A Kiss From Mr Fitzgerald

by Natasha Lester

  ‘I’m going back downstairs.’ Mrs Whitman stood up. ‘Why don’t you write to your parents tonight? And I’ll telephone them in the morning.’

  After his mother had gone, Thomas sat down beside Evie. ‘I wanted to be the one to tell you about London. It was only decided today, otherwise I would have told you last night. I doubt that I’ll see much of you between now and when I go because I’ll be spending all my time at the office getting things organised.’

  ‘I feel as if I’m losing one of the only people who believes in what I’m doing,’ Evie said tentatively, hoping that what she was saying would make him understand that she … what? That she was attracted to him? What was this thing she felt for him? She didn’t even know how to explain it to herself, so how could she expect Thomas to comprehend?

  ‘Mother believes in you. So does Lil. I asked her to keep an eye on you.’

  Evie knew her smile was ridiculously huge but she didn’t care. He’d asked someone to keep an eye on her. That meant he must care a little.

  And then he asked, ‘Can I write to you?’ and Evie almost got up and danced around the room.

  She pushed her feet firmly into the floor so they wouldn’t take off for a twirl all by themselves. ‘I’d love it if you wrote to me. And I promise to write back.’

  Now Thomas’s smile matched Evie’s and all she could think was, how did I ever overlook a man as sublime as Thomas? ‘I should return to the party,’ Thomas said. ‘Guests of honour probably aren’t supposed to disappear like this. Although I’d rather stay here with you.’

  Evie knew she would hold onto those words for the next two years. ‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘And good-bye.’

  ‘For now.’

  The way he said it seemed to suggest that they were unfinished, like a love song truncated, the coda still to come in another time and place. Evie hoped that was true. And Thomas seemed to confirm it because, after he’d reluctantly stood up and walked to the door, he turned to look back at her and she knew she wasn’t the only one who couldn’t bear to drag her eyes away.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ he said.

  Evie felt pinwheels of joy spin in her stomach as she replied, ‘I’ll miss you too.’

  Chapter Seven

  After her conversation with Thomas, Evie returned to her room and did something despicable. She almost couldn’t make herself do it. But she knew she had to. An invitation from Mrs Whitman might not be enough to convince Evie’s parents to let her stay. But an implication that an engagement to Charlie was imminent might.

  So Evie wrote her mother a letter, telling her that Charlie had announced to the party last night that he would soon need a wife, and that he’d embraced Evie as he’d said it. That part was true. But then she wrote that a few more weeks in New York would guarantee an engagement between her and Charlie. She remembered her mother’s face when they’d spoken two weeks ago, the hopes she had for Evie. Evie knew she had it within her power to bring her mother some much-needed joy by saying yes to Charlie, and that in this letter she was toying with her mother’s wishes. She told herself it wasn’t such a terrible lie, that she had no choice.

  But she loathed herself all the same.

  The following week, after her mother agreed to Mrs Whitman’s request to keep Evie in New York for the summer, Evie left the house before anyone else was awake and caught the subway to Columbus Circle, which was a riot of colourful billboards advertising cars and gaspers, Rubber and Fisk tyres, and whiskey; anyone would think Manhattanites did nothing but smoke and drink and drive. All she needed was a car to pull up and offer her a ride to nowhere, along with a throat-warming beverage, and she might have left her first day of summer school behind. Anything other than test her grand plan and have the holes in it revealed as unstitchable.

  But she smoothed down the skirt of one of her conservative Concord dresses, which she hoped would allow her to blend in, and walked on past the statue of Christopher Columbus. It stood tall, proud and so high it seemed to suggest that only in reaching for the sky could you be certain never to knock your head against the ceiling. Evie smiled her agreement and took heart. The city was on her side.

  She continued onto Fifty-Ninth and was soon outside the College of Physicians and Surgeons, the oldest medical college in New York City. And here was Evie, hoping to be let in the doors. She found that she hadn’t the courage to look at the imposing exterior of the building. Instead, she hurried inside, where a corridor ran east and west. She had no idea which way to go. She turned right and almost ran into a cabinet full of bones. Skulls, ribs, leg bones – they looked smooth and tactile and she imagined they might feel like pearl buttons if she ran her fingers over them.

  At last she found the main lecture hall, a vast room with dozens of chairs. Evie’s shoes clacked loudly on the wooden floor, announcing her arrival more emphatically than she wished. Heads turned, and Evie realised that every one of them was male. Never before had she been in a room with so many men, and nor had so many men ever looked at her at once. She blushed and took the seat nearest the door.

  ‘Hello,’ she said awkwardly to the man beside her. She struggled to think of something else to say and stupidly asked, ‘Are there any other women taking summer school, do you know?’

  The man opened his notebook and studied the blank page. ‘I don’t think women should be assigned to the same lecture rooms. Too much chatter.’

  ‘I see.’ So that was the medical understanding of women and their habits: they were gossips who would disrupt the serious business of men’s learning.

  Evie’s optimism shrivelled like a dowager’s skin in the sun. But the lecture soon started and within a few moments she forgot everything else. For the language of medicine, she discovered, was even more beautiful than that of literature. The professor spoke about oscillation, how vocal folds move in a wavelike dance to allow us to speak. Even the strange hieroglyphs of calculus on the blackboard seemed to have their own beauty. Never had a day passed so quickly.

  It was early evening when Evie raced through the Whitmans’ front door, eager to tell Mrs Whitman about her day. There was a letter waiting for her on the hall table; seeing the return address stamped on the envelope, she stopped to open it.

  It was from a Sister Mary of the New York Foundling, advising that they had a baby whose birth details matched those Evie had supplied. Evie was welcome to visit the child whenever she liked.

  ‘Thank you!’ she shouted up at the beautiful cherubs frolicking in white clouds on the ceiling fresco. At last things were starting to work out for her! Even though it was only her first day, she knew that summer school was going to be the best thing she’d ever done. And she’d found Rose’s baby!

  ‘Mrs Whitman!’ she called, wanting to share her excitement with somebody. She burst through the drawing room door and then stopped dead, unable to suppress her dismay and couldn’t stop herself saying, ‘Oh no!’

  Viola, sitting stiffly on the sofa in a positively Edwardian style dress, looked up from her embroidery. ‘Surprised to see me?’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Mother wondered what was taking so long. Are congratulations in order yet?’

  ‘I wrote Mother a letter last week. You didn’t need to come.’ Evie sat down in the nearest chair, her elation gone. How would she go to summer school every day with Viola here? ‘How long are you here for?’

  ‘You don’t sound pleased to see me.’

  ‘Having you here will be hotsy-totsy, Vi,’ Evie said sarcastically.

  ‘You’re not a character in a novel, Evie. Mother sent me here to find out what was happening.’

  ‘To spy on me, you mean?’

  The sisters stared at one another and, exasperated as she was, Evie couldn’t help but feel a wave of fondness at the familiarity of Viola’s motherly and unsmiling face. Amid so much that was new, it was nice to see something connected to home.

  ‘You’ve seen that Viola’s here.’ Mrs Whitman had come in unnoticed while they were
bickering. She appeared unruffled, as if she was perfectly happy to accommodate another guest.

  ‘Yes,’ said Evie. ‘Surely it’s too much to have both of us stay?’

  ‘Your mother telephoned this morning while you were out to let me know she was concerned about you and that Viola was on her way here.’

  How like her mother to call after she’d dispatched Viola, when nothing could be done about it. ‘But we’re so busy with … with …’ Evie stuttered, trying to think of an excuse for all her absences from the house over the coming weeks.

  ‘Well, I thought you could take on organising the gala by yourself so that I have time to show Viola around the city,’ Mrs Whitman said, raising one of her eyebrows ever so slightly at Evie.

  ‘Certainly! I’d be happy to! I’ll start tomorrow. There’s so much to do I’ll be all over the city like a blizzard!’ Evie laughed as if she was delighted to be given the responsibility for organising a fictitious gala, when in fact she was so grateful to Mrs Whitman for her quick thinking.

  ‘Excellent. That’s settled. Viola, we’ll leave at ten o’clock tomorrow to pay some calls, and Evie, you do what you need to do. It’s important that the gala is successful.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I’ll show you to your room, Viola.’ Mrs Whitman let Viola pass, then whispered to Evie, ‘Charles is looking for you.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning.’

  Evie turned on the phonograph and selected ‘Somebody Stole My Gal’, wishing somebody would steal her away from this uncomfortable moment. She had barely a minute to think about what she would say before Charlie burst into the drawing room with his usual dramatic exclamation of ‘Evie!’, as if she was the most wonderful thing in the world. He kissed her cheek, holding her closer than was necessary. Evie pulled back a little.

  ‘Life is about to get a whole lot better for you,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ she said, wanting nothing more than to leave the room.

  ‘I’ve been shopping at Tiffany.’

  Now was the moment. She had to tell him she didn’t love him before she humiliated him by refusing his proposal. But her courage had deserted her. The memory of Mrs Whitman’s words – be gentle with Charlie when you tell him – made her quail inwardly. Was it her fault? Had she been wrong to let Charlie love her? She had once felt something for him. But she’d changed so much of late and it seemed that he hadn’t changed at all.

  ‘Do you want to know what I bought?’ Charlie asked, smiling at her.

  Oh God! He was excited, thrilled with the thought of giving her whatever he’d bought. He was expecting her to respond with equal joy. She had to say something before his hopes climbed any higher. She had to open her mouth. How was it possible to say what she had to say kindly? She took a deep breath and tried to look penitent and kind.

  But Charlie spoke before she had a chance. ‘You know what I’m going to say. I’ve been trying to ask you for the last couple of weeks. But things keep getting in the way.’

  ‘Things like medical school?’ Evie said lightly, hoping to remind him how unsuited they were, trying to get him to see that he shouldn’t ask her to marry him.

  ‘You’re bored,’ he said dismissively. ‘You need a house to run. A husband to manage. Parties to organise.’

  ‘Charlie, I can’t think of marriage right now.’

  Charlie stepped closer to her. ‘I can wait for you, Evie. Enjoy New York for a couple of months. We don’t have to be married straight away.’

  Evie kept her voice soft. ‘We’ve always been such good friends. We had so much fun together every summer. But I think that’s all we’re meant to be. Friends.’

  ‘But we’re practically engaged already. Everybody expects it. You can’t say no to something that everybody thinks is a fait accompli.’ Charlie’s expression was that of a hurt child and it made Evie feel so desperately sad.

  ‘Charlie,’ she touched his arm gently, ‘I don’t love you. Not the way a woman should love the man she marries. I love you as a very old and dear friend. And I want us to stay friends. Please?’ Her voice wobbled as she said it, as if she was unsure, but she was really terrified, because there was no softening the blow of these words. And she could see their effect on Charlie.

  His hand was frozen on his jacket pocket, covering the Tiffany box that was no doubt hidden inside. The Tiffany box that any other girl in the world would give her right arm for. For a single moment, Evie wished she was normal. That all she wanted was to be married and have babies. Then she could say yes and Charlie would smile, rather than looking at her as if she’d stabbed him.

  He’d had no idea she would say anything other than yes.

  Neither spoke. Into the silence sang the words from the phonograph, and as Evie heard them, really heard them, she recoiled. Why had she chosen such an unfeeling song to play at this moment? Gee, but I’m lonesome, lonesome and blue. I’ve found out something I never knew. I know now what it means to be sad, For I’ve lost the best gal I ever had.

  Charlie picked up a brandy glass and studied it. ‘I haven’t asked you to marry me.’

  She knew he was trying to claw back his pride. So she let him, because it was the least she could do. ‘You haven’t,’ she agreed. ‘I know you’re saving your proposal for a woman who loves you as much as you deserve to be loved. Besides, this morning I did something you wouldn’t like. If you needed more proof that we aren’t suited, this is it. I attended summer school at the Columbia College of Physicians and Surgeons.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to be a doctor.’

  ‘Women aren’t doctors. You won’t be accepted into medical school.’

  Of all the things he could have said, that was the one that hurt the most. He was voicing the secret fear that gnawed away at her every day, that she tried to ignore, that she hoped wasn’t true. Because if she wasn’t accepted into medical school, then she had nothing. And if she was honest with herself, her chances were so slim as to be almost impossible. She removed her hand from his arm. She should leave the room before either of them wounded the other more deeply.

  But Charlie spoke again, casually. ‘I hear you went out with Thomas the other night. You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘I met some of his friends. That was all.’

  ‘Are you trading up?’ His voice was no longer casual. It was accusatory.

  Evie felt her heart stop. And with the worst possible timing, the song on the gramophone moved to the chorus: Somebody stole my gal. Somebody came and took her away … ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

  ‘Are you moving on to the vice-president? The brother who’s not a dumbbell?’

  ‘You’re not a dumbbell, Charlie.’

  ‘Thomas thinks I am.’

  ‘He doesn’t. And nor do I. He’s trying to look out for you.’

  ‘By taking you out? How do you know what Thomas thinks?’

  Because he’s a good man, Evie wanted to say, but she knew that would be the end of everything. If she left the room now, they could both recover some dignity. ‘I’m going out for a walk.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have married you anyway, Evelyn. You’re not that sort of girl.’

  Bite your tongue, her better self screamed at her as she hurried out of the room and out of the house.

  Dusk was beginning to settle on the city like a fine cloud of soot, the street lamps were alight and people marched past, returning home from work. Evie walked as they did, with purpose, because to do otherwise was to risk being pushed aside or trampled and she had had enough of both. She went over and over in her mind the conversation with Charlie, searching for a point where she could have handled it better, where she could have been kinder, where she could have hurt him less. She’d somehow done exactly what Mrs Whitman had warned her not to do. She’d made him angry. She’d let him hurt her too. And now he was suspicious of her feelings for Thomas, and given his jealousy and resentment of his brother, that would only make things worse.

  Whe
n she reached Lexington Avenue, she turned and walked south. She checked the number written on the envelope in her pocket. She was in the right place. But the building looked so ordinary, red brick with white stone trims and rows of arched windows. Beside it were regular houses, windows lit up, full of people going about the business of living. Nothing about the building or its location suggested pathos and tragedy; comfort sat in the lap of despair as it did everywhere across the city.

  A nun answered the door; she was a little older than Evie but her mouth was pinched as though she’d swallowed too many bitter pills. Evie couldn’t imagine this woman caring for an abandoned child.

  ‘Are you Sister Mary?’ Evie asked.

  The woman nodded, and looked suspiciously at Evie.

  ‘I think you’re caring for the baby I’m looking for.’ Evie showed her the letter.

  Sister Mary stepped aside and motioned for Evie to come in, then led her down a hall and into a dormitory that looked like the infamous old woman’s shoe. There were so many children. Babies, both newborn and older, as well as girls and boys who were old enough to understand that fate had not been kind to them.

  ‘This is the baby from Concord.’ Sister Mary gestured to a whimpering baby lying in a crib. It was wearing a white suit with a pink ribbon pinned to the front. Its face was clenched and wrinkled like a fist that had caught hold of sadness and couldn’t let go. Evie couldn’t help herself. She bent down and picked up the baby. ‘It’s a little girl,’ she said in wonder.

  The baby’s face relaxed. Her eyes opened and she looked at Evie, who had no idea if this was the baby she’d seen by the river in Concord. The blood had been washed away and its sad little mouth grizzled quietly, as if it knew that crying any louder would simply waste energy but grant it no extra attention.

  ‘Sister Margaret!’ Sister Mary called. ‘Please look after our visitor.’

  Another nun appeared, this one younger, but she already had a strip of white in her hair, just visible at the front of her wimple, as if what she had seen of life had given her the greatest fright.