The Subway Girls_A Novel

by Susie Orman Schnall

  It was a little fancy for the subway, which might have been what drew that man’s attention to her, but it made Charlotte feel as special as a little girl in the front row of the dignitary bleachers at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

  Charlotte played nervously with her fingers, ensconced in their lovely white cotton gloves embroidered with seed pearls, another gem from her shopping expedition with Miss Fontaine.

  Miss Fontaine hadn’t told Charlotte much about the launch. Only that there would be photographers and an unveiling of a large version of her poster. It would be symbolic, of course, because the posters would already be in all the subway cars. Miss Fontaine had told her which platform to meet at, and when Charlotte arrived, she was delighted to find that quite a crowd had gathered. She spotted Miss Fontaine near the dais.

  “Miss Fontaine,” Charlotte said over the din, tapping her on the shoulder.

  “Charlotte! How lovely you look, dear. Come sit right over here on this chair. We’ll start in about fifteen minutes.”

  There was a row of five chairs directly behind the dais, each marked with a name and title. Charlotte’s said Miss Charlotte Friedman, Miss Subways July 1949. She wondered if she could take the sign home with her as a souvenir. Another chair was marked for Mr. Powers, and the other three were for representatives of the New York Subways Advertising Company. Charlotte was disappointed that no one from J. Walter Thompson would be there. She thought it would have been a valuable opportunity to introduce herself.

  While she waited, Charlotte considered the implications of her poster. She felt a deep thrill that this day had finally come. But the possibility of Miss Subways solving her immediate problem had been obliterated. All the Miss Subways followers she hoped would seek her out at Friedman’s would now be hanging around the Impressionists gallery at the Met instead.

  The camel’s back was officially broken. And deep down, where the truth mattered, Charlotte knew that working in her father’s store would feel like a gold-medal failure. That it would be living the life her father had imagined for her brother. The life that neither Harry nor Charlotte wanted. She had wanted more for herself than to just be another girl who couldn’t support herself outside of the nest prepared for her by her parents. A tidy, safe nest protected from the big scary world outside Bay Ridge. No, Charlotte ached for a life unprescribed. Where she could feel independent and important. She had believed completely and thoroughly that she would have that.

  But now that she had graduated and none of the other job prospects had come to fruition, Charlotte realized that she had to just resign herself to the new reality that she would be living at home, working in her father’s store, and that was that. Not every girl’s dreams came true. Not every girl was destined to feel like she had sidestepped expectations. Not every girl could be significant.

  For the time being, though, Charlotte took a deep breath and tried to enjoy the experience swirling around her. Photographers were setting up their tripods. Journalists milled around, writing in their notebooks. Passersby stopped to ask what was happening. Charlotte was stunned that this was all for her. Nothing had ever been all for her in her entire life. Such a lovely fuss.

  When it was time for the ceremony to begin, the gentlemen took their seats next to her, and Miss Fontaine stood off to the side. The CEO of the New York Subways Advertising Company spoke first about the program, how it had been so successful, how they envisioned it continuing for years to come.

  Charlotte looked out at the crowd with bright eyes. She had to willfully hold her hands in her lap; her excitement and nerves felt like they were going to blast out of her, most likely starting at the tips of her fingers. Photographers took candids of her. But Charlotte pretended not to notice; she didn’t want to spoil the shots. Onlookers pointed at her, and she caught the tail ends of their whispered, “She must be the next Miss Subways.” Like they were in on a secret. Charlotte thought she had seen a familiar face in the back of the crowd but figured she must have imagined it as it slipped away.

  Mr. Powers spoke next. First he gave a brief explanation of his agency’s involvement in the program. And then he spoke about a young woman, about her ambitions, about her interest in the fine arts. It took Charlotte a second to realize he was talking about her. Miss Fontaine hadn’t told Charlotte she was going to have to speak, but the next thing she knew, Mr. Powers was calling her up to the dais and the photographers’ flashes were bursting like the sky over the Hudson on the Fourth of July.

  “Go on, dear,” Miss Fontaine whispered to Charlotte, who felt glued to her seat. Though public speaking would be important for her future career, it hadn’t been something she’d ever done effortlessly in school.

  Thankful for her gloves, which were most definitely preventing showers of sweat from spraying out of her palms, Charlotte gingerly approached the dais. Mr. Powers kissed her on the cheek and presented her to the crowd of anticipatory journalists and photographers.

  “Well, I’m, um, I’m so happy to be here,” Charlotte said, suddenly blinded and distracted by the flashes. “And, well, I never would have imagined for one second I’d ever be Miss Subways.” She was starting to feel more comfortable, but decided to keep it brief lest she faint and end up as a blue satin puddle sprawled across the filthy platform. “I ride the subway all the time, and I’m so excited to be part of this program. It’s a true honor. Thank you very much.”

  It was only when she sat down that she realized she had missed the opportunity to mention the store. Her heart sank. But there was no time to sulk, because the photographers were directing her to pose with the various dignitaries, including Mr. Powers.

  “Where’s your family?” one of the photographers shouted. From another: “Yeah, let’s get a shot with the family.” And still another: “Or the boyfriend.”

  “I’m so sorry. My, um, my family was unable to come today,” Charlotte said, smiling widely and hoping that would suffice. Her stomach tightened in panic at the thought of her parents finding out. It was a good thing her parents never rode the subway, the necessities of their lives squarely within walking distance. There was no way they—her father, especially—would forgive her for blatantly disobeying them. Though, Charlotte realized, that was a distressing thought (disobeying her parents wasn’t something she was proud of), she also felt elated, liberated. Proud was exactly how she felt. Proud of winning (by default, but still), proud of doing something for herself, and proud of how strategic she was being in her effort to save her advertising career and her father’s store.

  “Okay, dear, just look this way and smile,” the first photographer said. The flashes resumed.

  The whole event must not have taken more than ten minutes, and after answering questions from a few of the journalists who waited in line impatiently to speak with her, it was over. Charlotte did say, innumerable times, that when she wasn’t visiting museums with her parents, she could be found at Friedman’s Paint and Wallpaper on Third Avenue in Brooklyn and that she hoped people would come and visit her there. She noticed the journalists kept writing while she said that; now she could only hope they’d be able to make out the shorthand when they returned to their unkempt desks downtown.

  Charlotte thanked Miss Fontaine and Mr. Powers for the experience. They wished her well and told her they’d be in touch if there were ever any opportunities that would suit her. And then she was free to go. Though Charlotte wasn’t really expecting one, she couldn’t deny a twinge of disappointment that Miss Fontaine hadn’t presented her with a contract to be a Powers Girl. But she decided not to dwell on that, choosing to indulge the giddiness she felt instead. There had been such an emotional lead-up to this event over the past several months. Never one to relish having the spotlight directed at her, Charlotte was surprised to find how much she enjoyed the attention that being Miss Subways brought with it. A sense of confidence swept through her, and she felt herself straightening her back and lifting her chin. She wondered if this feeling would stay for a while. She hoped
it would. Perhaps she only needed to have the sun shine on her a first time to realize how warm it felt.

  As she walked away, Charlotte saw that familiar face again in the back of the crowd. But this time, it didn’t slip away. It walked right toward her.

  Rose.

  “Charlotte, congratulations. Your poster is beautiful. I’m really happy for you,” Rose said.

  Charlotte, shocked to see Rose, a pleasant Rose at that, just stood there, unable to formulate a response. She had thought about Rose often these last several months. Perplexed as to why Rose had been so dismissive when Charlotte had gone to visit her after the Miss Subways photo shoot, Charlotte had written her a letter. Rose hadn’t responded. Charlotte had worried about Rose, but realized, after some time, that if Rose didn’t want to reciprocate the friendship, for whatever reason, Charlotte would have to accept that.

  “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” Rose asked. “There’s a place just outside the station.”

  Charlotte thought Rose seemed exceedingly nervous, and what was it about her that looked different?

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Charlotte said, looking Rose straight in the eye, angry that Rose would be so Rose enough to assume that Charlotte would just act as if nothing had transpired between them.

  “I can understand why you might feel that way, but please, just have a cup of coffee with me and hear me out.”

  Charlotte was curious to hear what Rose would have to say. Plus, Charlotte thought, she had such a pretty dress on and nowhere else to go that day. She might as well get more use from it. So she agreed.

  They walked in silence side by side up the stairs from the subway station to the sidewalk above. Rose gestured to the right and they turned and walked toward the coffee shop. A couple was leaving as Rose and Charlotte approached, so the man held the door for them. Rose walked in first and Charlotte, walking behind her, gasped.

  When they got into the restaurant, Charlotte couldn’t help herself and she looked straight into Rose’s eyes and then straight down to her midsection. Just then, the hostess asked them to follow her to their table.

  Charlotte didn’t say a word, just followed the hostess, and sat across from Rose in a booth by the window. A waitress came right over and they both ordered coffee and a slice of cake.

  “It’s true,” Rose said as soon as the waitress walked away.

  “What’s true?” Charlotte asked.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  “Congratulations,” Charlotte said, and then looked at Rose’s ring finger. It was empty.

  “Yep, no ring,” Rose said, holding up her left hand and wiggling the finger that gave most girls of their generation an identity. “And no fiancé number seven in sight.” She’d said it sarcastically. She wasn’t smiling.

  “How far along are you?” Charlotte asked.

  “Almost four months. I’m due in December.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have been there for you, Rose,” Charlotte said, extending her hand to Rose’s across the table.

  Rose pulled away and buried her head in her hands.

  Charlotte was not an unfeeling person. In fact, she was just the opposite. But while she felt awful for this pregnant woman sitting across from her who was clearly alone and scared, she was finding it progressively difficult to feel awful for Rose.

  “Charlotte, I have to ask you something,” Rose said. Her hands were shaking as she pulled them away from her face.

  Charlotte looked at her expectantly.

  Rose continued slowly, “Will you raise my baby?”

  “What?” Charlotte shouted. Other patrons looked at them, so Charlotte lowered her voice. “Are you out of your mind? Why would I possibly do that?”

  “Because Sam is the father.”

  CHAPTER 18

  OLIVIA

  MONDAY, MARCH 12, 2018

  Olivia

  Are you free for lunch?

  Ben

  Not sure that’s such a good idea.

  Olivia

  Sorry about Saturday night. That was so uncool of me.

  Ben

  It’s fine. I get it. Gotta work. Have a great day.

  Olivia took out her phone and did a quick search on Safari. Then she left the office without telling anyone and walked down the block to the L train at Fourteenth and Eighth.

  Olivia was trying not to concentrate on what she was doing. And she certainly was trying not to concentrate on how she was feeling, which, at the moment, comprised a toxic mess of nausea, excitement, anger, and several other subtle, unrecognizable, and not entirely pleasant sensations.

  Though the day had become quite warm, a welcome change from the cold snap they had been experiencing, Olivia gathered her coat around her. She bounded down the steps into the subway station and swiped her MetroCard. The train was just arriving, and Olivia was happy she didn’t have to wait. She wasn’t sure her resolve was strong enough right now, and she didn’t want to change her mind and back out.

  She got on the train and found a seat on the cold molded plastic. Looking around, Olivia saw her fellow passengers wearing masks of disinterest. But Olivia knew that very few of those masks reflected what was going on in the brains of their owners. Everyone was entertaining their own parties of inner turmoil. No one had it easy.

  As passengers both disembarked from and joined her car, at Sixth Avenue, at Union Square, at Third Avenue, at First, and then for the ride under the East River (which she always tried to not think too hard about lest she feel claustrophobic), Olivia felt a little panic at what she had just done.

  After her conversation with Matt, she had decided she had to get out of there. She knew Thomas was going to win—she’d seen it in Matt’s eyes. And she could also tell he didn’t much care that Thomas had stolen her idea. Perhaps Matt felt it was all part of the game, and that if Thomas was brazen enough to do it (perhaps to get back at Olivia for crashing his MTA dinner), and it could land them the account, then all good by him.

  But could Matt really feel that way? Wouldn’t the fair thing be to let her present whichever idea Matt liked best? For some reason, Olivia didn’t think Matt would do that.

  Olivia chided herself for being too impulsive, for not waiting to hear what Matt would decide, for just running out rather than facing the firing squad head-on and making her voice heard.

  On the other hand, her message was loud and clear. She wouldn’t stand for an agency that would condone, even encourage, such behavior. And she no longer would stand for Matt. Sure, she had taken him to her bed on her terms, but she couldn’t entirely take the emotions out of the situation, couldn’t make it entirely transactional. And with Lily back in the picture and Matt clearly not wanting this to be anything but extracurricular, Olivia realized she had been sacrificing her self-respect. She wanted to be one of those women who could just have sex without getting attached, and she had, with men she didn’t care for, but it was different with Matt. Different for her, at least.

  The train pulled into the Bedford Avenue station, and as soon as Olivia surfaced to street level, the Brooklyn air rushing about with its urgency and the sunlight stinging her eyes, her phone buzzed with incoming texts.

  Priya

  Liv, where the hell r u? Been looking for u everywhere. Time to go to conf room.

  Priya

  Liv???????

  Priya

  Did u really bail?? Starting to worry abt u bec I know u wouldn’t do that.

  Priya

  Going in. Will let u know what happens if u don’t show. V worried!

  Olivia typed out a quick apology to Priya:

  Olivia

  Sorry. There’s something I have to do. Thanks for covering for me. I’ll call you in a little while.

  Then she silenced her phone, turned around on the corner to get her bearings, and headed west on North Seventh Street for three blocks. She turned right on Kent Avenue, her uncertainty increasing with the ascending street numbers.

  North Eigh
th Street. This is crazy, Liv. North Ninth Street. What are you thinking? North Tenth Street. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. North Eleventh Street. Just turn back. Don’t make a complete fool of yourself. North Twelfth Street. Don’t lead him on, Liv. That’s unfair. And then she was there. She looked up at the building number and then at her phone screen to the search result to make sure the numbers matched, and then she had one last thought. Well, you’re here. You might as well go for it. You’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, so why start now?

  Olivia looked at the building directory and then headed for the elevator. She touched the button for the fourteenth floor and stared above her head as the numbers lit up one by one. The elevator stopped, and Olivia took a deep breath. The doors opened into one of the most arresting reception areas she’d ever seen.

  The walls were made completely of brick, and there was a palpable energy emanating from the employees in the open-plan office space. A bright orange kayak hung from the ceiling between the elevators and the reception desk. Behind the reception desk was what appeared to be an actual wing of an airplane emblazoned with the UseYourWings logo.

  “Can I help you?” a twentysomething guy with long hair asked Olivia.

  “Hi. Yes. I’m looking for Ben—” Olivia realized she didn’t know his last name. She didn’t know if it was his mother or father who was Mrs. Glasser’s child.

  “Glasser or Montgomery?” the receptionist asked.

  “Glasser,” Olivia said, smiling. Her stomach was still roiling.

  “And your name?”

  “Olivia Harrison.”

  “Please have a seat, Olivia, and I’ll let him know you’re here.” He gestured to a seating area just off to the side. Olivia almost ran right into a woman riding a hoverboard down the hall.

  “Sorry!” she called to Olivia.