Love Me (9 page)

“Hey, sister!” There was an angry pounding on the bathroom door. “Open up in there!”

“Hold your horses, will ya?” Amanda yelled back. “I’m just finishing up.”

“You’ve been finishing up for forty-five minutes. Open the door or I’m going to call Mrs. O’Malley.”

Amanda sighed. That was all she needed, for the landlady to get involved, when she was already late on this week’s rent. “All right, all right.” Reluctantly, she heaved herself out of the water and, teeth chattering, pulled on her black lace peignoir.
I really need to buy a nice thick toweling robe
, Amanda thought,
or maybe cashmere. Something warm
.

Pulling the thin wrapping of silk tighter around her body, she lit a fresh cigarette and tucked the newspaper under her arm before she opened the door to find Mildred, her down-the-hall neighbor, tapping her foot impatiently, her wide mouth twisted into a snarl.

“Took you long enough.” With her yellow hair wrapped up
tightly in curling rags, she looked like Medusa with a head full of live snakes.
Mildred has probably turned a man or two to stone in her day
. “Thought I was going to have to take a leak right here in the hallway.”

“I’m so sorry,” Amanda said sweetly. “I left a bottle of Chanel Bois des Iles bubble bath in there, if you’d like to use it,” she added.

Piggy eyes widening with greed, Mildred darted into the bathroom and slammed the door without so much as a thank-you, as though she was worried Amanda was going to change her mind.

Typical
, Amanda thought, rushing down the dirty corridor toward her own bare room to dress. This boardinghouse stuff was for the dogs. Nosy neighbors peeping into her room at all hours, sniffing among her things for whatever they thought she wouldn’t miss. Stern-faced Mrs. O’Malley with trailing rosaries and endless rules about curfews and gentleman callers and “being respectable”—ironic in a house in which every tenant, to Amanda’s practiced eye, at least, either used to be a professional or was about to be. Having to wait in line for
everything:
the bathroom, the pay phone, the enormous morning vat of sludgy Irish oatmeal that qualified as the second half of room and board.

Oh well
, Amanda thought, deftly zipping up the back of her black crepe Chanel dress (might as well match the bubble bath, she figured) and pinned her velvet hat into place. Mrs. O’Malley’s was relatively clean, for what it was, and the price was right—at least, it would be once she was a little more … 
liquid
.

And besides, it wouldn’t be for much longer. She’d read in
Variety
that Harry had just renegotiated his contract with the studio; he must be making a mint by now. Once they were back together, he’d bail her out. Even if they didn’t move in together right away, he’d find her a better place to live, maybe even talk the studio into giving her a bungalow like they did Margo Sterling. Harry would take care of her. She was sure of it.

Parked on a crumbling corner next to a broken parking meter licked with rust, Amanda’s gleaming dove-gray coupe looked as out of place as her Parisian hatboxes and monogrammed trunks piled on Mrs. O’Malley’s uneven floor. Slipping behind the wheel, Amanda breathed in the rich scent of the burgundy leather seats, which still smelled new after almost two years. She ran her hand over the gold initials embossed on the highly polished door of the glove compartment:

Amanda Louise Farraday. A name—a
person
—she had invented all by herself, out of nothing.
If Harry and I get married, I’ll have to change the monogram
, Amanda thought with a giggle. Another name, another identity to slip into as if it were one of her black silk gloves. She was sure it would fit her just as well.

Amanda drove. Slowly, the shabby buildings and crumbling streets gave way to neat little homes with orange trees in their well-kept yards, then gated mansions with sprawling emerald lawns dotted with palm trees, until the glittering paved expanse of Wilshire Boulevard stretched out before her. She pulled into the long circular driveway of Bullocks, enjoying the
luxuriant crunch of the gravel beneath her tires. A uniformed valet jumped out to greet her. She dropped her keys into his outstretched hand and smiled graciously at the doormen as they ushered her through the glass-and-travertine doors into the lobby.

Maybe it was silly, but Amanda thought there was no place on earth that made her feel as safe as the Bullocks Wilshire department store. She loved the slippery floors of pale Italian marble, the immense art deco ceiling mural depicting planes, trains, and automobiles in a colorful paean to the steady thrum of optimistic American progress, the polished nickel columns and shining glass countertops in which one could catch a reassuring glimpse of oneself looking appropriately stylish and busy and important.

It was as if nothing bad could ever happen to you there, as though the cares and worries of the world were gone with a whisk of the revolving doors, like water past the rudder of a ship. A department store was beautiful and calm, filled with beautiful and calm people harvesting the beautiful fruits of their labor in the hushed reverent tones of visitors to an art museum.

With one important exception: in this art museum,
everything
was for sale.

“Miss Farraday!” the salesgirl exclaimed as Amanda stepped out of the polished mahogany elevator and into the designer salons of the fifth floor. “It’s … it’s you.”

“Hello, Annette,” Amanda said warmly. “How nice to see you. It’s been a long time.”

“It certainly has.” Nervously, the girl’s fingers flew to the
ruffled collar of her starched white blouse. “Is there … is there something I can help you with?”

“There is.” Amanda graced the girl with her best haughty, impersonal smile. Somehow, the expression made her think of Diana Chesterfield, although God—and Amanda—knew that Diana was no more to-the-manor-born than she was. “I’m looking for a new evening dress. Something rather spectacular, if you can swing it.”

“Any special occasion?”

Amanda examined her nails with studied nonchalance. “Oh, only if you consider the Oscars something special.”

“I … I see,” Annette stammered. “In that case … I’d …”

“You’d what, Annette? Spit it out.”

“I’d better get my manager,” Annette said finally. “Just wait here.”

Great
. Amanda pursed her lips with impatience as the girl fluttered anxiously away.
This is going to be trickier than I thought
. Bracing herself, she tightened her grip around the packet of paper she clutched along with the slim patent-leather pocketbook in her left hand.

“Miss Farraday.” Mr. Pierre, the designer department manager who seemed convinced that his sparse pencil mustache made him a dead ringer for Ronald Colman, strode across the plush velvet carpet, stroking the white carnation tucked in the buttonhole of his morning suit with long, manicured fingers. “A pleasure.”

“And for me.”

The manager let a terse smile play over this thin lips. “Annette tells me you’re looking for something rather special.”

“Isn’t it silly?” Amanda clapped a small hand fetchingly to
her collarbone, letting out a silvery peal of laughter. The modest hand flutter to the décolletage was one of Olive Moore’s patented maneuvers.
If only she could see me now
. “The Oscars are just days away, and I’ve just been so busy running around like a chicken with my head cut off that I’ve completely
forgotten
to do anything about a gown. I mean, I don’t suppose you even have anything left, do you?”

“That depends.” Mr. Pierre sniffed. “Is there anything in particular you had in mind?”

“Well, now that you ask”—Amanda looked up at him through her eyelashes—“there was a ruched green velvet Molyneux in this month’s
Vogue
I thought might do the trick.”

“Not black?”

“I thought it might be fun to branch out a little.” Amanda let her smile deepen. “And besides, it’s a
very
deep green.”

“I see.” Having stroked his boutonniere to the point of disintegration, Pierre moved onto his mustache. “Miss Farraday, much as it pains me to say this, there is the small matter of an outstanding bill.”

Come on, Ginger
, Amanda thought grimly. It had been ages since anyone had called her by the fake name she’d used when she was working for Olive Moore, and even longer since she’d thought of herself that way. But an occasion like this seemed to call for all the duplicity she could muster.
Show ’em what you’re made of
.

“Oh!” she gasped prettily, letting her freshly moistened lips fall open the Olive-recommended one inch. Not so far as to spoil the shape of your mouth, and enough to keep your bottom teeth covered.
No one
, Olive said,
wants to see your bottom teeth
. “My goodness! Mr. Pierre, I can’t tell you how mortified
I am. Like I said, I’ve just been so busy lately I’ve completely neglected my correspondence. I’ll write you a check this instant for the
full
amount.”

“Miss Farraday—”

“No, I insist! Just let me find my checkbook.…”

Carefully, Amanda deposited the newspaper on the nickel counter, careful to make sure the headline about her and Harry at the top of Louella Parsons’s column was clearly visible as she made a big show of rooting around in her pocketbook. Mr. Pierre’s beady eyes flickered toward it immediately, like a moth drawn to a flame.
Success!

“Miss Farraday …,” he repeated, holding up his hand.

“Oh no!” Amanda wailed, like a woman who’d lost her best friend.
Careful, kiddo, don’t overdo it
. “I can’t believe it! I’ve left my checkbook at home. And this is the only day I have free until Oscar night.” She let out a sigh, expertly strangulated, with just the barest threat of tears. “Oh well. I suppose I’ll just have to wear an old gown, then. My escort will have seen it, of course, but maybe he won’t remember.”

Mr. Pierre’s eyes were glued to the newspaper item. “And your escort is … Mr. Gordon, I presume?”

“Well.” Amanda dropped her gaze demurely to the counter, lowering her voice to a shy hush. “I’m afraid I’m not quite at liberty to say. You understand. But let’s just say I’m relieved he’s not … 
materialistic
. New York playwright and all that.” She let one expertly shadowed eyelid fall in a slow wink.

That was all it took. “Miss Farraday, I believe we can help you.”

“Really!” Amanda squealed with glee, clapping her pocketbook to her breastbone. “You will?”

“Certainly.” Mr. Pierre let out a decisive grunt. “After all, you are one of our most valued customers. What’s a few dollars and cents between friends?”

“Mr. Pierre, it’s like you read my mind.” Her voice was a feline purr.

“Good.” The manager beamed. “Now, we do happen to have the green Molyneux you mentioned in stock, but if you have decided to consider color, there’s a burgundy Mainbocher we’ve just got in that might be sublime. And of course, that’s not to discount Madame Chanel, whose newest collection needs a lean silhouette. But of course, the Parisian designers don’t come cheap—”

“Mr. Pierre,” Amanda said happily. “I’m entirely in your hands.”