Page 3 of A Certain Appeal
Halfway up, I stop to give the butterflies a chance to settle. It’s been at least three hundred shows for me: one each Friday, two on Saturday nights, and a few special events through each year. The first glance at the crowd makes me catch my breath even when I’m not constricted by a corset.
I interact with the crowd more than the other performers, playing the part of “Kitten Caboodle” as I hawk souvenirs during set breaks. The persona is as much an act as anything Jane and the girls do onstage, and when I’m on the floor, I’mon. It’s exhausting and freeing at the same time, where I’m on the spot but have all the answers... if for no other reason than I’m only asked the same handful of questions. If I had a Meryton bingo card, the corset comment downstairs would be on it, along withHow do they do that?after a performer does a tassel twirl, and some tired iteration ofWill you be getting naked, too?
I climb the rest of the stairs and place my hand on the green, egg-shaped light fixture at the end of the railing. We all do it at the start of any performance, the ritual predating me. I don’t know if it’s meant for luck or simply habit, but the muted warmth under my palm settles the loitering jitters, leaving me with only midgrade anxiety about Andrea’s earlier behavior as I take in the scene.
The guests for the first show are filing in, settling at their tables more quickly than the ten o’clock crowd does. This show’s audience is generally tamer, too; eight’s early for a New York Saturday, and this is usually folks’ first stop of the night. It also explains the concentrationof bachelorette parties. Andrea always schedules them early. Hen parties devolve notoriously fast; the least we can do is provide a base layer of solids before they start drinking in earnest.
Waiters bustle among the tables on the elevated platforms at the back of the room, igniting tea lights and pouring champagne into the flutes of a soon-to-be-seated party. A narrow aisle separates the tables from the rest of the dining room, where two- and four-tops fill the remainder of the space, nudging the small stage. It’s a tight fit, but that’s part of the fun. Performers have to get from the stairs to the stage via whatever path they can forge; anyone in their way risks becoming part of the production.
The lights of the dining area are down low, softening the edges of guests and muting the wear and tear of the club itself. But I know where to look. The bubbled spot in the damask wallpaper to the left of the stage; the mismatched sconces along the far wall; the worn velvet upholstery on the banquette seating in back. Usually, the lived-in touches add to Meryton’s charm, but paired with Andrea’s odd behavior downstairs, they fuel a concern that’s simmered on the back burner since I started working here.
There is nowaythis place makes money.
The jazz shows get a decent showing, and the English tea service offered weekdays does all right, but the weekend burlesque revue keeps Meryton afloat. This is Tribeca; any business that isn’t flourishing is liable to be turned into a Pilates studio or a baby boutique. With the club owner’s out-of-nowhere change to the scheduling, I can’t help but think he might be angling that way.
My stomach pitches at the thought, but I summon a smile and head for the hostess station, twinkling my fingers at guests as I pass. A gal with a hot-pink, saucer-sized “maid of honor” pin beckons to mewith her phone, and I join the group for a photo, recruiting a waiter, Esteban, to snap the pic.
I press on, but my steps falter when I spot Andrea looking over some papers at the far end of the bar. Usually, she’d be mingling with guests or helping the hostess, armed with a dirty martini and her crimson smile. The martini’s there, off to the side of the paperwork, but the closest thing to a smile is the crescent of lipstick at the glass’s rim.
My chest goes tight again. She could be looking at anything: order forms for the kitchen, bar stock, toilet paper inventory. But the tension rolling off of her says otherwise.
I sidle over with a conciliatory grimace. “Sorry again about the Mad Libs.”
She waves off the apology, barely looking up from the paper. “I shouldn’t have been so snippy about it.” Her voice is flat, doing nothing for the sensation in my chest.
I press my hands into prayer, playing up some kicked-puppy eyes. “Do we get bubbles or are we on the naughty list?”
Her dull expression sharpens. “The prosecco! I’m sorry, pet.” She takes off her glasses, squeezing the bridge of her nose. “Michael! Be a luv and get Kitten a bottle for downstairs?” The bartender holds up his index finger to let me know it will be a moment and gets back to a guest.
I nod to the stack of paper. “Everything okay?”
She swishes her martini glass on the bar top, setting the contents swirling. “It’s Manhattan real estate, darling. Nothing’s everokay.” She exaggerates the last word with a hard American accent.
Unease crawls up my spine. “Is this...” I don’t want to voice the nameless worry and try to keep my tone light. “Related to the new scheduling?”
Her silence speaks for her. My stomach drops.
“Andrea—”
“Don’t fret.” The two words are an order. “It’s not what you think.”
I cross my arms, unwilling to play along. “WhatdoI think, then?”
“Kitten!” Michael calls from the opposite end of the bar. “Want your bubbles?” Andrea snags her martini, spared further interrogation.
I push off the bar. “This conversation isn’t over.”
She clutches her free hand to her chest. “I’m shaking in my ankle boots, kitty cat.”
I hold my hand up, fingers curled like claws, and she blows me a kiss before shooing me away, reading glasses already back in place.
Michael greets me with a bottle of prosecco and a smile. The bar’s muted lighting gives his shaved head a soft glow. “You’re looking gorgeous this evening. New glad rags?”
“Newish.” I smooth my hands down the cool satin of my emerald corset. “But don’t think I’m going to let you be evasive, too. What’s going on?” I tip my head toward Andrea. She and Michael are close, and he’s as generous with his gossip as he is with his pours.
“It’s fine. Or, it should be.” He sends a cautious glance toward our manager, and I lean against the bar, the corset boning pressing into my ribs. His voice is low, his mouth barely moving as he says, “She’s trying to buy the building.”
“What?” I angle closer. I’m going to have a bruise from the corset boning, but I don’t care. “Can she swing that?”
