“No,” she said, tracing his chin with a thoughtful finger. “I meant with Malcolm. And any others that come along.” She made herself laugh, a little. “And they do tend to.”
He chuckled and grabbed her rear. Bending down, he pressed his face into the divot of her groin. “Delly,” he said, “you’re a big girl, and you like your fun.” The pressure of his weight pushed her back, and she fell into her makeup chair. It started to spin, but he stopped it. “If I minded—” He flipped up the edge of her skirt, and ducked under. “—I’d already be gone.”
His fingers crept to the tops of her stockings, found the edge of her panties, and pushed them aside. She dug her varnished nails deep into the scarred leather of the upholstery. Tory’s breath warmed her skin. She felt a flush rise up her neck, across her chest, and lifted a hand to touch her breast. She crossed her ankles across Tory’s back, sliding down in her seat into the slippery heat of his mouth.
Five minutes later, she had her blouse unbuttoned, and one shoe half-hanging from her big toe. Tory was pulling himself off with his face still pressed between her thighs. Her breath was dry and ragged, her hands curled into fists. Tossing her head back, she caught a flash of her own red face in the mirror. And then Malcolm opened the door without knocking, already halfway through whatever sentence he meant for her to hear.
“—she was a man I’d cut the oysters off her, and then she might hit those high no—Queen’s cunt, Delia!”
Tory startled beneath her skirt, then froze. Cordelia blinked once, twice, watching the color drain from Malcolm’s face.
“I thought you were rehearsing,” she said, stupidly.
“Delia,” he said again, and his voice was dangerously even. Then, he looked down and lost his composure completely. “Tory MacIntyre, you son of a half-price whore! Get out of there!”
Tory flipped back Cordelia’s skirt like it was a curtain and he was making a casual entrance onto the stage. “Sailer,” he said. “Didn’t expect you to finish with that poor girl so soon. From what Delly’s said, I hadn’t got you pegged as a sprinter.”
Malcolm’s pallor evaporated in the heat of a sudden, furious flush. He reached out, unseeing, towards the shelf where Cordelia kept her wigs and headdresses. There was a fifth of gin there, and an empty tumbler. Malcolm’s hand closed around the glass, and he hurled it at the wall. It shattered, and Cordelia took a moment to be grateful he hadn’t thrown the bottle.
*
“What, I ain’t enough for you?” Malcolm threw himself into his chair. She’d cajoled him into his own office, where at least anything he broke would belong to him.
“We’re friends, Mal. Tory and I are good friends.”
“You’re knockin’ him.”
“Why do you care? We ain’t married.”
He crushed an invoice in his fist. “Is that what you want?”
“Oh for pity’s sake.” She rolled her eyes. “No one in their right mind would take you home.”
“You can turn that one around,” said Malcolm, sneering.
Cordelia opened her mouth to reply, but the door to Malcolm’s office swung open and Aristide Makricosta looked in, flicking a damp ringlet from his face. “I heard you sacked the tit singer,” he said. “I’ll fill in, but I expect a b-b-bonus.” He pulled the door to, and his footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Malcolm swept the ruined paper into the wastebasket. “Like he needs it.”
“Why do you put up with him at all?” Cordelia flicked her fingers, as if cleaning them of dirt. “He’s a certified prick.”
Malcolm reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a battered cigarette. He made her wait while he lit it, took a deep drag, and blew the smoke straight up at the ceiling. Stubble shadowed the column of his throat. “Because he brings in the punters with the deep pockets.”
“Oh, and me?”
“You just reach in and make ’em pay.”
“Get hanged.” Slamming the door, she stalked back to her dressing room. It was one scrap too many. On top of being interrupted with Tory, on top of the fight with Malcolm, she was behind on rent. Tips had been harder to come by, with all the punters on edge. The number of sour faces she’d seen, the number of whispers about the election … It ought to be illegal to sell newspapers on Temple Street. Ruined business for the entertainment trade.
She borrowed a broom from Lucia, the old caretaker, and swept up the shattered glass in her dressing room. Two bits she couldn’t afford sent Tito scrambling down toward the boardwalk for a bite of whatever the food carts were selling.
Backstage started to fill up with cast and stagehands. Cordelia stripped off her street clothes and hung them on the coat hooks behind the door. Goosebumps broke out on her bare skin—Malcolm must have axed the boiler for the season. Pinch-pocket miser.
She was gluing on her pasties over nipples stiff with cold when Tito returned holding a greasy paper bag.
“Barley fritters all right?” he asked. “Stuffed with eel.”
“Suits like a tailor,” she said. “Take one yourself.”