Page 98 of A Certain Appeal
“He still doesn’t know what it means when you call him that.” I fold my arms on the table and rest my head.
“He doesn’t know he’sTall, Dark, and Fuckable?” She nudges me. “What kind of girlfriendareyou?”
I shut my eyes. “A tactful one?”
“Overrated. Later, lover.”
The metallic shifting of rings on the curtain rod announces Ming’s departure, and I let myself enjoy the quiet for a few minutes, the dull murmur of the crowd at the front of the house providing a white noise that threatens to put me to sleep. A vibration on my wrist brings me back from the brink.
C:WE GOT IT! I’m a Brooklynite, baby!
I smile and reply with a confetti emoji. The last-minute apartment posting is why Chloe had to bow out of tonight’s scouting mission. She and Gales got here two weeks ago, and while the rate on the Airbnb they booked isn’t totally gouging them, Chloe and Gales are ready for a home of their own.
I’m about to rest my head again when Momma’s pink bouffant pokes through the curtain.
“The deejay isn’t back here, is he?” Her voice is low with annoyance, far from the playful lilt of her stage persona.
“Sorry. Just me.”
She lets out a huff, then raises a champagne flute. “Your fella’s a generous one. Got me a glass of the house’s finest.”
I arch a brow.
Momma purses her lips, like I’ve called her out for waxing her nose hairs. “SoI signed on to sing at Pemberley a couple of times.” She points a claw at me. “You’d better wow me at that opening.” She backs away from the curtain, then leans in again. “And if the deejay shows up, tell him I’m gonna skin him.”
I sit up, stretching. “Y’know, Momma, that’sexactlythe kind of energy we’re looking for. This bodes well.” She disappears from view with a mischievous cackle that could rival Ming’s.
Another yawn overtakes me and I stand, fishing my phone from my purse to check my email. The contractor sent photos of the day’s work at Pemberley. I pace the room and scroll through the shots, noting where he made the changes we discussed to the floor tile in the entryway. Chrome veins extend from the base of the doors, radiating over the floor like the rays of the sunburst over Pemberley’s entrance. It’s even better than I imagined.
I blink back sudden tears. They sneak up on me every now and then. I got to lay the final few tiles in the lake: four tiny red pieces, cut and assembled into the shape of a cat—or rather, as Darcy pointed out, akitten—nestled in the sea of turquoise. That got me. And Jane won’t lay off me for what happened when he performed the inaugural sound check. Seeing my favorite person performing on the stage thathad only been a dream a few weeks before had me on the verge of tears anyway, but then the brat sang “Rainbow Connection.” I lost it. Charles is still texting me pictures of Kermit.
I put away my phone and stroll to the far side of the room, letting my attention drift over the flyers and announcements that extend from floor to ceiling. I did my best to ignore them while we met with Diva and Momma, but now I scan for advertisements regarding a talent search for Meryton.
Ming’s made sure that news of what she’s dubbed “the Meryton Massacre” has spread across the scene. Performers and producers have been warned off the SoCal snake in chinos, and anyone worth their eyelash glue is so disgusted by Ginn’s betrayal that she’s having a hard time booking gigs. Rumor has it they’ve still managed to pull in a few acts, mostly new, hungry performers who don’t mind the taint of Wickham’s underhanded dealings and Ginn’s treachery, but I haven’t encountered a single established burlesquer supportive of their venture.
As I study the thumbtacked and taped pages, the most recent addition seems to be the bold-lettered announcement for the debut ofRed, White, and Boobs, which is out of date by three months. I tug it free, revealing a sign forJohnny Ryall’s XXXMas Sextacular—from four years ago?
Jeez.I reach to snag that page, too, but something shiny catches my eye. A... doorknob?As the thought registers, the door swings toward me in a flurry of rustling paper. I stagger back with a yelp, narrowly missing death by a thousand paper cuts. As the door starts to close, two men file inside.
The door shuts with a violent clang that has the pair swiveling toward me. One is the show’s errant deejay.
The other is Wickham. Every muscle in my body goes tight.
The deejay approaches me, wide-eyed. “Shit! Were you right there? I’m sorry!” His head bobs side to side as he surveys me for damage. “It didn’t clock you, did it?”
“No, I’m fine,” I say flatly. I’m watching Wickham, who is studiously avoiding my gaze. This was inevitable. The burlesque scene isn’t that big; we were bound to run into one another at some point. Granted, I didn’t anticipate the meeting’s taking place after a near-clobbering with a stage door. At least, not withmeon the receiving end.
Over the past month, I’ve entertained numerous revenge scenarios. My favorite had him crawling down the catwalk at Pemberley on his knees, his stupid chinos covered in coffee stains, as he begged my forgiveness. In this fantasy, it’s Pemberley’s opening night. I’m onstage in a fabulous showgirl headdress, chin high and looking regal as hell as I coolly deliver my verdict: “No.” He weeps and wets his pants. It’s on the cover of theNew York Postthe next day.
The deejay turns to Wickham. “I’ll get back to you on that proposal, man. I haven’t been hurting for gigs, and—” He checks his phone for the time. “Oh, shit! I should be onstage. Momma’s gonna kill me. I’ll be in touch.” He calls the last bit over his shoulder as he pushes through the curtain to the front of the house.
Wickham watches him go, then turns to me. His discomfort has morphed to a sly smile. “Bennet.” He says my name with a practiced mix of surprise and bemusement.
Dickhead.“I don’t have anything to say to you.” My voice is dangerously calm.
He has the audacity to look hurt. “Bennet—”
“That’sLizto you,” I snap. “You knew what happened in California. You knew, and you—” I cut myself off, wishing I didn’t sayanything at all. If nothing else, he wants a reaction. The least I can do is deny him that. “You’re not worth this.”
