Eve in Hollywood

by Amor Towles

  How different it was from New York, where those tiresome silhouettes incessantly reminded its citizens that theirs was a city built on merit and effort and achievement. Los Angeles wasn’t built on any of that, thought Eve with a sense of serenity. It was built on something more tenuous, essential, and rare.

  Eve looked at her watch.

  It was just after five—too late to join Prentice for tea, but hours before she was due to meet Livvy at the Tropicana. She wondered if the silver-haired banker was sitting on his bench at Chester’s. If she hurried, she just might be able to join him for a cup of coffee and a little conversation before she headed home.

  THE END

  Read on for an excerpt from the first chapter of Amor Towles’s novel, RULES OF CIVILITY, also available from Penguin Books.

  Praise for Rules of Civility by Amor Towles

  “An irresistible and astonishingly assured debut about working-class women and world-weary WASPs in 1930s New York.”

  —O, The Oprah Magazine, “Best Fiction 2011”

  “With this snappy period piece, Towles resurrects the cinematic black-and-white Manhattan of the golden age.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “A wonderful debut novel . . . Towles [plays] with some of the great themes of love and class, luck and fated encounters that animated Wharton’s novels.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Put on some Billie Holiday, pour a dry martini and immerse yourself in the eventful life of Katey Kontent. . . . [Towles] clearly knows the privileged world he’s writing about, as well as the vivid, sometimes reckless characters who inhabit it.”

  —People

  “This very good first novel about striving and surviving in Depression-era Manhattan deserves attention. . . . The great strength of Rules of Civility is in the sharp, sure-handed evocation of Manhattan in the late ’30s.”

  —The Wall Street Journal

  “Glamorous Gotham in one to relish . . . a book that enchants on first reading and only improves on the second.”

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer

  “Glittering . . . filled with snappy dialogue, sharp observations and an array of terrifically drawn characters . . . Towles writes with grace and verve about the mores and manners of a society on the cusp of radical change.”

  —NPR.org

  “Brilliantly realized . . . a sharply stylish debut.”

  —The Boston Globe

  “Rules of Civility draws the reader into an exploration of love and timing, friendship and betrayal, class and money. . . . The writing is so luxurious, veering from playful to piercing, that the reader slows to savor every sentence.”

  —The Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “Glorious . . . the novel is infused with contemporary parallels, deliciously evoking both a New York that will never again be in tandem with a New York that is unchanging.”

  —The Daily Beast

  AN EXCERPT FROM

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Old Long Since

  IT WAS THE LAST night of 1937.

  With no better plans or prospects, my roommate Eve had dragged me back to The Hotspot, a wishfully named nightclub in Greenwich Village that was four feet underground.

  From a look around the club, you couldn’t tell that it was New Year’s Eve. There were no hats or streamers; no paper trumpets. At the back of the club, looming over a small empty dance floor, a jazz quartet was playing loved-me-and-left-me standards without a vocalist. The saxophonist, a mournful giant with skin as black as motor oil, had apparently lost his way in the labyrinth of one of his long, lonely solos. While the bass player, a coffee-and-cream mulatto with a small deferential mustache, was being careful not to hurry him. Boom, boom, boom, he went, at half the pace of a heartbeat.

  The spare clientele were almost as downbeat as the band. No one was in their finery. There were a few couples here and there, but no romance. Anyone in love or money was around the corner at Café Society dancing to swing. In another twenty years all the world would be sitting in basement clubs like this one, listening to antisocial soloists explore their inner malaise; but on the last night of 1937, if you were watching a quartet it was because you couldn’t afford to see the whole ensemble, or because you had no good reason to ring in the new year.

  We found it all very comforting.

  We didn’t really understand what we were listening to, but we could tell that it had its advantages. It wasn’t going to raise our hopes or spoil them. It had a semblance of rhythm and a surfeit of sincerity. It was just enough of an excuse to get us out of our room and we treated it accordingly, both of us wearing comfortable flats and a simple black dress. Though under her little number, I noted that Eve was wearing the best of her stolen lingerie.

  •

  EVE ROSS . . .

  Eve was one of those surprising beauties from the American Midwest.

  In New York it becomes so easy to assume that the city’s most alluring women have flown in from Paris or Milan. But they’re just a minority. A much larger covey hails from the stalwart states that begin with the letter I—like Iowa and Indiana and Illinois. Bred with just the right amount of fresh air, roughhousing, and ignorance, these primitive blondes set out from the cornfields looking like starlight with limbs. Every morning in early spring one of them skips off her porch with a sandwich wrapped in cellophane ready to flag down the first Greyhound headed to Manhattan—this city where all things beautiful are welcomed and measured and, if not immediately adopted, then at least tried on for size.

  One of the great advantages that the midwestern girls had was that you couldn’t tell them apart. You can always tell a rich New York girl from a poor one. And you can tell a rich Boston girl from a poor one. After all, that’s what accents and manners are there for. But to the native New Yorker, the midwestern girls all looked and sounded the same. Sure, the girls from the various classes were raised in different houses and went to different schools, but they shared enough midwestern humility that the gradations of their wealth and privilege were obscure to us. Or maybe their differences (readily apparent in Des Moines) were just dwarfed by the scale of our socioeconomic strata—that thousand-layered glacial formation that spans from an ash can on the Bowery to a penthouse in paradise. Either way, to us they all looked like hayseeds: unblemished, wide-eyed, and God-fearing, if not exactly free of sin.

  Eve hailed from somewhere at the upper end of Indiana’s economic scale. Her father was driven to the office in a company car and she ate biscuits for breakfast cut in the pantry by a Negro named Sadie. She had gone to a two-year finishing school and had spent a summer in Switzerland pretending to study French. But if you walked into a bar and met her for the first time, you wouldn’t be able to tell if she was a corn-fed fortune hunter or a millionairess on a tear. All you could tell for sure was that she was a bona fide beauty. And that made the getting to know her so much less complicated.

  She was indisputably a natural blonde. Her shoulder-length hair, which was sandy in summer, turned golden in the fall as if in sympathy with the wheat fields back home. She had fine features and blue eyes and pinpoint dimples so perfectly defined that it seemed like there must be a small steel cable fastened to the center of each inner cheek which grew taut when she smiled. True, she was only five foot five, but she knew how to dance in two-inch heels—and she knew how to kick them off as soon as she sat in your lap.

  •

  TO HER CREDIT, Eve was making an honest go of it in New York. She had arrived in 1936 with enough of her father’s money to get a single at Mrs. Martingale’s boardinghouse and enough of his influence to land a job as a marketing assistant at the Pembroke Press—promoting all of the books that she’d avoided so assiduously in school.

  Her second night at the boardinghouse, while taking a seat at the table she tipped her plate and her spaghetti plopped right in my lap. Mrs. Marti
ngale said the best thing for the stain was to soak it in white wine. So she got a bottle of cooking Chablis from the kitchen and sent us off to the bathroom. We sprinkled a little of the wine on my skirt and drank the rest of it sitting on the floor with our backs to the door.

  As soon as Eve got her first paycheck, she gave up her single and stopped drafting checks on her father’s account. After a few months of Eve’s self-reliance, Daddy sent along an envelope with fifty ten-dollar bills and a sweet note about how proud he was. She sent the money back like it was infected with TB.

  —I’m willing to be under anything, she said, as long as it isn’t somebody’s thumb.

  So together we pinched. We ate every scrap at the boardinghouse breakfast and starved ourselves at lunch. We shared our clothes with the girls on the floor. We cut each other’s hair. On Friday nights, we let boys whom we had no intention of kissing buy us drinks, and in exchange for dinner we kissed a few whom we had no intention of kissing twice. On the occasional rainy Wednesday, when Bendel’s was crowded with the wives of the well-to-do, Eve would put on her best skirt and jacket, ride the elevator to the second floor, and stuff silk stockings into her panties. And when we were late with the rent, she did her part: She stood at Mrs. Martingale’s door and shed the unsalted tears of the Great Lakes.

  THAT NEW YEAR’S, we started the evening with a plan of stretching three dollars as far as it would go. We weren’t going to bother ourselves with boys. More than a few had had their chance with us in 1937, and we had no intention of squandering the last hours of the year on latecomers. We were going to perch in this low-rent bar where the music was taken seriously enough that two good-looking girls wouldn’t be bothered and where the gin was cheap enough that we could each have one martini an hour. We intended to smoke a little more than polite society allowed. And once midnight had passed without ceremony, we were going to a Ukrainian diner on Second Avenue where the late night special was coffee, eggs, and toast for fifteen cents.

  But a little after nine-thirty, we drank eleven o’clock’s gin. And at ten, we drank the eggs and toast. We had four nickels between us and we hadn’t had a bite to eat. It was time to start improvising.

  Eve was busy making eyes at the bass player. It was a hobby of hers. She liked to bat her lashes at the musicians while they performed and ask them for cigarettes in between sets. This bass player was certainly attractive in an unusual way, as most Creoles are, but he was so enraptured by his own music that he was making eyes at the tin ceiling. It was going to take an act of God for Eve to get his attention. I tried to get her to make eyes at the bartender, but she wasn’t in a mood to reason. She just lit a cigarette and threw the match over her shoulder for good luck. Pretty soon, I thought to myself, we were going to have to find ourselves a Good Samaritan or we’d be staring at the tin ceiling too.

  And that’s when he came into the club.

  Eve saw him first. She was looking back from the stage to make some remark and she spied him over my shoulder. She gave me a kick in the shin and nodded in his direction. I shifted my chair.

  He was terrific looking. An upright five foot ten, dressed in black tie with a coat draped over his arm, he had brown hair and royal blue eyes and a small star-shaped blush at the center of each cheek. You could just picture his forebear at the helm of the Mayflower—with a gaze trained brightly on the horizon and hair a little curly from the salt sea air.

  —Dibs, said Eve.

  . . .