Diva (9 page)

She took a few deep breaths, then smoothed a mask of cheeky flirtation over her displeasure. She sauntered back into the living room. “You didn’t offer me a tour, so I had to give myself one.”

Parker was standing behind the expansive oak bar against the wall. He’d laid his navy blazer over one of the leather-upholstered barstools and stood in just his trousers and a silky burgundy shirt. Parker’s dark brows were drawn in concentration over his pale green eyes. The martini shaker stood on the bar with its lid off, next to a bowl of ice and two unmarked bottles. He lifted one of the bottles and put it down, then lifted the other.

Clara was amused by his floundering. “Parker Richards. You don’t know how to make a martini, do you?”

He smiled back. “But I’m
very
good at ordering them.”

She joined him behind the bar and picked up the shaker. “You do realize this makes me more of a man than you are.”

“You look remarkably good in that dress, then, considering.”

Showing Parker how to mix martinis might have been fun
if Clara hadn’t been consumed by the urge to throw her drink in his pompous face once she was finished. And once he was soaked in gin and vermouth, Clara would berate Parker for his idiotic presumptions and the lies he’d spread about the nature of their relationship. She would tell him that she hardly even liked him—and that she could never be even a fraction as in love with him as he was with himself.

But instead, she showed him how adding a dash of orange bitters made all the difference to a martini. And when he mentioned Forrest’s party on Saturday, Clara feigned complete ignorance.

As satisfying as it would be to get her revenge now, Clara couldn’t forget the fact that Parker
was
her boss. Throwing a drink in his face would definitely be grounds for dismissal. Without the income from her column, Clara would barely be able to get by. Not to mention the fact that if Parker fired her, her writing career would be over practically before it had begun.

So she’d have to be crafty about it. She’d go to this Great Neck party. She’d don her flapper best and flutter her lashes at all Parker’s rich, influential friends.

But soon enough, Parker would wish he’d never met Clara. Much less claimed to date her.

LORRAINE

“You make the best coffee in New York, Becks,” Lorraine remarked, rising from her bed to accept the steaming mug from her roommate. “Or at least, you make the best coffee in this dormitory.”

Becky tucked her yellow curls behind her ears and smiled. She sat on her own bed, neatly settled her pink pleated skirt over her legs, and took a sip from her own mug. “Thank you. I’ll have to bake my shortbread to go with it next time.”

“Ha! Shortbread!” Lorraine exclaimed, slapping her knee. “You and your jokes.”

Becky raised an eyebrow. “I’m being serious, though, I absolutely
love
—”

“Okay, okay,” Lorraine said, cutting Becky off. “Enough with the jokes, I might throw up from laughing so much.”

Lorraine had expected the worst when she’d met her blonde roommate nearly a month earlier. She wasn’t a beauty—certainly not an exotic one like Lorraine—but her dimples and tiny nose were nearly head-cheerleader adorable. Lorraine had been sure Becky would reject her modern ways and innovative fashion sense just the way the debs in Chicago had. But Becky turned out to be absolutely hilarious. Like those shortbread jokes—hysterical!

Becky was committed, too—she covered every surface on her side of the room with lace doilies and owned a whopping
five
aprons. Someone who didn’t know her as well as Lorraine would think Becky actually liked all this matronly hooey. But the rumors of Lorraine’s mob past that caused other Barnard girls to turn up their noses didn’t seem to faze Becky one bit. So Becky couldn’t possibly be a real Mrs. Grundy—she was just an amazing comedienne.

“You know what would go even better with this coffee than shortbread?” Lorraine looked through the open window at the quad, where a group of girls lounged on a picnic blanket. They were giggling so loudly that they had to be sneaking sips from a flask. Either that or they were crazy people, and a respectable institution like Barnard didn’t accept crazy people. “A shot of brandy, maybe two.”

Becky rolled her brown eyes. “Lorraine, you know we can’t risk getting caught drinking in the dormitory.”

Lorraine set her mug on her cluttered end table and lay
back on the floral bedspread. “I can’t help it! It’s Saturday—everyone knows this is a day for drinking!”

“It’s Saturday
morning
.”

“Still. If those mob rumors killed any hope I had for a social life, then this Drought is dancing on its grave.” Lorraine hadn’t frequented a gin joint since school started, though not for a lack of trying. All the police in New York knew Lorraine as a shady character, while speakeasy proprietors thought she was a rat. Most of them had her picture on the wall, reminding the burly men who guarded the doors
not
to let her in—which was so tragically unfair, seeing as how it wasn’t even a flattering picture.

Lorraine had initially named the dry spell “The Great Drought of 1924.” But that was kind of a mouthful, especially considering how often she complained about it. This unfortunate period could go back to its original name when she wrote her memoirs.

Lorraine had hoped her summer spent managing the Opera House would
improve
her popularity at Barnard. “Hey, look!” everyone would exclaim. “There goes the dame who helped the bureau catch those mobsters! I knew she was brave, but I never expected her to be beautiful, too!” But that lying phony Clara Knowles had destroyed Lorraine’s chances. Thanks to the not-so-flattering articles Clara wrote for the
Manhattanite
, the popular girls at Barnard wanted nothing to do with Lorraine. And why? Because Lorraine
had wanted revenge against everyone’s new favorite flapper, Gloria Carmody.

What a joke. If anyone would listen, Lorraine would explain that
she
was the flapper queen. Gloria hadn’t even bobbed her hair until Lorraine made her! Gloria hadn’t known how to dance anything other than a boring old box step! Gloria had worn dresses that went down to her ankles! Until Lorraine stepped in and saved her. But now people acted like Gloria was some kind of … hero. It was enough to make a girl want to punch someone.

“I think taking some time away from booze has been good for you,” Becky observed. “You’re so far ahead on all our coursework and reading—you even managed to finish
Paradise Lost
early, isn’t that right?”

Lorraine nodded. “I wish I’d paradise
lost
my copy of it,” she muttered, waiting for Becky to laugh. When she didn’t, it only made Lorraine want a drink even more. “Maybe then I’d have had an excuse not to read all ten million pages of it.”

“You’ve got to admit sobriety has given you a lot more free time.”

“Yeah,
too much
free time.” Lorraine picked up a white woven pillow and tossed it onto her roommate’s bed. “I’m knitting, Becks.
Knitting
.”

The truth was that Lorraine was actually very good at school—there had always been so many distractions, though, and why study biology in a textbook when you could get up
close and personal with an actual boy? Sadly, Lorraine had more than enough time on her hands these days to excel academically. Oh, how she wished she could change that!

“ ‘They say a clean conscience makes a soft pillow, but this one suits me fine,’ ” Becky read from the embroidery on the pillow and giggled. “That’s funny, Raine!”

“It would be funnier if we were drunk,” Lorraine replied. “Have you heard about any parties or anything? Just because we have all the same classes doesn’t mean you have to be my warden, you know.”

Becky gave her a long, hard look. “Well, it
is
the weekend.” A slow smile appeared on her face. “And since you’re persona non grata in the city, why not come out with me to Long Island?”

“It sounds
long
. As in
and boring
.”

“Only if you go to the wrong parties. The real shoe spinners are on the estates out there, and tonight there’s a big to-do down in Great Neck. You heard of a fellow called Forrest Hamilton?”

Lorraine caught her reflection in the mirror and fluffed her bob. “The Broadway producer? Sure.” The society pages were thick these days with photos of and stories about the handsome young entrepreneur.

“Well, the party’s at his house.”

Lorraine raised her eyebrows. “And
you’re
invited? Why did he invite
you
?” Sure, Becky had a more thriving social life
than Lorraine’s, but study groups and coffee klatches didn’t count, did they? Who would’ve expected Becky to have such an impressive acquaintance? “Becks, you’ve been holding out on me!”

Becky laughed. “Not exactly. My friend Dorothy’s brother starred in
Bug-Eyed Betty
, Forrest’s first show, and he was able to snag us invitations. Dorothy says it’s going to be the biggest bash since Sodom and Gomorrah got burned up.”

Raine leaped from her bed to hug Becky, nearly spilling coffee all over her roommate’s pristine bedspread. Finally, a
real
night out! “Thank you, thank you, thank you! You have no idea the public service you’re doing.” She sat down beside Becky. “Without you I probably would’ve been stuck studying flash cards with Melvin.”

“Oh, right, your friend from Columbia. You should invite him along! He’s cute.”

Lorraine almost choked on her coffee. “Seriously, Becks, you should go down to the Ziegfeld and try out your comedy act there. That stuff is gold! You and Eddie Cantor will be best pals in no time.”

Becky crossed her arms and pouted. “I’m being serious! Maybe he’s not a big six or anything, but you’ve got to admit Melvin’s got a handsome face.”

“You can’t even see his face behind those enormous glasses,” Lorrain muttered. She tried to imagine Melvin wandering among the glittering young things in his bow tie and
sweater vest. “Trust me. He’ll be much happier with the flash cards.”

Besides, she wouldn’t want to be seen with Melvin if Marcus happened to be at the party. Not that she was still thinking about him … 
that
much.

“He has a car, though, doesn’t he? Dorothy and I were planning to take the train out, but it would be so much more stylish if we drove. Plus we might need someone to get us home safely if we get too tight,” Becky said.

“Good point.” Always thinking, that Becky! No matter how sweet and dopey she might look, the girl had some real smarts underneath all those curls.

“It’ll be such fun!” Becky exclaimed, and her small lips stretched into a gleeful smile. She clapped her dainty little hands. “We’ll dance the Collegiate Shag and show those starched shirts how to cut a rug.”

Lorraine narrowed her eyes. She’d once prided herself on knowing all the hottest new dances, but that had been in the pre-Drought days. “How does that one go again?”

Becky stuck out her lip and blew her bangs off her forehead. “Honestly, Lorraine, how can you have worked in a club and not learned it?”

She popped up from her bed and took Lorraine’s hand to pull her up as well. She raised her left arm. “Okay, you need to hold your right arm so your elbow is touching my left elbow.”

Lorraine did so but felt awkward. “Are you sure? That’s a lot higher than couples usually hold their arms.…”

“Mmm-hmm—that way your arms don’t get in the way of all the hopping around in the dance.” Becky did a zippy combination of kicks and hops on her own and put all doubt out of Lorraine’s mind. Becky was a surprisingly good dancer, and Lorraine couldn’t wait to show the bouncy dance off on the floor.

She put one hand on Becky’s shoulder and held her other hand. Then she began to follow her roommate through the steps.

“Well, no, you kick your legs
behind
you when we’re close like this, Raine,” Becky said when Lorraine whacked her in the shin. “Let’s try again.”

They pulled apart and held hands, and now Becky said she was allowed to kick forward. Becky spun her around and Lorraine nearly ran straight into her. “Maybe we should go slower.…”

Lorraine continued dancing without Becky, swinging her legs back and forth. “No, I think I’m catching on just fine!”

“Well, that’s
better
,” Becky said. “What you need to remember is …” Her eyes fixed on something behind Lorraine. She gave a low whistle. “Who’s the Handsome Dan? Does he go to Columbia? I feel like I’ve seen him around.”

Lorraine followed her roommate’s eyes to the photo of Marcus tacked to the bulletin board above her bed. “Oh, that’s
Marcus Eastman.” She paused. How to explain Marcus Eastman to Becky? How did Lorraine even explain Marcus to herself? “He’s an old … friend. A
very close
friend.” She stopped again. Had they ever been more than friends? Lorraine had certainly wanted them to be. And Becky didn’t know one way or the other, did she? “We have
a lot
of history together,” she added. Would it be too much to wink?