As Evie dropped off her cloche and coat with the coat-check girl, another of Mr. Phillips’s many secretaries, Helen, hurried toward her. “Miss O’Neill! I’ve been looking for you. Mr. Phillips would like to speak with you. Immediately.”
Evie’s gut roiled as Helen ushered her into Mr. Phillips’s private office, an enormous corner room of gleaming cherrywood walls on the tenth floor with a view of Midtown Manhattan. A gold-framed oil painting of a godlike Guglielmo Marconi inventing the wireless took up an entire wall. His painted expression gave no hint as to Evie’s fate.
“Wait here. He’ll be in shortly,” Helen said and closed the door.
Was Mr. Phillips firing her? Had she done something wrong? By the time she heard Mr. Phillips’s patrician voice telling his secretary to “hold all calls,” she was so anxious she could’ve climbed the pretty walls.
Mr. Phillips swept into the room with the sort of calm confidence that had helped him make a fortune in the stock market. His suits were tailored in London, and he had an apartment in the city and a house out on Long Island where he hosted legendary parties attended by film and radio stars. But radio was his one true obsession, and WGI was his baby. Talent that Mr. Phillips didn’t like had been fired mid-show: An emcee or act would be ushered out of the studio during a musical number and immediately replaced with a new act.
“Good morning, Miss O’Neill,” he said now, taking the seat opposite her. The sun glinted off his silvery hair. “You’re front-page news today, it seems.”
He slid a stack of newspapers toward her. The Daily News. The Herald. The Star. Every one of them carried a station-approved glamour shot of Evie, along with a screaming headline:
SWEETHEART SEES HIM AS HER GROOM.
LOVE IS IN THE CARDS FOR DIVINER GAL.
FLAPPER OF FATE IN SECRET ROMANCE.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Mr. Phillips asked.
“I… I can explain, Mr. Phillips,” Evie said. Under the table, her foot tapped like mad. He would fire her, send her packing, and everything she’d enjoyed the last few months would be gone. When she saw Sam Lloyd again, Evie would need Theta to hold her back to keep her from killing that boy in every way she could imagine—and she had quite an imagination. Evie took a deep, calming breath. Use your vowels, she told herself. Everything sounds better with proper enunciation. “You see, it isn’t quite what it seems.…”
“No? I certainly hope it is what it seems, dear girl,” Mr. Phillips answered, his eyes brightening. “It’s spectacular!”
“It… it is?” Evie squeaked.
“Indeed it is. WGI has been flooded with telephone calls all day. The switchboard operators’ fingers are exhausted. People are crazy about your engagement. They can’t get enough! They want to know everything about it. Why, it’s the biggest thing to hit New York since—well, since you announced you were a Diviner. The ‘It Girl’ has found her ‘It Boy.’”
A tickle nagged the back of Evie’s throat. “Oh, gee, well, I wouldn’t exactly say Sam is my ‘It Boy.’”
Mr. Phillips waved her words away. “The point is, my dear girl, that you and your lucky fellow have made the WGI family very happy. Finally, we’ve got a leg up on NBC. You and your beau are going to put us over the top. Already, the advertisers are calling. They want to support the station that has the Sweetheart Seer and her fiancé.” He smiled. “And when our advertisers are happy, I am happy. You are about to become very famous, my dear.”
“I am?”
“Yes. What would you say to being on the air two nights a week? With a small raise, naturally.”
Two nights a week? The only other people with that sort of clout were stars like Will Rogers and Fanny Brice. Evie couldn’t keep the smile from spreading wide across her face. “That’d be the berries, Mr. Phillips.”
“Consider it done. And, of course, we’ll want to arrange press for the happy couple.”