“I won’t have to strip, will I? I don’t do that.”
“No, not really. Maybe some peekaboo.”
“What?”
“It’ll make sense when we’re out there. It’s all very organic. And I’m going to give you a quick crash course.”
As he sprays and twists, piling my hair on my head like Gertie’s, he leans in to secure a lock on my scalp with a bobby pin. I notice a tiny tattoo on his inner wrist, a delicate broken heart surrounding the initialsF. W. R.Solidarity swells in me like a curling beach wave.
Gently, I take his wrist and meet his eyes.
He freezes, three bobby pins sticking out between his pressed lips.
“My loss was Philip. He was my husband. I wear his hair around my neck.”
I pull the jet locket out from under the makeup cape.
He swallows hard, removes the bobby pins from his lips. “My loss was Frederick William Roth. My husband.”
He continues pinning and spraying, tackling some loose locks with a curling iron.
“I met Freddy ten years ago, when I was auditioning and waiting tables in New York City. I was sad and lonely, recently moved from my small life in the Dakota suburbs. But I knew I was in the right place. He ordered sushi at my table and had this adorable Cockney accent. He left his number on the receipt with a smiley face.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, as he tucks the last piece of hair up with a rhinestone comb.
“Thank you.” He pats the back of my head, making sure everything stays in place.
“I met my Philip in a coffee shop fifteen years ago. And I lost him about two months ago.”
“God. I’m so sorry.” He blinks hard, his eyes dewy. “We’re part of that strange little club no one wants join.”
“Indeed,” I answer.
Gertie walks through, reminding everyone there’s only forty-five minutes until showtime.
After asking for my sizes, Tyler sends me into a dressing room with one of the cranberry corset costumes and a silky black, taupe, and silver strapless bra. (I gulp, afraid to ask why I need such a fancy bra.) Through the curtain, he passes me fishnet tights, a garter belt, a white silk flower choker, and heeled silver dancing shoes. In the darkness, I scramble to get dressed,trying not to think about what I’m doing—basically wearing my undies in front of a crowd of strangers and dancing to who-knows-what.
How did August drag me into this? And where the hell is he? I haven’t seen him since he disappeared into the dressing room.
“Ready?” Tyler asks from behind the curtain.
“Yes.”
He steps in, one hand behind his back, and flips on the light. I catch my breath at the sight of myself in the mirror. The corset fits perfectly, the seams, ruffles, and ribbons lined up in all the right places, the bust accentuating my modest assets. As I changed, I learned that the corset doesn’t go on like an actual corset—no front busk with little metal tabs and loops. Rather, it stays together with a vertical strip of Velcro hidden carefully under a ribbon running down my chest. A dark lace-and-tulle bustle sticks out from my rear suggestively. I worried the makeup, particularly the eye sparkles, would be garish. But it all looks ethereal and dramatic now that I’m in full costume. I’m like an alter ego of my restrained, daytime widow-self, obsessed with propriety and everything black.
Although I left Philip’s urn in my satchel in one of the lockers, I kept the locket at my throat, the choker holding it in place. I stare at my reflection, and I touch the cool jet surface. I remind myself that I’m the same woman who wore the modest black eyelet dress with tights and loafers earlier this evening.
“Perfect!” Tyler says, pulling out two full ostrich feather fans from behind his back.
“I don’t look like me.”
“Lizzie, you are more you now than ever before. Now, come on,” he thrusts one of the fans into my hands. “We’ve got thirty minutes.”
The playlist begins with Christina Aguilera’s “Express.”
“How familiar are you with these?” he asks, as he connects his phone to the room’s stereo.
I smirk. “I know Ineverlisten to pop culture singers when I run.”
