Page 24 of Melt With You

She hesitated a moment, heart racing. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Just promise me you won’t tell Dori about it. She’s been dying to go with us, and I won’t take her. She’s far too young to get mixed up in parties that last all night long. And she’ll be so jealous if she hears we took you.’

Dori grinned suddenly. ‘Sure, no problem, I won’t tell Dori.’ She felt a bit lightheaded at the statement. Keeping secrets from herself now, was she? Wasn’t that one of the first stages of insanity? ‘What time are you leaving?’ she asked Bette.

‘About ten. Things don’t really start up until midnight. We won’t be back until five or six. We can grab a breakfast at the Creamery and be ready for work.’

Dori’s eyes widened. Yes, she lived in Manhattan, and over the years she’d been to many parties. But she couldn’t imagine going to work after an all-nighter. She recovered quickly. ‘Where should I meet you?’

‘We’ll pick you up. Gael’s driving. You’re staying at Dori’s house, right?’

And before Dori could say another word, Bette patted her on the arm and headed out the back way, swinging a hefty black bag so that it landed smoothly in the dumpster to the left of the door.

At her house, Dori stared once more into her mother’s closet. Could she make something work with these clothes? No. That was the simple answer. Even her mother’s party clothes were abhorrent to her – all Dynasty glitter with the shoulders that would not die. She flipped through a copy of Vogue that she’d found by her mother’s bed. Not helpful at all. God, the outfits were dated. No, that wasn’t right. She was the one who was dated. In fact, she was post-dated.

With no other options, she went back into her room and, for the first time since her slip back through time, she opened the doors to her closet and looked inside.

Instantly, she felt her breath catch. She loved these clothes. There was a basket on the top shelf filled with fingerless gloves. On the dresser in the rear of the closet were fishnets, striped stockings, an ancient artillery belt. Her favorite clothes had made the trip to Europe with her family, but there were plenty of treasures left behind. So much black. She’d gone for the Goth look from head to toe. And the silver hardware. The tight-fitting concert T-shirts. Bubble skirts. Ripped-up sweatshirts, the look stolen from Flashdance. Clothes to layer. Colors found mostly in accessories. Neons so bright they reminded her of safety tape found only on work sites.

Oh, look at this! A Wham T-shirt. She remembered George Michael when he’d been part of that group. And under that was a T-shirt from Lou Reed’s Red Joy Stick tour. God, they’d howled at the lyrics:

‘She came into the bedroom, raised her skirts up high

She said, if a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, baby,

Give me a piece before I die …’

When she reached the outfit she wore each weekend at Rocky Horror, she stopped. Just seeing the silky chemise, the fishnets, the faux pearls, was enough to make her feel flushed with longing. But a longing for what? She had no idea.

Yes, she was back in time, but she was no longer eighteen. No longer staring into the future with her whole life ahead. But there was no time to be maudlin now. Bette would be picking her up shortly.

She started spreading clothes out on the bed. What would fit her now? What would suit her? She’d seen how Bette dressed, and Nina. She would need to put an outfit together that would let her blend in, yet these clothes fitted a teenager. And she was thirty-eight.

She had to keep telling herself that. Reminding herself to not only act her age, but dress her age. Yet how did people her age dress? Think of Concrete Blonde’s Johnette Napolitano, or the Eurythmics’ Annie Lennox or Chrissie Hynde of The Pretenders. Think of them now. And by now she meant in 2008. They still looked hardcore, rock ’n’ roll. So, fuck, she could do sexy. She could do edgy.

For inspiration, she glanced at the albums in the milk crate by the stereo. Rifling through them, she found The Scorpions and slid the record onto the turntable. To the tune of ‘Rock You Like a Hurricane,’ she got dressed, pleased with herself. The make-up came last, and she really worked it. Lining her eyes like Cleopatra, sporting serious lashes, full red lips. Then she went downstairs, turned on MTV, and waited.

Rowan had tried his best. He’d worked out his plan so carefully. And then Luke had stepped in at the end and ruined everything. As Luke had always managed to do. No, that wasn’t right. Luke wasn’t responsible this time. It was Dori’s own choice that had messed up his plans. He stared through the window at her, watching as she watched MTV, and wondering what he was going to do now.

‘Come on, come on,’ Bette said, pulling Dori out the door with her. ‘We’ve got to go.’

Dori stumbled in Bette’s wake, and glimpsed familiar faces in the car, Gael at the wheel. Bette opened the back door for Dori and then climbed into the front seat. She turned to face the people in the rear as the car took off.

‘Everyone, this is Emma. Emma, this is …’

But Dori already knew. Mica, who was the sales rep for the exclusive line of cosmetics they sold and Van, the delivery stud, who looked extremely pleased not only to see Dori again, but to be seated between two sultry ladies. Had Bette really thought she wanted him? Dori remembered her favorite Janis Joplin quote: I’m saving the bass player for Omaha. Was that what Bette was doing, saving the boy for herself, a midnight snack before moving on to Gael?

And where was Bette’s steady boyfriend, Will?

‘Nice to see you again,’ Gael said to her as he put the car into drive. ‘I’m glad you’re feeling better. Not so pale.’

‘Nina and Dom are meeting us there,’ Bette continued. Then she faced front once more, slid a tape into Gael’s deck, and kicked her feet up on the dash. Dori was relieved to see how the two women in the car were dressed – quite similarly to herself. Black with splashes of color. Bette’s hair was spiked up with tons of gel. She had a plethora of rubber bangles on one arm, and studded leather cuffs on the other. Indulgence. That’s what Dori had remembered best from the 80s. Or over-indulgence. If you couldn’t decide between lace fingerless gloves, or three layers of crinolines, or purposely ripped stockings, then why not wear them all at once?

‘Are you comfortable, perfect girl?’ Van asked, smiling at her, reminding her of the song that had been playing while they’d fucked in his van. He didn’t seem at all surprised that they had run into each other again. If anything, the look on his face made her think that he’d expected it.

Gael hadn’t seemed at all surprised to see Dori enter the car, either. Dori figured that Bette must have explained about her ahead of time – and he would have realized right away that she was the girl he rescued from the sidewalk. If anything, he could take credit for her being present, as he was the one who told her about the opening at The Beauty Box.

Dori watched as Bette pulled a leopard-print flask from her huge black leather purse and drank long and ferociously before passing it to the back seat. She didn’t take the container. She was focused too much on the way Van’s leg touched hers. He was wearing spidery emerald-green stretch pants that fitted his body like a second skin, and he had on a great deal of heavy black eye make-up. Dori worked daily with men who wore make-up, but she’d managed to forget the 80s trend lately. The men she knew now wore a bit of foundation, emphasizing their perfect skin and plush lips. 80s make-up on men was all about being in your face. The dark eyeliner. The pumped-up hair. The lipstick. Some boys in the metal bands were honestly prettier than the girls they dated.

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