I first met Gloria Sutter in early 1919, a few months after the war ended. It was still frigid winter, and I was on a train home from Bournemouth, sound asleep in my seat in a compartment by myself.
My mother had given me a few precious days off to visit distant relatives of my father’s. My father died in Gallipoli in 1916, and I thought that visiting his relatives would bring me some kind of peace. My mother had known better; still deep in mourning, she had refused to accompany me. I’d made the trip only to find my father’s relatives cold, unfriendly, and deep in blame that my father had ever married my mother at all. The entire thing was exhausting and depressing, and almost as soon as I’d embarked on the trip home, the train swaying rhythmically, I’d pulled my muffler up around my neck and fallen asleep.
When I opened my eyes, there was a girl sitting across from me, watching me.
She was about nineteen, my own age, and the first thing I noticed, almost with a pang of dismay, was that she was utterly beautiful. Her black raven’s wing hair was cut in a marcelled bob, a new fashion my own mother had strictly forbidden, and her big dark eyes were ringed with skillfully applied makeup. The effect of her was sophisticated and roughly sensual at the same time, and when she saw my eyes open she gave me a sly smile, as if I’d just done something clever.
“Oh, hullo,” she said.
I rubbed my eyes, taking in her pretty kidskin gloves and the expensive fur collar of her coat. “Sorry,” I said, the word automatic and pointless in my mouth, not feeling clever at all.
The girl shrugged knowingly, as if I’d made a joke, the smile still twisting her lips. “Would you like a cigarette?”
Another thing I’d never been allowed. “No, thank you.”
“Come on, now.” The girl had taken two cigarettes from a case and she held one out to me. “I hate to smoke alone.”
I sat up. The girl’s eyes were hypnotically dark, almost black, and I had my first premonition that she was, in some way, not quite normal. “I’m not allowed.”
“Under Daddy’s thumb, are you?” she said.
I flushed and took the cigarette. The girl lit a match for me, and I took a drag, trying not to cough in front of her. I waved a hand through the smoke in the air as an unfamiliar feeling buzzed through my brain, as if someone was rubbing my scalp. “My father is dead,” I said, trying to sound worldly and casual.
“Jolly good,” said the girl. “That just means more freedom.” She rose and went to the door of the compartment, opening it a crack and peeking out as she took another effortless drag on her cig. Her legs, I noticed, were long and elegant under her dress. “Did you see the dark-haired man a few compartments down? The one in the cashmere coat?”
I was still numbly working through the fact that she’d said my father’s death was jolly good. “What?”
“I think he noticed me.”
Since she wasn’t looking at me, I dropped my pretense with the cigarette and just stared at her. I was starting to feel as if someone had spun me in circles. I frowned, recalling the man she was talking about. “He’s thirty, at least! And he had a pipe!”
“Men with cashmere coats and pipes have money,” the girl said. She glanced at my shocked face and rolled her eyes. “I don’t mean that, you know. Even though he’s passably good-looking. I meant that men with money make good clients.”
“Clients?”
She shut the compartment door and leaned a shoulder casually on it, putting the cigarette to her lips again, and said nothing.
“What?” I said, growing more alarmed as the silence stretched. “What is it?”
“Hush,” the girl replied, the corner of her mouth curving. “I’m enjoying this.”
“Enjoying what?” I was starting to think fondly of the chilly nap I’d just taken.
“Watching you work it out. It’s all over your face, you know. The word ‘client’ has thrown you off. Am I one of those bad girls your mother warned you about, do you think? Or does the word ‘client’ mean something else?”
I swallowed in bewilderment. Of course the word “client” had meaning for me; it was part of my profession. What was this girl getting at? “I don’t—”
“Oh, come now.” She noticed the cigarette still in her fingers, took a last drag, and smothered it in an ashtray. “I know you just woke up, but think a little harder. Do you know who I am? Because I know who you are. It took me a moment to figure it out, but I saw the name when I looked into the compartment.” She pointed to my valise, which I had placed on the seat next to me, clearly marked in my mother’s careful hand with the word WINTER. “You look like her,” the girl said, “and I know she has a daughter.”
“Who has a daughter?”
“The Fantastique, of course.” She took in the expression on my face and smiled again.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll play along. I’m Ellie Winter. Who are you?”
“Gloria Sutter,” she said, holding out a gloved hand. “We’re in the same business.”
I had never heard the name and I didn’t know what she meant, but in an automatic reaction I took her hand in mine. And in that second, even though we were both wearing gloves, I knew.
Something extraordinary crossed the depths of Gloria Sutter’s eyes when our hands touched. For a long moment, her air of sophistication disappeared, and her expression was raw and almost hungry. Then she let out a long breath and a sound that was almost a laugh, a shrill exclamation of excitement that exactly mirrored the feeling that was jumping through my body.
“My God,” she said. “This just got interesting. When this train stops, we’re going for a drink.”
* * *