He lays his cane over his legs. “I suppose so.”
Kronenstrasse isn’t far away, but the minutes and seconds stretch out to occupy the viscous silence between them. Violet looks out her window to avoid the sight of Lionel, though she feels him anyway, a great edifice looming perhaps eighteen inches away, so close she can touch him, so close she can feel his heat like a hot coal glowing at her side, she can feel the pitch of his chest as he breathes, the angle of the cloth seat under his weight.
The traffic has come to an ominous full stop in Friedrichstrasse; Lionel swears softly and cranes his head to see what the matter is. The movement of his body causes his cane to brush Violet’s thigh. “It’s hopeless,” he says. “Do you mind walking?”
“Do you?” She nods at his leg.
He shrugs. “It’s only a block or two.”
Lionel gets out and pays the driver and holds out his hand for Violet. Neither of them are wearing gloves. Lionel’s palm is warm and dry and strong beneath hers, his thumb firm where it crosses her fingers. She climbs out of the taxi and draws her hand away. “Thank you.”
They walk without speaking. Violet listens to the cadence of his stride along the sidewalk, the delicate chuff of the cane alongside the sturdier clacks of his shoes. His limp is almost indistinguishable, as if the cane itself is only a gentlemanly pose.
They reach Violet’s apartment building. She stops and half turns toward him, wanting him to go, wanting him to stay a few more minutes, an hour, a night, a year. He stands just outside the circle of light from the entrance foyer, and she cannot see his expression properly. But there is something hesitant in the way he stands and gazes down at her: something expectant, or perhaps indecisive.
Say good night, Violet.
Lionel clears his throat. “Shall I see you up?”
“That’s not necessary.”
His face moves in the darkness, and she knows he’s smiling. “Doesn’t a chap deserve a drink for all his hard work? Besides, I’m curious to see the apartment of the eminent Dr. Grant and his wife. Radium lying about the bric-a-brac and all that.”
“Nothing like that. Walter’s very particular. What about your party?”
“Bother the party.” He’s still smiling. A pair of headlamps flashes along his face, his daring eyes, his strong jaw, the curve of one ear. His shirt-points are terribly white against his neck.
Violet succumbs.
“All right, then. Come along.”
Vivian
No one throws a party like Mums, I’ll give her that. I arrived long before the fashionable hour in order to have first pop at the champagne, and I was rewarded for my early-birdness with the usual worm.
“Christ, Vivian,” said Dad, reaching for his cigar. “Do you know what we used to do to women who dressed like that?”
I kissed both cheeks. “Married them?”
“And what have you done with your eyes? You look like a cat.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Now, now, Charles.” Mums took my shoulders and gave me a twirl. “I think she looks just adorable. Doesn’t she look adorable, Pepper?”
“Not nearly enough bosom,” said Pepper.
Mums stepped back with her critical eye, and by critical I mean slice ’em and dice ’em and serve ’em for elevenses. “Yes. Yes, I see what you mean,” she said, and without further ado took the edge of my neckline with both hands and yanked it down a good two inches. My father made a strangled noise and headed for the bar.
Pepper nodded. “That should do the trick.”
“Do what trick?”
“Never you mind,” said Mums. “Have some champagne.”
It didn’t take a truffle-pig nose to detect the presence of a few suspicious truffles lying about the old Schuyler aerie, but I wasn’t the girl to look a gift bubbly in the bubbles. I poured myself a heaping tablespoon and dragged Pepper out on the terrace for a smoke and a grilling.
“What was that about?” Once the preliminaries had been performed.
Pepper made busy with her cigarette. “What was what about?”
“The Marilyn makeover just now. You want I should dye my little old hair and speak all Babykins, too?” I did a fair impression.
“Not bad. Not bad at all.”
“Pepper.”
She zipped her lips.
“You cannot be plotting with Mums, Pepper. You can’t do that to me. I need someone on my side.”
“Try Dadums. Your bosom gives him the vapors. He’ll be happy to help.”
“He’ll be passed out by nine o’clock.”
“Oh, right. Well, who needs the big lug, anyway?” Champagne, smoke. “Is it cold out here, or is it just my dress?”
“Speaking of bosom.”