Vixen Page 11

  “Gloria Carson, huh?” Carlito said, his eyes on her chest.

  “My friends call me Glo.”

  “How perfect. Before long, your name will be glo-wing in lights.” He took her hand and kissed it. Gloria couldn’t tell whether he was being sincere or was mocking her, but his clammy hand and wandering eyes made her recoil. “Welcome to the Green Mill. Welcome to your future!” Carlito turned to Jerome. “Welcome the lady properly, Johnson.”

  With what looked like a great deal of effort, Jerome set down the glass with the cigar and stepped forward. “Sorry if I came off a little harsh there just now. Your voice really does have a captivating quality, Miss Carson. But that ain’t nothing compared to how you’re going to sing in two weeks.”

  Gloria was momentarily dizzy. It was that simple—a compliment from Jerome, and something deep inside her came alive.

  Gloria turned her mother’s car into the driveway.

  She was late. Too late. She was going to be in so much trouble. And yet it was hard to care. She was going to be a singer!

  She could make out two shadowy figures near the front of the house who looked vaguely like Lorraine and Marcus. The last two people she wanted to see right now.

  With the headlights out, she killed the engine and coasted down the long circular driveway and to a nearly silent stop right in front of the garage. She eased the car door open, slipped out, and gently shut it. Then she walked in her stockinged feet to the side of the house, her shoes in her left hand.

  Marcus and Lorraine met her there, gawking, as if they had been waiting all night for her arrival.

  “So the guest of honor decides to grace us with her presence,” Lorraine said.

  Gloria’s first thought was: What on God’s green earth was her best friend wearing? Her second was: Why hadn’t she thought up an excuse before now—where was she going to tell them she’d been?

  “Don’t ask,” Gloria said. Simple enough. She took Lorraine’s cigarette out of her mouth and planted it in her own. If there’d ever been an appropriate time for a cig, it was right now.

  “Come on, you think we’re gonna let you off the hook that easy?” asked Marcus, jabbing her in the side. “Start talking.”

  What could she possibly say? As much as she loved her friends, they would never understand. She barely understood the whole thing herself. “Oh, Bastian just needed me for something,” she said, coughing because she still couldn’t gracefully inhale. “Some sort of business emergency, you know, dealing with stocks or bonds or whatever.”

  “Stocks and bonds, my ass,” said Lorraine.

  “Speaking of, I can practically see yours from a mile away,” Gloria said, feeling Lorraine’s nearly transparent dress. “What is this made out of, rice paper?”

  Marcus burst out laughing. “I think Henri le chef mistook her for an extra piece of meat and wrapped her up to go home.”

  Lorraine stomped her foot. “This dress happens to be the hottest thing on the streets of Paris!”

  “More like the hottest thing on the streetwalkers of Paris.” Gloria laughed. She loved Lorraine, but more and more lately, Gloria sensed an edge of competition creeping between them: Lorraine was constantly trying to out-sparkle, out-bead, out-boob, and out-bob her. What was the reason behind it all?

  “I’d better force myself inside before my buzz wears off. Come on, kids,” Gloria said, putting her arms around their shoulders. “Escort me to my execution.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave that thrilling task to Marcus,” Lorraine said. “I’ve already been executed. By your mother. And I didn’t even do anything.”

  Gloria could only guess what that was about, but Lorraine would have to wait. There were only so many battles a girl could fight in the world, and Gloria had to prepare herself for the one looming between her and her mother. And there’d be worse to come: She couldn’t stop thinking back to how the touch of Jerome’s hand had taken her breath away.

  “I’ll call you later,” Gloria said, kissing Lorraine’s cheek. “That is, if I’m not banned from using the telephone for the rest of my life.” She looped her arm in Marcus’s and said, “You, I need inside. Whatever I say, back me up.”

  “Gloria Carmody,” he said. “What do you have up that sleeve of yours? Oh, that’s right,” he said, touching her bare arm. “You’re not wearing any sleeves.”

  “All you need to know is this: We were together the entire night.”

  “Sheer falsehood!” Marcus said, mock-scandalized. He chuckled. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Not a clue,” Gloria said. But one thing she did know: From this moment on, she was going to tell one big lie after another. And she had never been more thrilled in her life.

  CLARA

  How quickly a week could pass!

  Ever since the debutante dinner, Clara’s social calendar had been just short of full. First Ginnie Bitman’s mother had invited her for lunch on Tuesday, and then on Wednesday she’d gone to Betty Havermill’s estate for a fancy dinner with the girl and her parents. Betty’s father was a famous Chicago architect and had designed their mansion himself, all tall ceilings and windowed walls. Thursday was ice cream with Dot Spencer at a tiny place called Harry’s, where the only flavors were chocolate and vanilla and people waited on line for over twenty minutes. Clara never liked waiting for anything, but had to admit that the ice cream was pretty tasty. Afterward, she had listened to Dot play the piano in her family’s sitting room. If Clara never heard another Gershwin tune for the rest of her life, she would die happy. No offense to Gershwin, of course—just to Dot.

  Getting to know these boring girls, and their equally boring parents, was the dregs. There was no jazz, no excitement, and no men. At least, no men with boyfriend potential.

  Which was a good thing, Clara told herself. She didn’t want a boyfriend. What she wanted was to move up in the world, to make a name for herself here in Chicago, and she was doing it. Slowly but surely. Yes, it involved some seriously tedious social visits, but she’d had to suffer through a lot worse in the past. This stuff was easy peasy.

  Now it was Friday night, and Clara was, for the first time all week, without plans. Gloria was still grounded after her excruciatingly late entrance to her own debutante dinner. Just thinking about it made Clara grin; she wouldn’t have believed Gloria’s performance that night if she hadn’t witnessed it herself.

  Just as dessert and coffee were being served, Gloria had come traipsing in arm in arm with Marcus Eastman, a crazed look in her eye.

  “I am so sorry! I have no excuse for my tardiness,” she started, “but I just had to rush to the aid of one of my dearest friends—who really should learn to remember where he puts his keys!”

  Mrs. Carmody dabbed at her lips with her napkin, folded it, and set it on the table in front of her. “Is that so?”

  To his credit, Eastman gamely played along. He slapped his forehead and said, “Silly me, I’d forget my feet if they weren’t attached to my legs.” He could be the perfect man, Clara thought, if only he weren’t so smitten with himself. Marcus had turned to Gloria. “If it weren’t for the large-hearted kindness of Miss Carmody, I would never have been able to—”

  “Get into his house!” Gloria finished.

  “Why couldn’t his man let him in?” Mrs. Carmody asked. “Or his parents?”

  “Sick!” Gloria said, as Marcus said, “In Mexico!”

  They glanced at each other.

  “That is,” Gloria continued, “his parents are in Mexico and his butler is sick.”

  “Just sneezes all over everything,” Marcus explained. “Utterly revolting. You wouldn’t want him anywhere near you, really.”

  “But I have his spare key,” Gloria said, obviously relieved to have arrived at something like an ending to the story.

  “And that made you ninety minutes late?” her mother asked.

  “The key didn’t fit,” Marcus said. “On account of …”

  “… the burglar
y,” Gloria said. “Yes, they were burgled and had to change their locks.”

  “Quite traumatic,” Marcus said.

  The girls beside her tittered, and Clara had to refrain from laughing out loud.

  Clara looked around at Ginnie and Dot and Betty, and at their matching mothers at the table across from them. Everyone looked confused. The dinner plates had been cleared, and the servants were pouring dark coffee into the Carmodys’ perfect china cups and setting out sugar and cream on each table. The smell of the floral centerpieces was overwhelming, and Clara thought she might be sick. She looked at the ice sculpture, which was still intact, though the bride’s features had started to melt. Clara wondered how long it would take before the statue puddled away entirely.

  “That’s very strange,” Gloria’s mother said, rising. “Especially as the Eastmans didn’t say a word about a burglary to me—”

  “They couldn’t have,” Gloria interrupted, redness creeping up her neck like ivy, “seeing as they are in Mexico.”

  “—when I spoke to them earlier this evening to wish them success at the museum gala.”

  “Ah,” Marcus said. “They must have come home early! I’m always the last to know these things.”

  “They must have,” Mrs. Carmody finished. “Gloria, please go up to your room. You and I shall speak more about this later.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Gloria said. She disappeared down the hall.

  Clara should have given her cousin a tutorial in the art of lying. Rule Number 1: Keep it simple. Rule Number 2: Never explain. Rule Number 3: Don’t involve any other party unless he is complicit in your lie.

  But Gloria’s punishment became Clara’s opportunity. Since then, she had filled in for Gloria at almost every social engagement. Everyone seemed to like Country Clara.

  Clara put down her book, a borrowed copy of This Side of Paradise, and decided to compose a letter to her roommates back in New York. But she realized she had no “You’ll never believe who I’m stuck on” or “I got spifflicated!” stories to report. What was she going to say? “Dear girls, guess what? Aunt Beatrice taught me how to knit today. We made the most delightful tea cozy.” She could always razz on Gloria, but Clara wasn’t the sort to kick a dog when it was down.

  Just as Clara was seriously considering the variety of activities that might be offered to girls at the Illinois Girls’ School of Reform (jewelry making? glassblowing? lock picking?), the doorbell rang. The butler would doubtless answer it—what was his name, again?—but it seemed as good a reason as any to leave her room and go downstairs.

  Clara glided down the staircase, one hand on its broad white banister, and into the foyer.

  It was as quiet and empty as that Lorraine girl’s head.

  Nothing except the gilded pictures that lined the walls and the mahogany table where Aunt Bea left her house keys and a tiny bronze dish full of mints. Where was everyone? Clara opened the front door and, much to her surprise, found Marcus waiting on the porch. He looked perfectly spiffy. He was dressed in a tailored gray flannel suit with a baby blue shirt beneath that picked up the color of his eyes, and atop his head was a soft gray derby. And his fly was undone.

  Clara averted her eyes, focusing on the floor.

  “Isn’t the wood nice?” she asked. “I always love a good wooden floor.”

  Marcus looked at her curiously. “You’ve been inside too much,” he said, striding into the foyer and taking off his hat. “Pretty girls aren’t supposed to look down. Only up.”

  “Your”—she made vague fluttering motions near her waist.

  Marcus looked down, then turned and buttoned up. “Oh, I’m sorry! I’m afraid I got dressed in a blazing hurry, I was so excited about this evening.”

  “Oh, what’s happening this evening?”

  “We’re going out,” he said. “Put on your finest finery—no finery is too fine for tonight.”

  “Who is ‘we’?” Clara said, not wanting to seem like all the other girls who hung on his every word. Though it wasn’t such an easy task in his presence. One lock of wavy blond hair fell over his left eye—she was tempted to brush it back, to touch his skin with the tips of her fingers. But she had to resist. “You know that Gloria is still grounded,” she reminded him.

  “And why is Gloria grounded? Because her tardiness was insulting to the debs of Chicago. And what do we do to remedy that?” he asked, circling around her.

  “I’m confused,” Clara said.

  “Marcus, there you are!” Mrs. Carmody swept into the foyer and gave Marcus’s cheek a loud smooch. She was wearing a tan dress that ended below her knees, and a simple yet elegant diamond necklace. Clara could see dark circles beneath her eyes. Aunt Bea looked worn out.

  “How kind of you to offer yourself up to the cause. I know Clara will be in excellent hands tonight.”

  Clara looked quickly from one to the other. “Auntie, dear, I don’t under—”

  “She’s been busy, you know,” Aunt Bea continued, ignoring her. “Quickly becoming the talk of the town.” She turned to Clara and smiled. Could this really be the same aunt who’d sat her down and threatened to send her off to reform school?

  “I’m sorry, am I missing something?” Clara asked.

  “Why, dear, Marcus has been so kind as to offer you accompaniment to Virginia Bitman’s evening tea party. Isn’t that considerate of him?” Mrs. Carmody clapped her hands together. Clara couldn’t tell what, exactly, she was so excited about, but at least Aunt Bea was being nice to her.

  “That is very considerate of him,” Clara said, confused by the wicked gleam in his eye. It was not the sort of gleam usually inspired by a high tea given by someone like Ginnie Bitman.

  “And since those girls took such a liking to you, Clara, perhaps you can help mend the bridges that my daughter burned? If you know what I mean.”

  So that was the reason for this whole setup. Nothing was more important to her aunt than crossing social bridges and climbing social ladders.

  Clara hadn’t particularly wanted to go to this wretched little tea party—she’d had her fill of Ginnie’s fluffy conversation and gluey pastries on Tuesday. And whose idea had it been to have Mr. Playboy accompany her? He couldn’t really want to be stuck with the debutantes on a Friday night, could he?

  But whatever the reason, it was an excuse to get out of this stifling house. Grateful for that, Clara asked no more questions, but ran upstairs to put on her finest social-bridge-mending outfit.

  “So, admit it: How much do you love me?” Marcus asked.

  Clara put her fingers together with about a millimeter of space between them. “This much?”

  They were standing in line for movie tickets at the Biograph Theater on North Lincoln. The marquee overhead blinked Our Hospitality in fire-engine red—it was a sneak preview of the newest Buster Keaton movie.

  Marcus had revealed on the way to Ginnie’s that he’d never intended to stay long at the tea party. “I’d sooner set myself on fire,” he said while Clara laughed.

  Clara had been happy and impressed when he’d outlined the plan—“After twenty minutes,” he told her, “you will fall ill because of something you ate. Go to the bathroom, rub a bit of concealer on your face, and dampen your hairline. Come back and wobble a bit—hold on to the edge of a table while you place a palm to your head. And then call to me and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  He’d been as good as his word, insisting to Ginnie and her group that the best thing for Clara was to take her home right away. A few moments later, they were in his car, and a few moments after that, here in line at the Biograph.

  “Only that much? Come on, give a fella a chance.”

  She separated her fingers about an inch. This was fun. She looked good, and she knew it, and she knew he thought she looked good. She was wearing sheer stockings, an emerald-green skirt, and a pale pink cotton sweater that felt fine against her skin. “Is that better?”

  “Come on, say it. This is a far better evening.”
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  “Hmmmm, Ginnie Bitman versus Buster Keaton. Tough call.”

  “How can you possibly compare Ginnie Bitman to Buster Keaton?”

  “Well, they both are kind of clownish.”

  “Except Ginnie wears less makeup, yet somehow manages to look more like a man.”

  Clara shook her head in mock disapproval. “That’s not a very gentlemanly thing to say.”

  “If you want a gentleman, go back to the tea party.” Marcus looked at his watch. “There’s still time before Freddy Barnes and my friends go to see the vaudeville at the Salty Dachshund. I’ll do that; you run along to your tea.” He made a shooing gesture with his fingers.

  “No, thanks. I think I’d rather be stuck with a cake-eater than stuck eating cake.”

  “Are you calling me a ladies’ man, Miss Knowles?” He turned from her and stepped up to the box office. His eyes were bright, a perfect combination of little-boy eagerness and more mature masculine appeal. God, he was sexy.

  “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Eastman.”

  Clara was secretly thrilled that Marcus had come up with this ingenious scheme for the night, even though she was suspicious of his motives. She knew boys like him in New York. The dangerous combination of being born both wealthy and good-looking meant they never had to work for anything—girls were as disposable to them as the wads of cash in their wallet. They were all about the chase.

  Clara had dated some of the most notorious ones.

  There was Leo Silverman, the Jewish millionaire, who used to have her join him on his yacht in the Hamptons. There was Shawn Carroll, the banker and arts patron, who always let Clara use his box at the Metropolitan Opera, whether he accompanied her or not. And then there was Thierry Marceau, the French heir, with his imported-cashmere empire, who filled her closets. And there were others she’d dated briefly.

  Dated was a loose term. Mostly, she could only go to one premiere or gallery opening with a man before he started expecting something in return. Her rule with these men was: socializing only, nothing more.