Come Dancing (2 page)

In the summer heat, the city smelled like a rotting overripe fruit. I turned onto Broome, glad to see that Vicky wasn’t cooling her heels on the sidewalk. After climbing three flights and unlocking the double deadbolts, I pushed up my screenless windows to catch a breeze. I removed the scarf covering a wooden crate of my favorite albums, chose a B.B. King and lowered the needle.

Hmm, what to wear
… I held a cold beer against my cheek and stared at the things hanging from nails in the wall, since my loft didn’t come with a closet.

The selection was sparse, to put it mildly. I’d snagged my second-hand leather skirt for eight bucks because the lining was torn.
Maybe it’ll hold up for one more night’s dancing
… I grabbed my stapler and fixed the trailing hemline. From my three-legged dresser—a legit curbside salvage—I drew a ripped top from Screaming Mimi’s and black elbow-length gloves that I’d cut the fingers out of. The finishing touch was ten rubber bracelets on each arm.

Now for a few safety pins to add a punk edge. I attached a couple to my sleeve.
Nice one, Julia. Looks like a failed home ec project
, I thought, unclipping them. No matter how hard I tried to seem “downtown”, I felt like I still looked fresh-off-the-farm. I ran a brush through my chestnut layers and licked my finger to smooth an eyebrow. Sometimes people commented on the blue of my eyes, but I usually pictured myself in the Coke-bottle lenses I’d worn until college, when I finally got contacts.

“That’s as good as it’s gonna get,” I told the girl frowning at me in the mirror. I gave up and went to put on another record.

A familiar voice was calling from the street. “Get your
Post
here! Hot off the press: Julia Nash Leaves Office before Midnight—Publishing Industry Collapses in Ruins.”

I leaned out the window to see Vicky grinning up at me. Her cropped blond hair and pert nose made her look like a mischievous pixie. “Just a sec.” I got my key and threw it down to her, stuffing it inside a sock so it was easier to catch. She unlocked the door and stomped up the stairs in a flirty short skirt and heels; she could afford better clothes since her new company paid well.

“Nice hem job there.” Her green eyes danced as she gave me the once-over. She plopped down on the couch and I handed her a beer. “Could we listen to something a little less dour? Sheesh. You and your blues.”

“Sure, if you insist. Too bad you don’t appreciate the higher art forms.” I removed Howlin’ Wolf and put on The Pretenders, whipping my hips to the pounding bass.

“Is this the haircut album?” Vicky asked with a smirk. The other weekend before we went out, I’d propped the record cover against my mirror and tried to trim my hair like Chrissie Hynde’s.

“Those of us who are still assistants can’t afford salons. I thought I did a pretty good job; maybe if this publishing thing doesn’t work out, I’ll try beauty school.”

“Lucky thing it wasn’t Bow Wow Wow you were in the mood for that day.”

“Yeah, a huge purple mohawk would go over really well at the office.” I sat at the other end of the couch. “How are things with Emily?” Her new boss was demanding, but at least she was fair.

“She liked the press release I wrote today. It’s for a pop psych book on how to keep a man interested. I can condense the whole thing into two words: Act
un
interested. Speaking of work, is the old letch still trying to get into your pants?” Although he was married, Harvey had a sleazy history of putting the moves on junior women.

“He keeps asking me out for a drink. That measly five-hundred-dollar raise isn’t going to get him over. Not that I’d go out with him for a million.” So far I’d been able to fend Harvey off, but it made working for him a real drag.

Vicky propped her skinny legs on a wooden crate. “We have to find you a new job. I asked Emily to let me know if she heard of any openings, if the hiring freeze ever gets lifted. Wouldn’t it be great to work together again?”

“Yes, I miss being able to grab lunch anytime. At least
your
career is launched; I’m just treading water. If I don’t make editor at some point… I have this nightmare I’ll still be typing Harvey’s letters when I’m thirty, in a moth-eaten cardigan with specs hanging from a chain around my neck.”

Vicky laughed. “Try not to obsess over it. You’ve only been there a little over a year.”

Which was about how long she’d been there when Emily rescued her. I went to grab another beer and cranked up “Stop Your Sobbing,” snarling the words along with Chrissie.

“Did that guy from the party ever call you?” Vicky asked.

“Nope. By the time I got back from the bathroom, a redhead in fishnets had him cornered.”

“You have to be more assertive. You let other girls move in who aren’t nearly as hot as you are.” She took a sip of beer and continued. “You can’t just sit back and let the guy do all the work. You aren’t in Pikesville, Pa. anymore.” Vicky often had advice about my love life, or lack thereof. From what she’d told me about growing up on Long Island, she hadn’t gone two weeks without a date since she was fourteen.

“Message of Love” came on, and Vicky hopped up to dance. I joined her, pogoing to the beat. She raised her arms and did an exaggerated grind against my hip.

“We should moonlight as erotic dancers,” I said, laughing and pushing her away. “Then I could afford a decent haircut.”

“If we made those moves at the Palladium, we’d have every dude in the place salivating.”

I collapsed on my sagging couch. “I don’t think I want them salivating on me.”

“Why not? You’d have the pick of the litter.” Vicky flopped down beside me.

I peeled the label off my sweating bottle and smoothed it on my thigh. “All I want is one good guy who’ll appreciate what I have to offer. Once I figure out what that is.”

“I don’t get why you’re so particular. Sometimes it’s nice just to have a warm body next to you. Wards off the lonelies on a Saturday night.” She downed the last drop of beer.

“You have a point. But it would be good if it could be a little more meaningful.”

“It
is
meaningful. It means you got boinked.”

I laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind, Victoria.”

At eleven, we walked the twenty blocks north to the Palladium. The club had a cavernous ballroom on the main floor and an upstairs VIP lounge for private parties. The line to get in snaked around the block.

Vicky went right up front, ignoring glares from some overdressed women and their dates. “Hi Barry,” she said to the bouncer.

“Vicky. And Julia.” Barry grinned and moved aside. “Come on in, girls.”

“Hey, we’ve been here half an hour!” a guy in a suit complained.

“Go back to Wall Street,” Vicky muttered as I followed her through the entrance.

We shoved our way into the crowd, the music so loud it was useless to try to talk. I could feel the bass throbbing in my throat. The concrete floor was already sticky with spilt beer, the smell of sweat mingling with the cloying scent of clove cigarettes. We found a spot next to a man with a chain running from nostril to ear, his blond foot-high spikes glowing in the black lights. Vicky blissfully swayed her slim hips, and I shut my eyes and lost myself in the rhythm.

The video guy came around, aiming his shoulder-mounted camera at us. We kept dancing normally in the spotlight’s glare, unlike a lot of people who put on a show for him. It was distracting because our images were projected larger-than-life against the huge back wall, so everyone could see. Finally he moved on to some girls in tight rubber dresses who shook their booties at the camera.

As a Clash tune played I noticed a man standing near me, holding a drink. He touched my arm and started to say something, seeming to point at the ceiling.

“What?” I shouted.

“A friend of mine wants to meet you gals. We’re up there,” he said with some kind of Southern accent.

I wondered why this guy had to run interference, but Vicky was interested. “What’s going on in the lounge?” she asked.

“Just a little party.” He grinned and took a sip of his drink.

Vicky smiled her assent, and he started toward the stairs.

“I heard some rock and rollers might be here tonight; there’s a private party or something,” Vicky said as we followed him, weaving through slam-dancing bodies.

I wasn’t dressed to impress in my ragged leather skirt, but at least we might score a free drink. We went up to the dark lounge where a bouncer was sitting on a stool with a checklist. I wondered why they needed a door-minder, but once we got inside, the crowd was pretty upscale. Slick-looking SoHo types struck blasé poses, while the women circulating the room looked like models.

The Southerner turned to us, and the light from the window overlooking the dance floor shone on his face. “Name your poison. I’m Sammy, by the way.”

With a shock it hit me who he was; I hadn’t recognized him in the dark, with his soul patch and shorter hair. All of a sudden I was really nervous. I’d been a huge fan of the British group Four to the Floor since I was a teenager, like everyone else I knew. Vicky, as usual, kept her cool. “Good to meet you; I’m Vicky. I’ll have a tequila sunrise. Julia?”

“Vodka and tonic, please.”

“One party water and a Ta-kill-ya, comin’ right up.” Sammy went over to the bar, tended by a girl in a black leather bikini.

“Can you believe it? That’s Sammy Parnell,” Vicky said. “I wonder if the others are here.” She scanned the crowd. “Who do you think his friend is? He said someone wanted to meet us.”

“No telling. I can’t believe it’s him either.” Whoever this friend was, he was probably interested in Vicky. She tended to attract across-the-room attention with her waifish blonde hair and endless legs. I hoped I had enough for a cab ride if she wound up going home with him; I had planned on splitting the fare.

Sammy returned with our drinks. “My buddy Jack’s over there. Why don’t you go say hello?” He jerked his head toward a dark corner where some women were standing before a low sofa. Could he mean Jack Kipling, the guitarist of the group? The vivacious clump of girls directed their enthusiasm toward whoever was sitting on the couch.

“Why don’t you introduce us?” Vicky said, smiling her Cheshire-cat smile that slanted her green eyes.

“Tell you what, I’ll just let him know you’re here.” Sammy went over and squeezed in between two twiggy blondes. A dark head of hair was briefly visible when the women parted. I glanced away, not wanting to seem star-struck, but Vicky continued to gaze in their direction.

“Oh my god! He’s looking our way now.”

“Stop staring. They must get that all the time.” I sipped my drink, which had twice the usual amount of vodka in it.

Sammy sauntered back. “Jack said to come say hi.”

Vicky had experience dealing with celebrities in her publicist role; I couldn’t imagine what I’d say to someone that famous. Nor was I in the mood to kiss up to some arrogant, obnoxious rock star who expected women to roll over and beg—even if I was a huge fan. “Go ahead. Maybe you can get an autograph.”

Vicky followed him to the sofa and exchanged a few words with Jack, who was still seated and mostly blocked from view. Then she laughed with Sammy for a few minutes and scribbled on a piece of paper. I polished off my drink as she came over smiling.

“Well, that was a thrill. Now I can tell my grandchildren that I met Jack Kipling. And Sammy Parnell. I gave Sammy my number.”

“Maybe they’ll both call you. Can we go downstairs and dance some more?” I didn’t want to blow her chances with Jack if he got unglued from his groupies, but I felt out of place in this fancy crowd.

“Let’s stay a few more minutes. Aren’t you going to say hi to Jack?” she asked, combing her fingers through her hair. “Is my lipstick smeared?”

“Lick your front tooth. There, it’s gone.”

“Listen, Jules, I think it’s you he wants to meet.”

I laughed. “Sure. He probably came here tonight hoping to run into me. I’m near the top of his list, just below Starlet Number One and Starlet Number Two.”

“I’m not kidding. He asked me where my friend was.”

I tried to take another sip of vodka before remembering it was all gone. So maybe it
wasn’t
Vicky that Jack had singled out when the video guy threw our images on the wall. He was standing now; I could just make out his bored expression as he faced his entourage. A girl grasped his arm, clinging tightly until he detached himself.

“Sammy’s coming back,” Vicky said. “Look who’s with him.”

My pulse bolted; Jack was heading our way. Wild dark hair shot up in all directions, an earring glinting through the tangle. His long legs were encased in skintight jeans, frayed at the cuffs over python boots. He had a few days’ stubble and dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept recently. When he stood next to me, I almost passed out. Even this disheveled, he was as rakishly good-looking as on his album covers.

“You made me lose my spot on the couch,” Jack said, his Cockney accent stronger than I would have expected.

“I’m sure they’ll let you have it back.” I forced myself to tear my eyes away from him. Projected on the outer wall, two girls in death-mask makeup were thrashing about.

“D’you come here often?” Jack said, moving closer.

I tried to remember to breathe. “Fairly often. The music’s more danceable than some other places.”

“I noticed you dancing down there.” He gestured at the main floor with his drink. “Verrry nice.”

My cheeks flushed. “I was just trying to avoid a head-on with those slam-dancers.”

Jack laughed. “Why don’t we give you girls a ride home? I’m ready to split.”

I was so surprised, I didn’t know what to say.

“Jack’s car is right outside,” Sammy added.

“Fantastic,” Vicky said.

My heart pounded as we followed them to the stairs, Jack putting on sunglasses before he hit the first floor. The men hurried out to the street where a big black car was waiting at the curb. The driver opened the back door and Jack dove in, followed by Sammy. Vicky slipped inside and I got in by the window. The interior smelled of new leather, and had drink holders with various bottles and little lights along the sides.
I think I’m in someone else’s movie
, I told myself.