Page 21 of The Dirty Version

To Tash, it evoked a definite pop-culture moment—when the revival of Cabaret won Tony Awards on Broadway, and pole-dancing for exercise emerged as all the rage.

Calypso began as an unknown Sunset Strip revue—but by the time LA Magazine ran their feature, Viv’s vision had become a sold-out ticket.

The show spawned a residence in Las Vegas.

Both up-and-coming and established starlets vied for a guest spot, “harnessing their sexuality and bedazzling their curriculum vitae.”

Tash had rolled her eyes at that part.

Viv retired from dancing in her thirties, remaining a “sexy mother hen.” She also remained the proprietor of an LA nightclub landmark.

The article’s text repeated popular legends about her love life: Viv was rumored to have dated a mobster, a South American dictator, the oil-magnate owner of Texas’s largest cattle ranch.

“Or, you know, my dad,” Caleb laughed when Tash told him about the profile. “Natasha, come on. You know better than to believe everything you read.”

He’d greeted her in a sky-blue, slim-fitting chambray blazer—white cotton button-down beneath it—with full-hipster, topstitched lapels. His hair had been domesticated. His eyes shone bright behind his glasses. He guided her into the venue’s ambient jazz warble, his hand on her lower back.

Miami Arts’ black box theater had been dolled up as a burlesque club for the night, complete with tufted, chesterfield sofa seating, shirtless and suspendered male waiters, and an ebony-paneled stage.

Ruby light filtered through candelabras.

Champagne circulated in old-school, wide-bowled crystal stems.

A woman with a silver pixie cut lifted one from a passing tray and latched herself to Caleb.

“Tash, this is Ilsa Hines.” Caleb grinned down at the graceful sixty-something tucked into his bicep.

“One of my stepmom’s closest friends and Calypso’s longtime choreographer.

” He reversed the introduction. “Aunt Ilsa, this is Tash Grover. Astrid’s series—the one I’m chaperoning? It’s based on Tash’s book.”

“‘Chaperoning’?” Tash delighted at Caleb’s choice of word before turning her attention to his aunt Ilsa, who swanned forward in a chic black jumpsuit and a double strand of pearls.

“Caleb told me you went surfing up at Vesper Beach.” As Ilsa kissed her on both cheeks. “How was it? Shoot any gnarly curl?”

Ilsa smiled at Tash, all gray radiance and cheekbones. “I drank Bahama Mamas and flirted with the instructor—does that count?” She assessed Tash openly, holding out an arm for a once-over. “You’re too supple to be a writer.” A step closer. “You look like you should dance.”

Caleb huffed dotingly at Tash over the older woman’s head, reining her in. “Tash is a professor of literature, Aunt Ilsa. A connoisseur of stories. She was just asking about Viv and my father.”

“Shane Rafferty?” Ilsa’s bright eyes widened, lifting her dramatically plucked brows. Conspiratorially, to Tash: “I’ll tell you everything.” She handed Caleb her glass and then covered his ears, exaggeratedly loud-whispering: “He’s fucking delicious!”

Then she fanned herself, giggling when Caleb groaned.

She retrieved her drink, still sparkling, affecting placid respectability.

“Also, I must add that Shane Rafferty is the most gentlemanly set designer in the history of West Coast cabaret. When Calypso set up shop in Vegas, he came on-site with us—and a hundred showgirls went into heat every time that man strapped on his tool belt.” Ilsa’s hand blocked out Caleb’s renewed protests.

She continued telling Tash: “Shane pretended not to notice. Pure chivalry. He only ever had eyes for Vivienne.”

Ilsa gestured toward the stage then, sipping her champagne. “I’m sure you’ll see him on the screen tonight.”

It hadn’t occurred to Tash that Caleb’s father might be included in the film. “Wait—is he here, too?” She looked around, puzzling at Caleb, who just sad-smiled and shook his head.

“No. It would have been too much. He barely got through the documentarian’s interviews. Viv’s picture is still sitting on his dresser.” Caleb gestured around the low-lit room. “There’s no way he could take this.”

Ilsa’s expression became somber and far away. “It’s true. Those two wrecked each other.” She smiled wistfully at Caleb, tilting her head. “The best, most stable thing Viv got from Shane was this handsome one right here.”

Caleb’s cheeks flushed. Tash’s vision of a younger Caleb reappeared. Ilsa went watery—she sniffed, the edge of one long finger pressing at the inner corner of her eye.

“Ilsa, I don’t know a lot about burlesque.” Awkwardly, Tash grabbed the conversational wheel. “Caleb’s given me some insight, but do you think burlesque is feminist? As an art form?” She grabbed another shallow goblet of champagne.

Caleb seemed relieved, and Ilsa swiveled as if she hadn’t just been on the verge of crying.

“Oh, without a doubt! There’s a saying in classical burlesque that the performer never plays to the audience—rather, the audience plays into the performer’s hands.

That’s very feminist, I think.” Ilsa continued to reflect out loud, listing burlesque’s merits: “It’s shape-positive, which in dance culture is quite uncommon.

Burlesque can also be used to help women reinhabit their bodies again, after a trauma.

” She turned to Caleb. “But I’m sure Caleb has already told you all of this. ”

Tash cast a contrary glance to Caleb. Then she smiled placidly at Ilsa. “Actually. He hasn’t.”

As Caleb jumped back into the joust. “In my defense.” Guileless in his topstitch. “Tash is an extremely difficult student.”

She gasped. “I am not!” She met his evil grinning, smacking the hard muscle beneath his crisply tailored blazer.

Ilsa just watched them, slipping a card out from her wallet, passing it to Tash. “Next time, come to me for the girl talk, dear. Our darling boy means well”—Ilsa winked—“but in this case, I wonder if he’s out of his league.”

“Excuse me?” Caleb mimed outrage.

Tash beamed back at Ilsa, snapping the card into her clutch. She noticed guests milling toward the chesterfield sofas on the theater floor. She made one last play for a question.

“But while we’re here, just quickly.” Tash hushed Caleb when he laughed. “What about commodification? Like, what about when a man takes the images of you onstage and passes them around a locker room?”

Ilsa steadied on Caleb’s arm. “Well. Context is important, you’re absolutely right.

I was lucky enough to spend the best parts of my career at Calypso, which was a haven from that kind of thing.

” She pointed to the stage. “That’s why they made this movie—Viv was a trailblazer.

The only female entrepreneur on that entire Sunset Strip, and we told the boys’ club where to shove it. ”

The house lights flickered, and Ilsa toodled fingers at Tash over Caleb’s shoulder. “To be continued! Enjoy!”

Caleb escorted Ilsa to a section of inner-circle theater seats—a horseshoe of couches framing low cocktail tables up front, near the center of the stage.

He left her there, in the care of the documentary’s director, waving for Tash to join him on a different set of sofas, nestled at stage right.

He flagged down a passing waiter and got Tash a fresh glass of champagne.

She gestured toward the VIPs. “Don’t you have to sit there, too?”

“Nope.” Caleb relaxed, arms wide across the sofa’s back.

Tash fit herself against the chesterfield’s curve, surveying the outrageous degree of female beauty in the theater. “Wow. It must have been nuts to grow up around these women.”

“It was something.” Caleb, ever modest. His gaze caught on a woman on the other side of the room. “Hey, see the lady in the blue dress? Right there. She taught me how to samba for my junior prom.”

Tash peeked, discreetly. “‘Samba’? Is that code?”

“For what?” Caleb gave her mystified. “I was fifteen. The only thing it’s code for is ‘Hi, I’m awkward. Watch my terrible ballroom moves.’”

She imagined him as teenage gawky. “Did you actually samba?”

He switched his grin to naughty. “Only after the dance.” He upped the ante. “Want to know another secret?”

“Sure.”

“Viv and Ilsa met at choir practice—they were church girls. Viv’s first showbiz dream was evangelical hymns.”

Tash plunked her glass down. “No way.”

Caleb nodded at her disbelief. “Way. Viv sang on Christian records. That’s where she got the seed money for the club. My dad has the vinyl. I can play them for you.”

Tash craned, hoping to reevaluate Caleb’s aunt Ilsa through this newfound lens.

But when she turned to find her, mile-long legs belted underneath a satin boudoir robe were in Tash’s way. She followed a line of pale-pink feather trim upward to find Astrid Dalton in a platinum flapper’s wig. Astrid’s smooth, luminous familiarity zeroed in on Caleb.

She didn’t clock Tash’s presence. “Hey! Scooch over. I have a surprise.”

Caleb glanced up mildly at the interruption. “Ilsa was looking for you.” He pointed as the theater’s lights dimmed to half-mast. “She’s over there.”

But Astrid’s twenty-something flawlessness intercepted the gesture, grabbing Caleb’s hand.

“I was looking for you, though.” Her satin robe swished against his legs as she began to slink down onto the couch—butt perked, lithe figure saucy—just as she spied Tash.

“Tash!” Astrid blinked, her switch flipped from private to professional ingénue.

Unconvincingly: “How great to see you! I didn’t know you’d be here!

” Astrid straightened her knees, suddenly upright again.

Her tight smile rang clear in an instant—at least to Tash, who could very palpably sense Astrid’s uncloaked want. For someone like Astrid, Caleb’s older-brother vibe could launch a thousand little-sister heartbreak ships. Of course Astrid was in love with him—they made a gorgeous, no-brainer match.