by Fiona Davis
The very idea made her smile. They stepped off into a wide hallway with a marble floor, the door slamming hard behind them. “I’m surprised your parents allowed it.”
“My father didn’t know; he was off working. My mother, well, you’ll see.”
The minute Clara entered the apartment, a more feminine, older version of Oliver greeted them. “Oliver?” She looked over at Clara, confused.
“Mother, I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine, Miss Clara Darden, who’s on the faculty of the Grand Central School of Art. Miss Darden is an esteemed illustrator.”
“An artist. Aren’t we lucky?” She was a ghost of a woman, thin and pale, a suggestion of sadness in her mouth and eyes, which were the same blue as her son’s. Her hand in Clara’s was cool, her fingers fragile and light.
Oliver placed a protective hand on his mother’s shoulder. “I told her you also paint.”
She shook her head. “Used to paint. In my youth. Not anymore. But my goodness, you teach art. Are there many women teachers?”
“Just me.”
A much older man with a rheumatic cough and milky eyes emerged from a doorway without bothering to acknowledge the stranger in the room. “Come, I’d like to drink my tea before the sun sets.” His voice rumbled like the subway. Underneath the pillowy folds of his face and neck, Clara recognized the slice of Oliver’s cheekbones. If there were two more mismatched spouses in the city, Clara would be surprised.
After introductions, the four settled at a dining room table with a sweeping view of Central Park. It was all Clara could do to keep her gaze on the table’s occupants and not get distracted by the lush carpet of new green leaves outside the window. April had been a dull, rainy month, and she hadn’t ventured uptown in a while. The bright pink shock of cherry blooms excited her. She wished she could just stand at the window and drink in the colors of spring.
Mrs. Smith beamed as a maid passed around the plate of warm scones. “How long have you been teaching at Grand Central?”
“Since January. I started as a student last fall.”
“A quick promotion.”
“I suppose.” The tinkling of silverware on china and the way the scone melted in her mouth brought memories rushing back. After all, she’d been raised in luxury and in many ways felt at home here more than in her stark artist’s garret. While the ostentatiousness of the Campbell Apartment had thrown her off-balance, the Smiths’ refinement closely mirrored her mother’s.
“I did love painting.” Mrs. Smith dabbed at a crumb that had fallen onto the tablecloth. “I never could get people right, faces seemed to elude me, but I loved painting landscapes. Turner’s my favorite, the way he paints the sea and the sky, simply breathtaking.”
“Cologne from the River,” suggested Clara.
Both women sighed at the same time, then laughed.
“Never mind that.” Mr. Smith’s gruff voice practically rattled the Tuscan china. “Where do you come from? Where’s your family?”
Oliver threw her an apologetic look. “Father, you don’t know anyone in common, so don’t start fishing to see if she’s a debutante.”
Clara wasn’t about to let Oliver speak for her. “My family is in copper; we’ve invested in several mines out west, including a lucrative arrangement with the Brawleys of Phoenix. Perhaps you’re acquainted with them?”
Mr. Smith sat back, suspicious. “I don’t know them personally, but of course I’ve heard of them.” He looked over at his wife. “Own the biggest mines in the country.”
Clara launched into a protracted explanation of the speculative copper industry out west and her father’s partnership with the Brawleys, watching with satisfaction as the man’s eyes widened with surprise. Her father had taught her well. Of course, she skipped the part about his attempt to swindle the Brawleys out of thousands of dollars. Hopefully, enough time had passed that the fraud was no longer remembered outside of Maricopa County.
Oliver, laughing, finally cut her off. “Enough about metals. Father seems to have met his match.” He turned to his parents. “Miss Darden and I have a ball to attend, and I was hoping she could get dressed here.”
“No, I couldn’t intrude.”
“Please, we insist.” Mrs. Smith practically levitated from the table with excitement. “My Rose can set hair like no one else in this town, and you can borrow whatever you need, lipstick, rouge. I have it all.”
“That would be lovely.”
By the time the maid was finished with her, Clara could hardly contain her surprise. She thanked the woman profusely and entered the parlor where Oliver waited.
“You look exquisite.” Oliver stuttered over the last word.
Her hair, set in regular waves along her skull instead of flying about, was like a sleek helmet. The beads of the dress gave it a weight that offset the silky lightness of the fabric, and she’d borrowed a pair of pearl-colored gloves to go with her shoes. For once, her height worked in her favor, just as Mrs. Fletcher in the shop had predicted. She was a smooth, aquamarine column of elegance.
Mr. Smith took her hands in both of his to say good-bye and urged her to return at any time.
In the taxi, Oliver kissed her lightly on the cheek. “You were wonderful.”
“You thought you were bringing a silly artist to tea in an attempt to shock your parents. Shame on you.” She was only half joking.
He pursed his lips. “I will admit, part of my intention was to expose them to a different side of New York. I’m trying to get them used to the idea that I won’t be a banker. But you seem to be able to switch back and forth between worlds with ease.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. I didn’t mention this to your parents, but my father lost his fortune ten years ago, so I understand both sides. Great wealth—although I was just a girl at the zenith—and great poverty. If anything, though, it makes me useless in either world. I’m certainly no socialite. This is the fanciest thing I’ve worn since I was a little girl.” She plucked at the fabric of her gown. “And I’m far from being a successful artist.”
“Let’s see what we can do about that. As your muse, I’m at your service. You made my mother very happy today.”
Just outside the Grand Central Art Galleries, Gertrude stood sentry with a clipboard in hand. As they approached, her jaw dropped, and she stared, first at Oliver, who wore a handsome double-breasted wool suit, and then back at Clara.
“Welcome to the May Ball,” the girl finally said. “You can go right on in. My goodness, Miss Darden, you look ritzy. That dress is the bee’s knees.”
Inside, the faculty art had been taken down and replaced with student work, and Clara was thrilled to see some of her class’s illustrations on the far wall of the first gallery, a place of honor. Wilbur, ever her troublemaking student, sauntered over and slipped Oliver a silver flask. “Ollie, a little hooch for you?”
Oliver took a sip and handed it to Clara. She looked about. Mr. and Mrs. Lorette stood off to one side, speaking with Edmund Greacen, one of the school’s founders.
Clara took a discreet sip from the flask and tried not to cough as the liquor burned her throat.
“You look sensational,” said Wilbur. “The belle of the ball.”
Oliver pulled her close and murmured in her ear, “I’m going to have to model for you every class, just to keep these dogs in check.”
She swatted him away. Inside one of the middle galleries, iron chairs and tables were scattered about to replicate a Parisian boulevard café. A band played in the corner, and couples tripped about the room in time with the crooner singing “My Blue Heaven” in a warbled tenor.
Oliver asked her to dance, and together they trotted about the floor, which was becoming more and more crowded. A dark shadow appeared at the edge of the room. Levon.
She tried to avoid his gaze, annoyed at his churlishness the past few days. B
ut he was staring at her, oblivious to dear Nadine, who was on her tiptoes, trying to chatter into his left ear.
He lifted his chin, and Clara offered a swift smile in return. Bad idea. He was upon them a moment later, the unsteadiness of his balance evidence that he’d had his fair share of someone’s flask.
“May I have this dance?” He did a little jig, and she couldn’t help but laugh.
“You may. Oliver, do you mind?”
If he did, Oliver gave no indication, smiling broadly and stepping to the side.
Dancing with Oliver, Clara had formed an equal part of a pair, the two of them moving in perfect synchronization, the steps even and steady. In Levon’s arms, she was swallowed up, consumed. He wore a thick black sweater that only made him feel more hulking, yet underneath it, she could feel his body twitching, twisting. He danced with the same gusto with which he painted, the thick brushstrokes replaced with stomping feet.
“Are you doing some kind of Armenian folk dance?”
He blushed. She hadn’t meant to be mean. Somehow everything came out wrong with Levon.
She continued, not letting him respond to her remark. “I hear you dance in class sometimes. I’m sorry you weren’t doing so when I attended.”
“I’m sorry I was such a bad loser. You did an excellent job. I failed miserably.”
“You spoke with Mr. Lorette, and I haven’t had a chance to thank you. He’s offered me a position for the fall, and I know you were behind that. I can’t tell you what a relief it is.”
“I have honor, if nothing else.”
“You do.”
“You should be on the cover of a magazine, in that dress.”
“Thank you. A friend bought it for me.”
“A good friend. I would have bought you one myself if I could. I would paint you in it as well.”
“In watercolor or oil?” She couldn’t help teasing.
“In verdigris, like the ancients did. Reclining on a bed, the dress pooled around you, like a tropical puddle.”
His overfamiliarity was tempered by the serious look on his face, an expression she recognized. He wasn’t studying her as a woman but as a subject for a painting. She’d done the same when Oliver posed for her class.
Oliver and Nadine sat at one of the tables, chatting and eyeing the dance floor. Clara tried to lighten the mood. “How would you paint the room, maestro?”
He scoffed. “Not possible. All these silly characters. A waste of good paint.”
She imagined trying to capture the scene swirling around her, the way Renoir had done with his boating party. The room made her head swim: the sparkling jewelry, the garish smiles, and the flash of bare arms and necks.
Levon was right. It was too much. She closed her eyes, reveling in the symphony of sensations, the sounds of music and laughter, her dress swinging with each step.
Instantly, she knew what she had to do to make her magazine covers stand out.
Up until now, she had included too much, so the viewer never knew where to look, what was important. Instead, she would focus on one figure, and with minimal detail. Pare it down. Cut out everything extraneous.
One woman in an aquamarine dress. She’d capture, on paper, not only what the dress looked like but also what it felt like on. Thighs lightly brushed by silk, beading like Braille under a fingertip.
Simple lines, a simple focus. Thanks to Oliver’s buying spree and Levon’s brilliance, she’d figured out a fresh approach.
She couldn’t wait to get started.
* * *
Clara arrived at her appointment with ten minutes to spare. She took a breath, checked her hair in the reflection of a bookseller’s shop, and spun through the revolving door of 420 Lexington Avenue.
The Graybar Building, home to Vogue magazine.
In the taxi with Oliver on the way home from the ball, Clara had explained in between luxurious kisses that she’d had a breakthrough and that if she didn’t get the image inside her head down onto paper, she was certain she’d lose it. She’d jokingly promised him more if she got an appointment at Vogue, and he’d used his contacts to get her in the door five days later. Which meant for five days straight, she’d spent every free moment at her drawing table.
She told Oliver that as a muse, he was more than remarkable. She didn’t mention that she’d had her revelation while in Levon’s arms.
She tucked her portfolio against her chest and waited to be called in to the fashion editor’s office. This time, she wasn’t just dropping off the illustrations to a secretary. She had a face-to-face appointment with a Mr. Charles Whittlesley, and Oliver had even offered to accompany her. She’d turned him down. Her work would stand on its own this time; she was sure of it.
She’d dressed for the occasion, getting her hair done, putting on some bright lipstick, and filling in her brows with the pencil that Mrs. Smith had given her. Four o’clock on the dot, Mr. Whittlesley called her into his office.
“Miss Darden.” He gestured for her to take a seat. She lay her portfolio on his desk and held her breath.
He didn’t open it right away. “I understand you’re a family friend of the Smiths?”
“I am. Oliver Smith and I became acquainted at the Grand Central School of Art, where I teach illustration.” She’d dropped the mention of the school right away on purpose. Mr. Whittlesley was doing the Smiths a favor by agreeing to see her and was probably expecting some breathless, inexperienced girl.
He harrumphed.
“How many women illustrators do you use?” she asked.
He shook his head and untied the ribbons of her portfolio. “Not many.”
“Right. Georges Lepape, Charles Martin, Paul Iribe.” The names flew off her tongue; she’d practiced this speech in front of her mirror this morning. “How many of them have worn a Chanel gown?”
He laughed and looked up. “I hope none of them.”
“That’s where I can help you sell magazines. I want to invite women inside the world of fashion, not just aspire to it. They should look at your cover and understand what it feels like to wear a fox fur stole. The softness on the back of the neck, the luxuriousness.”
He opened the portfolio to her mock cover of the blue dress. A lithe woman with a secret smile on her face stood in front of a Parisian café. The background was faint, the emphasis on the lone figure. With her cocked hip and caved shoulders, she resembled a treble clef, all curves and movement.
“A Peggy Hoyt.”
“Yes.”
His eyes traveled from the woman’s face to her hands, along the vertical feathers in the dress and back to her face.
He carefully moved it to the side. The illustration beneath showed a woman in an enormous fur coat and matching cloche, wearing mustard-colored long gloves. The lining of the coat, which peeked through the draped sleeves and the kicked-up hem, was a shocking scarlet that matched the woman’s lipstick and ruddy cheeks. The overall effect was of the woman being quite happily devoured by the coat.
Mr. Whittlesley stared hard at both, going back from one to the other. Winter and summer. Summer and winter.
Clara didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
He picked up his phone and barked into it. Within ten seconds, another man walked in. The introductions were so fast, she didn’t catch his name, but he leaned over Mr. Whittlesley’s shoulder and whistled.
“Can we bump July?” asked Mr. Whittlesley.
“We could. We should.”
Mr. Whittlesley looked up at Clara. “We’ll take them both.”
Clara sold both on the spot and promised to come back in two days to sign a contract for more.
As she approached her building, she spotted Oliver waiting outside, smoking a cigarette and pacing like an expectant father. A surge of joy spread through her, for having found him. They spoke the same language, of parental
disappointment and artistic ambition. His support, right when she needed it most, had changed everything. She walked up to him and kissed him on the mouth, not caring that her landlady was staring out of her first-floor window.
“We did it.”
“You did it,” he answered.
They went upstairs, giggling like children, and she slid off her dress, remembering the image Levon had described as they danced, of a dress pooling on the floor. She pushed the thought of Levon aside.
Oliver sat on the bed, watching greedily. At first, his caresses were careful, too careful for her reckless mood, but with her encouragement, he grew bold until she matched him, touch by touch, wave by wave.
CHAPTER NINE
November 1974
The next day at work, Terrence presented Virginia with her very own clerk’s blazer. She stuttered out a thank-you but inside reeled with shame. If any of her old acquaintances saw her, she’d be the laughingstock of the Upper East Side.
Her urge to clean, though, overrode her humiliation. Now that the brass trim that circled the booth had been buffed to a shine, the marble underneath looked dingier than ever. She’d brought in the marble cleaner she’d used (or, more specifically, her cleaning lady had used) in her old Park Avenue apartment and did a quick patch test. With a little elbow grease, a creamy pink hue, like a baby’s bottom, emerged from the brown grit. The situation was too tempting to pass up, so she spent the morning half-bent over, spraying and rubbing until her back ached, hoping that Dennis wouldn’t stop by and catch her scrubbing away like a charwoman. She occasionally popped up to scan the crowds, adjust her shift dress, and try to appear nonchalant. God, she hated that word.
She straightened up, needing a break. Totto gave a high-pitched yelp and almost fell off his chair from fright, while Terrence just laughed.
Totto fixed her with a stare. “What the hell are you doing out there, crawling around the floor?”
