Page 97 of A Certain Appeal
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Across from me, Diva de los Muertos runs her fingers over one of the rhinestones glued to her temple, prying off the gem and placing it in a pile with the others she’s removed. Her face is painted like a sugar skull, the rhinestones detailing flowers she drew for her performance.
Beneath the table, Darcy’s fingers drum an anxious beat on my knee, but I’m not concerned: Diva’s a go. Since last month’s meeting of the minds we’ve signed a good half-dozen performers to Pemberley and not a single one has even asked for time to think it over. The consistent, well-paying gig is an easy sell, and once we explain the scandal surrounding the show’s inception, the offer is just too juicy to pass up.
Ming gives a thumbs-up from her spot at a makeup table behind Diva. She’s thrown herself into scouting, attending shows most nights and taking gigs featuring promising new faces, like Diva. The onlydownside has been these late-night treks to see the potential hires for myself. I’d thought we could have them come to Pemberley, but Ming put the kibosh on that, saying, “Audience chemistry is a critical part of any burlesque performance.” A valid point, and she didn’t even punctuate it with anything vulgar.
Diva pries off one more rhinestone, turning it over between her fingertips. “I’m in.”
Darcy’s hand finally stills, and I bump my knee against his. He’s been a solid wingman on these recruiting trips, though before tonight I’ve only brought him along to negotiate with musical acts Jane has scouted. He’s come a long way since the night we met, but for him, sitting across from a woman clad only in pasties and a G-string—when that woman isn’t me, anyway—still feels like an intrusion.
But Diva’s bone-and-flower motif wasn’t limited to her face. Her peel gradually revealed a painted skeleton, the white body paint illuminated by a blacklight onstage. The contrast against her dark skin was so dramatic, she looked like an improbably buxom wraith. Even this close, she appears to be wearing a skeleton costume. The illusion is probably why Darcy is more at ease.
“Ming’s given me a heads-up on the drama,” says Diva. “I promise to keep it on the DL, so no worries.” She mimes zipping her mouth shut. The skeletal grin painted over her lips makes the gesture alarmingly realistic.
“Thank you,” I say. “It’ll all get out eventually, but the discretion is appreciated.”
She scoops the pile of discarded rhinestones from the table to her palm. “I have a few shows booked further out than your opening night, so shoot me a schedule and I’ll see if there are any conflicts. If you guys can promise a regular gig, you’ve got me.”
She stands, gesturing to her body paint. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a hose. Shut up, Ming,” she adds, not even looking at the other dancer, whose low chuckle is already rumbling with filth.
With Diva sorted, we turn our attention to Momma, the show’s producer and emcee. Ming insisted we arrive on time to catch Momma’s opening number, and I’m glad she did. The towering drag queen burst onto the stage with a full-bodied performance of “When You’re Good to Mama” that had me itching to hand her a contract, and her version of “Fever,” punctuated with deadpan asides about the questionable couples referenced in the song, got more laughs than most of Johnny’s standards. Her commentary on Pocahontas and Captain Smith had Darcy wiping away tears.
“Anything on your mind, or did you just ask me to sit down so I wouldn’t think you were poaching my talent?” Momma’s tone is innocent, but her overlined smile is knowing. Her show has been a launching pad for several new acts, like Diva, but has also become a go-to for established performers who want to try out a new routine. Ming’s number tonight was a stunning, subdued peel with fans of trailing blue silk set to “You Look so Fine.” It was riveting, totally unlike anything I’ve ever seen from her, though she insists she still has a few kinks to sort out.
“Did Ming tell you we were coming by?” I ignore Ming’s feigned gasp of indignation.
Momma inspects her nails, the red acrylics filed to points. “I don’t break out ‘Fever’ for most Wednesday-night crowds.”
“We’re looking for someone to fill in for Johnny when he’s on tour in March,” I say.
“Go on.” Her voice is a purr.
“We’re thinking we’d start you off with a few spots as a featuredsinger. If you like the feel of the space, you’d sub for Johnny when he has other commitments. His annual Foul-Entine’s Day thing’s already scheduled for a Saturday, and there will probably be others once a month or so.”
“Is that all?”
“Ming’s assembling a Thursday-night set. More of a variety show than classical burlesque,” says Darcy. “It will need a host.”
“We don’t need an answer right away.” I draw a business card from my purse, grabbing a pen from the table to write the date of opening night on the back. “If you can make it, we’ll save you a table.”
Momma spears the card between her talons, turning it over to look at the date. “I can make myself available.” She tucks the card into the vast stuffing of her bosom. “Now for the after-show rounds. Momma needs a drink.” She sashays through the fringed curtain separating the dressing room from the front of the house.
“She’s the first soft ‘yes’ we’ve gotten,” Darcy muses, eyes on the still-swaying curtain. “Everyone else has been enthusiastic.”
Ming drapes her garment bag over the table. “Shedidsay she needed a drink...”
“That’s my cue, right? I’m the closer?” Darcy looks to me for confirmation. At my laugh, he rises. “You need anything?”
“Other than a stimulant?” Ming slides into Darcy’s vacant seat. She puts her feet on my lap. “I saw you yawning during my set. It makes a gal doubt her sex appeal.”
I wrinkle my nose in apology, stifling another yawn. Between Work It, renovations, scouting missions, and my private nocturnal activities with Darcy, I’m spread thin.
Work It is still taking up the better part of forty hours a week, though Toby’s been understanding with the odd times I’ve had toduck out for contractor meetings. He blames himself for not warning me off of Wickham, and he was mortified to learn about the idea theft, though not entirely surprised. It turns out they weren’t as close as Wickham’s visits led me to believe, and Toby was secretly relieved when Wickham’s interest in me was redirected.
“No, thanks,” I tell Darcy, who’s already at the curtain. “Go land us a drag queen!”
“I’m out, too,” says Ming, shifting her feet off me. She plants a noisy kiss on the top of my head. “Might hit TD ’n’ F up for a shot, though. Part of my finder’s fee.”
