Peg, Gladys, and Celia all groaned as one.
“Olive is always trying to get us girls to enroll at Katharine Gibbs so we can learn how to type,” Gladys explained. She shuddered in dramatic horror, as though learning how to type were something akin to busting up rocks in a prisoner-of-war camp.
“Katharine Gibbs turns out employable young women,” Olive said. “A young woman ought to be employable.”
“I can’t type, and I’m employable!” Gladys said. “Heck, I’m already employed! I’m employed by you!”
Olive said, “A showgirl is never quite employed, Gladys. A showgirl is a person who may—at times—be in possession of a job. It’s not the same thing. Yours is not a reliable field of work. A secretary, by contrast, can always find employment.”
“I’m not just a showgirl,” said Gladys, with miffed pride. “I’m a dance captain. A dance captain can always find employment. Anyhow, if I run out of money, I’ll just get married.”
“Never learn to type, kiddo,” Peg said to me. “And if you do learn to type, never tell anybody that you can type, or they’ll make you do it forever. Never learn shorthand, either. It’ll be the death of you. Once they put a steno pad in a woman’s hand, it never comes out.”
Suddenly the gorgeous creature on the other side of the room spoke, for the first time since we’d come upstairs. “You said you can sew?” Celia asked.
Once again, that low, throaty voice took me by surprise. Also, she had her eyes on me now, which I found a bit intimidating. I don’t want to overuse the word “smoldering” when I talk about Celia, but there’s no way around it: she was the kind of woman who smoldered even when she wasn’t intentionally trying to smolder. Holding that smoldering gaze was uncomfortable for me, so I just nodded, and said in the safer direction of Peg, “Yes. I can sew. Grandmother Morris taught me how.”
“What sort of stuff do you make?” Celia asked.
“Well, I made this dress.”
Gladys screamed, “You made that dress?”
Both Gladys and Roland rushed at me the way girls always rushed at me when they found out that I’d made my own dress. In a flash, the two of them were picking at my outfit, like two gorgeous little monkeys.
“You did this?” Gladys said.
“Even the trim?” Roland asked.
I wanted to say, “This is nothing!”—because truly, compared to what I could do, this little frock, cunning though it appeared, was nothing. But I didn’t want to sound cocky. So instead I said, “I make everything I wear.”
Celia spoke again, from across the room: “Can you make costumes?”
“I suppose so. It would depend on the costume, but I’m sure I could.”
The showgirl stood up and asked, “Could you make something like this?” She let her robe drop to the floor, revealing the costume beneath it.
(I know that sounds dramatic, to say that she “let her robe drop,” but Celia was the kind of girl who didn’t just take her clothes off like any other mortal woman; she always let them drop.)
Her figure was astonishing, but as for the costume, it was basic—a little two-piece metallic number, something like a bathing suit. It was the sort of thing that was designed to look better from fifty feet away than up close. It had tight, high-waisted shorts decorated in splashy sequins, and a bra that was decked out in a gaudy arrangement of beads and feathers. It looked good on her, but that’s only because a hospital gown would have looked good on her. I thought it could have fit her better, to be honest. The shoulder straps were all wrong.
“I could make that,” I said. “The beading would take me awhile, but that’s just busywork. The rest of it is straightforward.” Then I had a flash of inspiration, like a flare shot up in a night sky: “Say, if you have a costume director, maybe I could work with her? I could be her assistant!”
Laughter burst out across the room.
“A costume director!” Gladys said. “What do you think this is, Paramount Pictures? You think we got Edith Head hiding down there in the basement?”
“The girls are responsible for their own costumes,” Peg explained. “If we don’t have anything that will work for them in our costume closet—and we never do—they have to provide their own outfits. It costs them, but that’s just how things have always been done. Where’d you get yours, Celia?”
“I bought it off a girl. You remember Evelyn, at El Morocco? She got married, moved to Texas. She gave me a whole trunk of costumes. Lucky for me.”
“Sure, lucky for you,” sniffed Roland. “Lucky you didn’t get the clap.”
“Aw, give it a rest, Roland,” said Gladys. “Evelyn was a good kid. You’re just jealous because she married a cowboy.”
“If you’d like to help the kids out with their costumes, Vivian, I’m sure everyone would appreciate it,” said Peg.
“Could you make me a South Seas outfit?” Gladys asked me. “Like a Hawaiian hula girl?”
That was like asking a master chef if he could make porridge.
“Sure,” I said. “I could make you one tomorrow.”
“Could you make me a hula outfit?” asked Roland.
“I don’t have a budget for new costumes,” Olive warned. “We haven’t discussed this.”
“Oh, Olive,” Peg sighed. “You are every inch the vicar’s wife. Let the kids have their fun.”
I couldn’t help but observe that Celia had kept her gaze on me since we started talking about sewing. Being in her line of vision felt both terrifying and thrilling.
“You know something?” she said, after studying me more closely. “You’re pretty.”
Now, to be fair, people usually noticed this fact about me sooner. But who could blame Celia for having paid me so little attention up until this point, when she was in possession of that face and that body?
“Tell you the truth,” she said, smiling for the first time that night, “you kinda look like me.”
Let me be clear, Angela: I didn’t.
Celia Ray was a goddess; I was an adolescent. But in the sketchiest of terms, I suppose I could see that she had a point: we were both tall brunettes with ivory skin and wide-set brown eyes. We could have passed for cousins, if not sisters—and decidedly not twins. Certainly our figures had nothing in common. She was a peach; I was a stick. Still, I was flattered. To this day, though, I believe that the only reason Celia Ray ever took notice of me at all was because we looked a tiny bit alike, and that drew her attention. For Celia, vain as she was, looking at me must have been like looking in a (very foggy, very distant) mirror—and Celia never met a mirror she didn’t love.
“You and me should dress up alike sometime and go out on the town,” Celia said, in that low Bronx growl that was also a purr. “We could get ourselves into some real good trouble.”
Well, I didn’t even know what to say to that. I just sat there, gaping like the Emma Willard schoolgirl I so recently had been.
As for my Aunt Peg—my legal guardian, at this point, please remember—she heard this illicit-sounding invite and said, “Say, girls, that sounds fun.”
Peg was over at the bar again mixing up another batch of martinis, but at that point, Olive put a stop to things. The fearsome secretary of the Lily Playhouse stood up, clapped her hands, and announced, “Enough! If Peg stays up any later, she will not be the better for it in the morning.”
“Darn it, Olive, I’ll give you a poke in the eye!” Peg said.
“To bed, Peg,” said the imperturbable Olive, tugging down her girdle for emphasis. “Now.”
The room scattered. We all said our good nights.