Of course that was Stella’s perspective. With her beauty and steady work, she had an independence Darby envied. “If you’re a model, maybe.”
Stella swung to a stop. “It’s not easy for any of us girls, no matter what we look like or where we’re from. That’s why you absolutely must take advantage of your time here, where you can observe the big bad world from the safety of the Barbizon, and plan your attack accordingly. It’s up to you to pick and choose who you want around you.” She paused. “It’s too bad Charlotte’s off to England, but I’ll make sure we all go out for lunch together the moment she’s back. It’s the least I can do.”
“I look forward to that very much.”
“In the meantime, remember what I said about picking and choosing carefully.” Her lips pursed. “The maid you like, for example.”
“Esme?”
“Yes. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
Darby blanched. “Because she’s a maid? She’s much more than that; you’d see that if you knew her.”
The elevator arrived and Stella touched her cheek gently before turning back to the gaggle of girls.
Esme was on duty. She yanked open the gate and gave Darby a sharp look before letting her in. Darby said a cheery hello and stood at the back, tucking the hatbox behind her.
“You were with the giraffes?” Esme pulled the lever, and the elevator descended, slower than normal.
“Only Stella. She invited me to the fashion show. She said she’s sorry for what happened that night.”
“I bet.” Esme chewed on the inside of her mouth and stared forward. “I’m surprised you want to spend time with her, after what she did to you.”
“It wasn’t really Stella’s fault.”
“So she says.”
“Esme. What’s wrong?”
The elevator came to an abrupt stop between floors. Darby placed one palm on the wall to steady herself.
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong. The girls make fun of you and treat you like a monstrua, a freak, and then you’re off drinking tea with them? Doesn’t make sense.”
Darby’s heart began to pound. “These were mostly career girls.”
“Career girls. Huh.”
“I don’t understand why you’re angry with me.”
“Don’t you?” Esme hissed. “Maureen, Stella, Candy. They’re all the same. Living here makes girls mean. They start thinking they’re better than everyone else. Don’t let that happen to you, too.”
“Of course not.” To her relief, the elevator began moving once again, but something still unsettled her. “Was it you in the hallway when I visited Maureen? I could have sworn I saw you there.”
Esme looked away. “You were making such a racket, laughing and enjoying yourselves. I would’ve stopped to say hello, but I had to get back to work.”
Esme felt left out, and Darby didn’t blame her. Here she was trapped in a metal box for hours, wearing a drab maid’s uniform, while Darby could come and go as she pleased and had a brand-new hat. No wonder she was upset.
They finally reached the fifteenth floor, but Darby didn’t walk away, unwilling to leave Esme when she was so obviously distressed. “Thank you for worrying about me. I promise I won’t turn mean. And let me know when we can go to the Flatted Fifth together again.”
“Yeah.” Esme’s mouth stayed in a tight line, but her eyes gave away her pleasure.
Darby nodded and stepped off the elevator. She gave a little wave and watched as Esme’s face, framed by the glass oval in the door, disappeared from view.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
New York City, 2016
Six out of ten interviews booked.
“Not bad for a hard day’s work.” Rose smiled down at Bird, who gave her the evil eye.
She refilled his water bowl and he slurped it down messily, then slunk off to his usual place on the couch.
The minute she’d woken up that morning, Rose had showered and dressed, and snapped Bird’s leash onto his collar. But instead of heading outside, she’d sat on the sofa, waiting for the elevator’s bright ring or the slamming of a neighbor’s door, and then sprinted with Bird to the front door.
She and Bird would pop into the hallway and cheerily greet whichever neighbor was making her way out. When the neighbor inquired about who she was, she stopped and chatted, mentioning that she was helping out Stella with Darby’s dog while she was away. Luckily, Stella had made many more friends than Darby over the years, and the neighbors responded with sympathetic clucks and expressions of gratitude. Most had recognized her from the news and, after she mentioned that she was doing a story on the elegant lives of the Barbizon ladies, four had immediately agreed to do a sit-down interview within the next two weeks. In one case, the woman had gone on at length about Sylvia Plath, whom she’d seen once in the lobby, before Rose could impress upon her the idea that she was interested in her own story. Blushing, she’d readily agreed.
After each chat, she’d taken Bird around the block and back into the apartment, where she’d lain in wait for her next victim. She’d also reached out to Stella, who’d sounded annoyed at being stuck in New Jersey but relieved to hear that Bird was doing fine, and had agreed to be interviewed next week. Including Alice, that made six interviews lined up. Poor Bird was exhausted, and she’d given him a long ear-scratch for his troubles.
Her phone rang. Jason.
“I’m in the neighborhood; why don’t you show me around the building?” He didn’t even bother saying hello.
Rose’s mind raced. He would have to see the building at some point, particularly if they were going to get the women on camera in their apartments. And she’d have to get permission from the management company to film B-roll in the public spaces. Video sucked. If she were writing a piece for The New Yorker, she wouldn’t have this problem. Ten thousand words, maybe a few photographs. But at WordMerge, even if it aspired to be a site for narrative writing, images and video were required. No one could be bothered to use their imagination anymore.
Since it was Saturday, Griff and Connie were probably up at the house in Litchfield, so she would be less likely to run into them. “Okay, but we can’t film today.”
“Fine. Just show me the place so I can figure out what we’ll need.”
She arranged to meet him at the service entrance. He wore the same army jacket and jeans, looking like a war correspondent on his day off. Which, of course, he was.
“So this is the place, huh?” He looked up and squinted in the bright sunlight.
“Yup. Follow me.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
She brought him inside, past the porter who worked the door on weekends.
“How’s Mr. Bird’s stomach?” he asked. He was a young kid, new to the doorman’s union and eager to please.
“What?”
“You’ve been in and out all morning. Figured he’d eaten something that wasn’t agreeing with him.”
“Right. Little guy’s got the runs, but he’s doing much better now, thanks.”
She entered the stairwell.
Jason’s heavy steps trudged behind her. “Three questions.”
“Shoot.”
“Is Mr. Bird a bird, do birds get the runs, and why are we going up the back way?”
She reached the second-floor entrance. “Mr. Bird is a dog I’m dog-sitting, I don’t know the answer to question number two, and we’re going up the back way because it’s a more direct route to where I want to take you.”
She led him down the hallway and pushed open the door to what the real estate agent had called the lounge, a public space that ran the length of the building.
Jason gave out a low whistle. The room remained a showpiece of the art deco era. Cream ceilings and walls contrasted with the polished mahogany floor, and love seats and sofas had been arranged in tableaux over geometric-patterned rugs. A black baby grand piano gleamed in the center of the room. Hardly any of the residents used the lounge, as far as Rose could tell. It had an air of sterile elegance, the walls dotted with black-and-white photos of some of its more famous residents.