Ingenue

by Jillian Larkin

  It was time to make a move. On an impulse, she stood and rubbed her arms. “Brrr! It’s so chilly! Why don’t I sit over there next to you?” She began to move to his end of the boat.

  “No, sit back down!” he barked, alarm on his face. “You’ll capsize the—”

  As he spoke, the boat wobbled. Lorraine windmilled her arms, trying to regain her balance, but it was no use. She fell, sensing as the water closed above her that Hank was going over, too.

  The water was cold—shockingly cold—and it ran up Lorraine’s nose and into her mouth and tasted like a million unclean things that were all moldy and sitting in the bottom of a fish tank. Hank grabbed her arm underwater, and they both swam to the surface. In the cool air, they coughed and sputtered, and Hank said, “Well!” And then they were laughing.

  For a moment, all they could do was cackle hysterically, out of breath and trying to keep afloat. Lorraine wiped water out of her eyes. If there had been any hope of saving her dress before, there certainly wasn’t now.

  “You are one wild girl,” Hank said. His hair was matted to his forehead—Lorraine wanted to lean forward and push it back.

  “Gracefulness was never really one of my strongest traits,” she replied.

  Hank swam to the capsized boat. “Help me flip it back over,” he said.

  Lorraine joined him, and they both pushed as hard as they could, but the boat only moved away from them.

  Lorraine paddled around to the other side. “Maybe we’ll have better luck over here!”

  “Nah, this thing is never turning back over,” Hank said. “I say we just get under it and swim it back to the boathouse upside down.”

  Lorraine nodded and ducked underwater, then resurfaced inside the shell of the overturned boat. With the sun rising, just enough light streamed in through the water of the lagoon that they could vaguely make one another out. But under the boat it was still quite dark, and almost quiet—she was reminded of what it felt like to hold a shell up to your ear so you could hear the ocean. Only, in this case, all she heard was her own breathing, and Hank’s, and the lapping of the water.

  Lorraine felt herself blush, and was grateful for the darkness. Surely whatever lipstick and rouge had survived her shift at the Opera House had washed off long ago. Her hair hung in limp ropes.

  “You know, I thought you were pretty before, but wow … you’re really beautiful. No makeup or fancy headdress—you’re just who you are.” Hank smiled. “Why would you ever want to hide that?”

  Lorraine was mortified as she realized that tears were brimming in the corners of her eyes. She had always assumed that insults were the only way a man knew how to communicate his feelings. But here Hank was, being completely honest and sweet.

  Hank swam closer. “You’re not supposed to cry,” he said.

  Lorraine had kissed plenty of boys before, but when Hank touched his lips to hers, something about it felt brand-new.

  CLARA

  Clara concentrated on slathering butter onto her roll.

  “Whoever this writer is, he is eeeeeevil,” Leelee muttered, settling a cloth napkin over her ivory day dress.

  Light streamed in through the nearby window, giving Leelee’s dark bob golden-brown highlights. Chez Jacques, a cozy but chic French bistro on Spring Street, was always packed. The dark-blue-papered walls and jazz playing softly on the Gramophone even in the middle of the day gave the bistro an authentic Parisian atmosphere.

  “Oh?” Clara said, leaning over to get a better look at the magazine spread out on the pale blue tablecloth. Leelee wasn’t the only one in their lunch party with the most recent issue of the Manhattanite. Actually, Coco, Julia, and Nellie were all reading the second “Glittering Fools” column.

  Everyone but Clara.

  “How can they get away with printing trash like this?” Coco exclaimed.

  “Isn’t it true?” Clara asked.

  Coco scowled. “That doesn’t mean someone should write about it!”

  Clara had to admit it: She was proud to be a part of the Manhattanite. The magazine was glossy and smart, and everyone in town was reading it. But even though she was dying to tell them that she was writing for the magazine, she knew better: It was more important than ever to keep her secret, especially now that people were reading and discussing—and outraged by—her columns.

  Leelee’s plump pink lips turned downward. “He says Edie Burrows’s feathered headdress was so enormous that he’s ‘surprised it didn’t jump off her head and fly through an open window.’ I thought Edie looked adorable.”

  “She looked like a crazy person, Lee,” Coco said. The other girls giggled in agreement. “That’s one thing the reporter got right. And no way is this writer a man.”

  “It says Anonymous,” Leelee replied, pouting. “How do you know it’s a woman?”

  “A man wouldn’t have such an eye for fashion. And a man could never be so vicious,” Nellie said, tucking her curly light-brown hair behind her ear. “This is one cold, calculating bitch.”

  Nellie Abrams had been one of Clara’s favorite old New York friends—she’d always been willing to say what everyone else was thinking. Nellie wasn’t bone-thin like the rest of the girls at the table. She had plentiful curves, which she showed off with the scooped neck of her ruffled peach blouse and a short skirt. Though she wasn’t glamorous like Coco or a beauty like Leelee, she had a charisma that was undeniable.

  Julia Spence squeezed lemon juice into her glass of water. “Maxie’s going to be sore over the way she made fun of him.”

  At Maxie Gabel’s eighteenth birthday party (had it only been two weeks ago?), Clara had given Arthur Spence her phone number. The next day, his older sister, Julia, had called up, eager to reminisce. Clara had always adored the exquisitely pretty redhead.

  “I don’t even know how the writer saw that!” Coco said. “It was hilarious!”

  “Saw what?” Clara asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

  “Apparently,” Julia said, “Maxie’s mother sews his initials into his underwear. Sounds like the party was oodles of fun.”

  Coco flipped ash off the end of her cigarette. “It was. But whoever Anonymous is, she makes it sound like all the girls there were too scared to do anything interesting. Until Arthur swanned in and saved the day.”

  “But isn’t that true?” Clara asked. “We were about to leave when he showed up.”

  “People know I was at that party,” Coco lamented. “This column doesn’t exactly make any of us there sound … you know. Bold. Daring. Lively.”

  Nellie continued to flick through the pages. “I feel the same way, darling. And what about her snarky mention of the fire Robert Eames set on the balcony at the Webster Hall Garden Party? How did she even know about that?”

  Julia tapped her finger on the column. “This girl has to be someone we know.”

  Clara gave a tiny cough and said, “All I know is that this Anonymous has a real stick up her butt, don’t you think? She needs to loosen up and have some fun. What a dumb Dora.”

  The waiter served their food. Once he was out of earshot, Nellie picked up again. “Lizzy Banks has always hated me, and she writes all those stupid short stories. It might be her.”

  “Wasn’t there one with a talking bear?” Coco asked, and she, Nellie, and Clara all laughed.

  “A talking bear?” Leelee asked, confused. “That doesn’t seem possible. Bears can’t talk!” She turned to Nellie and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Can they?”

  Nellie ignored the question and turned to Clara. “Lizzy has always liked you. I don’t think she ever would’ve called you”—she paused for a moment, searching through the column—“ ‘… spoiled goods that should have been pulled from the shelf ages ago.’ ” Nellie reached over to grip Clara’s hand. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Talking bears!” Leelee said as she dug into her salade niçoise. “Ha!”

  The rest of the girls stared at Clara, waiting for her to respond. />
  Clara merely shrugged. She was glad she’d been smart enough to trash herself in the article and make it seem less likely that she was the author. “At least she’s writing about me,” Clara said. “The only thing worse than being made fun of is getting no mention whatsoever.”

  Really, Clara was doing her friends a favor: making them the talk of the town. Any publicity was good publicity.

  “I don’t know, Clarabella,” Coco said. “If it were me and I ever found out who wrote this, I’d put her eyes out with a hairpin.”

  Leelee abruptly closed the magazine. “So, is everyone enjoying their food?” she asked, her voice oddly high-pitched.

  Coco narrowed her eyes. “What is it, Lee?”

  Leelee looked from one to the other of the girls, then turned to Clara. “Well, this terrible Anonymous person says Quentin Harkington—”

  “Ugh, what a brownnoser,” Coco said, groaning across the table.

  “He is,” Leelee agreed. “Anyway, he’s throwing a birthday party for Twiggy Sampson tonight at the Waldorf.”

  “I know all about it,” Clara replied. “Quentin’s brother Blake told me about it at the garden party.” This, of course, was how the upcoming event had made it into the article in the first place.

  Julia nodded. “I’m going with Maxie, Arthur, and Sally. You’re all welcome to join us, of course, and I would’ve invited you sooner, but …” She glanced over at Clara. “I assumed you wouldn’t want to go.”

  Clara gave a tight-lipped smile. That would make sense—apparently, Harris Brown (Clara’s ex-whatever-you-call-it) had taken up with Twiggy soon after he had tried—and failed—to get Clara back to Chicago.

  But Clara did want to go: How else would she get material for her column?

  Only, she’d be going without a date. Marcus would never understand.

  “I already know about Harris and Twiggy,” Clara answered softly. “It’s fine with me. Really.” She waved her hand. “Ladies, I’m in love! With Marcus Eastman. Harris is free to carouse with whichever roundheels he wants. And Twiggy, I hear, is a total lollipop—all sugary sweet and nothing of substance. Besides, this is supposed to be a fabulous party. I hear Dorothy Parker will be there.”

  Coco clapped. “Dorothy Parker! Well, hot damn.” Coco had been completely addicted to Parker’s dry wit in her old Vanity Fair articles, before she’d been so unjustly terminated (“for being too bitingly brilliant,” as Coco liked to say).

  “When are you going to bring this Marcus around for us to meet?” Leelee asked curiously. “We promise not to steal him away.”

  Clara said, “Oh, you’ll meet him soon,” but she felt more than a twinge of guilt.

  My old flapper ways are gone, she had promised Marcus, but already they were returning, weren’t they?

  That afternoon, Clara gazed out at the East River from a bench on the Brooklyn Bridge and ate chocolate ice cream. “So, how was your day?”

  Marcus shrugged, taking a lick of his vanilla cone. His gray vest gave his blue eyes a stormy look. “Dandy, I suppose. Just went shopping with Charles Drakeman. He bought a new racket, but I couldn’t find one I liked.”

  “He leaves tomorrow, right?” Clara asked. “I’m sorry I never got a chance to meet him.”

  Marcus grinned. “Oh, no need to be sorry: you’re going to meet him. Then you can be sorry.” He rummaged around in his trouser pocket and pulled out a ticket. “There’s an exhibition opening at the Met tonight. It’s all about Crusaders’ helmets or britches or gauntlets or something like that. The art will be steely and boring, but the food should be fantastic.”

  “I can’t,” Clara said. “I already made plans for tonight.”

  “Plans? With whom? Who are these mysterious figures who fill your hours? I’m not normally the suspicious sort, but I’m starting to feel as if I should be.”

  It was true: She’d seen less and less of Marcus the more work she did for the Manhattanite. They’d shared a few intimate dinners, and they’d gone to see A Woman of Paris, a Charlie Chaplin movie that had been marvelous, but every time Marcus had wanted to come back to her apartment, Clara had made up excuses rather than reveal the truth: She needed to work on her column. She was finally successful. People were talking about her writing, and nothing—not even Marcus’s kisses—had ever felt so good.

  “It’s no one, really,” she said now.

  “What can be better than Crusaders’ steel underwear? What marvelous alternative is luring you away? Maybe I’ll drag Drakeman to that, and we can all have fun.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t,” Clara said. “I have to go alone.”

  “Mysteriouser and mysteriouser.” Marcus’s lips turned up a little at the corners. “You didn’t get a job singing with a black band, did you? Because that is so last year.”

  Clara laughed longer than the joke about Gloria warranted. “No, no … it’s just that I’ve been working on a little project. I want to try to get a story published in the Manhattanite. I’ve been doing research into the city’s red-light districts and the plight of the working girl. I thought a hard-hitting story like that might have a shot at getting the editor’s attention.”

  Marcus stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language.

  Clara took his hand. “I know that sounds sordid and secretive, but I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “Of course I’d worry. Prostitutes run with a violent crowd.”

  “But I don’t need to worry! An old friend from my flapper days has an older brother who’s a cop, and he accompanies me on my research. He knows all the right women to talk to, and he makes sure I’m safe.”

  How easy it was to lie.

  Marcus stared deep into her eyes for a moment, then gazed down at the wooden bench. She prayed that he believed her. If he approved of her writing articles like this, it would make it easier for her to eventually tell him the truth about her flapper column.

  After a moment, she saw that he looked relieved. “I can’t say I like it that you’re spending so much time with another man. Nor with loose women.” He made a face. “But I have to admit it: I’m proud of you. You’re a crusader yourself—just like Lewis Hine. Only a woman has the means of really exposing the sordid underbelly of prostitution in the city. I’m just proud that I’m the lucky fellow who is dating such a forward-thinking woman.”

  Clara suddenly felt like a fraud. “You make me sound like a saint. But I’m doing this for myself, let’s not forget!”

  He laughed. “Of course, but still: It’s a noble cause. And I had no idea you were so interested in writing!”

  “It’s kind of a recent interest, but yes.” She gave him a small smile. “I think it’s what I’m supposed to do.”

  He settled back against the bench. “They’ll eat this sort of thing up at Barnard. You can use this article to get into an advanced journalism class. You’ll probably arrive on campus a crusading celebrity!”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She leaned her head on his shoulder and stared blindly at the water. She doubted her actual Manhattanite columns were the sort of thing Barnard would approve of.

  “I really am relieved,” Marcus said. “I was worried.”

  “Worried?” Clara asked. “About what?”

  “About us,” Marcus said quietly. “What else? I’ve already lost Gloria, who was like my kid sister. I couldn’t bear losing you, too.”

  He turned his head then, and the sunlight glinted off his burnished hair. This was the boy who had convinced her that not all men would stomp on her heart. The boy who’d brought her back to New York in the first place. And how did she repay him? With lies and deception.

  She made up her mind to tell him the entire truth soon. As long as she made it clear that she wasn’t falling back into her old life, and that all this really was just for a magazine, he would understand.

  Wouldn’t he?

  The sparkling teenagers shuffled through the crowd of people waiting to get in. “Make way! Make way!” Arthur cried, and Clara ha
d to laugh at the haste with which people scurried to move aside. It was as though one of them were a film star. Both Leelee and Julia were certainly pretty enough: Leelee a shimmering sylph in white, and Julia snake-hipped and slinky in venomous green silk.

  “Clara, my dear,” Arthur said, “your public awaits.”

  For this party, Clara had pulled out all the stops. She looked good tonight. Better than good: She was a knockout. Her dress was a rich depthless blue that fell in sheer overlapping layers down to her knees. Pearls wound around her neck in so many loops that they were hard to count, and teardrop pearls hung from her ears. A pair of pearl-colored Mary Janes and a black feather boa completed the ensemble. She looked dark and dangerous and sexy.

  Their group passed under the gaudy glitter of the chandeliers in the lobby and packed themselves into one of the elevators. “Make room! Make room!” Arthur cried, shoving himself against everyone and making a nuisance.

  “You’re not that fat,” Maxie said, trying hard not to laugh.

  “No, but my ego is gigantic,” Arthur said.

  Clara’s friends had finished the contents of Arthur’s flask and were starting on Coco’s by the time they reached the top floor. The operator dragged the doors open.

  This was the kind of party Clara remembered.

  There was so much light and laughter and motion that she didn’t know where to look. The ballroom seethed with glittering bodies—flappers in their bejeweled best, dancing with young men in white tie, and around the dance floor, men and women squashed tightly into red velvet booths, talking and gesturing and guffawing. At the head of the room, an all-black band in white suits played hot jazz on a tiny stage. Cigarette smoke wafted around the chandeliers and curled against the tall windows.

  And there, toward the back—a champagne fountain! Clara grabbed flutes and filled them from the bronze basin.

  Then it was onto the dance floor. As they’d arrived, the band had just swung into “The Black Bottom Stomp.” The crowd cheered. Clara raised the hem of her skirt with one hand and held her other arm out, then began to stomp her feet and swing her hips. She could feel herself glowing with frantic energy.