Page 31 of A Certain Appeal
As Johnny sings, his standard tune tailored to emphasize the “bush” in Bushwick, Darlene slips from the curtains to the short steps beside the stage. I push off from the bar and join her.
“Will this do?” she whispers, handing me a red opera-length glove. “It’s a left.”
“Perfect.” I wiggle my fingers into the glove, tugging the shaft over my bicep. “How goes the zipper?”
“Ming’s a miracle worker. We’ll probably only need a few minutes. Pop a pastie!” She blows me a kiss, then retreats backstage.
I’m straightening the seam along the inside of my arm when Johnny announces, “Beautiful people, please, put your hands together for our special guest”—a second spotlight turns on, wheeling around the stage before landing on me—“Miss Kitten Caboodle!”
The spotlight fries my butterflies midflight. I take the stage with a wave, the crowd’s cheer flooding me with adrenaline. By the time I reach Johnny, I’m floating.
Johnny mouths me a “Thank you” before returning to the audience. “This delectable kitty cat will be providing a demonstration of what to expect tonight. So, pay close attention. This will all be on the final exam.” Johnny backs toward the wings of the stage, then gives another swing with his golf club. “Take it away, Kitten!”
At that, the band begins to play a slow, sultry rendition of “Summertime.” I adjust my expression to meet it, shifting from “cheeky assistant” to “siren” in the time it takes to form a pout. I extend the arm with the glove across my chest, gliding my hand from wrist to upper arm, showcasing the glove. Absently, I smooth my thumb over the bare skin between the glove and the wide shoulder strap of my dress, as though distracted by the contact.
It’s the same tactic I employed when I knew Darcy was watching me at Meryton, enticing my audience to imagine their hands in place of mine. The thrill tonight, however, is totally different from the hot little buzz I experienced under Darcy’s gaze. That was personal,almost intimate. Now I have an entire room in my thrall and I feel drunk off it.
Making contact with the tips of the glove, I grip the seam at the end of the middle finger, then tug. But the sample peel isn’t only about getting the crowd to make some noise; it can also set the tone: a little cheek goes a long way. I pretend to struggle. Gritting my teeth, I yank at the fingers of the glove, grabbing at the ends of all four without letting the glove budge.
My character fights to rein in her frustration, shooting the crowd a tight smile as they chuckle at her plight. My body hums with adrenaline, my skin alive with the heat from the spotlight and the attention of the crowd, and I bring my hands in front of me, pressing my upper arms in to exaggerate my cleavage as I grapple. Laughter and wolf whistles stream from the crowd, punctuated by Ming’s distinct cackle.
Ming!They must be done with the zipper. Time to wrap up.
I jerk the elbow of my pulling arm to suggest the glove has given way and roll my shoulders, transitioning back to sex kitten, eliciting more laughter.
I bite the tip of my gloved pinkie finger, tugging enough to get some slack. The move is repeated finger by finger until I’m at my thumb. I bring my hands to one side of my face and slowly pull my left hand free of the glove, making an unbroken traverse along the low neckline of my dress, fingers splayed to maintain tension in the glove.
I let my fingers slip free and catch hold of the edge. With a grip on either end, I shimmy it over my chest, adding a little jiggle below. More clapping.
Draping the glove over my shoulder, I brandish my now bare left arm with showgirl flair. I caress my arm from wrist to elbow, raising my hand toward my face, and freeze.
The audience stills, as though everyone in the room is holding their breath. A slow smile spreads across my face. Moments like this remind me I’m more than “Kitten Caboodle.” I’m more than a tattered reputation at a design firm, a crushed dream, or the only person in an office who bothered to use Google Translate to work a fancy espresso maker.
I twinkle my newly exposed fingers with a grin, and the audience thunders with applause.
I’m Elizabeth Bennet. And I’m invincible.
CHAPTER
9
I exit the stage vibrating from the excitement. Darlene gestures toward me from the bar with a flute of bubbles. I walk toward her, still quaking, and smile at the shouts of support as I skirt the crowd.
“Well done!” Darlene passes me the glass.
My hand shakes so violently the liquid threatens to spill. I take a long pull from the rim. The sweet effervescence pairs wonderfully with my giddiness. Through the buzzing in my ears, I make out Johnny introducing Sola. The performer leaps through the curtains like a starburst in her rhinestone-studded flight suit, and Darlene regales me with the tale of the treacherous zipper.
My heart rate slowly gets back to normal, and I cheer along with Sola’s peel. After the reveal, which leaves Sola in coordinating American flag pasties and G-string, Darlene excuses herself and sneaks backstage to prep for her own number.
I spot Ming and Charles on the other side of the room. They’re in the center of a row, so I take a seat at an empty high-top along the far wall. I holler as Johnny introduces Jewbilee, whose routine is a tribute to the women’s baseball league. Darlene’s medic-themed peel follows, leaving the stage littered with yards of bandage wrapping for the kitten to sweep up. Then it’s Jane’s turn.
The song starts with the same big-band flair from Johnny’s opener, and I don’t recognize the tune until Jane croons, “It had to be you.” His singing is more subdued than I’d have expected from the intro, and there’s something about his delivery I can’t pin down. I cross my arms, trying to place the vibe. It’s more direct, almost focused. The energy builds as he infuses more feeling into each word, until each lyric is bursting with—
My heart squeezes. It’sjoy.
Jane can enchant a room, inspire passion and love notes and phone numbers from unsuspecting listeners. But I haven’t heard him sing likethisin years. It takes me back to the day I met him, at a barbecue at my cousin’s in Silver Lake. Jane and Marcus were in for a visit, and Jane sang “Walking on Sunshine.” His joy that day was infectious, but I haven’t seen it since.
By the time Jane reaches the chorus, the whole room is swaying. It isn’t the seductive spell of Nina, but it’s magic all the same. An instrumental break follows, and Arthur beckons Jane to join him at the piano. Jane takes over playing for an extended solo that goes a long way toward justifying his tuition at Juilliard. My heart gives another squeeze. Watching him play is always a treat, but this is something else.
