The Dollhouse(39)

“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?”