“Well, I, er, I don’t think so, actually. I mean, I sort of thought—”
Miss Shields sniffed again and pointedly turned back to her desk. Maisie scuttled to her own little table. She rolled fresh paper and a carbon sheet into the typewriter and got to work. She didn’t miss a key, even as her mind was roving through other Talks scripts, wondering what was in them. It seemed so odd, Hilda suggesting she should do anything more than type and file and take dictation.
Maybe I really did look interested? Good grief. I think I am.
Saturday morning. A half day. The end of her first week.
Maisie stirred sugar into the cup of tea she was clutching tightly enough to absorb via osmosis. Sometime today, she was going to be paid. The bottom was not going to be hit. The floor would not be fallen through. The abyss was not going to have her to swallow. Not today.
Three pounds. Five shillings. These would be counted among her possessions this evening. Her room, her board, her lunches, pennies toward shoes, some small savings. All hers.
Lola swanned into the kitchen, carrying two dresses.
“Another audition today! I can’t decide between the green and the yellow. I don’t know if I should look refined or sultry, you see.”
“The green,” Maisie advised, not sure which category it fell into.
Lola gave the green an approving pat and helped herself to tea.
“Ooh, end of your first week. You’re getting paid today!”
“I suppose I am,” Maisie acknowledged. “I’ve been too busy to think of it.”
“We’ll get a celebratory drink if the audition doesn’t run too late,” Lola promised.
“That sounds super,” Maisie agreed, cringing at the thought of what sort of Armageddon must be befalling them if an audition of Lola’s didn’t run late.
An hour later, as she was hanging her hat on the rack, she realized she had no idea when, or where, she was to collect her pay. Rusty must have told her on their breakneck tour, but no friendly syllable of “salary” came to mind.
“Miss Musgrave, I do hope you’re planning to start soon. I know that many Americans don’t work on a Saturday, but here we are keen on being industrious.”
She hadn’t planned on asking Miss Shields anyway.
It will be in the buzz. It must be.
Saturdays had a lighter broadcasting schedule. Apparently, it was bad form to think that people might use their increased leisure time to listen to the wireless. Or maybe the idea was not to encourage them. Maisie wasn’t sure.
The buzz certainly didn’t care about the listeners. Today it was full of the ineffable sense of the self. Any evening held the potential for adventure, but a Saturday evening was portentous. It was stuffed with hours in which things could happen and could keep rolling on and on and on. Unblocked time—provided you weren’t obliged to attend church in the morning—in which a whole life could unfold. Worlds could turn. The weight of everyone’s anticipation was making Maisie a little nauseous.
The tearoom’s happy chatter felt like an insult, especially when snippets of plans to spend money arrowed into her ears.
“Can you believe it? I’ll finally pay off that dear silk frock! I can’t wait to see Maurice’s face when he sees me in it.”
“I’m taking Doris dancing at that new spot everyone’s been rabbiting on about.” (Billy? A date? Poor Doris.)
“We’re getting our fittings for that masquerade ball. What an absolute hoot!”
Maisie reminded herself she didn’t care. She would keep herself fed and sheltered and could start improving herself and become someone that a man (not Billy) would want to take dancing at the new spot. Provided I learn how to dance.
Any moment now, someone would say something. She was so sure she was about to hear Cyril’s voice saying, “Hallo, New York. Payday, what? Come along and pick up your pennies,” that she stopped hearing the rest of the din and was only roused when she took a sip and saw her cup was empty. The room was empty, too. She ran back to the executive offices.
“Now, see here, Miss Musgrave. I can excuse your foreignness only so long. You ought to have been back three minutes ago, and please tell me you are not panting.” Miss Shields sniffed.
“No . . . I . . . Sorry,” Maisie muttered, backing to her table.