Page 11 of A Certain Appeal
I shove back the curtain with a huff. “And I sold him a deck earlier. I have half a mind to take back the card I’m on.”
Ming gasps. “Well, that settles it. If anyone can turn you down after the Four of Clubs, they’re not worth pursuing, anyway.”
The disappointment settles on my chest like a physical weight. I really thought there had been a connection. All his watching, and the moment during Jane’s song; it felt like we were building to something.
Ming links arms with me, and I force a stiff upper lip as we march back to the dressing room with the pasties, my tattered ego limping along after us.
We don’t see the men again, and when Esteban brings down a stack of receipts with messages for Jane, none are from Charles. The notes range from appreciative to downright lewd, and while Ming leads thegroup in a series of dramatic readings (“Sweet Jane, let me tame your little red love machine!”), I search Jane for any signs of disappointment. To my pleasant surprise, I don’t find any. Instead, there’s a buzz about him the rest of the night, some confidence that elevates both his songs in the second show. It energizes him to the point where he arranges to sing for the band at their after-hours gig, though I beg off, my hand still itching to sketch out my design ideas for Meryton.
At home, I tuck tonight’s kittening getup away among the corsets and girdles I wear at Meryton. I pause to pluck a new ensemble from the standards, avoiding the number on the price tag, which Tonic’s employee discount onlyjustmanaged to make doable. The fine-mesh bra would require pasties, and the coordinating garter belt draws the eye to my crotch, the arch created by the straps framing the area almost indecently. It’ll be one hell of a look if I get the nerve to put it together.
With a sigh, I return the hanger to the closet and smooth my hand over the pale pink fabric.Someday, lovelies... maybe something more pleasure than work.I bite my lower lip;thatwould take more nerve than wearing it at the show.
Unbidden, Darcy’s face pops up in my mind, accompanied by a brutal echo.Not enough to tempt me.
“Liar.” I yank the closet door shut, the panel shuddering in protest. Hewastempted, thank you so much. There was...something.
Ithought there was something.
Even hours later, the slight stings more than I’m comfortable with. I decide to indulge in a little ego stroking. Jane has Nina, and I have a fallback of my own. I take a seat at my desk and open the shallow drawer in the center, pressing down on the bulging manila folder within so it doesn’t catch on the lip of the writing surface. Inside the file are the prints from the card deck shoot.
It happened early in my time at the show. The photographer was in the dressing room chatting with Ming when he received a text from someone bailing on the next day’s shoot. He griped about finding a last-minute replacement and Ming gestured my way, with the offhand comment, “Kitten’s hot. She’ll do it.”
I was hopeless, my poses stiff and awkward, all weak imitations of what I’d seen other performers do while I’d been waiting my turn. With back muscles knotting and frustration edging me toward tears, I had to break to stretch—and the photographer snapped my photo. The shot caught me mid-arch, my arms raised and lips parted, my eyes soft.
The effect is intense. At first glance, I appear totally naked. I’m not; I’m in pasties and a G-string, and am seated on a pile of sky-blue boas with another draped over my shoulders. But the eye is drawn to very specific areas—two, to be exact—and if I may say so, they look outstanding.
Hellabetter than “thoroughly tolerable,” thankyouso much.
Ego slightly revived, I move to return the file to the drawer, but a second folder demands my attention. I look at my watch:1:07 a.m. I grimace, drumming my restless fingers on the edge of the drawer front.It’s late. No need to start on that now...
My memory flickers to the ideas I had at the beginning of the first show: simpler wallpaper, the dark arc behind the stage—it’s not like I have any plans for tomorrow, anyway.
I toss the folder onto the desk and flip it open before common sense interferes. Staring back at me are two years of notes, sketches, wallpaper samples, and newspaper and magazine clippings, organized by concept and location. Some are for the interiors of bars, and there are a few ideas for concert venues and restaurants, too. Last month’ssearch for a space to host a merger party for my day job put me into overdrive; at this point, the place I ended up reserving could have a file of its own.
I select the pile bound in a folded sheet of the letterhead I used at the start of my evening: Meryton.
Jane was only working Jazz Nights when I moved here. I’d lurk at the bar, letting Michael’s heavy pours take the edge off my hurts while Jane sang around his own. Such was the extent of my social life until Jane added the burlesque shows to his repertoire.
I knew nothing about burlesque outside its reputation as “fancy stripping.” But the first time I saw Ming prowl across the room, I was hooked. The costumes, the playfulness, the control the performers had over every moment they were on: it spoke to me. They were 98 percent bare and nothing short of invincible. And I needed invincible.
I sat at the bar through both shows, rapt, and when we got home, I signed up for the New York School of Burlesque’s intro class. And then I drew.
I sketched Ming slinking across the stage and Johnny sassing the crowd. I drew Jane in his three-piece suit and another performer, a fire-eater from Coney Island, rolling a flaming baton over her skin. I sketched for hours, but I didn’t draw Meryton. Interior design was still too raw, but after months in creative limbo, it was invigorating to have an outlet again.
Now Andrea is buying the building.Andrenovating... A thrill dances up my spine at the prospect, more intense now that I’m in front of my work. Meryton has facilitated so much good in my life; the least I can do is contribute to this new chapter of its story.
With that appreciation, I sketch out my idea about the arc behind the stage. I lose track of the time, adding a rendering of the Twins ontheir silks. When I reach for my laptop, I cut myself off, knowing damn well I’m about to tumble down an internet rabbit hole of wallpaper searches.
I sag into the seat, surveying my work. It really is good.Ireally am good.
A heavy melancholy settles over me, bearing down with the familiar weight of regret and shame. But the late hour overtakes it. My aching eyelids demand to be relieved of the layers of shadow, liner, and residual eyelash glue, and I go to the bathroom to get ready for bed. By my return trudge to the bedroom, exhaustion has set in. Jammies are a bridge too far, and I collapse into bed after taking off my clothes, twining the cool sheets around my bare body. As I settle, blue and red lights flash around the edges of my blinds, and I grope for the sleep mask and earplugs on my nightstand.
One more time, the two words bounce in my brain: “thoroughly tolerable.”
“Hmph.” I situate my mask. I wedge in an earplug on one side, then the other, and tug the comforter up to my chin. “Tolerable mybutt.”
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