A Kiss From Mr Fitzgerald

by Natasha Lester

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part Two

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  A Playlist

  About the Author

  Copyright

  To my family, for always understanding my need to spend time with imaginary people.

  Prologue

  NEW YORK, 1925

  How did I get here? How did I get here? The words reverberated between each click of Evie’s heels as she stepped off the moon and executed a perfect Ziegfeld strut. Her arms were extended as if to lift the skirt of a dress she wasn’t wearing, and her head was pulled back by the halo of a hundred silver-dipped stars. She smiled at the audience, who thought that what she did was, at the least, entertaining and, at the most, foreplay. Her neck ached but she concentrated on the sound of the dollar bills that Ziegfeld would flick into her hand at the end of the night, like a baccarat dealer at a high-stakes table.

  The music changed to the big, belting fanfare of the finale and Evie curtseyed, then took her place near the centre of the line of showgirls. She knew what she had to do: join arms, scissor-kick the legs, emphasise the breasts, and damn well make herself look so delicious that no one in the crowd remembered the New York that existed beyond the doors of the theatre. That was a place of discreet money and manners and hidden mistresses, where a woman called Evie Lockhart fought a battalion of men every day for permission to become a doctor. Inside the theatre, the men had no manners, the mistresses were out on show, the money was splashed around like whiskey, and Evie Lockhart was once again fighting, this time to remember that an exchange of dignity for college fees would be worth it.

  Where did it all go? Evie thought as she spun around. All my joy, all my wonder. New York used to knock the breath right out of her. Now it was a daily struggle just to get enough air. But she slapped her smile back on, because Florenz Ziegfeld was glaring at her, and Evie needed to be a Ziegfeld Girl more than Ziegfeld needed her. She’d better give someone in the audience a sultry wink to show she was still playing the game. As she looked for a man to dazzle, she got a feeling like an itch at the corner of her eye; she blinked once, twice, but the irritation was still there, narrowing her focus to the man in the fourth row from the front – centre seat so he must be important.

  When she saw who he was she got what she wanted – the breath knocked right out of her.

  It was Thomas Whitman. Tommy. Back from London.

  Would he recognise the girl from Concord, Massachusetts, who used to live next door – oh, such a long time ago? He’d never expect to see Evelyn Lockhart dancing a cancan with a line of beautiful girls whose long legs shimmered from toe to thigh in a way you’d never see in a drawing room on the Upper East Side.

  Evie knew she should look away. But two and a half years in London had transformed Thomas into the cat’s whiskers. He’d been handsome before, but now he was heart-stopping, and he looked all the better for not slicking back his hair like the rest of the Valentino imitators in the crowd. His eyes were like black marble, and unlike those of most of the men around him, they were studying her face, not roaming her body.

  Then he stood up and began to step past the people seated beside him. He strode towards the exit, even though the show wasn’t over. It could only mean that beneath the thick kohl lining Evie’s eyes, the red lips, the leotard and the stars, Thomas had seen someone he used to know.

  Luckily it was the last number of the night. The curtain was about to come down and Ziegfeld’s Girls would be officially off duty, unless they wanted to don a sheer, lacy robe and go up to the bar and pout because the cigarette dangling so elegantly from their quellazaire was unlit. Evie never joined them and she certainly wouldn’t tonight. Instead she’d lie awake, remembering how often she’d dreamed of kissing Thomas Whitman. And she’d try not to think about the fact that now he knew she worked for Ziegfeld, he’d never want to see her again.

  Chapter One

  CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS, JUNE 1922

  ‘“None of the Victorian mothers – and most of the mothers were Victorian – had any idea how casually their daughters were accustomed to be kissed”,’ Evelyn Lockhart read aloud from the book hidden inside the covers of Ladies’ Home Journal.

  ‘I don’t believe it says that,’ said Viola, looking up from her embroidery.

  Evelyn carried the book over to her older sister and pointed at the page. ‘There. Kissing is the bee’s knees.’

  ‘Mr Scott Fitzgerald isn’t a reliable source of information.’

  Evelyn groaned. ‘You sound like Mother. Don’t you want to know what it’s like?’

  ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’

  ‘Why should only bad things happen to a girl who is casually kissed?’ Evelyn dropped the book and the magazine on the sofa and walked over to the Victrola, which was droning ‘Sweet Adeline’ at her like a dirge. She began to dance to a song in her head which had decidedly more brass.

  ‘I’m not going to read it,’ said Viola. ‘So you needn’t leave it there. And did you know that Ladies’ Home Journal disagrees with you?’ She put down her beloved embroidery and picked up the magazine. ‘“Anyone who says that youths of both sexes can mingle in close embrace – with limbs intertwined and torso in contact – without suffering harm lies. Add to this position the wriggling movement and sensuous stimulation of the abominable jazz orchestra …”’

  Evelyn wriggled her hips as hard as she could and extended a hand to her sister. ‘Dance with me, Vi. Have some fun.’

  Viola stood up and Evelyn thought they might dance around the room together, talking about the things that mattered, like kissing and life in the city and women who did things besides sew coloured thread into pieces of fabric.

  But Viola walked past Evelyn to the window and gasped. ‘Charles is coming up the path,’ she said. ‘If he sees you dancing like that he’ll never get around to proposing.’

  ‘And I suppose he’ll marry you instead,’ Evelyn retorted.

  ‘I’m the oldest.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. He …’ He likes me better, Evelyn started to say. She stopped herself. But her unspoken words hung in the air anyway, causing Viola to study her stitches, which were straighter and smaller than Evelyn could ever manage, and Evelyn wished for a moment that Viola would be able to find a man to whom sewing mattered more than beauty.

  She heard the maid answer the door and Charlie’s footsteps in the hall. She stilled her hips but couldn’t help whispering, before he came into the room, ‘I wonder if Charlie is accustomed to casually kissing the daughters of Victorian mothers?’

  ‘Evie!’ Viola bleated.

  The door opened.

  ‘Ladies,’ said Cha
rles Whitman, bowing with a flourish. ‘What a picture you look, sewing so contentedly.’

  ‘I can’t remember the last time I saw Evie sew anything,’ Viola said smugly.

  Evelyn laughed. ‘You win, Vi.’

  ‘She stitched a crooked C on a hanky for me to take to Harvard,’ Charlie said.

  ‘That’s right! I did,’ said Evelyn triumphantly, although she couldn’t help wondering why such a minor accomplishment should matter so much.

  ‘It’s the one I always carry with me.’ Charlie tapped the left side of his chest and looked at Evelyn in a way that made her wonder what it would be like to touch his cheek, to run her hand through the waves of his blond hair. To casually kiss. To think of him as Charles the man, not Charlie the boy who’d been her great friend.

  ‘I’m glad you’re back,’ Evelyn said. ‘But aren’t you supposed to be studying for your examinations?’

  ‘I’ve been asked to take a week off,’ Charlie replied, grinning unrepentantly. ‘Somehow Harvard’s taxidermied animals escaped from their cases and were found lurking around campus and I’ve taken the blame. I’ll return with downcast eyes next week, be forgiven, and I can get back to learning to be a banker.’

  ‘You get away with everything,’ Evelyn said. ‘If you’re rich, charming and a man, you can steal a stuffed cougar, call it a prank, make a donation to the college and then become a banker in the time it takes me to embroider a hanky.’

  ‘Not that long, surely?’ Charlie smiled.

  ‘Evie’s just annoyed because she can’t do whatever she wants,’ Viola broke in, always eager to highlight Evie’s flaws in front of Charlie. ‘She wants to stay on at Radcliffe but Papa won’t let her.’

  Evelyn tried to defend herself against Viola’s accusation, at the same time noting that Charlie’s hand was still resting over the pocket that kept her hanky safe. ‘I’ve taken literature at Radcliffe and am qualified for nothing,’ she said. ‘So I thought about continuing on. I thought doing more study would …’ Her voice trailed off. Would what? Keep her amused as if she was a lapdog yapping for a bone?

  ‘Surely literature’s more than enough?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘That’s what Papa says,’ Viola agreed.

  ‘Maybe I’d like to do more than sit in the parlour and compose pretty sonnets while I wait for my true love to sweep me off my feet.’

  ‘What lady wants more than that?’ Charlie said.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Viola.

  Her mother’s arrival in the room stopped Evelyn from saying the words that nobody – her mother, her father, Viola and possibly Charlie – wanted to hear: I think I do.

  ‘Charles!’ Mrs Lockhart exclaimed, kissing his cheek. ‘Lovely to see you. It’s been so long. I was hoping you’d escape Harvard and come to your parents’ party this evening.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ Charlie replied, not mentioning the prank that was the real reason he was in Concord. ‘Thomas is bringing along a lady from Boston whom everyone expects him to marry. My parents want to introduce her to Concord society.’

  ‘Oh,’ breathed Mrs Lockhart. ‘I didn’t know. How marvellous. An engagement is exactly what we need.’ She looked pointedly at Evelyn, who pretended not to notice. ‘Well,’ she continued, ‘it’s such a fine day, why don’t you go for a walk together. I’m sure your mother will be glad to keep you out of the house while she prepares for the party.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘A walk sounds capital. Ladies?’ He held out his arms for Evelyn and Viola.

  ‘Go on ahead, Charles,’ Mrs Lockhart said. ‘I need a word with my daughters first.’

  Charlie left the room to collect his hat and Mrs Lockhart turned on Evelyn. ‘With a bit of effort, you could find yourself with a ring on your finger, or at least the promise of one, by the end of the night. Be pleasant on your walk and again tonight and anything could happen. You’re quite the belle when you want to be.’

  ‘Mother,’ sighed Evelyn.

  ‘Marrying Charles is what you want, isn’t it?’

  It’s what you want, thought Evelyn. And it was something Evelyn used to think she wanted from the moment she was old enough to understand that certain things were expected of her. She’d begun to look forward, with more than her usual enthusiasm, to summer, when the Whitmans left New York and came to Concord, to Mrs Whitman’s grand and gracious family home, to escape the sticky heat.

  Having Charlie next door filled Evelyn’s days with fun and adventure, especially as Charlie did anything Evelyn dared him to do, even dive off the North Bridge outside the Old Manse in a ridiculous attempt to disturb the peace of the town. Evie and Charlie went together like roses and sunshine, which Evelyn’s mother thought was splendid, because it would have been impossible for the Lockharts to ever mix with the likes of the Whitmans if they weren’t summertime neighbours. Mrs Lockhart might consider her family to be upper-middle class, but the distance to upper-upper class, where the Whitmans resided, was like flying to the moon. And the moon could be conquered if Evelyn married Charlie. Even her mother had had to relinquish her hopes for her favourite child, Viola, the one who was most like her, when Charlie’s preference for Evelyn was so obvious to all. There was the older brother, of course, but as Thomas came to Concord so rarely, busy as he was at the Whitman Bank, Mrs Lockhart had accepted he was beyond their reach. Whereas handsome young Charlie would make the perfect husband for a Lockhart girl. And the Lockhart girl he seemed to adore was Evelyn. But Evelyn couldn’t help the thoughts that had begun to nag at her lately, now she’d finished college and had nothing to do: what if marriage meant she became like her mother, napping in the afternoon from the exertion of coming downstairs to breakfast, content to organise parties of ladies to sew useless whatnots for the hospital fair?

  ‘Do you really like sewing?’ Evelyn asked her mother and sister before she stepped into the hall.

  ‘Of course.’ Her mother shook her head, as did Viola, puzzled by the question.

  ‘I hate it. It’s not something I want to spend the rest of my life doing.’

  ‘What other choice do you have?’ Evelyn’s mother said.

  And that was the problem. Here in Concord she had none.

  Evelyn followed Viola out of the room. ‘What if it doesn’t work out the way it’s supposed to?’ she whispered to her sister.

  ‘Of course it will,’ said Viola, clearly unable to imagine anything other than what was expected of them. ‘Charles will propose tonight and you’ll be married and be the lady of the house next door. And I’ll marry one of his friends,’ she added determinedly, her plain face momentarily brightened by the thought.

  Evelyn smiled. So Viola had dreams too. But she had to ask, ‘What comes after that? After I’m married?’

  Viola looked surprised. ‘Does it matter?’

  They’d reached Charlie, so Evelyn couldn’t answer. As they walked down the front path to the road, Evelyn glanced at the house next door, the Whitman house. She was unable to picture herself there, waiting for Charlie to come home from work, embroidery hoop laid in her lap like a noose ready to squeeze the life out of her.

  Early summer in Concord was glorious. The blossom trees extended their jewelled fingers into the sky and petals drifted down to wreath Evelyn’s hair. Rabbits hopped out of the way, their cottony tails bobbing like bits of fallen cloud. Robins twittered a tune that reminded Evelyn of ‘April Showers’ and all its optimism about blooms that follow the rain and the hidden bluebirds that could be found if only one listened hard enough. She wished the birds would sing something more spirited and less sentimental. At the same time, she looked around and realised that she was alone with Charlie and that Viola was nowhere in sight.

  ‘Viola’s bootlace came undone. She’ll catch up,’ Charlie said, taking Evelyn’s hand and stopping in front of her. ‘You’re so beautiful, Evie,’ he continued. ‘If I took you to Harvard my pals would burn with jealousy.’

  Evelyn knew she was blushing; it was nice to be complimented rather tha
n criticised or ordered around as was her parents’ way. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, but somehow, even in the midst of all the glorious summer colour and Charlie’s admiration, she couldn’t shake the word noose from her mind.

  Charlie put his finger under her chin and lifted her head so he could see her face. ‘With you beside me, everyone would know I was the successful one,’ he said.

  Evelyn had thought he might be about to kiss her. She certainly hadn’t expected him to say that. ‘But you are successful,’ she said.

  Charlie took his hand away from her face and began to walk on. ‘My father doesn’t think so. Not compared to Thomas.’

  Perhaps you should study more and play with stuffed animals less, Evelyn wanted to say. If her parents let her go on to university, she wouldn’t waste the chance on stupid pranks. But she knew Charlie wanted petting rather than scolding, so she kept her thoughts to herself as she walked beside him.

  ‘Thomas is announcing his engagement tonight,’ Charlie said. ‘Why else would he invite a girl out here for a party? I could make it a night for engagements. Beat Tommy at his own game.’

  ‘I don’t think Thomas is getting engaged just to show your father he’s more successful.’ Why were they talking about Charlie’s older brother? Charlie had practically just told her he would propose. They should be strolling hand in hand at the very least, savouring the moment. But did he want to marry her because he loved her, or only because he thought she was pretty and it would help him prove a point? And did she really love him, or did she just want to know what it would be like to kiss someone?

  Evelyn had never been so glad to see her sister reappear, lank hair stuck to her cheeks and her face flushed red with the exertion of hurrying after them. It saved Evelyn from her confusion. But she had to work out an answer to her question – did she want to marry Charlie? – before tonight.

  She needed to be by herself so she could think. Her mood suited a brisk pace, whereas Viola needed to catch her breath and Charlie was lost in the art of strolling, clearly preoccupied with his idea of trumping his brother at the party. She soon found herself well ahead of the others, and the further she tramped, violently crushing swathes of white lilies beneath her feet as if they were embroidery hoops, the more she knew embroidery was not the issue. There was so much she had not yet done, so much she could do – go to university, or work like women in the big cities did. If she married Charlie, the only life she would ever know was the one she lived right now, the one that chafed her like a tightly laced corset.