“Of course not, my love. I know how you enjoy your salons.” She tilted her face up, and he kissed her properly, slowly, until she was dizzy and breathless. It still amazed her that this beautiful boy was all hers.
So much had happened since she’d signed the contract with Vogue last year. At times, Clara’s new apartment at 25 Fifth Avenue was unrecognizable, the squeaky cot from her Tenth Street studio replaced with a macassar bed fit for a queen, with an inlaid parchment headboard. Oliver had laid eyes on it in some uptown furniture store and insisted she take it. They weren’t exactly living together—he still had his bachelor pad in the Village—but he spent most of the day and many of the evenings here, answering her correspondence, arranging social events like tonight’s dinner, and generally making her life run as smoothly as possible.
“What were you working on today?” He sat at the edge of the bed and adjusted a cuff link.
“They want a dozen new illustrations for a piece on the ‘Well-Dressed Secretary.’ And of course, the September cover.”
All day she’d been working on the cover, a woman at the wheel of an automobile facing out, the door open, one hand casually resting on the steering wheel and the other on the back of the seat. The figure had come easy enough, but she’d been struggling over the details of the car when Oliver had told her it was time to wash up and dress. Like an obedient child, she’d cleaned off her brushes and palette and closed the door of her studio behind her.
She’d never have attained the success she had without him. Between the commissions and teaching, she was even able to sock money away. The school term would end in a few weeks, and she was thrilled to have had a class of thirty this term, with no dropouts at all.
She slid a pair of crystal combs into her unruly mane. “I forgot to mention, Mr. Lorette at the art school said my class would be moved to a bigger studio in the fall. To fit the additional students.”
“Isn’t that tiring, though? Why teach when you don’t have to?” The smile on his face belied his concern, she knew. Lately, he’d complained they didn’t spend enough time together, suggesting a long weekend at Compo Beach or a jaunt to Europe. But now that she finally had the work she had craved for so long, she couldn’t bear to walk away.
She also had a terrible fear that it was all going to be taken away at any moment. That was what had happened to her father, after all. One day they were eating steaks and caramel custard, the next she was scrounging in a vegetable garden for potatoes to make soup. She understood that, rationally, it was her father’s own fault. But that sense of fragility, of everything all coming crashing down, stayed with her always. She was like one of those squirrels in Washington Square Park, tucking nuts in their cheeks and burying the rest of the bounty. The taste of success had only increased her urge to accumulate more. More work, more money.
And it had all come so quickly. The months flew by in a blur. Yet every morning when she rose, she peered out her bedroom window, the rectangular buildings and conical water towers sharp against a blue sky, and gave a moment of thanks for Oliver, for her work, and for this lovely city.
She didn’t mention the other reason she enjoyed going to the School of Art twice a week. Sometimes after class, she and Levon would meet for a coffee in the Grand Central Terminal Restaurant. Or they’d sneak off for a quick smoke away from the students, in her favorite place in the building: a secret room behind the huge Tiffany clock that overlooked Forty-Second Street. While there was no reason to keep this from Oliver—after all, she had friendships with many male artists these days—Oliver and Levon never seemed to get on. They’d run into each other at a couple of faculty dinners at the Lorettes’ brownstone in the Village, where Levon had drunk too much and carried on about the superiority of Armenian poets over American ones. Clara didn’t blame Oliver, really. While she admired the depth of Levon’s knowledge and his natural exuberance, he could become a tedious conversationalist when his authority was questioned. Clara often teased him that he’d win even more admirers than he had already amassed if he could only pretend, on occasion, that he thought slightly less of himself.
But Levon was even more defensive and self-aggrandizing now than he had been when they first met. He’d been stuck in an artistic rut for some time, painting the mother and child over and over, unable to move forward. Clara’s good fortune made her want to assist in some way. She’d insisted he be invited to that night’s dinner party, even though the thought made her nervous. The guest list was eclectic, a mix of poets and singers as well as a couple of moneyed husbands and lovers. If Levon was in a charming mood, he might be able to entice a potential buyer to a studio visit.
She patted some rouge on her cheeks and smiled. Oliver enjoyed pulling together people from different walks of life; he was a natural as a host, even though sometimes she wondered if his energies might be better put into his poetry. “I do appreciate you bringing the mountain to Mohammed. To have a dinner party in my own home without having to lift a finger? You’ve been a dream. Who are we expecting tonight?”
The doorbell rang, and Oliver leaped to his feet. “A banker and his ode-writing poet mistress, an automobile executive and his opera-singing wife. A fellow alum from Andover and, of course, Levon.” The last name hung in the air. “I’ll make the introductions. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”
He disappeared, off to help her maid greet the guests.
They were eight around the dining room table, a shiny walnut number with a matching sidebar, where a silver-plated cocktail set and tray sparkled in the candlelight. Another of Oliver’s finds. Levon strode in late, catching Oliver up in an awkward hug and kissing Clara’s hand before diving into a conversation about European politics with the Andover classmate.
Seated to Clara’s left was Mr. Cavanaugh, the banker, a man with a penchant for expensive clothes and inexpensive dentistry, judging from his yellowed teeth. He gushed over Clara, remarked on her latest cover, asked her about the Paris fashions. “My wife goes over every season, you know. She adores your work, has even had several framed for our house in Glen Cove.”
She smiled and answered his rapid-fire questions with as much grace as she could muster. After all, how lovely it was to be sought after, instead of desperately seeking.
“Framed? I’m touched. How kind of her.”
“Yes. Like they’re real art.”
Real art. As if her imagination, technique, and execution were false.
“What are you working on now, Miss Darden?” The banker’s mistress, a slight, redheaded woman named Sally, chirped from the other end of the table.
“Another cover. And another one after that.” Each had to be better than the last, more whimsical. Illustrators were glorified factory workers, she’d complained to Levon just that week. There was always someone new coming up the ranks, offering a unique angle. Just as she had.
Oliver piped up. “Clara’s contracted through the end of this year with Vogue, and I have no doubt they’ll renew for another year.”
The banker’s mistress took several puffs from her cigarette holder, her eyes glittering. “I loved the latest issue. The cover was gorgeous, of course, but there were also so many delightful photographs. One layout, do you call it a layout?”—she didn’t wait for Clara’s response—“showed the most divine tweed suits. I swear I could see every thread.”
Mr. Cavanaugh held up his wineglass for the maid to refill. “Do you think eventually magazines will be all photographs? What would all the illustrators do then?”
“It’ll never happen.” Oliver looked over at Clara, silently apologizing for the turn in the conversation. “Photography is far too expensive and not nearly as expressive.”
Mr. Cavanaugh slapped the table. “Good to hear. Speaking of expression, how is your poetry going, Mr. Smith? You and Sally are in that literary group together, aren’t you?”