I’m not sure how to tell you this. What was I telling him, exactly? Even I didn’t know. I left the letter unsent.
“Come on, Evie,” Frankie said. “We’re going out tonight.” She’d arrived at Mrs. M’s in a stunning V-neck dress, tight down to her waist, then swirling into a perfect dancing skirt that hit her calves just so. She’d painted her lips bright red and set her hair in flawless liberty curls. She helped me take in my finest floral dress so it flattered me more, then she drew black lines up the backs of our bare legs with a steady hand. “Just because stockings are rationed doesn’t mean we can’t look like a million bucks,” she said.
I didn’t want to go out — into the seas of girls clustered around a few shore-bound sailors or, more often, exempted men pretending to be sailors, and angry zoot-suiters and the like. But Frankie said not to worry — there’d be no one like that where we were headed.
As soon as we ducked into the nightclub, I saw just what she meant.
In many ways, it looked like the stylish nightclub I went to with James and his friends just before he shipped out — sleek black glass and mirrors and a forty-piece brass orchestra on the main stage. Cigarette girls walked among the tables, wearing not much more than heels and red lipstick, while girls in an explosion of feathery costumes danced up front. But the crowd was all women — not a single Tom or Jerry to be seen.
“Welcome to the Shrinking Violet,” Frankie said, looping her arm through mine. “A place for girls looking for some fun. Girls like . . .” She trailed off, but I knew what she meant.
Like us. The words thrummed inside me, strong as a siren’s call. We weren’t alone.
We crammed into a booth with a trio of well-dressed girls a few years older than us who peppered us with questions between performances. Frankie did most of the answering, her starlight dazzling them the same as it had dazzled me; even the waitress, Madge, seemed locked under her spell, and slipped us a drink on the house. No one was immune to Frankie, I thought; but as her hand rested on my knee, my heart swelled to know that she’d chosen me.
The Shrinking Violet rang with bright brass musical numbers and comedy skits and even a one-act play, a fun twist on Romeo and Juliet where Juliet, upon awakening to find Romeo supposedly dead, sought comfort from her scandalously dressed nurse and decided to run off with the nurse instead. Romeo awoke to an empty crypt and aw-shucksed his way off the stage to the cheers of the crowd.
After an impressive set of croony songs usually sung by men, the singer, Luisa, joined us in our booth and traded kisses on the cheek with Frankie. “Who’s your girl?” Luisa asked Frankie, before tossing me a grin.
As usual, Frankie spoke before I could. “Evie’s a writer. She’s gonna work for Metro-Goldwyn one of these days, mark my words.”
“Yeah? She write about girls like us?” Luisa laughed. “Good luck gettin’ that past the censors. Maybe you could write a new act for me here. The Romeo and Juliet number’s getting a little stale, y’know? Talk to Violet. She’d love to get some new talent in the club.”
Luisa gestured behind us to a private box at the top of the hall. A dark figure stood silent, leaning against the railing, watching over the club with what looked to me like a satisfied smirk.
“Violet runs the club?” I asked.
“Runs it? She owns it, books the performers, oversees all the productions, does about everything but pour the drinks and wait the tables — aw, thanks, Madge,” Luisa said, as the waitress brought her some water. “A self-made woman. And she’s always happy to help out our own, y’know what I mean?” Luisa winked. “Seriously, if you’re any good, Violet’d pay you well, I’m sure.”
A self-made woman. Like my Kitty Cohen. Maybe they didn’t just exist in my shoddy scripts. I smiled up at Violet and thanked Luisa before she headed back to the stage for the next show.
“That was incredible,” I said to Frankie as we headed home. “I had no idea there was — that anything like that existed.” That we’re not alone.
Frankie grinned and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You can find anything in this town, Evie. Just a bit of fun, right?”
I was too enchanted by our evening to let her words sting. “And they need writers. And probably performers too! Why haven’t you auditioned for Violet?” I asked.
Frankie’s gaze darkened; she shrugged and glanced off down the street, where servicemen waited in line for another dance hall. “Oh, I dunno, it’s not really what I want. I might as well swing for the fences, y’know? Land a real studio gig. Then I’ll know I’ve made it for real.” She snorted. “If I can.”