The Dollhouse (12 page)

“Right.”

“I remember your piece on the rats in the Hudson.”

The story had gone viral soon after the network aired it, shots of rats scrambling along the crumbling piers, set to classical music. The producers thought the sound track would “elevate” the story. They were rodents, for God's sake.

“Not one of my most favorite clips.” She grimaced. “One of the reasons I was glad to leave television.”

“That and the controversy.” Tyler, chiming in. “We were lucky to snag Rose right after she resigned. ‘The woman who brought down Senator Madden.' Our investors love it.”

Jason didn't say a word, just lifted one eyebrow.

Rose flipped through her notebook, eager to move on from the topic. “Shall I fill you in on the Barbizon story?”

“Please do.” The words carried a trace of teasing. Other women probably found it charming, and there was an unmistakable air of masculinity to him that boys like Tyler wished they had.

She checked her notes and dove in. “The building was built in 1927 as a residence for professional women, with around seven hundred rooms. The whole idea was to create a private club-type building for women—only men's clubs existed before then—and this one included perks like a gym and a pool. And it wasn't like you could just show up and check in. Hotel guests had to supply three character references.”

“Isn't this the place where Sylvia Plath went nuts?” asked Jason.

She took a deep breath. “Not exactly. In 1953, Sylvia Plath stayed at the Barbizon for a month while working as a guest editor for
Mademoiselle
magazine. After she went home, she tried to commit suicide, and then wrote about her experience in
The Bell Jar
, referring to the Barbizon as the Amazon Hotel.”

“That needs to be in there.” Tyler's voice pitched up, a sign of excitement. “You can shoot B-roll of book covers, old photos, that kind of thing.”

Jason jiggled his leg. “Fading out on a shot of her gravestone?”

“I don't think we need to focus so much on Sylvia Plath,” interrupted Rose. “It's been said and done. Old news. We want to focus on the women who are living there now, who have seen it change from an exclusive women's hotel to a condo. How their perspective mirrors the changes in New York City, how it relates to women today.”

“I like that.” Jason looked up, surprised.

“Besides, there are many other famous, accomplished women who lived there as well. Liza Minnelli, Candice Bergen, Joan Crawford.”

“Lots of good stuff here,” said Tyler. “But what about the lady with the scar?”

“Huh?” Jason turned to her for clarification.

Rose spoke up. “One of the women who arrived at the hotel in the early fifties now lives on the fourth floor, in one of the rent-controlled apartments that house a dozen or so women like her. She was involved in some kind of skirmish way back when, and was cut on the face, while one of the maids fell to her death from a terrace.”

“Now, that's interesting. Will she talk to you about it?”

“She's away at the moment, but I think I have an in.”

Tyler piped up. “Rose lives in the Barbizon.”

“Is there any kind of conflict of interest?” Jason asked.

“Not that I can see.” She didn't mention that she was sleeping on Darby McLaughlin's couch, without the woman's knowledge. She'd find a rental soon enough and, hopefully, Darby would be so grateful that Rose stepped in to take care of Bird that she'd agree to be interviewed. At least that was the way it played in her head.

“I think you'll make a good team.” Tyler stood, dismissing them. “Jason has been out in the field for a long time, working in war zones, so I'm guessing this chick-lit story will be a breeze for him, right, man?”

Tyler's attempt at male bonding was met with another raised eyebrow from Jason. “Yeah, right.”

“Great. Let's try to wrap this up by the first week in July.”

Three weeks away. It'd be close. She nodded and walked out of the
room. Jason followed her to her cubicle and leaned against the partition, hands in his pockets.

“So what's next, Ms. Lewin?”

His overly formal tone annoyed her. As did Tyler's “chick-lit” comment. “I have to make some more inroads with the ladies on the fourth floor. I'll need a couple of days. In the meantime, I've found some information about Darby McLaughlin.”

“Which one is she?”

“The one with the scar on her face.”

“The one who's out of town, and you haven't lined up yet, even though Tyler thinks she's the focus of the story.”

“Right.” He was quick, obviously. She continued on. “You see, there's this book of spices.”

“A what?”

“A scrapbook of descriptions of spices from 1952, with mementos and things like that tucked inside. I'm going to dig in a little deeper, see if I can find out some more background. Darby didn't create it. Someone named Sam Buckley did, but she saved it all these years.”

“What makes you think this scrapbook is important?”

“There's an inscription inside that mentions waiting until the coast is clear and then they'll make a run for it, that kind of thing. My guess is it has something to do with her accident.”

“How did you get it?”

“One of the neighbors had it.” Another lie. “Do you want to see it?”

“Sure.”

She'd wrapped it in plastic and placed it in her bag on her way out the door that morning, hoping to find the time to study it further. Jason leaned over her desk and leafed through the pages. He fingered the delicate material with a gentle touch. “It's beautiful.”

The magic of the drawings and scribblings was undeniable. “Even better, smell it.”

He leaned in and sniffed. “Powerful. Like walking into a Moroccan bazaar. Amazing, after all these years.”

“And if you look in the back, there's an old menu to some jazz club. We could re-create that time period in the story, focus on 1952, what it was like to be a woman in New York City.”

“You seem to be very caught up by this Darby woman.”

“I am. She has this air of royalty about her, but not in a pampered way. More like she's a force to be reckoned with, like she makes her own weather.”

“Superstorm Darby?”

She couldn't help but laugh. “Sure. Kind of like that.” She needed Jason on her side, if only to back up her ideas with Tyler.

“How many ladies are left?”

“Ten. One's in the hospital, but I know she'll be happy to be interviewed when she's out. Another has already given me the green light. Give me a day and I'll see if I can line up some more. It's going to be slow going, as they're all pretty reclusive.”

“Okay. You call the shots.”

Rose nodded and put away the book.

If only she did.

New York City, 1952

S
tella stood just inside Darby's room, biting her lip.

Darby had assumed the knock at her door was Esme, hoping to get some time away from Mrs. Eustis and chat, and was surprised to see Stella. For a few seconds, neither girl spoke. Then Stella heaved a deep sigh and placed her hand just inside the doorframe.

“Darby, I know you're angry with me,” she said. “I should probably let things lie, but I can't stop thinking about what happened with Walter in the park. I feel so awful. I want to make it up to you.”

Darby didn't want to be reminded of that evening. “If you're worried I'll tell Mrs. Eustis that you were sneaking boys into the hotel, I assure you I won't.”

“No, of course I know you wouldn't do that.” Stella gave a dismissive wave of her manicured hand. “I was just hoping you'd come with me to the afternoon tea and fashion show. Please.”

Saturday's list of events included a showing of coats and hats in the solarium. Anyone with a bit of sense would know that fashion shows weren't for girls like Darby. But she had no desire to speak such humiliating words to Stella.

“I have too much work to do,” she said instead. That much was true, anyway.

Stella lowered her voice. “I don't want you to think I'm like the other Ford girls. I only hang around with them because the agency likes us to be seen together.” She paused and offered Darby a wicked smile. “Plus, they attract all the best boys. But today you can meet my dear friend Charlotte. I think you two'll get along swimmingly.”

“Why do you think that?”

“You remind me of her. She's in publishing, smart as a whip, speaks her mind. And though she comes from an upper-crust family in Boston, she isn't at all a snob. She's on the twelfth floor, with some other career girls.”

Career girls in publishing. The words enticed.

Stella jumped on her hesitation. “You'll enjoy it, I promise. And if you don't, you can leave anytime.”

True. It wasn't like she'd be trapped in the dark with a groper. She nodded.

Up on the eighteenth floor, the day was sunny and clear, rendering stunning views across the city through the solarium's glass walls. The length of the space had been made into a kind of runway, with wrought iron chairs placed along the walls, while a trio played classical music at the back. Stella waved at a striking-looking girl who had saved a couple of seats. There was only time for quick introductions before Mrs. Eustis stepped up onto the raised platform at the top of the runway.

“Thank you, girls, for coming to our fall fashion show at the Barbizon Hotel for Women. Today you'll get a sense of the styles for the upcoming season and have a chance to add to your wardrobes without even leaving the residence. How exciting is that?”

“God forbid we venture into the real world and buy something inappropriate,” Charlotte murmured into Darby's ear.

Mrs. Eustis continued on. “As guests of the hotel, we encourage you to take full advantage of everything New York City has to offer. Fun and fashion are at your fingertips daily.”

“Excellent use of alliteration.” Charlotte again.

“As long as we don't get fingered by the fun,” added Stella.

Darby almost choked as she turned a gasp of laughter into a cough and drew Mrs. Eustis's disapproving look.

“I hope you'll enjoy the show, and if there are any items you find particularly compelling, you may put them on your account. And now, let us begin.”

The back doors opened and a dozen or so lithe women drifted down the aisle to the platform, where they each performed a slow turn. A cream felt cloche covered in matching cutout flowers garnered nods of approval, while a wide-brimmed scarlet hat, perched on the top of a model's head like a flying saucer, drew polite applause. The show finished with a bang: a heavy black coat made of a fabric covered in tight black curls—the announcer called it poodle cloth—topped by a small-brimmed hat with a black ribbon that stiffened into a peak at the front, like a sculpture of bird wings extending to the sky.

After, as they were herded to the lounge for tea, Darby examined Charlotte and Stella more closely. Stella wore a daffodil-yellow afternoon dress that softened her figure, while Charlotte's knit one-piece hugged her angular frame, with its sharp shoulders and long torso. To be perfectly honest, Charlotte was far from attractive, with small dark eyes and a crooked nose, but her lips were luscious and carefully drawn in with oxblood-red lipstick. A severe pageboy hairstyle framed her rather chipmunklike cheeks.

Darby had never seen anyone quite like Charlotte before. In Darby's world, girls were either plain or pretty. Charlotte was in a category all her own.

In the center of the lounge, delicious-looking hats in different styles and colors had been arranged on a long table, like cakes in a bakery. The models floated around the room, stopping briefly to allow residents to caress the fabric of their sleeves.

“Come on, let's each choose a new chapeau.” Charlotte barged over to the table, and Stella and Darby followed. “I like this one.” She lifted up a shantung straw sailor hat.

“You won't be able to use that in the winter very often,” said Stella.

“We'll be heading down to Palm Beach again for Christmas, and it
will do nicely, thank you very much.” She leaned down and signed the chit. “Now you.”

Darby pointed to a simple pillbox with a mesh veil. “Maybe that one?”

Stella shook her head. “No, you're far too pretty to hide your face. How about this?”

The hat, a sleek black velvet beret, stood out from the others for its dark elegance. Charlotte picked it up and angled it on Darby's head. “Ideal.
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
”

Darby smiled. “Sonnet 65.”

Charlotte stepped back, looking pleased. “You are a surprise, my dear. Where did Stella say you're from? Iowa?”

“Ohio.”

“Right. Well done. This hat is yours.”

“And I'm putting it on my account.” Stella grabbed the chit before Darby could take it. “Consider it a gift of friendship.”

“Oh, I couldn't.”

But her protests were ignored. Stella chose a navy bonnet with a poppy snood, and while the hats were being wrapped in tissue paper and placed in boxes, the trio retreated to a window seat.

“Stella said you're in publishing.” Darby carefully took a teacup and saucer offered by one of the maids.

“Yes. I'll be a top editor one day, just you wait.” She winked one of her beady eyes. “I'm planning to discover the next Carson McCullers.”

“Are there many jobs for women where you work? Other than as secretaries, I mean.”

“My dear, there are more and more women choosing what books we read every day. I work for Samantha Plowright, who was at
The New Yorker
when Shirley Jackson got discovered.”

“Really? I just loved ‘The Lottery,'” Darby said. “Is it true Jackson received hate mail after it was published?”

“She did, mountains of it. Signs of a literary triumph, if you ask me.”

Stella made a face. “I knew you girls were well suited. Books and quotes. I'm exhausted.”

“Yes, it's too bad I'm off to London next week.” Charlotte took a sip of her tea, her lips staining the rim of the china. “Otherwise I'd invite you over to the offices to meet Mrs. Plowright. She'd love your quiet charm.”

Quiet charm. That's what she had. Darby knew she was grinning like an idiot, but she couldn't help it. “You're going to London?”

“Yes. Mrs. Plowright insisted I accompany her for a couple of months. So many fascinating authors coming from Europe these days. But when I'm back, we'll have lunch and talk books.”

“I'd love that.” Darby took a deep breath, scared to ask. “How does one become an assistant editor?”

Charlotte laughed. “Mrs. Plowright is an old family friend. It's all who you know. At the moment, my job consists of making Mrs. Plowright tea and shuffling papers about, but she lets me read every manuscript that comes across her desk and offer up my thoughts. It's a hoot.”

“Maybe once my course is done at Gibbs, I'll apply for a secretarial position at your firm.”

“You? In the secretary pool? Don't be silly. As I said, it's all who you know, and now you know me. Aim high.”

More girls gathered around, chattering and laughing, Charlotte always the center of attention. Darby studied her closely, the way she held herself, the way the side of her lip curled up when she was about to laugh.

But she'd ignored her homework for too long, and once her hat was packed, she said her good-byes and received three cheek kisses from Charlotte—right, left, right—and a quick squeeze of the arm from Stella, who offered to walk her to the elevator.

“You forgive me for that evening, don't you? For what that nasty boy did? Your poor dress.” Stella sounded truly contrite.

“I do. Thank you for introducing me to Charlotte.”

“Isn't she a gem? You never know who you're going to meet here. Now that you're living in the greatest city in the world, anything is possible.”

Of course that was Stella's perspective. With her beauty and steady work, she had an independence Darby envied. “If you're a model, maybe.”

Stella swung to a stop. “It's not easy for any of us girls, no matter what
we look like or where we're from. That's why you absolutely must take advantage of your time here, where you can observe the big bad world from the safety of the Barbizon, and plan your attack accordingly. It's up to you to pick and choose who you want around you.” She paused. “It's too bad Charlotte's off to England, but I'll make sure we all go out for lunch together the moment she's back. It's the least I can do.”

“I look forward to that very much.”

“In the meantime, remember what I said about picking and choosing carefully.” Her lips pursed. “The maid you like, for example.”

“Esme?”

“Yes. Promise me you'll be careful.”

Darby blanched. “Because she's a maid? She's much more than that; you'd see that if you knew her.”

The elevator arrived and Stella touched her cheek gently before turning back to the gaggle of girls.

Esme was on duty. She yanked open the gate and gave Darby a sharp look before letting her in. Darby said a cheery hello and stood at the back, tucking the hatbox behind her.

“You were with the giraffes?” Esme pulled the lever, and the elevator descended, slower than normal.

“Only Stella. She invited me to the fashion show. She said she's sorry for what happened that night.”

“I bet.” Esme chewed on the inside of her mouth and stared forward. “I'm surprised you want to spend time with her, after what she did to you.”

“It wasn't really Stella's fault.”

“So she says.”

“Esme. What's wrong?”

The elevator came to an abrupt stop between floors. Darby placed one palm on the wall to steady herself.

“I'll tell you what's wrong. The girls make fun of you and treat you like a
monstrua,
a freak, and then you're off drinking tea with them? Doesn't make sense.”

Darby's heart began to pound. “These were mostly career girls.”

“Career girls. Huh.”

“I don't understand why you're angry with me.”

“Don't you?” Esme hissed. “Maureen, Stella, Candy. They're all the same. Living here makes girls mean. They start thinking they're better than everyone else. Don't let that happen to you, too.”

“Of course not.” To her relief, the elevator began moving once again, but something still unsettled her. “Was it you in the hallway when I visited Maureen? I could have sworn I saw you there.”

Esme looked away. “You were making such a racket, laughing and enjoying yourselves. I would've stopped to say hello, but I had to get back to work.”

Esme felt left out, and Darby didn't blame her. Here she was trapped in a metal box for hours, wearing a drab maid's uniform, while Darby could come and go as she pleased and had a brand-new hat. No wonder she was upset.

They finally reached the fifteenth floor, but Darby didn't walk away, unwilling to leave Esme when she was so obviously distressed. “Thank you for worrying about me. I promise I won't turn mean. And let me know when we can go to the Flatted Fifth together again.”

“Yeah.” Esme's mouth stayed in a tight line, but her eyes gave away her pleasure.

Darby nodded and stepped off the elevator. She gave a little wave and watched as Esme's face, framed by the glass oval in the door, disappeared from view.