The Dollhouse(70)

“How long do we have?” A note of desolation crept into Esme’s voice.

“I don’t know. A week, maybe.”

“Do you really have to go?”

“I can’t stay. I can’t make a living here.”

“Of course you can.”

Darby let out a scornful laugh. “I don’t think you understand. I’ll never be a secretary now. It’s over.”

Esme leaned forward. “So do something else. Why is it so important to go back?”

“Mother spent all her money to send me here and I have to pay her back. I owe her that much. I’ve completely disappointed her.”

“What about how she’s disappointed you?”

Darby shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She married that Mr. Saunders. It seems to me she’s the one who put you in this position to start with. What if she’d taken the money and gone to school herself? Learned to be a nurse or something? Then she could have supported herself without having to lean on a man and lightened up on you.”

Darby couldn’t imagine Mother pursuing a career; she was of a different generation. All she knew was dinner parties and tennis. “That was never going to happen.”

Esme stood up and paced the room. “You’re gonna have a career, just not the career your mother thought you would.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we work together to get a recording contract. We can call ourselves the Downtown Dollies.”

Darby squirmed. “I’m not sure that’s realistic.”

“Sure it is. Hell, we’re just getting started.”

“And how do I feed myself in the meantime?”

“We find an apartment together, something cheap. You can take up some shifts at the club as a waitress. Sam and I can put in a good word for you there. We hang on until we hit it big. Whichever comes first: me on Broadway or us together as a singing duo.”

“I don’t know.” Even as she said it, Esme’s plan was taking root in her brain. Being in New York City but not having to go to secretarial school had never figured into Darby’s thinking. The two were intertwined from the very start. Maybe Esme was right. Maybe she could stand on her own two feet. She touched the envelope sitting on her desk, imagining what Mother would think when she heard of her plans. “I’m not sure if I can do it.”

“Of course you can. Look at me and my papa. He was the center of my world in Puerto Rico; we obeyed him and did whatever he said and were terrified to cross him. But when I got to New York City, I had the power. I took control, did what I had to do. Now it’s your turn.”

“The only money I have is from our gig. And I’d have to send that to Mother, to show her that I’m planning on paying her back.” She did the calculation in her head. “I don’t see how I can swing it. Even if I found a job right away.”

“I’ll take care of that. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll take care of you.”

A terrible thought sprang into her head. “You won’t be doing that thing you talked about, when the men came after you, will you?”

Esme snickered. “No way. I have resources at my fingertips and they don’t involve turning tricks.”

Darby choked at the frank choice of words and gave Esme a weak smile. Her mind raced with a list of possibilities. She could go home, face Mother and Mr. Saunders, and lick her wounds. Or she could stay here, with Esme and Sam, and figure out another approach. One she had never imagined.

Darby picked up the letter to Mother, took a deep breath, and ripped it in half.

Esme let out a yip of delight. “That’s my girl.”

“I’ll write to Mother and explain everything. Maybe she’ll understand.”

Or maybe her news would come as a relief. The household was probably more peaceful now and would remain so if Mr. Saunders could continue to pretend she didn’t exist. Darby was a constant reminder of her father.

“What do we do first?” she asked.

“You’re paid up at the Barbizon until the end of the month, right?”

Darby nodded.

“That gives me a couple days to find us a place together. You can talk to Mr. Buckley at the club and get a job. By this time next week, we’ll be two girls out on the town.”

Relief poured through Darby. “I was a terrible Gibbs girl.”

Esme hugged her hard, so she could barely breathe. “You certainly were.”




“You’re using my sink.”

Darby stared at Candy through the mirror but didn’t stop brushing her teeth. She’d woken up the day after her expulsion in a daze. The sinking feeling in her stomach was worse than the one she’d felt when she first arrived at the Barbizon. Kicked out of Gibbs, all the money gone. The afterglow from Esme’s excitement had dimmed overnight.

And now here was Candy, claiming a sink, when there were three sinks available to Darby’s left.

Grogginess at the early hour draped around Darby like a nubby blanket. She couldn’t stop staring, nor did she stop brushing her teeth. Candy’s hair was done up in pink sponge curlers, and a smudge of mascara marred the pale skin under one eye. The imperious set of her chin reminded Darby of Mr. Saunders when he was displeased. Her mother would do anything to make his jaw relax, whether it was pleading, teasing, or pouting.