I have lived long enough and read enough romance novels to recognise a future rivals-to-lovers storyline when I see it.
“Welcome, everyone!” Beth claps her hands, cutting Komal off mid-insult. “I’m so happy that you came to see what the new Zen and Tonic studio is all about. As well as our fabulous range of organic, natural skincare treatments, infused with secret ingredients to increase longevity and improve skin condition, we have a full schedule of wellnessclasses, including yoga, tantric yoga, and our brand-new beginner pole dancing classes.”
Beth does a little back hook spin and body roll, and her captive audience hoots with delight.
“Why pole dancing? Well, it’s good for core strength, flexibility, tone, and cardio fitness. It works the whole body and nourishes the soul, too. Everyone should get the chance to feel beautiful and sexy in their skin, and that’s what pole dancing is all about.” Beth points to a poster on the wall. “Did you know that pole dancing originated with this unnamed erotic dancer in Paris? She danced for Gustave Eiffel at one of his infamous parties, using a steel pole, and that gave him the idea for the luscious angles and elegant proportions of the Eiffel Tower. She brought the pole idea back to her erotic theatre in Paris, and it’s been a staple of striptease ever since.”
My eyes bug out of my head. How did she getthat?
It’s a Toulouse-Lautrec poster advertising La Petite Mort, although Beth has whited over my theatre’s name with her studio. It wasn’t the first time I ever sat for Henri – I’ve graced many of his works, but this was one of the most popular. I’m holding my pole and facing away from the audience, my legs draped artistically while the other arm holds out a mirror. You cannot see my face in the mirror, but you can see the details of the scarab beetle clasped at my throat, and above it, two tiny dots that might’ve been mistaken for blemishes in the paint. Fang marks – a signal to the bohemian Upyr of Paris that they were safe in my theatre.
I thought all copies of that poster had been destroyed after my theatre burned. How did one survive?
The back of my neck prickles.
Staring at this image of my past reminds me that as much as I’ve tried to lie low, someone,anyone,could find me and take it all away again.
My nails dig into the flyer I’m still holding, crumpling the edge.
Celeste watches me, her eyes asking questions I have no way of answering.
Beth is still yammering on about the history of pole, but I don’t hear her, too mesmerised by that vision from my past. “We honour theorigins of pole and the strippers and sex workers who perform it. Pole is expanding out of the club and into studios like this. To demonstrate the fun you can have in this invigorating, sensual and body-positive space, I’ll be leading some volunteers in a short pole class. Let’s cheer them on! Ladies, to your poles!”
Komal bounces on her feet with excitement. Behind her, Augustin’s cheeks redden, but he doesn’t look away.
Maisie groans. Isis struts across the floor wearing a purple tie-dyed bodysuit. Dora has gone white as a sheet.
I grit my teeth as I shrug off my bomber jacket, revealing the matching lilac workout set underneath. My Louboutin heels click against the floorboards. If I’m going to make a fool of myself for Beth’s business, I’m at least going to look incredible doing it.
Beth leads us through a quick warm-up, shows us some basic spins and how to climb the pole, and then demonstrates the routine she wants us to learn. “You do a forward spin, back hook, and then twirl to the floor, body roll, point your yoni to the sky – give it a little sexy attitude, ladies, we’re celebrating our divine feminine!”
“This is not the divine feminine,” Dora mutters. “This is the divine comedy.”
Everything Beth demonstrates is pretty simple and not that different from the moves I performed at La Petite Mort. Sexy dancing hasn’t changed much throughout the ages. Beth puts on some floaty music, and as my fingers wrap around the pole, my bodyremembers.
I remember dancing. I remember losing myself in the music. I remember the warm thrill skittering down my spine when I gazed out at the crowd to rapturous applause. I remember flowers thrown at my feet and men prostrating themselves before me, mesmerised by what I could do with movement and music.
I remember the power in my body – a body that was mine to use and control, even when very little else in the world was mine.
I remember telling stories, speaking truth without saying a word, condemning everyone in the audience for their sins while making them worship me.
The music courses through me. I step. I spin. I hook my leg. I point my toes. I toss my head and run my hands over my body. My limbs wake up. My muscles groan with the weight of memories. My fangs drop and my lips curl into a smile. I grip the pole behind my knee and lean back, hanging upside down while blood rushes to my head.
I feelalive.
“What are you doing?” Beth cries out. “That’s not in the routine. You could hurt yourself.”
“Wow, Arabella, you’re really good.” Dora thuds to the floor.
“How do you make that look so graceful?” Maisie groans, her legs akimbo and her hand gripping the pole so hard her knuckles are white.
“Beth, help! I’ve trapped my hand!” Komal calls out as she hangs upside down, her hands gripping the pole in terror.
I ignore them all, focusing on moving with the music, memories releasing as my muscles loosen up. As I spin around the pole, my gaze catches someone in the corner of the room, standing beside Alaric, a rapt expression on his stupid, handsome face.
What isGideondoing here?
And why is he staring at me like that?
