by Fiona Davis
“She seems like an interesting woman, the way she dresses and all.”
“Not many friends in the building. Management can’t stand her. She kicked and screamed when they said she had to move from her apartment down to 4B, with the rest of the longtimers. Threatened to call her lawyer. But never did. In the end, I helped her pack up and move. She’s a retired lady, couldn’t afford proper movers, and I was happy to do it. She always remembers me at Christmas with a card and a small token.”
Apartment 4B was the one directly under theirs. The one with the music. “That was very kind of you, to help her move.”
“Terrible story, what happened to her.”
Leave it to Patrick to bury the lead. “What happened?”
“There was a skirmish up on the terrace.”
“A skirmish?”
“Yes. I can’t say what happened exactly. She was up there with one of the maids. It was a hotel back then, not like today, employed a big staff. Anyway, the two girls got into a fight and the maid fell to her death.”
“Good Lord. That’s awful.”
“I know. I remember I talked to one of the older porters when I first came on the job. I noticed she always wore a veil, never saw her without it. I said, ‘Why does the woman always cover her face?’ He told me she can’t stand to be seen, ever since that day.”
“Why is that?”
A family of tourists interrupted them, asking the way to Bloomingdale’s. As if he knew Rose was on the edge of her seat, Patrick spent quite a while explaining the best route and recommending a decent bistro in the neighborhood. She really had to get upstairs. If they ended up ordering in dinner, the mood would be all wrong.
Rose was waiting for the elevator to descend from one of the high floors, when Patrick reappeared by her side.
“Anyway, like I was saying. Poor Miss McLaughlin. The old porter, you know, the one I mentioned I spoke with, he said she was going to secretarial school. She was one of the innocents who came from the boondocks, not knowing anything, and she got caught up in all kinds of trouble.”
“What kind?”
“That I couldn’t tell you.” He rubbed his temple. “But in the skirmish, as they called it, she was cut.”
“Cut?”
He made a motion from the corner of his forehead down through the opposite eye. “Cut. With a knife.”
Her stomach turned.
“She was left disfigured, horribly scarred. Poor, poor Miss McLaughlin.” He closed his eyes. “Hasn’t once shown her face to the world again since.”
The elevator door opened and Rose stepped inside, suppressing a shudder.
She should have never asked.
CHAPTER TWO
New York City, 1952
The woman behind the desk at the Barbizon Hotel for Women looked up in confusion. “McLaughlin? I’m afraid we don’t have anyone here by that name.”
“But I’m not here yet, I’ve just arrived.” Darby bit her lip. If only Mother had come with her, she wouldn’t be in this situation. If Mother had come, she’d be telling the clerk to go back and check her records, that she’d sent a letter off last month stating that Darby McLaughlin was arriving on the fifth of September and enclosing the three letters of recommendation. Then she’d turn to Darby and tell her to stop biting her lip.
She bit her lip harder and tasted blood.
The woman wore spectacles that made her eyes look unusually round, and Darby couldn’t help but widen hers in sympathy.
A group of five or six girls her age flounced through the lobby, and Darby could have sworn she heard one of them making a hooting noise. The lady behind the counter appeared not to have noticed.
“You’ve just arrived, you say?”
“Yes, I just arrived from Ohio today, and my mother, Mrs. Saunders, made the reservation ages ago. I’m to be here through June.”
The idea of getting back on a train and returning to Ohio was daunting. Grand Central Terminal had frightened her to bits, the hordes of people walking this way and that, knowing exactly where they were headed and why. She had stood close to the big clock and clutched her suitcase, trying to get her bearings as if she were standing on the deck of a giant ship. The floor even seemed to sway ever so slightly under her black patent leather pumps.
Then she spied the sign for taxis and hurled herself toward it, bumping into people and apologizing furiously. Before she had a moment to watch the city whizzing by in the cab, she was dropped off in front of the Barbizon Hotel and found herself standing in the cool, cavernous lobby. The dark wood of an intricately carved balcony loomed over three sides, offset by bright white walls. Lush palm plants stood guard against the columns.
All she wanted, after the overnight train ride, with its fancy dining car and linen tablecloths, was to go to her room and lie down for a moment. To collect herself from the onslaught of sensations. And now they said she didn’t even have a room.
She knew no one in the city, no one at all. The Barbizon Hotel for Women was her only hope.
The clerk returned from a back room, clutching a white piece of paper. “Saunders is the name it was filed under.”
She breathed out a sigh of relief. “Yes, that’s my stepfather. Mother took his name after she married him. But mine remained McLaughlin.”
The owl-eyed woman threw Darby a largely indifferent look. “Well, I have Saunders here, miss. Do you want me to change it?”
“Yes, please.”
“Good enough. Wait here and Mrs. Eustis will be with you shortly.”
She had no sooner sat on the hard bench than the woman appeared. She was what Darby’s mother would describe as horsey: a tall, solid woman with an aquiline profile, wearing a navy suit that sported a floppy fabric corsage. Darby stood and shook her hand.
“You look exhausted, Miss McLaughlin. I hope the trip wasn’t too arduous.”
“No, not at all. I quite enjoyed it,” lied Darby. “Trains are terrific.” Mother had handed her a book titled The Art of Conversation at the train station, and she’d dutifully read through it because the cover promised a “fascinating new way to win poise, power, personality.” Make your rejoinders positive! it had decreed.
Mrs. Eustis gave a curt nod. “Come with me and I’ll show you to your room. You’re on the fifteenth floor, and I think you’ll find it quite accommodating.”
The elevator doors opened. Darby tried not to stare when a young girl in a uniform yanked open the interior gates for them to enter. Mrs. Eustis indicated for Darby to step inside. “Male visitors must be signed in and are only allowed in the public lounges. The safety of our girls comes first.”
The elevator girl rolled her eyes and Darby suppressed a smile. As they trundled up, Mrs. Eustis ticked off the pertinent information in such a rush that Darby was certain she wouldn’t remember a thing. “Meals are served in the second-floor dining room. The hours are posted in the lobby, but you can always pop in to pour yourself a cup of tea or coffee. Socials are held every Thursday evening in the West lounge. Anyone found sneaking a man up into the private rooms risks expulsion. You may use the pool, gymnasium, and squash courts in the basement from eight o’clock in the morning to six o’clock at night. At the top floor you’ll find the sky terrace and solarium. You’re enrolled at Katharine Gibbs, is that correct, Miss McLaughlin?”
The elevator door opened and they stepped down a narrow hallway. “Yes, ma’am. I’m due to start classes Monday.”
“Very good. I’m afraid there were no vacant rooms on the floors where the Gibbs girls are housed. You’ll be here, with girls who work for Eileen Ford.”
“Like the cars?” Darby asked. She imagined all the secretaries learning the names of automotive parts.
“No, not the cars.” Mrs. Eustis let out a frustrated sigh. “Here we are.”
She stuck a key into a doorknob and opened the door. The long, narrow room s
melled of mustiness and hair spray. Darby touched the surface of the bureau, happy to discover it wasn’t sticky with residue.
A twin bed hugged one wall, with a small wooden desk and chair squeezed against the foot of it. The bedspread sported a garish poppy design, as did the curtains, which hung down almost to the floor, making the window appear longer than it actually was. A scuffed wingback chair, too small to curl up in, was wedged into the corner opposite the desk.
“No pets are allowed, no fish, no turtles, nothing of the sort.”
Darby wasn’t sure where she’d get a live fish in the first place. Did they have stores for such things in New York City? Of course they did. They had everything.
“You look quite dazed. I say, are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Eustis.”
“Very well, then I’ll leave you be. Most of the girls on your floor are out on a trip to the Museum of Natural History today, so you’ll find it rather quiet until they return.”
Darby hung up her dresses in the closet and put away the rest of her clothes. She placed her brush and comb on the top of the bureau and lay on the bed, unsure of what to do next, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
A girl’s scream woke her. The noise was high-pitched and terrifying, and Darby sat up quickly. With a sinking heart, she remembered she was in the middle of a strange city, alone. Out the window, the sun had disappeared behind the horizon in a dull haze, lending an otherworldly glow to the rooftops and water towers.
The scream dissolved into helpless laughter as the racket outside her door increased. The Ford girls must have returned from their outing.
Darby got up and brushed her hair, then put on her favorite dress for courage. It was a creamy cotton that buttoned right up to the neck and had short, cuffed sleeves. The dress flowed out from the belted waist, from which dozens of images of closed umbrellas and parasols hung down among the many pleats. The varying shapes and colors made her smile whenever she looked down.
In the mirror, her face had a sallow cast and her brown hair hung limply in the heat, making her ears seem bigger than normal. The Ear Beautifier that Mother had ordered and insisted she use nightly hadn’t made them any less pronounced. Still, the dress was awfully pretty.
Taking a deep breath, Darby ventured into the hallway.
A gorgeous redheaded girl stopped mid-stride. “Well, hello.”
Darby stuck out her hand. “Hello, I’m Darby McLaughlin.” She plastered a bright smile on her face.
“Darby, I’m Stella Conover. I haven’t seen you before.” Stella stood several inches taller than Darby and had the tiniest ears she’d ever seen.
“No. I’m here for secretarial school. From Ohio. Just arrived today. For a moment they didn’t have my reservation, and I figured I’d have to turn around and go right back. But then they found it. They’d put it under my stepfather’s name instead of mine. He’s Saunders; I’m McLaughlin.”
She was babbling. This was not at all what The Art of Conversation advised.
“Well, I’m glad it was sorted out.” Stella took her by the arm. Maybe Darby hadn’t sounded idiotic. “I love your dress, by the way.”
Stella brought her to an open door. Inside, six or seven other girls lolled about while one read out loud from a fashion magazine. When Darby appeared, they all stared up at her.
They looked as if they’d drifted right out of the pages of the magazine. One wore a bright-red lipstick that showed off her perfect bow lips, while another had a tousle of golden curls. Their clothes were tailored and crisp: embroidered white blouses atop pencil skirts, rayon dresses in colorful stripes. A bevy of princesses holed up in a high tower. Even though she’d be turning eighteen in three months, Darby felt more like an ankle-biter in the presence of such beauties.
“Ladies, this is Darby; she just arrived today for Katie Gibbs.” Stella pointed to each girl, their names tripping off her tongue. “We’re all with Eileen Ford, the modeling agency.”
That explained it. She was terribly out of place, like a panda in a room full of gazelles.
The girls said hello, and the one with the magazine, named Candy, invited Stella and Darby to join them. Darby tucked herself into the corner, eager to deflect any attention.
“I was just reading the newlywed tips from Mademoiselle. Do you read it, Darby?”
“Of course.” Well, not exactly. Mother bought the latest issue for her every month, and Darby would pretend to leaf through it. The willowy models, with their knowing gazes and impossibly tiny waists, intimidated.
“Anyway, here is the advice, ladies. Number one: ‘Comb your hair and wash your face before breakfast and put lipstick on before you put the coffee on.’ Number two: ‘Never touch your husband’s razor or tidy his desk.’”
“Ugh, I wouldn’t want to touch his razor.” The blonde tossed her head and grimaced. Even while making an ugly face, she was pretty.
“Number three: ‘The first time your baby and your husband call you at the same time, go to your husband.’”
Darby imagined a baby crying its head off in hunger, while the husband needed help looking for a missing sock. Didn’t seem right.
“Number four: ‘Don’t compete with your husband.’ And finally, number five: ‘Remember that marriage is fun.’”
The girls clamored to comment, the words tumbling out.
“I comb my hair before coming downstairs anyway; that wouldn’t make much difference to me.”
“And I’ll have a nurse to see to the baby, so I’ll be free to mind my husband.”
“What do you think, Darby?”
Candy stared at her. This was a test. She needed to respond with an air of élan and a witty comment. If she did, she’d make friends for life, and these girls would ask her to be a bridesmaid at their weddings and invite her to their baby showers and they’d exchange letters, remembering their time together in New York City when they were young and the world was ahead of them.
“I don’t plan on marrying,” Darby said.
Candy’s jaw dropped open. She fiddled with the pearls around her neck. “Ever?”
“That’s why I’m here, to go to school and learn how to earn my own wage. I don’t want a man to support me.” She remembered the look on Mother’s face, both stricken and triumphant, when Daddy had passed away. The other girls stared at her, dumbstruck, and she tried to explain. “A woman shouldn’t have to depend on a man.”
“Right. Maybe you prefer to depend on a woman instead?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
Candy’s eyes shone with a menacing glee. “You really don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“All I’m saying is that I plan to make enough money to support myself. Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Candy cackled. “No, sugar. I’m looking to find the richest man I can. Don’t be a nosebleed.”
Before she could respond, Stella announced it was time for dinner, and the gaggle sprang up and trotted out the door. The magazine fell to the floor and Darby carefully picked it up and laid it back on the bed.
She’d said the wrong thing. She smoothed her umbrella dress and followed them down the hallway.
The clattering of dishes and lively chatter rebounded around the dining room, which was as fancy as any restaurant Darby had been to, with crisp white tablecloths and an art deco chandelier of Odeon glass hanging from the ceiling. Darby followed Stella like a lost puppy, trailing behind the one person who’d been kind. Stella filled her own plate with broccoli and a spoonful of mashed potatoes, but Darby was famished and asked for an extra chicken filet. Her girdle would be tight afterward, but she didn’t care.
“Now, tell me, where are you from in Ohio?” asked Stella once they’d sat down at the table filled with their hall mates.
“Defiance.” Keep your answers short and swe
et; don’t drone on.
“What an original name for a town. Much better than Granite Falls, anyway—that’s where I’m from in North Carolina.” Stella took a dainty bite of potato and continued. “It’s strange they put you on the same floor as the models, though. The Gibbs girls are up on sixteen and seventeen.” She put a hand on Darby’s arm. “We’re happy to have you, of course.”
“Why, thank you. Happy to be had.” Wrong. Stupid. Stella threw her an odd glance.
Darby wished she were at home, cuddling her dogs while Mother cooked, enjoying the few quiet hours after school and before Mr. Saunders came home. She’d brought several books with her, including her beloved anthology of Shakespeare’s plays, and part of her wanted nothing more than to run up to her room and lose herself in Twelfth Night or Cymbeline, imagining the stage sets and costumes in her head as she read.
“I’m sorry, I’m out of my element here.” Darby fiddled with her cutlery as tears pricked the corners of her eyes.
“There, now.” Stella lowered her voice. “I felt the same way before I settled in. Granite Falls doesn’t even have a bus depot, so you can imagine how overwhelming this was for me when I arrived.”
For the first time, Darby noticed the other girl spoke with a soft Southern lilt. Her voice was musical, like a song.
“I like your accent.”
“Thank you. I try to play it down—the modeling agency thinks it makes me seem unsophisticated.”
“How can they say that? It’s beautiful, like a melody.”
Stella drew back, pleased. “That’s so well put. You should be a writer.”
“You’re kind, but I can’t waste time daydreaming. I’m here to learn to be a secretary. Mother used all of the insurance money she got when Daddy died to get me here. I won’t have another chance.”
“I see,” said Stella. “And where would you like to work once you’re through with Katie Gibbs, Little Miss Serious?”
Darby smiled. “Funny, I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” The din was nice; it offered them a cocoon of privacy.