Elizabeth-Anne smiled wryly. How could she explain to Dallas just how much there was to do? That she had four children and a household of her own to take care of?
Only much later did she learn that Dallas was far worse off than she. Dallas had no money saved up that she could fall back on. She depended on her meager paycheck, and there was never enough; her husband was in prison and she supported their six children by herself. She had to resort to cleaning apartments during the day in order to make ends meet.
When Elizabeth-Anne discovered this, she shuddered and felt very ashamed for daring to think that hers was an exceptional case.
Elizabeth-Anne thought it a miracle when she collected her third consecutive weekly paycheck. The two weeks she had been working on her own since her apprenticeship to Dallas had gone smoothly. The fifteen sixth-floor rooms which were her area of responsibility had been inhabited by businessmen, an aged widow, several couples, and one family with twin babies. She had been summoned at all hours of the night when the twins had 'accidents', had had to clean up after the businessmen who one night got drunk and sick, had had to answer the old widow's many summons for this or that whenever the woman couldn't sleep and wanted company, but on the whole things had gone well. Nothing tripped Elizabeth-Anne up, and whenever she ran into Mrs. Winter, the housekeeper was tight-lipped.
She's still waiting to find fault with me, Elizabeth-Anne thought to herself with satisfaction, and it's killing her that she can't.
The times she saw Dallas, always during the ten o'clock inspections and then again at six in the morning once the shift was over, the other maid smiled at her knowingly, but never said what was on her mind. Good for you, the dark eyes seemed to say. But Elizabeth-Anne also recognized the unspoken warning in her friend's gaze. Mrs. Winter always gets what she's after.
It was Thursday night, several hours before she had to report to work. She and the children were eating supper around the big oval table in the kitchen. The girls were well-behaved, as usual, but Charlotte-Anne was being especially solicitous, even to Rebecca and little Zaccheus, whom she always liked to lord it over.
Elizabeth-Anne watched Charlotte-Anne cutting Zaccheus's meat into tiny, bite-sized portions. She had never volunteered for that task before. After she had finished, Charlotte-Anne asked Rebecca sweetly, 'Would you like me to pass you some more gravy?'
Rebecca shook her head. 'No, thank you.'
'Some more potatoes, then?'
Rebecca frowned at her. 'No, thank you,' she replied uneasily , wondering what was up.
Elizabeth-Anne pursed her lips, also wondering what Charlotte-Anne was after.
When they finished eating, Charlotte-Anne was the first to scrape back her chair and begin to clear the table. 'It's my turn to do the dishes,' she announced, taking everyone by surprise.
Elizabeth-Anne gazed at her daughter curiously, but still said nothing. She knew that it wouldn't be long before Charlotte-Anne showed her hand.
Only after the dishes were washed, dried, and put away, and Charlotte-Anne had scrubbed the deep, enamel double sinks sparkling clean did she approach her mother. It was nine o'clock, and Elizabeth-Anne was in the curtained-off dressing alcove, getting ready to go to the Plaza.
Charlotte-Anne cleared her throat. 'Mamma?' she said in an uncharacteristically cajoling little voice.
'Yes, dear?' Elizabeth-Anne answered without turning.
Charlotte-Anne took a deep breath. 'I've made lots of friends at school. And for the past three weeks, I've stayed over at their houses every Saturday night.'
'Yes, you have.' Elizabeth-Anne strode out of the alcove to the parlor, adjusting the cuffs of her blouse. She stood in front of the mirror above the fireplace mantel and inspected herself critically. Behind her she caught sight of Charlotte-Anne's reflection. Here it comes, she thought as she watched her daughter tightening her lips.
'All the girls take turns having the others sleep over,' Charlotte-Anne reminded her. 'It's sort of like a pajama party, even though no one but Theresa has enough beds for us all. We pile up blankets and pillows and - '
Elizabeth-Anne turned around. 'And now you think it's your turn to reciprocate the invitations?'
Charlotte-Anne nodded.
'Then by all means, we'll have a slumber party here,' Elizabeth-Anne said.
'Soon, Mamma? Please?'
Elizabeth-Anne raised an eyebrow. 'How soon?'
Charlotte-Anne's voice grew very small. 'This Saturday? Is that all right with you?'
'This Saturday?' Elizabeth-Anne stared at her. 'But . . . that's the day after tomorrow. That doesn't give us much time.'
'You'll have to be at work anyway, and I'll do everything,' Charlotte-Anne promised quickly.
'But you're all young. The other parents will insist you be chaperoned.'
'I've already talked to Aunt Ludmila, and she's promised to keep an eye on us. She won't mind it at all. She's lonely and likes company, you know.' Charlotte-Anne looked at her mother pleadingly. 'I know it isn't much notice but it won't be a bother. Really, it won't.'
Elizabeth-Anne sighed, but gave her daughter a small smile. 'Very well then. It's fine with me as long as you and your friends don't make too much noise and keep your sisters and brother awake all night '
Charlotte-Anne's face lit up and she threw her arms around her mother's neck. 'Thanks Mamma! I really appreciate it,' she added with a smacking kiss.
'I'm glad,' Elizabeth-Anne smiled. 'I'll cook you all a nice supper before I leave for work.' She looked thoughtful. 'Maybe even bake a cake . . .'
'I'll do it-'
'You just concentrate on having a good time, dear.'
'Oh, I will! You can count on that.'
'By the way, what time do you all usually get together?'
'Six, six-thirty.' Charlotte-Anne shrugged. 'Something like that.'
'Good.' Elizabeth-Anne smiled. 'Then I'll finally be able to meet some of those friends you're always talking about. I'm looking forward to that.'
'And they want to meet you too, Mamma. I've told them all about you.'
Elizabeth-Anne looked surprised. 'You have?'
'Well, sort of.' Charlotte-Anne dropped her eyes and her voice grew meek. 'You won't . . . you won't tell my friends where you're going when you leave for work, will you, Mamma?'
Elizabeth-Anne gazed at her daughter expressionlessly. Charlotte-Anne had never really accepted or understood the reasons her mother was working as a maid. Elizabeth-Anne wondered what it could have been that she had told her friends about her. Well, she would find out soon enough, of that she was certain. Charlotte-Anne was a natural spinner of tales, and Elizabeth-Anne was sure she would have made the Hales sound terribly important. No matter what the occasion, she always felt compelled to impress people and to inflate her family's, and especially her own, importance. Strangely enough, it had been Charlotte-Anne who had at first resisted the move to Gramercy Park because of the size of the apartment. Then, once she'd discovered just how exclusive an enclave it was, she'd changed her tune in an instant. You would have thought, Elizabeth-Anne had told herself with amusement, that it had been her idea to make the move in the first place.
A weary sigh escaped her lips. Sometimes she felt that she did not understand Charlotte-Anne at all. She was a total stranger to her in so many ways. And sometimes she feared that perhaps she never would understand her. Still, she was her daughter, and as such she loved her. And she was sure that in her own peculiar way Charlotte-Anne loved her too.
5
The excited chatter of conversation, followed by bursts of laughter, issued forth from inside the apartment as Elizabeth-Anne snapped the door shut and hurried downstairs. It was already nine-thirty, and she knew she was cutting it close. She should have left at least fifteen minutes earlier, but the girls had held her up. If she was delayed again, whether it was the subway's fault or her own, she would be late for work and have to answer to Mrs. Winter.
Miraculously enough, nothing conspired agai
nst her. The instant she stepped on the subway platform the train came blasting in and screeched to a stop. She thanked her lucky stars and arrived at the Savoy Plaza in record time. She even had a few minutes to chat with Dallas as she changed into her uniform.
'Lord,' Dallas exclaimed as Elizabeth-Anne hung her best dress in the wardrobe. 'You're sure all dressed up tonight.' She placed her hands on her hips and eyed Elizabeth-Anne slyly. 'Special occasion, huh?'
Elizabeth-Anne smiled. 'Not really. One of my daughters is giving a little party for some of her friends.'
'Well, you look right nice.'
'Thank you, Dallas.'
Their conversation came to an abrupt end when Mrs. Winter's footsteps came echoing down from the hall. The maids snapped into line, and a frowning Mrs. Winter strode along in front of them as they stood in perfect, ramrod-straight formation for the nightly inspection. To date, things were going so well that Elizabeth-Anne stood as tall, and dared to convey as much self-confidence, as the most seasoned maid.
After Mrs. Winter completed her inspection, she puffed out her chest importantly. 'I have been told to give special attention to the sixth floor this evening,' she announced with gravity. 'That means suite six-fourteen in particular, which is within your territory, Miss Hale.' Her eyes gleamed as she turned her attention on Elizabeth-Anne.
Elizabeth-Anne tried to hide her embarrassment. Along with several Irish women, she was one of the few white maids on the staff, and Mrs. Winter insisted on calling the Negroes by their first names and the whites by their formal surnames. It was an unfair practice, but there was nothing anyone could do about it, save suffer in silence.
'It is for that reason that I am changing our regular duty roster.' Mrs. Winter motioned to one of the other maids and snapped, 'Minnie, you take care of Dallas's fifth-floor territory, as well as your own. Dallas, you shall take care of all of Miss Hale's sixth floor rooms. And you, Miss Hale, since you have so far managed to keep your nose above water, and since you look the most. . . ah . . . presentable, will be in charge of suite six-fourteen exclusively. You will, at all times, be at that particular suite's beck and call and do nothing else, no matter what. Do I make myself clear?'
Elizabeth-Anne nodded. 'Yes, Mrs. Winter.'
'The rest of you are dismissed.' Mrs. Winter waited for the maids to file out. Then she turned to Dallas and Elizabeth-Anne once more. 'Tonight, we happen to have a very important guest in suite six-fourteen.' She paused for emphasis. 'Miss Lola Bori.'
Dallas let out an exclamation of surprise, but Mrs. Winter chose to ignore it. Even Elizabeth-Anne's heart hammered with excitement. Lola Bori was a legend, the most celebrated star of the moving pictures, the single most imitated and most closely watched of all the millions of women in the nation.
'It is imperative that everything goes smoothly tonight,' Mrs. Winter warned, 'and that every wish Miss Bori might have, no matter how outlandish or farfetched it may seem to you, is catered for. To the letter. Is that clear?'
Elizabeth-Anne nodded.
'Good.' Mrs. Winter paused. 'It is even more important that everyone - the public, photographers, and members of the press - are kept far from Miss Bori. She has requested extreme privacy, and the hotel management intends to deliver it. We have hired extra security guards in the lobby, but in case anyone should manage to get upstairs, it is your duty, Miss Hale, to guard Miss Bori. Of course, you will also not discuss her with anyone.'
'Yes, m'am.'
'Very well, then.' Mrs. Winter gave a wave of dismissal and they hurried out.
'I can't believe it,' Dallas said in a reverential tone as they took the service elevator upstairs. 'Miss Lola Bori! I've seen her in a dozen pitchers sittin' in the balcony at Loewe's. And to think I might get a chance to see her in person. Lordy.' She shook her head. 'Wait till I tell everyone when I get home. They won't believe me, I'm sure.'
'Just be careful who you tell,' Elizabeth-Anne cautioned her.
'Oh, I'll be careful. Mark my words.' Dallas shook her head again and clucked her tongue. 'I still can't believe it. Imagine, Miss Lola Bori right here in the hotel. A real celebrity if ever there was one.'
In her luxurious, three-roomed suite, Lola Bori was both drunk and depressed. The gin coursed through her, and she saw the plush, pink satin furniture of the sitting room through a slightly swirling fog. She pushed herself up from the couch, but once on her feet, she swayed unsteadily. Compressing her lips, she frowned in concentration. 'Gin. Gotta get some more gin.'
She wove her way toward the door and began to fumble with the lock. 'Damn,' she swore under her breath. Then she pressed her face against the door and began to cry softly. She didn't want any more gin. She wanted company.
After a moment she pushed herself away from the door and slowly weaved back to the couch. Catching a glimpse of a face in a tall, gilt-framed mirror, she stared at the reflection, then slowly approached it.
'That's not me,' she mumbled. She licked her lips. 'Not me at all.' She shook her head defiantly at the caricature reflected in the mirror and it shook its head back at her. Her usually perfect, heart-shaped lips were smeared with lipstick, and her famous pale blue eyes were puffy and swollen. For once, the much-celebrated, angular cheek bones did not look worth celebrating; they were hollow and sunken. Her platinum blonde hair was matted and disheveled.
She stared at the reflection in shock, not daring to believe it was her own.
Then she let out a wrenching sob, collapsing with her head in her hands. This was not Lola Bori, her mind screamed. It couldn't be.
She was at the zenith, the pinpoint pinnacle of her career. She had intended to stay there forever, reigning from high atop her lofty, gilded pedestal, far above the rest of mankind. She didn't need anyone and had meant to keep it that way. But she hadn't anticipated one thing: talking pictures.
She sank numbly down into the couch and stared blankly before her. She was through. Finished. It had happened just that afternoon, not eight hours earlier, when that bastard Josef Von Richter, her studio producer, had sat down with her, right here in this very suite, on this very couch. His devastating words still echoed in her mind.
'You cannot have the part,' he had said gravely in his guttural German accent. 'Not War and Peace.'
'Of course you're joking, Josef,' she said light-heartedly. But his next words, and the obvious earnestness of his tone, had shocked her.
'No, my dear,' he said softly. 'Your career is over. That is what I have come to tell you.' He paused and looked at her, then turned away uncomfortably. 'Be glad that it has lasted this long.'
At first, she wanted to try to laugh off his words, but they echoed hauntingly in her mind. She had known this was coming, had feared it. Now she could think of nothing, see nothing but the black cloud of doom that was descending around her, suffocating her. She struggled to speak calmly, and her words came out in a ghostly whisper. 'So that's why you made me take the talkies test.'
'Yes.' He bowed his head in a solemn nod. 'You have the face Lola. But you do not have the voice. It is too high. Once your audience heard you speak you would become a laughingstock.'
She had leapt to her feet. 'I should kill you, you filthy bastard!' she had cried, her voice filled with hate. 'I should kill you!' Then she went limp, collapsing into quiet sobs.
'At the premiere of THE WOMAN BEHIND THE VEIL tomorrow,' he said quietly, 'you and your public will see the last Lola Bori film. I am sorry, Lola. You must believe that.'
She cried for a long time, then wiped her eyes with the back of one hand. 'I thought . . . ' She fought to retain the little composure she had left. 'I thought my stardom would go on forever.' She offered it almost as an apology.
His face was an expressionless mask, but she saw the sadness in his eyes. 'You have lived in the pictures too long, Lola,' he said. 'Nothing is forever. It is that way only in the pictures.'
Nothing is forever.
Now the words bombarded her again and again, echoing from the dark shadows in
the corners of the room. She shook her head morosely, her eyes glittering with tears. Everything was over.
Was that possible?
She hadn't felt so lost, so completely vulnerable in years. She was helpless, achingly alone. But who was there to turn to? Who could take her bleeding heart and mend it? Who could tell her what to do, where to turn now that she had lost everything?
And then it came to her like a flash of white light: Larry.
Larry, her former husband, the investment tycoon. He had always been so strong and capable. And, during their marriage, he had loved her, worshipped her so. Once, he had tried to buy up all the reels of a Lola Bori film he had deemed too scandalous. He had wanted her to himself. Throughout their short marriage, he had loved her as no one else ever had. He hadn't wanted the divorce. It had been her idea; she had insisted upon it.
But did he still love her?
She clamped her lips together. If he did, she might have a chance. They hadn't spoken in years, not since she had rather abruptly walked out on him, but she knew he was in New York. And, as far as she knew, he was still single. And even richer than before.
Her heart began to pump the same way it always did just before she went in front of the camera. She laughed softly to herself. Josef was wrong. There was one more role she could play. She could catch Larry all over again, marry him, and settle down as one of New York City's premier hostesses.
The excitement flowed through her and, fueled by anticipation and gin, she grabbed the telephone and had the hotel operator place a call to Larry's home phone. It had been her home once, too, and she had never forgotten the private number.
She could scarcely contain her impatience as she listened to the ringing at the other end of the line. She was almost rude to the butler who answered, announcing her name and ordered him to fetch his employer. But as soon as she heard the deep, familiar baritone voice, she broke out in a cold sweat. Larry sounded so formal and on guard.
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