but she’d learned to combat those too.

  This man wasn’t doing any of those things. His eyes weren’t desperate, greedy, pulling at her admittedly ratty leotard as if seeing her naked was all he cared about.

  No, this man’s eyes held intent. They said something else entirely. Something no man had ever promised her. He was going to strip her naked and pleasure her body as she’d never been pleasured before. And then he was going to take her job and bin it.

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Gigi blurted out.

  ‘Do what, dushka?’ He spoke lazily, in a deep Russian accent, as if he had all the time in the world.

  There was a titter among the other girls.

  ‘Whatever it is you have planned...’ Gigi’s voice trailed off, because it didn’t sound as if either of them were talking about the cabaret.

  ‘At the moment,’ he responded, with a flicker of something certainly beyond her experience in those dark and distant eyes, ‘not much besides lunch.’

  The laughter around them drowned out any response—which was just as well, because it didn’t take much imagination to see that this man had absolutely no interest in anything here—and Gigi felt her initial frustration build once more.

  He didn’t care what happened to this place. The other girls didn’t care. They would care, however, when they didn’t have jobs.

  But it wasn’t just about losing a job. This was her home.

  The anguish that pulled through Gigi like an undertow was real. It was the only place she had ever felt she really belonged since her mother’s sudden death had upended her safe, secure world.

  She’d served her time with her father until she’d been able to make her leap across the Channel onto the stage boards of what had seemed then to be a dream job.

  Although, to be honest, if you’d asked her last week about her job she would have rolled her eyes and complained about the hours, the pay and the lousy chorie.

  The Moulin Rouge, it wasn’t.

  But this wasn’t an average day. This was the day everything she’d stitched together from her earliest life with her mother was threatening to come undone.

  Gigi was not going to let that happen. She couldn’t let it happen.

  Besides, this wasn’t any ordinary theatre. The most amazing women had danced here. Mistinguett, La Belle Otero, Josephine Baker—even Lena Horne had sung on this stage.

  And then there was Emily Fitzgerald. Nobody remembered her—she’d never been famous...just a beautiful chorus girl among many who had danced on this stage for five short years. Her mother.

  When she fell pregnant to smooth-talking Spanish showman Carlos Valente she had been forced to return home to her family in Dublin, her Paris dream over. But from the moment she’d been able to stand Gigi had had her feet stuffed into pointe shoes, had been pushed in the direction of a stage and raised on stories of the Bluebird in its fabulous heyday.

  Of course it hadn’t been anything like those stories when she’d landed at its door aged nineteen, but unlike the other girls she knew how truly special L’Oiseau Bleu had once been...and could be again.

  She’d been working on the Dantons. She’d been sure she was halfway to getting some improvements made to the routines...

  Only now he was getting in the way.

  At a loss as to where to start, it was then that she remembered she did have something that could speak for her. Folded up and stuck down her sports bra.

  She tugged it out, sadly crumpled, and smoothed down the single page. It was a printout Lulu had made from a burlesque blog they both followed: Parisian Showgirl.

  She looked up to find Kitaev was still watching her and had probably got an eyeful of her frayed purple bra. She knew this wasn’t looking a whole lot professional, but she hadn’t meant to come crashing down, she hadn’t meant for him to come hunting around backstage, and right now all she had was...this. It just happened to be in her bra.

  Something close to amusement shifted in those dark, watchful eyes. ‘What else do you keep in there?’

  His voice was pure Russian velvet, quiet and low-pitched, but a bit like a seismic shift in the earth’s plates. You felt it in your bones...and other places.

  Gigi experienced a whole body flush and drew herself up stiffly. ‘Nothing,’ she said uncertainly.

  A couple of the girls tittered.

  Ignoring them, she held out the page until he took it.

  Gigi watched him run a cursory glance over the print. She knew it by heart.

  Paris is in revolt over the news that Russian oligarch Khaled Kitaev, one of Forbes’ richest men under forty, got lucky in a game of poker.

  Kitaev, whose fortune is in oil but who, like most Russian businessmen, seems to have branched out into property and entertainment until his holdings resemble nothing less than the behemoth nervous European business columnists fear will simply devour everything in its path—yes, that Kitaev—has taken possession of one of Paris’s famous cabarets.

  And this isn’t just any theatre, people, it’s one of Montmartre’s oldest cabarets: L’Oiseau Bleu. Home of the Bluebirds. A charming, old-time cabaret—but for how long?

  Judging from the media reaction, it appears the French aren’t going to take this one lying down.

  His hand closed over the piece of paper and crunch—it was nothing more than a small ball in his large fist.

  Gigi couldn’t help feeling they were all a little like that ball of paper, and just as disposable.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  He made it sound so easy, but she wasn’t fooled. His dark eyes had hardened over the course of his cursory glance, and when he raised them there was a warning there.

  Gigi told herself they weren’t her words that she’d handed him. But she wanted him to know that this was the position they were operating from. A little information—even if it was misinformation. The sensible thing to do now would be to ask rationally and politely if he foresaw any major changes to the theatre that were going to affect their jobs.

  Only then she noticed the subtle movement of his hard gaze over her body. He wasn’t being obvious but she felt it all the same—and, dammit, her nipples stiffened.

  So instead of being reasonable she lost her temper and went for broke. ‘We want to know if you’ve any plans to turn our cabaret into a full-on high-octane version of Le Crazy Horse?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  MARTIN DANTON MADE a groaning sound.

  His brother looked poised to take the little redhead out.

  Red stood her ground.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ responded Khaled, not taking his eyes off her, ‘never having been inside the Crazy Horse.’

  He caught the slight eye-roll and the tightening of her lips. His hand tightened around the crum
pled ball of spurious invective this young woman had clearly swallowed whole.

  ‘Gigi, ça suffit,’ interrupted Jacques Danton. That’s enough.

  But she didn’t back down. ‘I think we have a right to know,’ she protested. ‘It’s our jobs.’

  He would have been more impressed if he hadn’t suspected her boss had put her up to it.

  ‘Your jobs are safe for the moment.’ He threw it in because it was accurate—today. Tomorrow, possibly not.

  ‘Splendide!’ Jacques Danton beamed.

  ‘That’s not what I asked,’ Red interrupted, and she lifted those lively blue eyes to his.

  Not in appeal, he registered, but setting herself against him. Clearly not fooled one bit—unlike her boss.

  For a moment he considered the alternative: that this wasn’t some set-up and that the girl—a lot sharper than the Dantons and, unlike them, willing to take him on—was acting alone.

  ‘We’re not a strip club, Mr Kitaev, and it would ruin—’

  She took a breath and something like anguish crumpled up her striking features. In the time it took her to compose herself Khaled became interested in what exactly she thought he was ruining for her.

  But she shook her head and changed direction. ‘Ruin the character of the theatre!’

  ‘I wasn’t told the theatre had a character.’

  More laughter.

  She looked around, as if thrown by the lack of support, and unexpectedly his conscience stirred.

  ‘Nobody is going to be asked to take off their clothes,’ he said, exasperated. Hell, he didn’t know what would happen here. Go on as before, bleeding funds, because after the dose he’d had of French spleen over the place only a fool would touch it? He’d be lucky to give it away.

  Red, however, seemed to be under the mistaken belief that there was something here worth saving.

  ‘Voulez-vous, filles?’

  Jacques Danton began clapping his hands at the other dancers and their audience began to break up.

  ‘Maintenant, Gigi,’ he snapped.

  She was clearly torn between doing as she was told and continuing to question him about their jobs, but Khaled could already see she wouldn’t stand up to her boss.

  Just him.

  Which was a first, given that men with a lot more wherewithal than this girl—industrialists, Duma members, Moscow gangsters—stepped carefully around him. Then again, those men didn’t have her lavender eyes or, frankly, her sexual pull.

  She was by no means the most beautiful girl backstage, but she was the only one he couldn’t take his eyes off.

  Something to do with her bold features and lively eyes, and an innate sensuality she appeared to be entirely unaware of.

  Pity she danced here...

  Shame he was flying out tomorrow...

  Another dancer—the frowning little brunette—had edged up to her. She took Red’s hand with a furtive look of disapproval in his direction and tugged her away. Smart girl.

  Red...Gigi...kept glancing over her shoulder at him before the rest of the dancers swallowed her up.

  It was a slender shoulder, as finely designed as the rest of her, and it put him in mind of the Spanish painter Luis Ricardo Falero’s amusing, graceful mythological girls. He knew he was done here, and yet he found his eyes following the red pigtails, bouncing amidst the crowd of other girls as the famous Bluebirds vanished into the rabbit warren of corridors.

  * * *

  That evening the dressing room was noisier and more lively than usual before the first performance.

  Khaled Kitaev was the sole subject of discussion.

  ‘The rumour is that the Russian supermodel Alexandra Dashkova had herself wrapped in a rug, Cleopatra-style, taken up to his hotel suite in Dubai last month and unrolled before him like war booty.’

  This was greeted with various oohs and aahs and had Gigi hesitating in the act of applying three-ounce lashes to her eyelids.

  ‘No one’s got a chance with him, then,’ groaned Adele at Susie’s announcement, and the cramped dressing room was filled with sighs and grumbles and more speculation.

  ‘C’est vrai.’ Solange regarded her breasts with satisfaction, adjusting her diamante-studded costume. ‘He’s asked for me by name. I’m having a drink with him after the show tomorrow.’

  Gigi’s hand slipped and the fake lashes ended up part-way down her cheek.

  ‘Great,’ grumbled Lulu under her breath, leaning forward to pluck the feathered blob from Gigi’s cheek and pass it to her. ‘Ten to one she’ll sleep with him and make the rest of us look easy.’ Only being Lulu she didn’t actually say easy—she mouthed it.

  There was a neat little division down the centre of the Bluebirds. The dancers who accepted invitations from the visiting Hollywood A-listers and rock stars who came to the shows, and those who lined up each night after the last show for the courtesy bus.

  It was something Gigi had organised when a couple of the girls had complained about not feeling safe leaving the venue at night, given that the theatre was bumped up against the red light district, and now the bus was a regular thing.

  Gigi and Lulu never missed the bus. Solange took every invitation that came her way. Apparently she’d taken this one too.

  Not that there was anything wrong with that, Gigi told herself. She only cared because it confirmed her worst suspicions about Kitaev’s plans for them.

  She slapped down the lid on her make-up case.

  ‘Sorry G,’ said Leah, obviously alerted by the bang of Gigi’s case and not sounding sorry at all. ‘You went to all that trouble for nothing.’

  ‘Not for nothing,’ Lulu rallied back loyally in her defence. ‘We all got a good look.’

  Too good, thought Gigi fiercely. Any hope that Khaled Kitaev was going to take ownership of the cabaret seriously was out of the window. As of now the Bluebird was in serious jeopardy.

  And what was it with everyone thinking she’d done it on purpose? Sheesh.

  No, she knew all about this man. She had scrolled through lists of his public holdings on the internet, chased them to various websites, and was still struggling to make sense of how he’d made his money.

  Initially, it appeared, as an oil trader—but he seemed to have a finger in a lot of pies. Shady, she decided. She had learned from watching her dad at work that big money was probably amassed in the same way as her father’s smaller cheats: through the exploitation of someone else.

  ‘So what do you think he’s going to do to us?’ asked Trixie, one of the youngest dancers.

  Given he’d already honed in on Solange, Gigi had a pretty good idea.

  ‘Do you think he’ll try to change things? Maybe fix things up?’ Trixie sounded optimistic. ‘It might not all be bad, Gigi.’

  No, it was probably worse. Gigi hated to disillusion her, but facts had to be faced.

  She stood up to face the room.

  ‘Could I have everyone’s attention?’

  A couple of the girls glanced her way, but the noise level didn’t drop.

  She raised her voice. ‘Can we just try to look at the big picture here—instead of getting into a lather about his sex life?’

  The word ‘sex’ had a few more heads turning and the volume dropping.

  ‘Kitaev owns a string of gambling venues around the world.’ Gigi paused to let that sink in. ‘Have you thought about what that might mean for us?’

  ‘Oui,’ said Ingrid, ‘a pay-rise.’

  There was a ripple of laughter.

  ‘Loosen up, G,’ advised another girl, giving her a friendly push.

  ‘She can’t—she hasn’t been laid in so long I’m surprised she didn’t squeak when she fell off that aquarium,’ cackled Susie.

  ‘Gigi’s just smarting because
her little stunt didn’t make him single her out,’ sang out Mia from across the room.

  ‘Give it up, G,’ said Adele. ‘Oh, that’s right—you never do!’

  There was a howl of good-natured laughter.

  Gigi knew she needed to get the discussion back on track, because now Susie was wanting to know what the point was of being a showgirl if you didn’t take advantage of the perks: rich men.

  ‘The point is no one should date Kitaev,’ Gigi interrupted. ‘He shouldn’t be encouraged!’

  The laughter only became more raucous. Even Lulu gave her a rueful look.

  He’s going to win, thought Gigi a little desperately.

  The dressing room door banged open.

  ‘Guess who’s just arrived, ladies?’ announced Daniela, sparkling in full costume.

  There was a twitter of excitement.

  ‘Not Kitaev.’

  The twittering died down.

  ‘Girls, its wall-to-wall security and every rich Russian in the city is here—and everyone from Fashion Week seems to have followed them. The media are ten-thick outside. I think I’m going to faint!’

  Amidst the shrieks, Lulu adjusted her headdress and said brightly, ‘There you go, Gigi. Maybe he’s not so bad for business after all.’

  ‘So he’s sent his friends?’ she grumbled. ‘One night does not a week make. We’re just a novelty act for a bored, spoilt-for-choice, testosterone-injected, arrogant—’

  But now even her best friend had jumped ship and was on her way out, giggling with the other girls, trailing the six-foot feather tail they all had attached to their waists for the first number.

  Troubled, Gigi finished attaching her own.

  That many customers wasn’t to be sneezed at, given they regularly performed to a half-empty theatre, and this had been their worst year yet.

  Maybe the other girls saw something she didn’t.

  Yes, she thought cynically, they saw something, all right. They saw Solange draping her skinny arms around Khaled Kitaev’s broad neck and a line of ambitious showgirls asking when was it their turn.

  Solange was apparently going to have hers, and it firmed Gigi’s chin.