Searching for Grace Kelly (26 page)

Laura leaned forward. “Vivian could sing!”

“Vivian the British redhead?” He'd met her one night after the theater, when Laura had arranged for them to see Vivian and Nicky for a drink. Any hopes for fraternal bonding among the boys had quickly dissipated. It became very clear, immediately, that Nicky thought Box a spoiled prig, and Box thought Nicky an uncouth thug. Reading his thoughts, she said, “She wouldn't bring the Italian. It would be work. But I know it would mean so much to her to sing in front of a crowd like that. Please, please . . . can you just consider it?”

He put his hand on hers. “I will consider anything for you. Tell you what: Why don't I come to the Barbizon this week and hear her sing something? Although I don't know if those prison-guard matrons will let me outside the lobby.”

“No, no, they will. You can bring male guests to some of the lounges if you get a pass. I'm sure we could get you into the one with the piano. Oh, this is going to be great!”

Back at the office, Laura spent the afternoon peppily typing correspondence. For the first time since she'd come to New York, she was feeling the true magic of the city. She had a job at one of the nation's most prestigious magazines. She was dating a handsome man who adored her. She'd made wonderful friends—and gotten out from underneath the oppressive watch of her mother. Everything was falling into place . . .

“Mrs. Blackwell wants to see you,” Cat Eyes harrumphed, passing by her desk. “Now.”

This day just keeps getting better!
Laura thought. She grabbed her leather-bound notebook—Mrs. Blackwell had a well-known aversion to steno pads, which she thought made a girl look working class—and headed down the hall. She wished she'd had time to pop into the ladies' room to reapply her lipstick.

Laura tapped lightly on the open door. “You wanted to see me, Mrs. Blackwell?”

The editor sat at her French provincial writing desk penning a note in her elegant script but never looked up. “Come in, please, Miss Dixon.”

Laura didn't know what it was—her lack of eye contact, the flecks of ice in her tone, her rigid posture behind the desk—but instantly she knew that this was not going to be the convivial encounter she'd imagined. Betsy Blackwell was angry. From the forceful strokes of her pen, quite so.

Laura stood in front of the desk, the adrenaline flowing like a dam break, the drop of anxiety into the pit of her stomach hard and fast. For what felt like an hour, the only sound in the office was the editor's strident scribbling. Finally, Mrs. Blackwell put down the silver pen and looked up. Her stare was pure poison.

“How long have you been with us now, Miss Dixon?”

Laura cleared her throat. “Um, about four months, ma'am. Two as a college editor, and now almost two as an editorial assistant.”

“I see. And you're enjoying your work here, are you?”

“Very much so, ma'am.”

“And you'd like to continue in this position, I assume?”

Oh my God! What's going on?
“Yes, ma'am.” It was almost a whisper.

“I see. Well, that's most reassuring. You might understand my confusion, given your rising public profile as a celebrity both in and outside of this office. One might gather from the press that it was you, rather than I, who was editing this magazine.”

The
Daily News
item. Ed Sullivan. Box's visit. Too many roses. “I'm sorry . . . if you feel I have shown any impertinence,” Laura said, slowly and carefully. “I am, of course, extremely grateful for this opportunity. I'm afraid I am a bit out of my depth with some of these columnists.”

“That is apparent. Perhaps it might be wise to step out of the glaring spotlight of your apparently very active social life and concentrate a bit more on your professional duties. There is so much competition in publishing today. I would hate to see you take a step backward in your career.” She put her reading glasses back on, picked up her pen. “Of course, that's only my opinion. Your life is your own. Good afternoon, Miss Dixon.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Blackwell.”

As she walked to the door, Laura heard a final warning emanating from behind the desk. “There's an old Chinese proverb that might be worth remembering,” Mrs. Blackwell said. “‘The light that burns brightest burns briefest.'”

 

Can I do this? I mean, can I really, truly do this?

Dolly estimated that she had asked herself this at least a hundred times in the last hour alone. Maybe more.

I can't do this.

You have to do this!

She flopped back onto her bed, rubbing her eyes. She felt a headache coming on.

The door opened and Laura walked in, tossing her bag on the dresser, then slowly pulling off her gloves, one finger at a time. Dolly propped up on her elbows. “You look terrible,” she said.

“It's lovely to see you too, Dolly.”

“Bad day?”

“The baddest. I just want to get out of these clothes, get into a hot tub, and then go to bed.”

Dolly looked over at the clock. “It's not even seven.”

“Precisely,” Laura said, kicking off her heels. “I swear if that girl down the hall with the frizzy hair has tied up the tub again, I am going to take an ax and chop down the bathroom door.”

“I wouldn't worry about it. I saw her in the coffee shop a half-hour ago. It looked like she was waiting for a date.” She eyed Laura warily. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Laura began peeling off her stockings. “You look nice. Going out?”

“A date. With Jack.”

“Ah! The elusive one returns. See? I told you. Where are you going?”

“Just to the diner. I have a—” She stopped herself.

Laura stopped. “You have a what?”

For once in your life, Dolores Mary Hickey, do not go blabbing all of your business all over town. For once!
“Nothing,” she said, scooping up her sweater and handbag. “I better get downstairs.”

She was in the elevator, staring at the back of the zaftig elevator operator and lumbering toward the lobby, before she dared to even allow herself to complete the aborted sentence inside her own head.

I have a plan.

The girl was young—she couldn't have been more than eighteen, nineteen at best—and had long, blond hair that Vivian knew would, when the time came, be swept up into a glamorous updo, smooth and silken, like a just-fired piece of pottery. But for now she stood in the middle of the tiny stage at the Stork looking slightly disheveled, and more than a little panicked, as all singers did before their big shots, before their debuts at notable nightclubs. Vivian had seen the look before. She'd just never had the opportunity to see it on her own face. Perhaps she never would.

Mr. Billingsley sat at a nearby table, nervously thrumming his fingers. He was always nervously thrumming his fingers, as if he were the owner not of a successful nightclub but rather of a grand theater packed with patrons, and his mezzo-soprano was locked in her dressing room, refusing to come out. The only time he seemed truly relaxed was during his weekly Friday luncheon that he hosted for the models living inside the Barbizon, a courtesy he extended to ensure their regular attendance inside his nightspot and, it was presumed, to satisfy his own desire to be alone in a room once a week surrounded by beautiful women.

“Fresh meat tonight,” Bennie the busboy whispered.

“What do you know about her?” Vivian asked.

“Nuttin', really. Same old stuff. She's sleeping with the right guy who knows the right guy who knows Sherm.” He stopped for a minute, appraising the new singer more closely. “Bet she cleans up nice, though.” He vanished through the kitchen doors.

“Okay, let's try it from the top,” the bandleader was saying. Vivian kept standing, absently futzing with her tray, her eyes never leaving the stage as the ingénue delivered a serviceable if shaky rendition of “Come on-a My House.” Mr. Billingsley hated ballads. He felt they brought down a room, got people out of a party mood—death in the nightclub business, which counted almost exclusively on not only getting people into a party mood, but keeping them in it a good, long, lubricated while. This was often a problem when auditioning singers, most of whom came from a place of torchy yearning; ballads were their stock and trade. They often came to the Stork for their “big break,” only to have the torch quickly extinguished, a steady stream of peppy standards fit for the Andrews Sisters in their wake.

No stage presence
, Vivian emitted in silent verdict.
I hate that song. But I would have sold it. And the patrons would have bought it.

But what did it matter, anyway? Her “one shot” had turned out to be a sham. She'd gotten herself into what polite society delicately called “trouble.” She had no money. No family to turn to. And a beau—she was being kind; it simply sounded better than “brute”—who had gone from pursuant to attentive to tenacious to controlling. What came after controlling? And did it require a gun?

Bennie rolled a cart of dishes by. “Babs says you got a visitor out front.”

Vivian closed her eyes. This had been the most recent development: the surprise pop-in at the club. Stunningly, most of the other girls never scratched beneath its surface, saw it for what it really was, instead devolving into misplaced, dewy-eyed envy at Vivian's good fortune in landing a romantic rake. Nicky brought flowers, chocolates, and once, curiously, a record album by Al Martino.

She took in a deep breath, whooshed it out, and walked into the lobby. She had a part to play.

He turned around as she approached, and her heart leapt. “Act,” she said, stepping into his embrace. “Darling Act.”

He smiled at her, took her hand in his. “Come, walk out with me.”

They went outside, under the red awning above the entrance that proudly displayed in stenciled letters
STORK CLUB
. “Viv, are you really sure you want to go through with this? There are other ways to deal with this, you know. I can arrange to get you of town, taken care of, until the—”

She cut him off. “Yes, I'm sure. Really.” She couldn't allow him to complete the sentence, to hear the phrase “the baby's born” out loud. As long as no one said it out loud, she could pretend it wasn't a possibility, that all of this wasn't really happening at all. She looked at him seriously. “I do appreciate everything you're doing. I know I've left you at sixes and sevens.”

“I'm glad to help. Any way you need.” He dove into his pocket, fished out a scrap of paper. “Here's the address where they can . . . take care of you. It's in the Bronx. I got you an appointment two days from now, at noon. You have to go around to the side entrance. The building's not well marked, so it doesn't look like anything, but it's the right place. There's a sign on the side door that says ‘Private Office.' Just ring the buzzer, and when the intercom comes on, tell 'em you're there to see a Mrs. Hutchins.”

“Mrs. Hutchins? She's a doctor?”

“Not exactly. She used to be a midwife. Now she just sort of . . . fixes things. It's all on the up-and-up. I wouldn't send you anyplace that wasn't safe. It's quiet and out of the way, and they'll have you all taken care of in few hours. But you're probably going to have to call in sick to work that night.”

“Who do I pay?”

“Don't worry. I took care of it.”

“Act, I can't—”

He cut her off. “Vivvy, listen to me: I got it. You asked for my help, and my help is what you're gonna get. I know you hate asking anybody for anything, but this is one time when you're just going to have to swallow it. I'd go with you myself, but they don't like men coming in. Makes people suspicious.”

She felt tears coming on. Maybe it was her hormones, or just the shell she'd built around herself, buried herself inside for so long, finally cracking. She hugged him tightly, clutching the piece of paper. “I can't thank you enough, darling. Truly.”

“You're going to be okay, kid, don't worry. My number's on the bottom of the paper. Call me after, let me know how you're making out, if you need anything, okay?”

She nodded. “Okay.”

Vivian walked back into the Stork, exhaling again, for the first time feeling some of the weight lifting off of her shoulders.

Act replaced his fedora and turned onto Fifty-Third. He didn't see the figure crossing diagonally from the other side, casually following him up the street.

 

“I couldn't eat another bite,” Dolly said as she and Jack crossed Houston Street onto First Avenue. This, of course, was a lie: he'd decided they needed a change of scenery and dragged her down to the Lower East Side to Katz's Delicatessen, and she'd been dying,
dying
, for one of Katz's famous hot pastrami sandwiches. But if months living inside the Barbizon had taught her anything, it was that girls were supposed to eat daintily with their dates. It was fine for him to wolf down a big, juicy Reuben, but you were supposed to settle for the scoop of chicken salad on lettuce or, if you were feeling wild, perhaps a BLT.

“I'm stuffed, too,” he said, laughing. “Wanna walk a bit?”

“Sure.”

They talked about the things couples talk about when they walk through the streets: movies, television, their families—Jack's brother and sister-in-law were expecting a child any minute. She was making progress, unearthing his family tree (two brothers, both married, no sisters), his favorite passion (the Dodgers), and what scared him the most (dancing, which he confessed he had “no aptitude” for).

He seemed chattier tonight, more relaxed. All the better to implement the Plan, which she'd divided into two parts: Warm-Up and Brazen.

“It gets so chilly in October,” she said, rubbing her arms. She had deliberately worn a sweater far too delicate for the weather. “You forget how cold it can get at night in the fall here.”