Page 4 of A Certain Appeal
Michael gives me an insistent look, and I try to rein in my enthusiasm, but my heart skips. “Her backer is an old-money guy from California,” he says. “The only competition is some flaky nephew of the owner. Things look good.”
I nod to myself, thinking of Jane. At the very least, scheduling should get back to normal. “Is there a timeline?”
“If all goes well, they’ll be closing the end of next month. She also wants to renovate, but that timeline is a bit looser.”
The word “renovate” has me tracing the outside of my left hand, feeling for the calluses along my pinky. Three years away from the drafting table has softened them, but traces of the tougher skin remain. I glance down, half expecting to see the smears of graphite that were as much a part of me then as corsets and false eyelashes are now.
My attention lands on the faint white scar on my palm, and I come back to myself with a start. “Thank you for the scoop.” I hold out my hands and splay my fingers. “Sir?”
Michael fetches a quintet of champagne flutes. He wedges three into my right hand, two into my left, then nestles the bottle between that thumb and forefinger. “Got it?”
“You can take the climber outta Colorado but you can’t take away her grip.”
“Noted. Have a good show. And not a word to the others,” he warns. “They’ll swarm Andrea and she’s already stressed enough. I can’t guarantee she’ll be in a charitable mood.”
I sneak another look at Andrea, still at the end of the bar. She frowns at something on the page, then takes a long pull from her martini.
“You’re the bartender,” I reply, and raise the bottle of prosecco. “Charitable moods are your job, no?”
CHAPTER
2
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Johnny calls. The band begins a sax-heavy rendition of “Harlem Nocturne,” sending my butterflies into flight. “Beautiful people of all identities, show some love forMing DyNasty.”
The spotlight shifts to illuminate Ming, who’s tracing lazy circles over the top of the green egg with a gloved finger. She’s a vision in crimson, from her towering showgirl headdress to the boa on her shoulders and the gauzy robe over her gown. From my spot a few steps below, I inventory the pieces to look for when I’m picking up after her set—seven, depending on whether she takes the boa when she leaves the stage.
The light follows her sultry prowl toward the “naughty” bachelorettes, who squeal in anticipation. As I step up to the egg, Ming drapes her boa over the bride-to-be, flossing it across her chest vigorously enough to set the girl’s penis-tipped tiara askew. The table erupts in peals of laughter, and the bride shimmies her shoulders, sending herample cleavage bobbing. Ming releases the woman, who earns a few stray feathers in the process, and sashays toward the stage.
I cast a wary eye over the crowd. The show attracts a varied audience. For many, the high price tag makes the experience a novelty, a place for a special event, like bachelorette parties or birthdays. Others are assorted couples who are out for a night of rowdy, consensual objectification in a comfortable environment that serves a killer plate of mussels and frites. We also appeal to large groups of wealthy Russians, who, I suppose, merely enjoy seeing women disrobe without dying of exposure. Minor celebrities roll in with their entourages, hiding behind dark glasses that make their navigating the stairs to the bathrooms a study in unintentional comedy.
Burlesque is niche enough that these groups have had to seek us out, and most attendees know what to expect and how to conduct themselves.
Others... not so much.
Most offensive are the young Wall Street types. They do coke in the bathrooms and sneer at performers whose bodies don’t fit their narrow standard of desirability; one look at Ming’s dimpled backside and they’re shaking their heads in disgust. They’re infuriating. And bewildering. In New York, no one is ever more than two blocks from the abundant cleavage of a Victoria’s Secret billboard. If they want a display of scantily clad, conventionally attractive female bodies to drool over, all they have to do is look up. But they come here, where the variety in the human form is celebrated, and they can’t cope.
Women in the audience fall into this trap, too, but with a response so coded, I doubt they’re even aware how patronizing it is. They watch Ming take the stage and whisper about “bravery,” like Ming’s performingdespiteher proportions. These women can’timagine someone with Ming’s build feeling comfortable enough to bare it all in public.
If such a woman is anywhere, she’s often with a bachelorette party. But as I survey the three groups, their attendees are watching Ming with the appropriate degree of reverence. They’re spirited but not sauced, and the whole room has a good energy for eight o’clock. Not an empty seat in the house.
I relax against the wall. The paper’s textured detailing tickles my bare shoulders, and the sensation sends my attention to the bubbled spot by the stage, though the flaw has lost the edge it had earlier. Now I see potential. Ditto the sconces in back, which—I wrinkle my nose—c’mon, that’s an easy fix.
The acrylic light fittings are too modern for the room, anyway. And the wallpaper’s justfussy. I noticed that the first time I came in to watch Jane sing. With the performers decked out in feathers and fringe, the clean lines of an art deco print would be better suited to us, maybe a solid block of matte color behind the stage to better define the area.
I close my eyes. The idea takes shape in my mind, a narrow arc extending from the sides of the stage to a few feet below the ceiling. My right hand finds its way to the calluses of my left again, fingers itching for a pencil...
A wolf whistle pierces the air and I flutter my eyes open with a start. I scan the room, hoping I wasn’t caught daydreaming. Esteban watches me from where he stands by the risers, his overly manicured eyebrows high.
“Coffee?” he mouths.
I wave him off, mouthing back, “I’m fine.” He winks and walks on, revealing an empty seat at the table behind him.
Odd.We’re supposed to be totally booked. I glance at the single individual seated at the two-top—
My glance stretches to a gawk as I take in his striking arrangement of appealing facial features: defined cheekbones; solid jaw; thick, dark eyebrows that peak a little in the center. Either Meryton’s lighting is working overtime, or this is one good-looking diner. I can’t determine which end of his thirties he’s closer to, but I’d place him at the younger side—
He’s looking at me.
