Page 2 of A Certain Appeal
“Nah. We talked songs on the ride in. Ladies,” I direct to the Twins, “you’re trying the new aerial number with the silks, right?”
“Silks!” they chime.
“N’kay. I’ll have them ready.” I jot a note beside the set list. At the top of the page, the club’s name, Meryton, is spelled out in fine,looping lettering, with “theMeryestBurlesque Revue in NYC” printed below.
“It’s Ming, Twins, Jane, then Twins, Ming, Jane, for the eight o’clock,” I say, citing the performance order. “We have three confirmed bachelorette parties for that show. Ming, the one at table five chose the ‘naughty’ theme—I’m sure they’d appreciate a little extra attention. They’ll be the ones with the dick straws and the bride in the phallus-tipped tiara. And that was two separate synonyms for ‘penis’; I hope you’re taking notes.”
“I like what I like,” Ming sniffs, and dabs at a blob of pearlescent body paint in her belly button.
“And you do like penis,” says Ginn.
“Anyway,” I interrupt, “that’s all I have. Anyone need anything?”
Ming cranes her neck, rubbing the dislodged body paint over the swells of breast cresting the cups of her bra. “Did Andrea bring our bubbles?”
I glance at the file cabinet, where Andrea deposits the preshow prosecco and stems, but the only thing breaking up the gray metal surface is Ming’s Mad Lib. That anxiety from earlier tightens around my middle. Andrea might have been distracted by the Mad Libs, but it would take more than that to sideline her from bringing down a bottle. “I’ll go.”
On my way out, I check in with Jane. “I’m going upstairs. You need anything?”
He straightens his tie with a broad smile. “No, I don’t, but thanks for checking first,” he croons, each word a note on the scale.
Turning, I point to my back, where my corset stays hang in need of tying. “If you’d be so kind?”
“Do you have the ladies where you’d like?” he sings, higher this time.
I peek at how I’ve situated my boobs. With an overbust corset, you have to be careful. Too low, they’re smooshed; too high, they look like a butt trying to smother you. “Should be good. Pull?”
Jane yanks, I grunt, and he ties a quick bow in the back, double-knotting it. I take a few breaths to make sure I get sufficient oxygen, and thank him.
I linger in the doorway. “How much did you catch with Andrea before? She seemed...”
“More tightly wound than usual?” Jane offers. At my nod, he crosses his arms, resting a shoulder against the door frame. “I wonder what that was about. She wasn’t even this ruffled the night the chef quit.”
I chew the inside of my lip. Scheduling changed last month, with acts and shifts no longer booked more than two weeks in advance. The announcement resulted in a minor exodus from the front of the house, costing us two servers and the chef with less than an hour before service. Andrea didn’t bat an eye, promoting the sous on the spot and delegating food-running duties to Jane and me between our stage appearances.
While the evening’s extra tips were appreciated, the new scheduling threw Jane into a panic. I have a day job, but the steady pay from Meryton keeps him afloat most months. Without it, he’d only be left with side gigs and his voice lesson students. They’re not enough to cover his half of the rent, no matter how charming his i’s are.
Jane’s thoughts must end up in the same place, because his brown eyes go distant, familiar lines of worry creasing his forehead.
Crap.I shouldn’t have said anything. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” I force a confused frown. “You’re singing Prince and...”
“ ‘Little Red Corvette’ and ‘Light My Fire.’ ” He smiles, whicheases some of the tightness in my middle. “We talked about it earlier, space case.”
I feign a pout at the cheeky insult, then continue to the hallway, trying to ignore the twisting in my gut. I pause at the full-length mirror on the door of the walk-in freezer—the ladies aredefinitelywhere they need to be, and Jane’s help with the corset has given my athletic frame the defined waist I’m otherwise lacking. The front of my dark, wavy hair is pinned into a series of rosettes, and I fluff the bit I left loose in back for a little more oomph.
Tonight’s lip color, a high-gloss stain named Rouge Deluge, brings out the hint of blush that warms my otherwise fair complexion. Brows have been shaped, false lashes adhered—ah!The snipped waistband of my fishnets peeks above the waist of my black undies. I re-situate it, running my fingers around the top of my satin bikini to make sure the band hasn’t bunched up anywhere else.
That sorted, I scoot to the adjoining room, where the five members of the show’s band play poker with our emcee, Johnny Ryall. The guys are in matching dark suits, and Johnny is in one of his remarkably hideous tuxedos. Tonight’s crime against taste is a mint-green number with black piping at the cuffs and lapels, paired with a black ruffled shirt. I don’t know where he finds the things.
Walking by, I get a few mumbled “Kitten”s in greeting. I take no offense to the brusque salutation; their poker games are intense. If this hand doesn’t finish before showtime, they’ll keep their cards in their pockets while they’re performing and wrap it up at intermission.
As I push back the heavy curtain separating the talent space from the downstairs landing, I have to sidestep two women in black minidresses waiting for the restrooms. They do a double take, making zero effort to conceal their examination as I cross to the stairs.
“Is that acorset?” one asks, directing the question more to her friend than me.
“I don’t know how anyone wears those,” the other woman replies.
“Oh, they just take some getting used to.” I start up the stairs. “Enjoy the show!”
