This is where Vivian would have normally erupted, raising her cup and issuing some pithy accolade like, “Hickey for the prosecution!” But she remained silent, eyeing Laura cautiously. “You’re being very quiet,” Laura offered.
“I think our Dolores here has posed an interesting question. And I think it would make you feel better to answer.”
“What if I don’t know the answer?”
“Then perhaps you really do know the answer.”
Did she? Laura pondered the question, looking over again at the two women at the corner table. It was nice to see at least a few of the Women happy, that was certain. Laura didn’t realize how rare it was until now.
Is that what love looks like? she wondered. Love had to be deeper than that, than a glance over tea, which was indicative but not dispositive. She laughed to herself. Wouldn’t Mrs. Harris, who had taught her eighth-grade grammar, be proud of her command of the language? Be proud that her pupil was now in New York, working for Mademoiselle magazine?
Stop it! she admonished herself. She questioned whether everyone else’s mind was as jumbled as hers seemed to always be, a random traffic jam of disparate thoughts: thinking about life’s big questions, along with what she wanted for dinner, where she had last worn her silk scarf, trying to remember the name of the restaurant Box had taken her to last week, and the name of Audrey Hepburn’s princess character in Roman Holiday. She worried that it was some sort of disease she had, this propensity to think in odd puzzles, problems and worries and joys and memories and random song lyrics all crashing into one another inside her head. Did everyone walk around like this, trying to sort it all out every moment of the day? Or was she some wild schizophrenic, headed for a psychic break?
“I’m very fond of Box,” she finally managed, instantly hating how it came out.
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be quite relieved,” Vivian muttered.
“Well, I think you’re nuts,” Dolly offered. “He’s absolutely dreamy, he’s rich, and he’s obviously cuckoo for you.” She shook her head. “Pretty girls and their problems.”
“You need to stop saying things like that,” Laura said. “It only demeans you. And me, for that matter. But particularly you. It’s unattractive.”
“I have to agree,” Vivian piped in. “Your self-esteem cannot still be this low, not with that lumberjack you’re snogging.”
Laura delivered Vivian a cautionary look—the things that could come out of the girl’s mouth—while also being secretly pleased: The old Vivian was making a long-overdue guest appearance.
“Well, truth is,” Dolly said, evidently freed by both Laura’s own confession of misery and this sudden vote of confidence, “things with Jack aren’t really . . . progressing.”
“Oh my,” Vivian said, looking around for the serving girl. “I’m going to need more tea for this.”
Ten minutes later Vivian had a fresh pot and Dolly had finished her own tale, of Jack’s secrecy and her theory that he was either married, homosexual, or—God willing—simply inexperienced with women. She was amazed that instead of feeling embarrassed or ashamed, she actually felt . . . lighter. The weight of carrying around her faux romance was slowly lessening, if only within the confines of the room.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Laura said. “Men come at these things each in their own way, and in their own time.”
“You’re off your trolley,” Vivian retorted. She reached for a biscuit and the clotted cream. “Am I the only one eating?”
“You don’t know—”
Dolly cut Laura off. “No, no, I want to hear what she has to say. Because no matter how rude she gets, at least I know she’s always telling me the truth. Go ahead, Vivian.”
“Personally, he sounds like a bender to me,” Vivian said. “Not that I mind them, of course. We have a waiter at the Stork of that particular variety who’s actually quite lovely, and I’ve had one or two help me pick out some darling clothes at Tomas. But for your purposes, it’s a waste of time. Luckily it’s all easily sorted out. The next time you’re alone, simply kiss him, good and cracking, then grab him by the knob. If it’s all mashed potato down there, then you have your answer.”
Dolly sighed wearily. “It’s as good a plan as any. I certainly can’t keep going around like this. The uncertainty is worse than having no boyfriend at all.”
“And you, Lady Windsor?” Laura offered. “Now that we’ve both offered true confessions, what’s been eating at you lately? You haven’t seemed yourself.”
I should tell them, Vivian thought, and for a moment she almost did. They were the closest thing she’d ever had to real girlfriends. And yet something held her back. She was afraid. Not so much of their judgment—she was used to that from people—but of their pity. She couldn’t face the prospect of their pity.
“Another time, my loves,” she said, rising from her chair and leaning over to give each girl a peck on the cheek. “All of this tea has wreaked havoc with my kidneys, so must dash to the loo, then into the lift to get some rest before work. But thank you for the tea and the chat. I’m feeling better already.”
Do it, she willed herself, hurrying down the stairs toward the mezzanine. Do it now, while you have the courage.
A few minutes later she slipped into a phone booth, lifted the receiver, and swung her finger around the dial. “Operator,” the nasal voice intoned.
“Overseas operator, please. I’d like to phone England. Reverse the charges.”
Wednesday night had somehow turned, unofficially at least, into Laura’s weekly date night with Box. They saw one another other days as well, and most weekends, but Wednesdays had somehow turned sacrosanct, even though neither of them had officially claimed it for the other. Laura worked late, typing up notes for a writer about a Broadway actress the writer had interviewed, and felt almost too tired to go out. But she had begun looking forward to these Wednesdays more and more, in part because they tended to be more relaxed than the weekend, often nothing more than she and Box sitting in some red-sauce joint, slurping spaghetti and talking about their day-to-day lives.
Laura was standing in the lobby of the Barbizon when the matron on duty behind the front desk beckoned her over with the crook of her finger. “Letter came for you,” she said, thrusting an envelope that had her name and the hotel’s, but no stamp. Hand-delivered.
She plopped down on one of the sofas and ripped it open, silently praying for Pete’s handwriting. Instead she unfolded a flyer and a piece of stationery with the logo for MacDougal Books & Letters across the top. A note from Connie.
Dearest Laura, As soon as I booked this reading, I thought of you. I hope you can make it—I know you’re a fan! C.
She picked up the flyer.
PLEASE JOIN US FOR A SPECIAL EVENING WITH CHRISTOPHER WELSH, AUTHOR OF “WILL THE GIRL AND OTHER STORIES,” AS HE READS A PREVIEW CHAPTER FROM HIS NEW NOVEL, “WONDERLAND.” SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 5TH, 7 PM. COFFEE AND PUNCH RECEPTION WITH THE AUTHOR FOLLOWS.
That was a month from now. She wondered if Pete had ever bothered to read Will the Girl after her review on the beach in Atlantic City. She doubted it. Surely he would avoid any reminders of her at all. Perhaps he had stopped coming into Connie’s shop in fear of bumping into her.
“Penny for your thoughts,” came a voice as Box leaned down and kissed her. He was in a henley and blue jeans, accented by a tight black leather jacket. It made him look like a college student dressing up as Marlon Brando in The Wild One.
“This is a new look.”
He smiled, stepped back. “What do you think? I’m trying to branch out of the whole New York–to-Newport axis.”
“I’m reserving judgment. Where’re we going? I’m guessing neither the opera nor the Plaza.”
“We,” he said, sliding his arm around her, “are going to my apartment. I have a surprise for you.”
She felt a sudden unease. “Who else is going to be there?”
He laughed. “Is my company not entertaining enough for
you?”
“I just . . . I’ve never been to your apartment.”
“Because I’ve never made you dinner before. I guess there goes the surprise. But I feel it’s time I share my exceptional culinary skills, so you can see there is more to love about me than just my amazing hair and my employee discount at Barnes & Foster.”
They stood by the exit, Oscar the doorman looking at them through the glass expectantly, again trying to gauge whether to swing open the door because they were going to walk out or whether he was about to witness the start of a fight between a girl and her boyfriend, played out in the lobby for all to see. Some of the Barbizon brawls—crying girls, boys standing palms up, baffled—were legendary. Even Agnes Ford had engaged in one.
Laura and Box had kissed, of course, often passionately—in a carriage clip-clopping through the city, in the mezzanine of the Imperial Theatre—and she had allowed things once or twice to progress to “second base,” Box’s fingers and hands dexterous and warm on her breasts, causing sensations she had only read about. But it was precisely this expertise of his that was causing her so much distress in this moment: After four months and a romantic dinner in his apartment, a dinner he had made himself, what would he expect then? And was she prepared to give it to him?
“You know how I know you’re a writer?” he asked, devilment sparkling in his eyes as poor Oscar still lingered outside, waiting for a sign.
Something in his eyes put her at ease. He had that ability. “No. Tell me.”
“Because I can read you like a book,” he said. He leaned over, brushing his lips on her temple. “You worry too much,” he whispered. “I wasn’t planning on serving the dinner in the bedroom. There’ll be time enough for that in the future.”
And with that he put his arm around her waist as the front door of the Barbizon swung open, Oscar smiling broadly as Box Barnes and his lovely girlfriend Laura Dixon stepped out into the crisp autumn evening.
His apartment, in a whitewashed slate building on the Upper East Side, was more masculine than she’d imagined, though intellectually she knew that made little sense. For some reason, she had always pictured him living in Gene Tierney’s apartment in Laura, replete with crystal chandelier and an imposing self-portrait in oil hung above the fireplace.
Instead she found an attractive, spartan, open space of gleaming oak hardwood floors and beige throw rugs, with long windowpanes framed in black metal and accented with plain white shades with pull cords, each of which covered precisely half the window. Facing the fireplace in the living room was a long sofa with a rounded back covered in forest-green velvet, along with a glass coffee table stacked with art books and a black Ludwig Mies van der Rohe Barcelona chair. Built-in mahogany bookshelves on either side of the windows held an eclectic assortment of novels, war histories, biographies, and essays, along with what looked like several scrapbooks and photo albums. A pewter Hans Arne Jacobsen pendant lamp hung above the rectangular dining room table, which like the bookshelves was mahogany and burnished to a shine.
Laura sauntered into the tiny galley kitchen, sipping her chilled glass of wine as Box stirred creamy white sauce on the stovetop, a large pot of spaghetti bubbling on the opposite burner. “That does not look like something Agnes Ford would eat,” she said casually.
He turned to look at her, his expression flat. “Why would you mention her?”
She eyed him quizzically. “Because she’s a famous model and very skinny and she happens to live in my building and periodically appear in the magazine I work for,” she answered.
He muttered, “Oh,” then returned to his stirring. “Fettuccine carbonara,” he remarked, a bit too eager to return to the subject of the cooking. “I want you to know I only make this for very special guests.”
“Like Agnes Ford?” she said, and instantly regretted it.
His eyes glazed over. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I . . . I don’t know. You tell me. It’s just when I mentioned her you seemed to jump. Do you know her?”
“Of course I know her. She’s a model in New York. I run a department store.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then by all means, Laura, why don’t you tell me what you mean? You know how I love your outspokenness.” He turned up the burner on the fettuccine, his eyes never leaving the stove.
Too far down the road to turn back now. “All right,” she said quietly, placing her wineglass on the kitchen counter. “Did you date her?”
“I thought you had already done all of your research on me.”
She winced. A few weeks into their relationship, she’d made the mistake of telling him that she’d spent the better part of an afternoon in the Street & Smith’s library, scanning through whirring panels of old microfiche to read gossip column accounts of his many, many (many) dates. She thought it would show Hepburn spunk. Instead, he’d been livid, accusing her of succumbing to jealousy and the vacuous thirst for scandal that was a well-known trait of the Barbizon girls. Worse had been how he had looked: hurt and betrayed. They hadn’t spoken for the following three days; it had taken her that long to realize he’d been right. She’d gift-wrapped a box of matches and dropped it at Barnes & Foster, with a note that said, “I used these to burn the microfiche. I’m sorry.” They’d never discussed it again.
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m simply asking if you dated her.”
He put down the spoon, turned to her. “Yes, I did. And for the record, she was the one who ended it. Though that doesn’t really fit neatly into the ‘Box Barnes, noted womanizer’ narrative that plays so well in the rags. Of which I too often forget you are a part.” He glanced back over at the simmering noodles. “Dinner’ll be ready in a minute. I’ll refill your wine.”
She took hold of his forearm as he tried to pass her to the icebox. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You have to be patient. This is all very new to me.”
“I’ve been patient, Laura. I’ve also made mistakes. The difference between us is yours aren’t archived at the public library. Yes, I’ve dated a lot of girls. Yes, I’ve treated a fair number of them badly. I was young and stupid, and I couldn’t handle all of the attention. That’s not an excuse, merely an explanation. But I’ve tried to . . . change. You’ve been a big part of that. That night at the Stork, I was just so ashamed of the way I behaved. I knew you deserved better, and I wanted to be better, to deserve you. But it’ll never work between us if you don’t learn to trust me.”
“I’m trying. But you don’t understand what it’s like on the other side of this, to be the girl who’s dating the guy every other girl wants.”
“That’s not true. I’m—”
“It is true. You may not look at those girls at the Barbizon, or in the theaters, or in the restaurants, and that’s to your credit. But I do. I can’t help it. They’re everywhere.”
“Including the San Remo?”
The blunt force of the sneak attack staggered her, and she felt her heart pounding. She was about to ask what he was talking about, but she knew what he was talking about and, furthermore, he knew that she knew what he was talking about. They’d crossed over the line of playful hide-and-seek.
“You’ve been spying on me?” She said it slowly, carefully, half accusation, half incredulousness.
“That’s right, Laura, I’ve been in a trench coat and a fedora and dark glasses, shadowing your every move.” He shook his head, brushed past her to retrieve a quart of beer from the icebox. “Not all of my haunts require a tux, Laura. I have friends in low places, too.”
“And you never said anything.”
He poured the beer into a Pilsner glass. “No. Because it wasn’t any of my business. We were dating. We didn’t have any exclusive understanding. Which is why your jealousy is so irritating.”
“I am not jealous. I asked a simple question, that’s all. And I’m not the one who was getting secret reports on your dating life.”
He took a hard swig of his beer
. “Are you still seeing him?”
“Don’t you know the answer?”
“Laura, please. To borrow your phrase, it’s a simple question. Are you?”
She was inclined to sass, to tell him it was none of his business. But the truth was that it was, in fact, his business. Just as it had been Pete’s. “No, I’m not. It ended weeks ago.”
There was silence for a good minute, the only sound the increasingly ferocious bubbling of the boiling water on the stove. Laura stepped over, flicked off the gas. “The spaghetti’s going to be overcooked.”
When she turned back around he was directly in front of her, his arms around her, pulling her close. “I know I’m coming off as a jerk, and I don’t mean to. I have a past, and it’s only logical you’d be wary. But I know you feel it, Laura. I know you feel what’s in my heart, and what I hope is in yours. So let’s commit to it, right here. Right now. From here on out, nobody else. Just us. Because I think . . .” She could see how desperately he wanted to say the words but couldn’t yet. She pressed her index finger to his lips, searched his eyes.
“Just us,” she whispered.
And then she kissed him, his mouth hungry on hers, until dinner was forgotten.
EIGHTEEN
“Viv? Viv? Sweetie, you okay in there?” Barbara, one of the coat-check girls, was knocking gently on the door.
“I’m fine, fine. Sorry. Just some bad shrimp from last night, I’m afraid. Out in a jiffy.”
Still kneeling, she weakly pushed down the lever to flush the toilet, then fell back on her haunches, resting the back of her head against the stall door. Good Christ, Vivian, she admonished herself, how did you get here?
The clock was ticking, ever louder, every day. Her telegram to England, sent before this latest terrible development, had gone unanswered. Her collect phone call last week, unaccepted. (“We don’t take no collect calls in this house, especially from the likes of her,” her father had snapped to the overseas operator before abruptly hanging up.)
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