by Helen Cox
Alan sighed and recited what he knew. ‘Most people are looking at a fine but if the prosecution pushes for it, the penalty is in time served. Up to six months in prison.’
‘And you can be sure, Mr Faber –’ Boyle took a step closer but was careful not to come within Jack’s reach ‘– that if you turn down my offer I will be pushing for the maximum penalty. Not exactly what an actor just getting his break in the movies really needs.’
‘I don’t know. It worked out alright for Sean Penn. He’s still acting.’ Jack smirked but I wasn’t finding this funny.
‘Well, how about deportation then? I can push for that too. You’re not a US citizen. Can’t see a judge wanting to hang onto some limey immigrant with a violent crime on his record. And I guess that’d be that for your career in Hollywood.’ Boyle grinned.
Jack ran his thumb and index finger around his mouth and then turned his back.
‘Jack,’ I said. ‘You don’t want to go to jail. Putney lads are notoriously soft.’ He turned to face me and I put a hand on his arm. ‘He’s not worth it.’ He sighed and looked up to the ceiling, making some tacit calculation. When he at last looked back into my eyes I tried to hold him with a smile.
‘Alright,’ he said, still looking at me, ‘I’ll do it.’
‘No topic off limits? Boyle asked.
Jack nodded. His eyes still hadn’t left mine.
‘My secretary will be in touch,’ Boyle added before asking Alan to see him off the premises. The pair walked back down the corridor. Boyle’s self-satisfied remarks dwindled and then disappeared.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jack.
‘I’m not the one you beat up,’ I said.
‘No. Not about Boyle. I mean I am sorry about that and I’m not. But about your husband. I’m sorry.’
‘Oh.’ I’d been so caught up in the Boyle situation I’d almost forgotten I’d told him. ‘Well. It was…I’m just not ready to…’
‘I know. I know now.’ He opened his arms and held me through the bars. It shouldn’t have – I was being embraced by somebody locked up in a police cell – but a warmth swept over my whole body.
It felt like coming home.
Chapter Thirteen
The following three days at the diner were consumed with preparations for two major events – Mum’s pending visit to New York and the hop – both of which filled me with a sense of possibility and, at the same time, made me feel a bit queasy.
Mum was, by comparison, simple enough to sort out – just a few early-morning transatlantic calls to finalise the time her plane landed at JFK and to confirm the name of her hotel. She seemed to have found the most expensive one on Park Avenue but I didn’t get at her too much for it. Despite the fact our calls were riddled with foreboding, awkward pauses, during which I just stood there, feeding more quarters into the slot, it probably would be the trip of a lifetime for her. Even if things were a bit uneasy to begin with.
The hop, however, was – like most situations involving Mona and Bernie – a touch more fraught. There was just so much to do. Music had to be decided on, a temporary liquor licence had to be acquired and decorations had to be made. All this, and we had to trip up to Midtown to get our dresses fitted, which was its own little disaster. I never had the money for clothes shopping myself and had been looking forward to it but Bernie spent the whole time complaining about how long it took Mona and Lucia to decide on a dress. He’d planned on shutting the diner just for an hour, during one of our quieter periods, but by the time we turned off Broadway onto East Houston, we’d been gone nearly two. A fact Bernie wouldn’t soon forget, or let us forget either.
As Bernie was buying her a new dress, Lu kept her irritation limited to the occasional eye roll but Mona, who had over a decade’s worth of experience dealing with Bernie’s temper, was more vocal – scolding him for leaving everything to the last minute as usual.
Under normal circumstances, their constant yapping and snapping at each other would’ve annoyed the hell out of me but right then I was grateful for the distraction. From my aching for Jack. From the ghost of Mr Delaney and from the stark reality that everything he’d done to his wife, he’d really done to me.
‘Oh, and one last thing you two before you scuttle off to have your faces plastered up,’ said Bernie, bolting the front door and flipping the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’.
Mona and I gave each other a look. That was one of the more pleasant comments to come out of Bernie in the last few days.
‘I’ve rigged up the mics so you’ll need to pick a song,’ he said. Mona didn’t seem ruffled by this request but I froze. Gulping loud enough for them both to hear.
‘A song?’ I closed my eyes praying those words meant something different in America. ‘What do you mean, a song?’
‘Well, in the fifties, hops had live performances. So to make it more authentic you’re going to sing a song to the crowd.’
‘Did you know about this?’ I turned on Mona.
‘It’s no big deal, honey. By the time you get hold of a microphone most people are too drunk to hear anythin’ anyway. Just pick somethin’ easy.’
‘But … but I can’t sing,’ I pleaded looking from Mona to Bernie.
‘Neither can a lot of people. Don’t stop them makin’ records,’ Bernie pressed. ‘Just sing a Bobby Darin number. Anyone can sing that stuff.’
‘Bernie, I really don’t want to,’ I said in the most timid voice I had at my disposal. ‘I don’t even know the words.’
‘Don’t give me that, you musta heard “Dream Lover” six hundred times in the last six months. This isn’t a discussion. I’m doing it. You’re doing it,’ he replied.
‘You. You’re going to sing?’ I folded my arms and tapered my eyes.
‘Everyone’s in the same boat so stop whining about it and just pick something.’ That was Bernie’s last word on the matter. He trundled over to the counter and continued adding up figures on the back of a napkin.
‘C’mon honey. We got fifteen minutes to make our appointment,’ said Mona. Grabbing my bag and the shoebox Angela had bestowed on me earlier in the week, I followed Mona over to the door.
‘Guests start arriving at seven thirty so be sure to be back here for seven,’ said Bernie. He’d shut the diner early to make the last-minute preparations and booked Mona and me into a nearby salon. Lu, who’d passed some comment about not wanting a stranger to make her up like a streetwalker, had already left for her apartment in Williamsburg where she planned to do her own hair and make-up.
All the way to the salon, Mona ranted about Bernie and his attitude but the pink neon sign hanging in the salon window distracted her soon enough and turned her mind to the shade of lipstick she might pick out and what pin she’d put in her hair. The sign simply read: Jolene’s.
‘Hey there, ladies, are you my five thirty?’ I assumed the woman who greeted us was Jolene. At a guess I’d say she was in her early forties. She had a tight, peroxide perm and long red nails that were filed almost to a point. ‘I’ll work on you –’ Jolene pointed a scarlet talon at me ‘– and Bernie said you liked the way Amber did your curls last year, Mona?’ She paused to snap gum between every sentence and her smile was a little too wide to be sincere.
‘Sure did,’ said Mona.
‘Alright then, Amber’ll start heating up them curlers. Best thing is probably for you ladies to get changed into yer costumes and then we’ll work on hair and make-up. I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name, ma’am.’ Jolene’s voice had a sort of nasal quality that grated. Though her words were welcoming I cringed after her every sentence.
‘Esther. I’m Esther,’ I said.
‘Well, pleasure to meet you. There’s a room just off to the side there. Best to put yer party clothes on first and then you don’t rough up your make-up later.’
Mona and I followed Jolene’s instructions and changed into the dresses Bernie had bought. Mona had gone for a deep purple wiggle dress which hugged her curves and was cut rather l
ow at the front.
‘Can’t wait to see Alan’s face when I walk out in this,’ she crowed.
‘Yes. You’ve more front than Weston-super-Mare,’ I joked. Mona shook her head, the expression lost on her. ‘It makes the most of your assets,’ I clarified.
‘Uhuh.’ She nodded at her reflection in a mirror propped against the wall. ‘And I love seein’ him in a suit. Actually, truth is, I love seeing him in anything that ain’t a uniform. I’d even take a Yankee’s vest over that.’
‘Married to a cop and you don’t like a man in uniform? Something’s gone awry there,’ I teased whilst stepping into my dress and fastening the buttons up the back.
‘Oh, it’s a novelty at first, don’t get me wrong, honey. But it wears off. My mamma never liked that Alan was a cop. She wanted me to marry a butcher. Said we’d never go hungry. Maybe if I didn’t love Alan so much I woulda taken her advice.’ She straightened out her dress where it’d ruffled at the hem. ‘What about you? Your boyfriend comin’ along?’
‘Mona,’ I said in a stern voice. She and Walt had taken great pleasure all week in teasing me about dating a criminal. I’d been good-humoured enough so far but every mention of Jack’s name made me think of what it felt like to be in his arms and to kiss him and furthermore how that wouldn’t be happening any time soon. We hadn’t outright said anything to each other when he finally got out of jail but it was sort of understood we were at an impasse. I hadn’t even seen him since we said goodbye on the corner of Ludlow Street late Wednesday evening. The temptation to kiss him had been great but I knew where that would lead so instead I’d ruffled his hair in much the same way a mother would her son when he was up to something impish. I’d followed that up by saying goodbye in a chirpy, sing-song voice, which no doubt betrayed just how awkward I felt, and the second my back was turned I covered my face with my hands. Unable to look back due to sheer embarrassment.
I sort of hoped he’d show up at the hop, and that he’d forgotten about my weird, hair ruffling moment, but I dared not expect it. Better to expect disappointment. Then, if it came, it wouldn’t be quite so painful.
‘I know, I know. He’s not your boyfriend,’ Mona said, jerking me out of my thoughts. ‘Just remind me why that is again?’
‘You know why.’ I looked at the ground.
‘Honey, I know you had a husband who was mean. And that he died and I am truly sorry about that. But it doesn’t mean you’re never allowed to fall in love again,’ said Mona. Well, she had the story almost right. Minus one trifling detail. The bit about my part in the death of Mr Delaney.
‘Falling in love has never brought me anything but pain,’ I said. ‘Besides, Queen Victoria never married again after the death of Albert. And she was fine.’
‘Queen Victoria…yeah, I think I saw a statue of her once.’ Mona stepped closer and pushed her face near mine. ‘She looked miserable.’
I sighed. It was true. In almost every painting Queen Victoria did look miserable. ‘There are other things too, Mona,’ I said, trying a different tack. ‘I mean he’s obviously got a problem with the drink. And look what he did to Boyle.’
‘Look what you did to Boyle. And you ain’t got no problem with the drink.’
‘I didn’t hospitalise him,’ I said. Mona nodded, conceding the point. ‘Besides, I just don’t think I can take another heartbreak so soon, you know?’
‘What makes you think it’s gonna end in heartbreak?’ she asked.
‘Well…’ I paused, searching for some plausible excuse. ‘Actors lead weird lives. Shooting on location for long periods of time. And they’re constantly around beautiful people. You don’t think that at some point one of those beautiful people is going to make a move on Jack? There’d be no contest. Look at me.’
‘I am. You scrub up pretty well,’ said Mona who, like everyone else, could only see the surface. Just the skin.
I had my dress on now. It was an ice-blue swing dress made of soft satin that pulled in tight around the waist, an ideal match to the shoes Angela had given me. The skirt whirled as I moved. I looked in the mirror and admitted it did look a dream on me.
‘But this doesn’t count,’ I argued. ‘We all know I don’t walk around like this all the time.’ Mona sidled up to me and put an arm around my shoulders.
‘Neither do actors.’ She squeezed my arm. ‘Honey, did it ever occur to you that actors are human beings? That Jack is maybe lookin’ for someone who will accept him at his best and his worst?’
‘I don’t know,’ I confessed. ‘To be honest, I’d never thought about it that way.’
‘Actors are paid to be beautiful. They are loved by the world largely because they’re beautiful but they also need someone with whom they can share the parts of themselves that aren’t so pretty.’
‘Whom?’ I said with a smirk. But Mona wasn’t to be distracted.
‘Their ugliness may not be physical but it’s there. Like it is for everyone.’ Mona was always wise at just the right moment. It was infuriating. It was true that Jack was not as perfect as the world would probably come to perceive him should his sudden success continue. That otherworldly mythology that surrounds actors was so easy to swallow. But that wasn’t him. He was aggressive and at times self-destructive. Just like anyone else. Just like me.
I smiled at Mona. ‘Don’t you ever tire of being right?’
Mona grinned. ‘Strangely enough the shine never wears off that apple.’ We looked at each other a moment and then, realising we were eating into our hair and make-up time, folded our uniforms into bags and scurried back into the salon.
‘I was saying to Amber, I felt like I recognised your face,’ Jolene said once she had me sat in the make-up chair, ‘and then I realised you were the girl from the Chronicle. You’re with that Faber fella, aren’t you?’
I pursed my lips. Why couldn’t my hairdresser have been a Times reader? It was too complicated to go into the whole affair with a total stranger and Mona was watching me through the mirror to see what I’d say.
‘We’re not together,’ I said. ‘That was just the work of some journalist who had nothing better to put in their daily column.’
Bloody Boyle.
‘Aw,’ Jolene replied, putting both hands on her hips. ‘Will he at least make an appearance tonight?’ Again Mona’s reflection stared at me.
‘I’m not sure to be honest. I haven’t seen him in a while.’ I lowered my eyes and Jolene, at last sensing my sensitivity, put her hands on my arms.
‘Well, there’ll be some Hollywood glamour tonight with or without Jack Faber. Just you wait and see.’ And without another word she began teasing my hair into the most beautiful waves, winding my fringe back expertly into a sultry curl a la Veronica Lake.
‘No need for much make-up with your creamy skin. But let’s give you a lick of eyeliner and go for red on the lips.’ I was sceptical about this. I didn’t want to spend the entire night checking whether I had lipstick on my teeth but once Jolene had finished her artistry, I looked just as Hollywood as she’d promised.
‘That lipstick is guaranteed to hold all night,’ Jolene bragged. ‘In fact, you’ll have to do some hard scrubbing in the morning to get rid of it completely.’ I looked over at Mona and marvelled at how shiny her curls were with the help of a special serum Amber had used.
‘Almost forgot the finishing touches. Bernie got you a couple of extras,’ said Jolene.
‘Oh, he is such a sweet man,’ said Mona. I looked at her and shook my head. She clocked what I was thinking and added, ‘Well, he’s been a pain all week but he sure knows how to make up for it.’
‘For Mona, he bought this little tiara that clips in real easy,’ said Jolene, passing the item to Amber. Mona squealed at the sight of the sparkle and held still whilst it was carefully arranged into her do. ‘And for Esther,’ Jolene continued, ‘Bernie had these adorable glasses made.’
I looked at them. They were pink with a wing at the edge of each frame. The wings had diamanté jewe
ls in them and glinted even in the poor light of the salon.
‘Oh, I love them. But how did Bernie know my prescription?’
‘I sort of borrowed your spare glasses when you weren’t looking. Bernie took them to the optician’s and they matched them to your prescription,’ Mona explained.
‘You’re turning into a regular klepto when it comes to my stuff.’ I raised an eyebrow at her and she chuckled. I tried the glasses on and admired them in the mirror.
‘I think you’re all set,’ said Jolene.
‘Sure are! You ready, Esther?’ Mona asked.
I leant over and took her hand. ‘Let’s do this.’
Chapter Fourteen
The hop was already in full swing when I noticed him across the room, dressed in a midnight-blue suit and a silver bow tie. His hair was gelled into place and he clutched a tumbler of rum in a manner that made him seem almost dashing. Looking at him, I only had one question: how had Jimmy Boyle managed to crash this party? He’d been watching me dance with Walt who, I had to admit, was an expert. Twirling me in time to the jaunty beat with minimal effort. His muscle memory still intact even though it had probably been decades since he’d taken a lady out for a night on the tiles. I scowled in Boyle’s direction who, aware that I’d spotted him, made his way over. Not once did he break eye contact as he weaved a route between the other dancers, making gradual but undeniable progress. The swelling on his face had reduced enough since I’d seen him last that now he looked like the person who’d won the fight rather than the party that’d been beaten.
‘May I have this dance?’ he asked in the crackling parenthesis between records. Walt looked at me. I gave him a slight nod. If there was one thing I’d learnt in the past week or so it was getting rid of Jimmy Boyle was never easy and I didn’t want a scene. Bernie was still touchy about having to cover both the kitchen and the counter for us the day we visited Jack in prison and my personal entanglements had caused the diner staff enough grief of late. Repellent as Boyle was, I’d have to keep the peace.
