Read Online Raiders of the Lost Corset by Ellen Byerrum - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ellen Byerrum
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Stella a tissue and waited while her spunky hairstylist dabbed at her eye makeup.
A young man whose hair looked like a dalmatian got up out of his styling chair and gave Stella a hug and a tip, oblivious to her tears. She had apparently just dyed striking black spots into his short platinum-blond flattop. “Thanks, Stella! Whoa. It’s radical.”
He preened at himself in the mirror and was gone. Lacey glanced at Stella with an eyebrow raised. Stella’s evenly dyed black hair looked positively conservative by comparison.
“Yeah, it’s a pretty cool look, huh, Lace,” Stella said, looking wistfully after her spotted handiwork. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it first.” Then she remembered Magda and sighed.
“Are you okay?” Lacey said.
“Yeah. I’m through for the day.” She turned back to Lacey. “We need to do something in memory of Magda. Let’s go get a drink.
Our own little wake for Magda,” Stella said, stripping off her black Stylettos smock to reveal an eye-popping purple corset — no doubt a Magda Rousseau Original — over tight black capri pants. Her formerly bright red crew cut was growing out. She had dyed it jet-black and was wearing it slicked back and sleek like a seal. She reapplied her eye makeup and checked for imperfections in the mirror. Her eyes were lined with black kohl, her lips were red as blood and matched her long nails. She looked as exotic as if she were channeling a mutant mixture of Mata Hari and Rudolph Valentino. Lacey whistled softly at the new Stella.
“New look, Stella?”
“You like it?”
“I like it lots. It’s you.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Totally me. Makes me feel dangerous.”
“Do you need to feel dangerous?’
“Duh, you bet I do. I need a man.”
“What about Bobby Blue Eyes?” Stella had been crazy for months about a certain angelic-looking blond dude who loved mo-torcycles, erotic adventures, and Stella’s very assertive twin peaks —“the girls,” as she called them.
“You know. History. Down the road. Whatever.”
“But I thought you guys were, um, cozy,” Lacey said. Stella was grabbing her jacket and striding toward the front door. “A couple. Permanent. Or at least semipermanent.”
“Permanents don’t last forever, Lace. Life is like hair, you know, sometimes you just gotta cut loose, make a change. And I can’t wait forever for a new man. I’m not like you.” Stella threw her a pointed look that Lacey decoded as You are so pathetic. “A woman’s got needs, you know.”
Lacey ignored that. She followed Stella out the front door of the shiny Dupont Circle salon. She didn’t want to get Stella started on what a woman needs. And she didn’t want to get into a long discussion about whether what Lacey needed was Victor Donovan, the big dope who still made her heart race.
They chose a nearby bar that served trendy drinks to a nerdy crowd of Capitol Hill staffers who were trying to look cool. They sat at the bar, lost in their own thoughts, until their trendy drink specials arrived, a Pink Lady with a double shot of gin for Stella and blue champagne for Lacey. Stella took one big gulp of her Pink Lady, opened her eyes wide, and socked Lacey in the shoulder. Lacey spilled a little blue champagne.
“I know! Everyone can wear their corsets to the funeral! For Magda, you know?
Lacey blinked. “Corsets?”
“Yeah, you, me, my assistant manager Michelle, the rest of the salon. All those actresses she costumed. And I know some of her call-girl clients and that corset-kinky crowd.” Stella took another gulp of the pink liquid. “We all got our corsets and bustiers from Magda. It would be one last great costume parade for the old doll.”
Lacey couldn’t imagine the refined Michelle, a gorgeous black woman, in a corset. If Stella had her way, the funeral would look like some sort of misguided Old West saloon gal musical number, or a corset fetishist’s ball. Lacey was still trying to adjust to
A young man whose hair looked like a dalmatian got up out of his styling chair and gave Stella a hug and a tip, oblivious to her tears. She had apparently just dyed striking black spots into his short platinum-blond flattop. “Thanks, Stella! Whoa. It’s radical.”
He preened at himself in the mirror and was gone. Lacey glanced at Stella with an eyebrow raised. Stella’s evenly dyed black hair looked positively conservative by comparison.
“Yeah, it’s a pretty cool look, huh, Lace,” Stella said, looking wistfully after her spotted handiwork. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it first.” Then she remembered Magda and sighed.
“Are you okay?” Lacey said.
“Yeah. I’m through for the day.” She turned back to Lacey. “We need to do something in memory of Magda. Let’s go get a drink.
Our own little wake for Magda,” Stella said, stripping off her black Stylettos smock to reveal an eye-popping purple corset — no doubt a Magda Rousseau Original — over tight black capri pants. Her formerly bright red crew cut was growing out. She had dyed it jet-black and was wearing it slicked back and sleek like a seal. She reapplied her eye makeup and checked for imperfections in the mirror. Her eyes were lined with black kohl, her lips were red as blood and matched her long nails. She looked as exotic as if she were channeling a mutant mixture of Mata Hari and Rudolph Valentino. Lacey whistled softly at the new Stella.
“New look, Stella?”
“You like it?”
“I like it lots. It’s you.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Totally me. Makes me feel dangerous.”
“Do you need to feel dangerous?’
“Duh, you bet I do. I need a man.”
“What about Bobby Blue Eyes?” Stella had been crazy for months about a certain angelic-looking blond dude who loved mo-torcycles, erotic adventures, and Stella’s very assertive twin peaks —“the girls,” as she called them.
“You know. History. Down the road. Whatever.”
“But I thought you guys were, um, cozy,” Lacey said. Stella was grabbing her jacket and striding toward the front door. “A couple. Permanent. Or at least semipermanent.”
“Permanents don’t last forever, Lace. Life is like hair, you know, sometimes you just gotta cut loose, make a change. And I can’t wait forever for a new man. I’m not like you.” Stella threw her a pointed look that Lacey decoded as You are so pathetic. “A woman’s got needs, you know.”
Lacey ignored that. She followed Stella out the front door of the shiny Dupont Circle salon. She didn’t want to get Stella started on what a woman needs. And she didn’t want to get into a long discussion about whether what Lacey needed was Victor Donovan, the big dope who still made her heart race.
They chose a nearby bar that served trendy drinks to a nerdy crowd of Capitol Hill staffers who were trying to look cool. They sat at the bar, lost in their own thoughts, until their trendy drink specials arrived, a Pink Lady with a double shot of gin for Stella and blue champagne for Lacey. Stella took one big gulp of her Pink Lady, opened her eyes wide, and socked Lacey in the shoulder. Lacey spilled a little blue champagne.
“I know! Everyone can wear their corsets to the funeral! For Magda, you know?
Lacey blinked. “Corsets?”
“Yeah, you, me, my assistant manager Michelle, the rest of the salon. All those actresses she costumed. And I know some of her call-girl clients and that corset-kinky crowd.” Stella took another gulp of the pink liquid. “We all got our corsets and bustiers from Magda. It would be one last great costume parade for the old doll.”
Lacey couldn’t imagine the refined Michelle, a gorgeous black woman, in a corset. If Stella had her way, the funeral would look like some sort of misguided Old West saloon gal musical number, or a corset fetishist’s ball. Lacey was still trying to adjust to
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