Last Night at the Telegraph Club(72)

From what Lily could tell, this was the only bedroom in the apartment, and Lana and Tommy shared it. She glanced over her shoulder at the bathroom door, but it was still closed. She took a shallow breath and stepped into the room. She was acutely conscious of the double bed behind her as she moved toward the dresser. Behind the satin bow ties, propped against the speckled mirror, was an old-fashioned sepia-toned postcard of a man in a tuxedo. She leaned closer: no, the person was identified as “Miss Vesta Tilley.” She wore a top hat and held a cigarette between her lips, and she had a mischievous light in her eyes.

Lily reached out to pick up the postcard, but before she touched it, a door creaked and there was a light step on the wooden floor.

“Hello there.”

Lily spun around to face the door, and there was Tommy, hands in her pockets, studying her. “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean—”

Tommy came into the room. “Looking for the bathroom? It’s down the hall.”

“Yes, I was—I’m sorry.” She started for the door, but Tommy was in her way and she didn’t move, and Lily had to stop. Tommy looked amused at first, and then her amusement turned into something more like curiosity.

“How old are you?” Tommy asked.

Lily trembled. “Eight-eighteen.”

Tommy came toward her. It was only a few steps; the room wasn’t very large, and now Lily smelled her cologne again, and her stomach clenched as if in anticipation or in fear—she wasn’t sure which. Tommy smiled at her gently, the kind of smile one gave to calm a nervous child, perhaps, and said, “Eighteen going on sixteen, I think.” Tommy closed the distance between them and lifted her hand to Lily’s face, cupping her cheek in her palm, turning her face up to hers.

All of her senses rushed to that tender spot where Tommy’s warm hand was touching her, her fingertips softly pressing against her neck, her thumb running lightly but deliberately over her mouth.

“Sweet sixteen.” There was a honeyed tone to Tommy’s voice, a low dip to it that sounded like a secret.

Lily felt as if Tommy was onstage again. Her voice and her touch and the way she was looking at Lily: a performance that she had slipped into effortlessly, like water.

For a moment—an excruciatingly long moment—Lily was sure that Tommy was thinking about kissing her. Silky heat ran through her like a river. She swayed on her feet—as if she were standing on the deck of a ferry in the Bay—and Tommy gave a brief, breathy laugh.

“You’re drunk, sweetheart.”

“No,” she whispered. Tommy’s finger still nudged against her lips.

“Yes.” Tommy withdrew her hand almost reluctantly.

“I’m not sixteen.” Lily felt, dazedly, as if she had to make that clear.

“You sure?” Tommy smiled a little—almost flirtatiously. “You shouldn’t be in here, doll,” she said gently. “You better go back to your girlfriend.”

Lily felt as if she were sinking, as if the floor were tilting dangerously. But even in her state, Lily knew who Tommy meant. “She’s not—we’re not—” Lily said, and immediately felt as if she had betrayed Kath.

Tommy raised her eyebrows. “Does she know that, sweetheart?” She stepped toward the door and made a flourish as if to show Lily out of the room. “After you.”





32





Kath was still sitting on the sofa. She was holding a wineglass half full of sangria in one hand, the other hand resting on her thigh, her fingers loosely curled up as if something had recently been pulled out of her grasp and she hadn’t yet noticed.

When Lily saw her, she felt a fresh pang of embarrassment. She had been so stupid. If she had been so obvious to everyone else, Kath must surely know, and she had never said a thing. That could only mean that Kath didn’t—

She couldn’t even think it. She had to leave. She needed to go home.

Lily began to skirt the edge of the living room, going around the dancing couples, and caught Kath’s eye on the way. Kath rose from the couch immediately, nearly spilling her drink. She righted it just in time and set it on the table, heading toward Lily to meet her at the bench where everyone’s coats made a multicolored pile.

“What’s wrong?” Kath asked.

“I have to go,” Lily said at the same time.

“Did something happen?”

“I just need to go home,” Lily insisted. She glanced down at her wristwatch, which enabled her to look away from Kath. “It’s three o’clock already.”

“All right. I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“You can’t walk back alone.”

“I don’t want you to go out of your way.”

“It’s not.”

“You really don’t have to bother,” Lily said as she dug through the coats.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

One of the coats—a blue wool peacoat—tumbled to the floor, and several others cascaded down after it. “I’m fine,” Lily said, bending over to grab the fallen coats. She was mortified by her encounter with Tommy, but she wasn’t about to tell anyone what had happened—especially not Kath. “If you want to come with me, then come with me. I just can’t stay here anymore.”