Diva

by Jillian Larkin

  “All that liquid courage might not feel so nice come morning, Clarabella.”

  “Morning? What’s this ‘morning’ you speak of, good sir?” Clara replied. These days, Clara stayed up until the sun just began to peek over the Manhattan skyline … and didn’t awaken until her hangover receded, which was usually not long before sunset.

  She could admit it: She was trying to drink away her boredom. She’d grown so sick of it all—the women with their black spider-lashes and too much rouge, the way they manufactured every laugh, every smile, so that they forgot what the real things felt like. The men in their fedoras and debonair suits were exactly the same, but even less interesting. Maybe it was because they lacked the mascara and rouge.

  But who was Clara to judge? She was no different in her sleeveless Paul Poiret, a pretty number that darkened in tiers from sunshine yellow to burnt orange; more silver necklaces than she could count wound elegantly around her long neck; her perfect golden bob without a single errant strand.

  She was the Flapper Queen once again. But now that was just another gilded cage.

  “Clara, darling?”

  She squinted across the table at her friend Julia Spence, Arthur’s older sister. One would never guess that the statuesque redhead was related to rakish, larger-than-life Arthur. Leelee, Coco, Arthur, and Clara’s old friend Nellie had settled into the other gold-cushioned chairs around the table.

  “What is it, loves?” Clara asked.

  “Are you all right?” Nellie asked, her usually joking expression serious.

  “Never been better,” Clara slurred.

  “You’re hitting the juice pretty hard tonight,” Coco observed. With her sleek, dark bob and flawless rings of black kohl around her exotically slanted eyes, Coco was utterly committed to being the most sophisticated modern woman in the room. Clara’s ex-roommate leaned close. “That new twit of Marcus’s doesn’t mean anything. She’s nothing but a cheap replacement for a custom Chanel like you.”

  Not Marcus again. It had been weeks since their breakup, but the thought of his golden hair falling into his eyes after hours of dancing, his electrifying blue eyes, his stupidly adorable dimples—it all still pierced Clara’s heart as if no time had passed at all. She downed the rest of someone’s glass of whiskey to dull the pain.

  “They’re engaged,” Clara replied in a low voice. “After a month. If he’s able to fall for someone new so quickly, what does that say about his feelings for me?”

  “Nothing, sweetie,” her other old roommate, Leelee, replied. “He fell for her because he’s heartbroken.”

  I’m heartbroken, too, Clara wanted to say. She hadn’t spoken to Marcus since Gloria’s debut at the Opera House weeks earlier. Marcus had already broken up with her by that point. Clara had thrown herself into writing her articles about Gloria and convincing herself that she wanted as little to do with Marcus as he did with her. That she was better off on her own. By the time Clara realized she’d been wrong, Marcus was already engaged.

  She imagined telling her friends that she missed Marcus terribly, that she’d made a mistake … but what was the point of making herself even more depressed? Were her friends right—was this new girl just a rebound? But then why had he asked her to marry him? A rebound was a weeklong fling; marriage was forever. And Marcus had decided that he wanted to spend his forever with somebody else.

  So really, what good was it to talk about it now?

  “What’s done is done,” Clara announced. She gave them all a wicked smile, putting on her bravest front. “What we really need to talk about are those stiffs next door.”

  Vicious grins appeared on her friends’ faces. “What did you have in mind?” Arthur asked.

  Clara and her friends had come to the Roosevelt that evening solely to attend the event next door in the hotel’s finest ballroom: the Grand Ballroom. No one at that party would have to pretend to be clever. Their party was being thrown by the Algonquin Round Table—Franklin Pierce Adams, Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, and more of the most brilliant literary minds Manhattan had ever seen. There was even a rumor the Fitzgeralds were home from Paris and would make an appearance.

  But instead of letting Clara’s crowd in, the bouncer had scoffed. “Only real press are allowed to attend this event, Miss Knowles. Not baloney spinners like you.”

  Clara had flinched at that. So what if the Manhattanite was known more for its celebrity gossip than its hard-hitting journalism? She’d still done real, important work there.

  Hadn’t she?

  So they’d stormed off in a huff and crashed this less-than-classy party next door instead.

  “Did you figure out a way to sneak in?” Julia asked now, casting a glance at the wall as though she could see right through it and into the exclusive world beyond.

  “Why bring ourselves to the party,” Clara asked, “when we can bring the party to us?”

  Moments later Clara, Coco, and Leelee were in the corridor, gathered around two servers who had been working the Round Table event. Clara had spied the men steering carts piled high with covered trays toward the hotel’s front entrance.

  “What have you got there?” Clara asked with a sideways glance.

  Both men raised their eyebrows. They looked Clara and her girlfriends up and down. Oh, this was going to be eggs in the coffee. “Just some food,” the blond one replied, bashful.

  “We can see that, honey,” Coco purred. “She was wondering what kind of food.”

  “Um,” replied the other, a brunet with glasses, “shrimp, cucumber sandwiches, assorted cheeses …”

  “Oh, I love cheeses!” Leelee exclaimed with a giggle. “Especially when they’re assorted.”

  “Sounds much tastier than what they’ve got in the Terrace Ballroom,” Clara said, working hard not to slur. “The Round Table party—now, that seems like a classy bash.”

  The blond chuckled. “You don’t know the half of it, doll face. Pretty soon all the guests are heading downtown to ride a yacht around the Hudson. We were just taking these hors d’oeuvres out to the car so we can meet the captain at the dock before the guests arrive. Some life, am I right?”

  Coco gave him her most beautiful smile. “That sounds completely jake! Our girl Leelee has never been on a yacht before. Have you, Lee?”

  “What is that? Is that some kind of boat?” Leelee asked, her already large eyes even larger with feigned wonder.

  “What would Leelee do,” Clara said, touching the blond lightly on his wrist, “to go for a ride on an actual boat!”

  “We’ll never know,” Coco said sadly.

  The two waiters looked at one another. “Actually, the captain’s an old buddy of mine,” the brunet said. “So maybe there’s a way to find out.…”

  While Leelee followed the waiters to a convoy of Packards parked at the curb, Clara and Coco dashed back into the ballroom to gather the gang. They could only locate Julia and an amused Nellie.

  “It’s even swankier than we thought!” Clara exclaimed. “There’s a yacht!”

  “A yacht whose captain just happens to be a mutual friend of our new waiter friends!” Coco added.

  Nellie grinned. “Fantastic! Maxie and Arthur heard that they’re planning to bring fireworks on the yacht, too. Because, really, what’s a yacht without fireworks?”

  “No …,” Clara and Coco said with barely suppressed glee.

  “Arthur and Maxie are out with some boys who know how to make ’em work right now,” Nellie confirmed. “It should only take them another minute or two to convince those boys that we are far more deserving of fireworks than the stuffy old birds next door.”

  Clara and Coco leaned toward one of the arched windows, through which they could see the paved courtyard with its marble fountains and decorative vases of roses. Maxie stood silently laughing while Arthur gesticulated madly in front of two young hired hands in coveralls. A stack of wooden crates sat on the ground between them.

  Clara’s smile grew. “Let those dreary li
terary types enjoy their party. I can’t wait to see their faces when they realize we stole the most exciting part of their evening right out from under them!”

  Even as she spoke, she knew the prank wouldn’t dim the sting of the earlier rejection. Deep down, Clara knew that bouncer had been right. She wasn’t a real writer. She wrote biting but meaningless stories that only pleased people as boring and empty as Clara had become.

  If you want to write, write about something that matters, Marcus’s voice rang through her mind. If you want to write trash, then find someone else to love, because I won’t be waiting around.

  Ever since Clara had written about Gloria and had seen what an effect a real story could have, she had wanted to write about more than catty fights between teenage heiresses.

  Clara had thought about asking her editor if she could switch to writing something else, but she was sure he’d say no. Parker bragged to everyone who would listen about how Clara’s column had helped to make the Manhattanite the most popular gossip rag in town.

  Maybe her articles about her cousin had been a fluke. Maybe salacious drivel was all she was really capable of. And yet Clara was beginning to realize that she wanted to go to college, where she could hone her skills. She wanted exactly what Marcus had wanted for her. He’d been right about everything, and she couldn’t run into his arms and tell him so because his arms were full—with another girl.

  She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned. Standing next to her was easily the handsomest man in the room. He wore a tan pin-striped suit and a pale blue tie. Even with a healthy dose of Brilliantine, the soft waves in his dark brown hair were visible. His strong jaw was the sort a girl always wanted to run her hands over, and his bright green eyes oozed intelligence and charisma. Most girls would consider Parker Richards, the young and attractive editor of the Manhattanite, one of the biggest catches in town.

  But those girls weren’t fresh off losing the loves of their lives. And Parker Richards also wasn’t their boss.

  “Coco and Julia, you go find Leelee and the boys waiting outside. And Nellie, you go tell Arthur and Maxie the plan, and invite their new friends, too. We don’t want to burn the yacht down trying to set those fireworks off on our own. I’ll meet you out there in ten.” Clara turned to Parker. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “What are you and that gang of hooligans up to now?” Parker asked, squinting through the arched windows.

  “Well, we couldn’t get into the Round Table party next door, so now we’re stealing their food and their yacht. And hopefully some fireworks.” Just then, she heard a loud boom. She looked to see Arthur, Maxie, and Nellie running through the courtyard with crates in their arms, smoke wafting in their wake, and what looked to be hotel security guards running after them.

  “Looks like the fireworks are a go,” Clara said.

  Instead of congratulating her on what a fantastic Manhattanite column this would make, Parker shook his head. “Clara, that’s a terrible idea.”

  Clara’s anger was sharp and immediate. She jabbed a finger into Parker’s chest. “I’m doing exactly what you wanted! You said if I wanted to work for you, I needed to dance on tables and lead toasts with my flute of champagne! Or don’t you remember? ”

  A few guests looked in their direction.

  Parker straightened his tie and took a step back. “Yes, but you’re talking about theft, Clara. Theft from people who matter. Your articles helped keep that cousin of yours out of prison! Now’s the time to be careful with your reputation—you should be trying to impress the folks at that other party, not rob them.”

  Parker was right, Clara realized. What would this stunt do other than convince New York’s literary giants that Clara didn’t deserve to be taken seriously?

  He put a hand on her arm. “How about you ditch the yacht and come out with me? There’s a new place called the Chaise Lounge downtown that’s supposed to be the cat’s pajamas.”

  “Ah, I see. Your sudden concern for my career is just a way to ask me on another date.” Aside from a near kiss and the pseudodate that had ended in Gloria’s getting arrested, nothing had happened between them. But that hadn’t been for lack of trying on Parker’s part. Barely a day had gone by since that night at the Opera House without Parker inviting her to some new club or play. Clara always said no.

  But why shouldn’t she go out with Parker? Marcus certainly wasn’t waiting around for her, was he? “Tell you what, boss. I’m in. Just give me a second to visit the ladies’.”

  Parker gave her his usual self-assured smile. “I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby.”

  Even the bathroom in this joint was swanky, with plush couches where girls could rest their sore gams, wide mirrors where they could line up to reapply their lipstick and gossip about hemlines, and sinks made of the finest marble.

  Clara was really feeling her liquor tonight. It took an embarrassing amount of time to fish her lipstick out of her silver clutch—good thing no one was around to see. Once her lips were ruby red once again, she searched in her bag for something to blot with …

  … and retrieved a card she’d been carrying around for the past two weeks.

  The pleasure of your company

  is requested at the marriage of

  Anastasia Juliet Rijn …

  There was a photograph in the invitation. That must have cost a pretty penny—but then, the Eastman family had many pretty pennies to spend on things like engagement photos.

  Marcus’s betrothed, Anastasia, was a remarkably pretty girl with delicate bone structure and large pale eyes. She looked about as interesting as an ankle-length skirt. Clara couldn’t guess the girl’s hair color from the black-and-white photo—only that it wasn’t blond like her own. Standing next to his bride-to-be and looking happier than Clara had seen him since he’d moved to New York was Marcus. Had he ever looked so delighted with Clara, even in the beginning?

  Clara folded the invitation in half and raised it to her mouth. Even though she hadn’t had it for long, it was creased and worn. She looked up at herself in the mirror. Even hours into her evening, she still looked flawless and sexy. Maybe she wasn’t the prissy debutante in the photograph, but who would want to be? She’d never been that girl, good as she’d been at pretending back in Chicago. Instead, she was a flapper, which was a hell of a lot more interesting.

  So she didn’t have Marcus anymore. So what?

  She crumpled the invitation and threw it in the trash.

  “Out with the old,” she slurred.

  LORRAINE

  Bills, bills, bills, and a reminder of her next dentist appointment—how could a woman as deliciously intriguing as Lorraine accumulate such a dull pile of mail?

  She really needed to send out a change of address notice. Lorraine was a Barnard girl now, and had moved from Greenwich Village to Morningside Heights; her friends and admirers needed to know where she was so that they could reach her at a moment’s notice. What if she missed an invitation to a fabulous party or a moonlight stroll with some of the Columbia boys? For all Lorraine knew, she had already received dozens of these invites, only for them to be lost on the long, arduous journey uptown.

  But the most exciting letters in this stack were the regular correspondence from Lorraine’s parents. And those might as well have been addressed “To Whom It May Concern.”

  Your father and I went to Minnie Wilmington’s engagement party this weekend. She’s had the hardwood floors varnished. They look lovely.

  Lorraine fished the check out, crumpled up the letter, and ripped open the next.

  Your father and I played golf with the Marlowes yesterday afternoon. It was a temperate day. A bit windy, though.

  There were another seven letters in the stack. Her mother carried on a fairly entertaining social life, or so Lorraine had thought—how could she make it sound so utterly dreadful? Finally Lorraine just tore open each envelope, pocketed the checks, and left the letters on the bench beside her. Maybe some aspiring writer would fi
nd them and use them to write the world’s most boring novel.

  Lorraine planned to write her memoirs one day, but they would be fascinating. How could they not be? If there was one good thing about all the trials she’d been through, it was that they made it impossible for anyone to say that Lorraine’s life had been dull.

  She took a break from sorting, picked up the latest issue of Vogue, and tried to compose her face so that she’d look alluring and inviting and like a budding socialite. It was unseasonably warm for September, and Lorraine felt perfectly comfortable in her pale brown chiffon blouse and ivory flared skirt. An ivory cloche hat with a brown cloth flower rested on her short, dark bob. Lorraine would admit that her heels were a little high for running from class to class, but they looked sensational.

  Besides, Lorraine didn’t have class for another two hours. Plenty of time to hobble there. For the moment she sat on a bench on Columbia’s campus, directly across the quad from Philosophy Hall. Magnolia trees dotted the campus, and their blossoms sailed onto the grassy sward in the light breeze. Cobbled walks crisscrossed the quad, and a fountain gently burbled in the distance.

  The buildings on campus were old, but not old like Lorraine’s dreadful aunt Mildred’s collection of antique, rusty teapots. The buildings and statues here seemed old in a mature way, as if generations of knowledge had been infused into their very foundations over time. Lorraine could imagine the professors trying to gently hammer that same knowledge into the minds of their disinterested students. She watched the students now, the handsome young men in sweaters and knickers tossing a football, while others sat on picnic blankets and entertained equally attractive young ladies.

  These boys weren’t focused. What they really needed were appropriate wives who would help motivate them. Women like Lorraine.

  She sighed. She had been surprised by how much she enjoyed her classes at Barnard, but she still wished she could go to school here. It was only just across the street, but Barnard felt miles away from Columbia’s dashing young men.