The Property of a Lady (39 page)

“It’s a speakeasy. That means they are selling booze—O’Hara’s booze,” he added proudly. “They keep the window curtains closed and lock all the doors so they can get it out of the way, chance the police should arrive. Not that they will, with the payola the Oriconne brothers give them.”

A tiny window opened suddenly and a face peered at them through the grille. There was the sound of the heavy bolts being drawn back and they stepped inside, then through another heavily padded leather door. Missie gasped as a wall of sound hit them. The long low room was crowded with people all talking at the tops of their voices over the noise of a jazz band. On a circular illuminated glass floor at the far end, couples were dancing, calling out to each other, and laughing wildly.

“See what fun they’re all havin’,” O’Hara said loudly, “and all courtesy of yours truly.”

“But there are no drinks on the table,” she said, surprised, “only cups of tea.”

O’Hara winked broadly. “Sure and it’s O’Hara’s special tea they’re drinkin’,” he said in a loud voice as the head-waiter whisked them to a corner table.

“Can I get you something, sir?” he asked with a smile.

O’Hara looked at Missie and said, “We had champagne the last time we met, so why don’t we make it a habit?”

“Why not?” she replied recklessly. Life felt good today, and anyway it was time for a celebration. She was going to be a Ziegfeld girl and make a hundred and fifty dollars a week. She told herself she would be doing it for Azaylee, but a secret part of her was enjoying the idea of being Ziegfeld’s new star. And she wouldn’t be in the least bit sorry to see the back of Rivington Street’s grinding poverty, except for Rosa, of course, and Zev … Zev! Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh.” She gasped. “I completely forgot. I was to meet Zev Abramski at eight o’clock.”

“Zev Abramski?” O’Hara repeated, puzzled. He frowned as she explained that she saw him Sunday nights at the Ukrainian café.

“We just have supper together, it’s very simple,” she explained quickly. “I mean, it’s nothing like this, like you and me having supper here tonight. He’s just … just Zev Abramski,” she finished lamely.

“And what might you and he have in common, then?” he asked jealously. “Maybe you owe him money and he takes you out as a form of repayment?”

Missie’s eyes flashed as she leaned across the table toward him. “How dare you, Shamus O’Hara,” she whispered angrily. “Zev Abramski is a fine man and an honest one, and besides, we have a lot more in common than you think.”

She sat back, thinking sadly of Zev, waiting for her at their table at the café, and hating herself for forgetting. I’ll explain it all to him tomorrow, she promised herself, and I’ll make it up to him next week; I won’t forget again. She looked at O’Hara smoldering on the other side of the table and laughed.

“Whenever we meet, we fight,” she said. “It must be your Irish temper.”

“Sure and it’s not me Irish temper,” he boomed, banging his fist on the table so that the cups jumped. “It’s your pig-headedness in not marrying me.”

“I’ll bet if I did marry you,” she teased, “we would fight every night. You would still see things your way and I would see them mine. You would probably keep me locked up in your fancy house and expect me to cook and clean and bear your babies, just the way they did in the old country.”

She laughed at his shocked face as he said anxiously, “Missie, I would niver do that! I’m a man of principles, and even though they don’t extend to the selling of hooch, I’d niver treat me wife like that.”

She sighed exaggeratedly. “What a pity you’re not going to get a chance to try.”

O’Hara groaned and poured more champagne. “Give a man a break, Missie, will you? I leave you struggling in Rivington Street and a couple of months later, you’re a different girl.”

“I am?” she asked, astonished.

“That you are, Missie,” he replied solemnly, “but I still want you for me wife.”

“Ask me again in a year’s time,” she said suddenly, “and I’ll give you an answer.”

He took her hand and held it tightly. “One year?”

“One year,” she promised.

He smiled and said happily, “It’ll be the longest of me life.”

“Oh, no,” she replied, sighing happily. “This time, it won’t be.” Because for her, this time the year promised to fly by.

At twelve o’clock the next morning Madame Elise accompanied Missie to the New Amsterdam Theater. The auditorium with its gleaming gilt boxes was dark and mysterious; the safety curtain was covered with dozens of colorful advertisements for pomades and potions, sheet music, stores, and phonograph records; cleaning women were busy sweeping up the litter from the previous night’s show, polishing the brass ashtrays and brushing the red plush seats. It brought back memories of childhood visits to the pantomime in Oxford and trips to the ballet in London, and Missie sighed, wondering what Professor Marcus Octavius Byron would think of his daughter now, about to set foot on the stage as a Ziegfeld showgirl. But she was desperate and one hundred fifty dollars a week had overcome any scruples she might have had. And anyway, wasn’t it exactly like being a fashion mannequin, only better paid? Besides, she knew it would be fun. Fun? she thought, trying to remember the last time she had fun. Maybe fun meant a life without financial worries?

“Vite
, quickly,” Madame urged as Mr. Ziegfeld’s secretary held open the door, staring curiously at her.

“Miss Verity.” Ziegfeld hurried across the room, smiling genially. “Am I pleased to see you! See what it says here in the
Times?”
He thrust a copy of the newspaper at her, pointing out a quarter-page article devoted to Elise’s spring fashion parade, and there was her own name in print.

“Elise’s new mannequin Verity created a sensation when she appeared, clad in filmy violet chiffon embellished with silver beads and the most audacious little silver shoes strapped with violet satin bows at her deliciously delicate ankles. Verity epitomizes the new
Vie Naturelle
, Elise has said, and before too long you will see every woman in New York copying the way she wears her flowing nut-brown hair and her easy natural walk, though many will find it difficult to emulate Verity’s long, long legs, her grace, her beauty, and her startling violet eyes. The word is out that Flo Ziegfeld already has his eyes on her and maybe soon we can expect a new Ziegfeld star.”

“Et voilà
, Ziegfeld!” Madame Elise said triumphantly. “I have created another star for you. First there was my little blond Maude who went on to marry the railroad millionaire, then racy, red-headed Jaquetta who you lost to the Hollywood movies, and now—Verity.”

“The most beautiful of them all,” he said, smiling.

“But I’m not beautiful, Mr. Ziegfeld,” Verity said honestly. “I think I look like most any other girl.”

“Ahhh.”
Madame sighed, rolling her eyes. “How can this child be such a fool?” she muttered. “She is here to claim a place in theater history as a Ziegfeld girl and now she says she’s just an ordinary girl on the street!”

“Take it from me, and I am an expert,” Ziegfeld said briskly, “you have a different kind of beauty, Verity. Not flamboyant, I admit, but I’ve got enough flamboyants. What you have is beauty with class, and in my book that spells money.”

“Florenz and I have already come to an agreement,” Madame interjected quickly. “I will release you from your obligation to me and in return I am to design all your clothes, both for the shows and for your street wear.”

“Hey now, just a minute,” Ziegfeld protested, surprised.

“What? Is your new star supposed to walk down Fifth
Avenue in a five-dollar coat? Is she supposed to dine at Rector’s in a department-store frock? Wearing dimestore jewels? Come now, Florenz, where are your brains? No, I insist she is dressed by Elise, and no one else. It goes in the contract. And naturally, I will send the bills to you.”

“Naturally.” Ziegfeld sighed.

“And she is to be paid two hundred dollars a week, with a raise in three months’ time, working or not.”

Ziegfeld groaned. “You’ve got yourself a tough negotiator here,” he told Missie with a wry grin. “Okay, okay, if you say so, Elise. And now, before you break the bank, I’d like to take you two ladies out to celebrate at Rector’s.”

Rector’s was the New York show-biz world’s swankiest rendezvous and Flo Ziegfeld Broadway’s ritziest producer, and the two were made for each other. The plush dining room was his home away from home and the maître d’ greeted him like a treasured old friend, bowing deeply over Madame Elise’s hand and even deeper over Verity’s when Ziegfeld introduced her as his future new star.

“But of course.” He smiled. “I have already read about Miss Verity in the newspapers.”

“So has everyone else,” whispered Ziegfeld, noting the excited buzz of conversation as every head turned to watch their progress to their table.

“Caviar!” he called loudly. “We’re celebrating here.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Ziegfeld, sir.” An eager young man appeared at his side, notepad in hand. “I’m Dan James from the
Daily Star
. I couldn’t help noticing you and Madame Elise, and I assume this lovely young lady is Miss Verity? Her new mannequin?”

“Her
ex-mannequin,
my
new star,” Ziegfeld said, beaming, “Tell your readers that, Mr. James, and tell them to come to see her. She’s sensational.”

“I sure will, Mr. Ziegfeld, sir, thank you.” He bowed to Verity and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, lovely lady.”

“Y’see,” Ziegfeld said, waving his arm expansively around the room, “all these guys have noticed you already. That’s Tim Wells from
Variety
in the booth by the window, and I’ll bet you ten bucks he’ll be here next, even though he is lunching with Sally Vine—she’s a Shubert showgirl. Not in the same league as you,” he added disparagingly. “You will be a star before you even leave this room, Verity. Your name will be in all the papers tomorrow.”

She sat quietly, taking in the scene, wondering if it was Madame Elise’s fabulous cream suit that had suddenly endowed her with this magical beauty they were all talking about: There was no doubt she felt
lovely
wearing it. Whatever it was, she could feel curious eyes on her as she sipped a glass of orange juice. This was what it would be like onstage, she thought, blushing modestly, only worse. Except maybe it didn’t feel so personal when you couldn’t see the people looking at you out there in the darkened auditorium.

She sighed with pleasure as the waiter served the chicken in a creamy asparagus sauce. Ziegfeld had ordered it for her; and it looked delicious.

“Take it away, away … at once,” Madame Elise commanded, waving her arms about agitatedly. “The girl has to think of her figure,” she snapped at Ziegfeld. Turning to the waiter, she ordered him to bring a fresh green salad and a single noisette of veal, no sauce.

“Oh, but …” Verity protested, disappointed, as the chicken disappeared. Surely after starving because she was poor, they didn’t expect her to starve now she was rich! “Can’t I at least save it for Azaylee?” she asked, blushing again. Now she had done it, now she would have to tell them who Azaylee was.

“Azaylee?” Ziegfeld looked interested. “That your roommate? If she’s as beautiful as you, send her around, we might find a job for her too.”

“Azaylee is my … my little sister,” she said quickly.
“I’ve looked after her since our parents died. And she is beautiful—but she’s only five years old.”

They laughed and she laughed too, relieved. Azaylee had skipped from being her daughter to her sister in a single breath and suddenly all her problems were resolved. She was no longer the suspect “young widow” but a responsible elder sister. The relief at no longer having to play the young widow role was immense, and she ate her salad cheerfully, careful not to order dessert under Elise’s watchful eye. But as they left, a discreet parcel was handed to her by the waiter. Ziegfeld said gruffly, “Tell Azaylee ‘enjoy. ’”

“In gossamer,” Elise lectured her afterward, “there can be no extra pounds, not even ounces. I know some of those showgirls are famous for their curves, but they
wobble
, my dear, and the new
Vie Naturelle
will not permit wobbles.

“Tomorrow we will begin to design your new wardrobe.” She waved her arms in her usual flamboyant gesture as the purple limousine took them back to Park Avenue. “We shall equip you from head to toe. Now we must discuss where you shall live, because of course you will need a new apartment, and I think I know exactly the place.”

“But, Madame,” she protested, “I can’t move into a new apartment, I have no money. I mean, I have only what I earn with you.”

“You forget,” Elise said, “I no longer pay you. Ziegfeld does—two hundred dollars. And I know of a nice little apartment on Forty-third Street, close enough to the theater to be convenient and far enough away for discretion.” She smiled, patting Verity’s hand. “You didn’t tell me about your little sister,” she said reprovingly. “I thought you lived all alone in one room on the Lower East Side. But now you are going to be a star, you must move uptown. I will speak to Ziegfeld and he will advance
you the money.
Mais non
, I insist, we will go right now and
regard
this apartment.”