22
“CORDELIA SEEMS AWFULLY QUIET THIS MORNING,”said Astrid, idly using her croquet mallet to scratch her ankle with one hand and pushing her short, lustrous yellow hair away from her forehead with the other. She was wearing a white jersey dress that hung on her lean frame rather like an abbreviated Greek tunic. Beside her was Charlie, in a white V-neck sweater and white slacks, bent over his mallet, concentrating on his shot.
“She wasn?t very social at the party last night, either,” he said. “Dad was teaching her how to shoot a gun yesterday, and you should have seen how determined she was about it. By the end of the day, she was actually getting kind of good.”
“Oh, dear.” Astrid looked away from Cordelia, who was sitting on a wicker chair on the Greys’ south lawn—just below the multilevel terrace with its mythical carved stone creatures—wearing a great, flopping, black straw hat and a white boatneck dress with thin navy stripes. “We?ll have to talk her out of that.”
She paused, squinting at the other party guests—a small gathering of White Cove youth, mostly from families like hers, not families like the Greys—all wearing white, gripping stemmed glasses of grapefruit juice much improved with a few drops of champagne. Apparently they were the stragglers from what must have been a rather epic party last night. Charlie had called her earlier, waking her up, and begged her to come enjoy the morning-after fete, although she could no longer tell why. Despite her flattering dress and her skin—which appeared especially fresh when compared to the faces of the girls who hadn?t gotten any sleep—he was paying her no special attention.
There had been a moment, in the kitchen, when Cordelia first came down—they had all been sleepy-eyed and hungry and sweet, and it had seemed to Astrid that they were just like a family of hobos, except with a much nicer house. Many of the people she?d known since she was a child were still there, tired but unwilling to let the party end. How lovely, she?d thought. Then she?d grown a little sad, knowing that eventually the summer would have to end, and she?d wondered if she shouldn?t just decide to drop out of school now and live like this forever.
And while she wasn?t paying attention, Jones had come down and whispered something in Charlie?s ear, and after that Charlie was surly, and stopped seeming happy that she?d given in and come. That was just how men were, she was beginning to think. After that she wondered why Jones was whispering unpleasant secrets in Charlie?s ear instead of Darius?s—it was awfully inconvenient for her, especially when the day was new and had such potential for enjoyment.
“Did your father drink too much and go to bed early?” she asked irritably.
“No.” Charlie whacked the ball, which rolled within range of the next wicket. “He?s always a little tight in the evenings,” he added as he strode forward. “Your turn.”
“I?m bored,” Astrid declared. She turned toward Emma Cantwell and Cass Beaumont, twenty feet or so behind them, who as of last week had become a couple. “Aren?t you bored?”
“No,” Emma said cheerily. Then she turned to Cass. “Are you?”
“No.” Cass rested his hand against his hip. “Come on, Astrid, finish the game!”
“Sorry,” Astrid replied breezily, but perhaps too abruptly to be convincing. “I couldn?t possibly! Get Gracie Northrup to play for me.”
As she walked back across the lawn, she hoped that Charlie was watching her, yet couldn?t help but fear that this wasn?t the case. She had no idea what was going on in his mind, but his distraction irked her, and she wasn?t about to waste a beautiful day hanging around him while he stewed.
“Are you all right?” she asked as she reached Cordelia.
“I didn?t sleep so well last night.” She shrugged and an enigmatic half smile played on her lips, though the brim of her hat somewhat obscured the quality in her eyes. “But I?m all right.”
“Good.” Astrid swung around and looked at Charlie across the vast green, now playing with plump Gracie Northrup, who was laughing loudly in that ungainly snorting way she had. She was a Miss Porter?s girl, too, although she had been a senior when Astrid was a freshman. They were four white figures against a great arc of blue sky. “That?s the wrong blouse on Gracie,” Astrid went on, changing the subject. It was polka-dotted, and the neckline involved a complicated tied-scarf detail that brought too much attention to her large bust. “It makes her look bigger than she is.”
“You didn?t want to play anymore?”
“Charlie?s sore about something.” Astrid shielded her eyes and tried to seem not to care. “He?s no fun this afternoon. I?m going home, I think. When he?s ready to work for me, perhaps then I?ll come back. The party is breaking up, anyway. Why don?t I get the chauffeur tonight? We can go into the city.”
Cordelia tipped back her head, so that the light made her brown eyes almost translucent. Not for the first time, Astrid noticed how impressive looking she was in the right clothes. On a farm, her features would have been severe, but under the drooping brim of an expensive hat, those high, defined bones were more suggestive of a horsewoman from one of the really old families. “Where do you want to go?” she asked.
“Oh, darling, who cares? We can just drive and invite people to join us.”
“Maybe,” Cordelia wavered.
Astrid?s full lips assumed a pout. “I like it when you say yes, Cordelia Grey, but for now I will take maybe.”
She bent and kissed her friend on either cheek, and then skipped up the stairs without glancing back to see if Charlie marked her exit.
But by the time Astrid had returned to Marsh Hall, she did not feel nearly so carefree. Why wasn?t Charlie more interested in her, anyway? Had her beauty faded suddenly, or what was it? As she stepped into her bedroom, the satisfaction of having walked away began to fade, and her eye started to twitch.
In the adjacent dressing room, she sat down heavily on the little upholstered stool in front of the vanity. But there was nothing wrong with her appearance. With agitated fingers, she began to fix her hair, which was cut so that it framed her face girlishly and jauntily at once. In fact, the reflection in the mirror was just as it had been on so many nights, when all the boys had followed her with their eyes and Charlie had seemed in complete thrall to her beauty. And all of a sudden she was thinking of an evening some months ago—it had been cold, and she had worn a white dress like this one, and checked her reflection in this same room, while the smell of hothouse hyacinth wafted in the air …
Suddenly, the memory came back to her whole, and she knew she?d made a mistake. She began opening and closing drawers, pushing aside the assortment of things that filled them. Ribbons, hairbrushes, ruined stockings—sad, gaudy earrings that had lost their match. Her big eyes almost welled up at the sight of the black dangling thing, and as she held it in her palm, she forced herself to look up into the mirror, at the kind of girl who would lose an earring in Charlie Grey?s bedroom.
No wonder he was so preoccupied and distant, she thought, as she sighed and slumped forward, resting her chin against her fist and giving herself a stern, moody look. How could he not be, when his girlfriend was always chasing phantoms and inventing problems where there were none?
“Ah, me, what?s a silly girl like you to do?” she asked her reflection.
Of course, Astrid was not alone in conversing with herself. During those hours when afternoon yields to evening, a city is full of girls in front of mirrors, rotating their faces right and left, finding themselves pretty beyond all conception or else hopelessly inadequate. The scene over their shoulders generally involves one or more of the following: a heap of rejected frocks, a gin drink growing watery with melting ice, a friend or two offering advice while hoping not to be outshone, a neglected sandwich with one lone set of bite marks. Perhaps, if she makes plenty of her own money or has a generous suitor, a phonograph will be blaring out something fast to get her fully in the mood for evening.
In the case of Letty, there was no friend. Fay was executing high kicks and a perfect, frozen smile in the West Forties; Kate was checking coats on the East Side; and Paulette was at Seventh Heaven. Probably she had already told Mr. Cole that Letty wasn?t feeling well and wouldn?t be coming in tonight. The sandwich had been devoured by Good Egg when she wasn?t paying attention. Now Good Egg was running in circles on the small section of floor between the old, rickety vanity and the bed that she and Paulette shared. The quilt was invisible under all the dresses she had tried on and decided against. Most of Paulette?s choices had been flashier or more revealing than she felt comfortable in, but now she was alone—or she and Good Egg were, in any event—and she had settled on the dress she?d known since that morning she would wear.
In the mirror, Letty saw a petite girl reflecting light from every point. Her eyelids were coated with iridescent green powder, her lips were the color of garnets and possessed a similar luster, and her dark bob was slicked to a high shine. The dress was a sleeveless sheath with complicated beadwork over the bust and otherwise of a stiff, black fabric. The waist was subtle, and the hemline hovered above her ankles; she had bought it earlier that day after seeing it in a window, where it made the mannequin look like the most sophisticated chanteuse of all time, and it had cost most of the money she had earned as a cigarette girl thus far. But after tonight she would be rich, and anyway all that really mattered was that her appearance was flawless, which as far as Letty could determine, it was.
The full meaning created by the combination of the words Fifth and Avenue had not completely dawned on Letty, but driving up that fabled street in a polished black limousine, her eyes shining and her head relentlessly rehearsing the words to the songs in her repertoire, she began to take in something of its power.
Her nerves were getting worse, but the genteel rectitude of the passing landscape did calm her some. For a while, she managed to put away entirely her frightened anticipation of that moment just before she was to step onstage. Then her attention was drawn by the face of a large and elegant building of stone, so tall that she could not make out the top from her vantage within the car. Several liveried doormen moved briskly back and forth beneath an overhang of looping wrought iron and white frosted glass. Beyond the ornate exterior, piles of luggage waited on brass dollies inside a lobby of glistening marble and gilt edges. Then the car door opened, ending her reverie.
“Here we are, miss,” the chauffeur said.
“Where?” She tried not to appear surprised as she scooted toward him.
“At the St. Regis, miss.” He stood back and averted his eyes.
“Oh.”
She stepped out of the car tentatively and for a moment stood, unsure and wobbly in her high heels, on the wide sidewalk. She supposed that she had imagined Amory?s party would take place in a club, but she tried to look as though this was precisely what she had anticipated. “Thank you,” she added, and then, reminding herself to maintain a sophisticated gait, she made her way toward the hotel. She managed this for twenty strides or so, but once she was inside, she realized she had no idea where the dressing room might be or where in this vast hotel Amory was waiting for her, and she began to panic.
“How can I be of assistance to you, mademoiselle?” The voice, coming from over her shoulder, was honeyed and composed.
She turned and found herself looking up at a tall man in a tailored black suit, with a trim, old-fashioned mustache. He was neither friendly nor unwelcoming exactly, and he kept his hands behind his back when he spoke.
“Yes …,” she began. “I am here for a party.”
“A party, mademoiselle?” He smiled patiently. “Whose party are you attending?”
“Well, I?m not attending, exactly. I?m a singer, you see. I?m performing at a party to be hosted by Mr. Amory Glenn—”
“Ah, Mr. Glenn?s party.”
The man glanced around and quickly placed a hand on her shoulder. He guided her away from the elevator bank, past the grand curving staircase, toward a nondescript door in the corner of the lobby. They walked down a long hall and up a flight of stairs, which opened onto another hall. The lighting there was poor, and she wondered for a moment if she should demand to see Amory immediately—it was all a little shabby, she thought, and not nearly his style. But then, in his businesslike manner, the man led her to a door that opened onto a small but perfect space. Inside was a real dressing room, with an armless, upholstered chair and a mirror ringed with frosted bulbs and a vanity table littered with makeup of all kinds, and she realized that it was only that this hallway was not for public viewing.
This was how the starlets got in.
“Mr. Glenn said he would come visit with you before you go on. In the meantime, is there anything I can fetch you?”
The thing to do, she knew, would be to make a list of demands. But she couldn?t right then figure what they might be; the notion that she was about to enter her own dressing room had buoyed her into new realms of contentedness.
“No, thank you.”
“Do ring if you change your mind. My name is Ernest. I am the concierge of this hotel—you can ask the front desk for me.”
When he was gone and the door shut behind him, she closed her eyes and did a twirl. The floor was softened by a burgundy-colored Persian carpet, and several beaded and feathered costumes hung on the wall. But that vanity—it was like an altar. Besides makeup brushes and tints, the table before the mirror was occupied by a large polished silver urn filled with ice and a green champagne bottle with gold foil on the neck. There was another door, presumably through to the stage, from which she could hear the faint noises of a gathering—the band playing unobtrusively as people mingled and talked. She could just imagine the vast room, men moving their wives across a dance floor, rumors of various theatrical productions floating in the air.
Some minutes later, the door to the stage opened, and Amory came in wearing a tuxedo, his hair brilliantined and his cheeks ruddy.
“Ah, my dear, how charming you look!” he said before planting a kiss, fragrant and a little wet, on her cheek. She tried not to blush at the intimacy of the gesture. “Now, isn?t this tops? Didn?t I say I would give you a start? A real dressing room, in one of New York?s swankiest places, and a room of connoisseurs about to learn of your many talents …”
“Yes, Mr. Glenn, it?s all wonderful!” Letty?s big blue eyes darted around. “Only—I?m a little nervous. I didn?t practice with the band at all, and I—”
“Have you had any champagne?”
“No …” She paused and bit her lower lip. “I?d rather not, before I—”
“Oh, come, we must toast you! You are about to be made a star.” And then, with a pop that rattled her down in her core, he opened the bottle and filled two flutes. His dark eyes followed her hawkishly until she sipped. Some of her anxiety did ebb with the drink, and she sipped again and gave him a smile. “See, nothing to worry about. After all, had you practiced the night you got up on the stage at Seventh Heaven?”
“Well, no …” Letty averted her eyes and hoped that revealing her fears that way wasn?t too amateurish.
“The band here is very good. They?ll follow you. Just improvise, my dear, be spontaneous and free. Listen to your audience, and give them what they want.”
He made a broad gesture, and she felt for a moment as though she were in the hands of a very talented director. She nodded trustingly.
“Here.” From the wall of costumes, he took a silver headdress with little shimmering, pearl-encrusted dangles and fixed it so that it sat in the middle of her forehead; she glanced in the mirror at her large, shadowed eyes and the gem of a mouth, and she thought that she did finally look like a girl who could star in her own show. “Now, haven?t I gotten you everything you could possibly desire?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Glenn!” she exclaimed, turning toward him, her eyes round.
“Then how about a kiss?”
The corners of her mouth fell, and her eyebrows rose toward the straight dark line of her bangs. But before she could say anything, he had gripped her with both hands and pressed her to his body as he covered her lips with his. She was too shocked to tell him to stop, but the kiss was over before she really knew what was happening.
He stepped back from her, and in a very different tone, he said, “Now fix your lipstick; it?s time to go on.”
She turned toward the mirror and did as he said. That kiss was different from how she?d imagined her first kiss would feel—but she tried to let the peculiarity just pass. Instead, she imagined the sensation of being onstage—basking in the gaze of a whole room, under a spotlight, holding their attention with her performance.
“Are you ready?” he said once she?d stepped away from the mirror.
She nodded, though her nerves had grown brittle again.
“Good. Now—I will introduce you, and once you hear applause, you may step out on stage and begin your act.”
If she could have managed a smile, she would have given him one, but her face was too paralyzed by nerves to change its expression even slightly.
“Knock, ‘em dead,” he said, and went out through the door.
She closed her eyes and pressed her face against the door frame. Amory was speaking, though his words were too muffled to make out. By now, her pulse had grown almost feverish. The only two words she understood were the ones spoken loudest: “Letty Larkspur!” Applause followed momentarily, so she filled her lungs with as much air as possible and stepped through a dark, curtained space and onto a blindingly lit stage.