The Secrets We Kept(69)
Whatever it was, Irina did her mentor proud, and soon they weren’t just colleagues but friends. They started sitting at a separate lunch table in the cafeteria. They began going to Off the Record instead of Martin’s for happy hour. On Mondays, they’d come into the office quoting lines from Silk Stockings, Funny Face, An Affair to Remember. When Sally would arrive home from a trip, she’d place little trinkets on Irina’s desk: a Pan Am sleep mask, lavender-scented lotion from the Ritz, a squished penny from one of those machines on the Atlantic City boardwalk, a snow globe from Italy.
For Irina’s twenty-fifth birthday, Sally had thrown her a dinner party. We’d never been to Sally’s apartment—a one-bedroom walk-up above a French bakery in Georgetown—so we jumped at the chance when she placed the navy blue invitations on our desks. Your presence is requested for the celebration of the birth of our dear friend Irina, read the handwritten silver calligraphy.
When we asked about bringing dates, Sally told us that this party was for us gals. “It’ll be more civilized,” Sally said, laughing.
We wore our most fashionable cocktail attire, several of us even splurging at Garfinckel’s for the occasion. “This is Sally Forrester’s dinner party. You don’t show up wearing a knockoff of last year’s Dior,” Judy said. “Besides, we can wear it for New Year’s.”
We took taxis instead of streetcars or buses so we’d arrive fresh-faced, with our mascara and lipstick intact despite the heavy snow. We ascended the two flights and at the top heard a song playing on the other side of the door. “Sam Cooke?” Gail asked.
Before we could knock, Sally opened the door, looking stunning in a gold satin wrap dress with tasseled belt. “Well, don’t just stand there!” We trailed Sally into her apartment, her black stilettos wobbling on the plush pink carpet.
Irina looked lovely in her emerald-green skirt and matching bolero jacket. We wished her happy birthday as we pressed our small gifts into her hands.
Sally disappeared into the kitchen and Irina motioned for us to take a seat on the white leather sectional. To break the silence, we asked questions about the apartment’s décor. With Sally busy in the kitchen, Irina answered for her.
“How’d she find this place?” Norma asked. “It’s to die for.”
“Saw an ad in the Post.”
“These candlesticks! Where are they from?” Linda asked.
“Inherited. A grandmother, I think.”
“Is that a real Picasso?” Judy asked.
“Just a print from the National Gallery.”
“What did Teddy get you for your birthday?” Gail said.
“He told me to pick out something nice from Rizik’s.” She straightened her jacket. “Sally and I went today.”
Sally emerged from the kitchen carrying a crystal punch bowl filled with fizzy pink liquid that matched the carpet. “And doesn’t she look gorgeous?”
We nodded.
After two glasses of punch, we moved to the dining area, where a long table was set, complete with calligraphed nameplates, white calla lilies, and cloth napkins folded into fans.
“What a production!” Norma whispered.
After dinner, chocolate cake, presents, and a few more glasses of punch, we left Sally’s thinking the party was a bit much for a birthday but agreeing she really knew how to throw a shindig.
Some may now say otherwise, but we never noticed anything off about Sally. Sure, the high attention she was paid by the opposite sex invited the occasional catty remark, but we all respected her. She never said “Sorry” or “Please” or “Just a thought.” She spoke the way the men spoke, and they listened. Not only that, but she scared the hell out of a few. Her perceived power may have come from the tightness of her skirt, but her real power was that she never accepted the roles men assigned her. They might’ve wanted her to look pretty and shut up, but she had other plans.
Later, when Sally’s name had been redacted from every memo, every call log, and every report, we tried to remember whether there’d been any clues about who she really was. But it wasn’t until much later that we put the pieces together.
CHAPTER 18
The Applicant
THE CARRIER
A week passed. Then a month. Then two. The wedding plans went ahead. Teddy and I would be married in October at St. Stephen’s, followed by a small reception at the Chevy Chase Country Club. My cover would become my life.
Teddy’s parents would be paying for the whole thing, but Mama insisted on taking care of the flowers, the cake, and my dress. Even before the engagement, she’d purchased the material for the gown—ivory lace and satin.
The day after Teddy proposed, she took my measurements while I was at the stove making breakfast. The dress—which she said would be her greatest work—was halfway done by February. But by March, she stopped making the gown, complaining she’d have to start all over again unless I put back on the fifteen pounds I’d lost since January. I told her she was being crazy, that I hadn’t lost fifteen pounds, maybe five at most—and even then only because of the stomach flu, which was the excuse I gave when I couldn’t get out of bed for a week following my dinner with Sally.
I couldn’t hide anything from her. Despite my layers of sweaters and thick wool tights, Mama could see my body was shrinking. My skirts had to be safety-pinned not to fall off my hips, and I wore thick turtleneck sweaters to hide my jutting clavicle.