Darby’s heart began to pound. “These were mostly career girls.”
“Career girls. Huh.”
“I don’t understand why you’re angry with me.”
“Don’t you?” Esme hissed. “Maureen, Stella, Candy. They’re all the same. Living here makes girls mean. They start thinking they’re better than everyone else. Don’t let that happen to you, too.”
“Of course not.” To her relief, the elevator began moving once again, but something still unsettled her. “Was it you in the hallway when I visited Maureen? I could have sworn I saw you there.”
Esme looked away. “You were making such a racket, laughing and enjoying yourselves. I would’ve stopped to say hello, but I had to get back to work.”
Esme felt left out, and Darby didn’t blame her. Here she was trapped in a metal box for hours, wearing a drab maid’s uniform, while Darby could come and go as she pleased and had a brand-new hat. No wonder she was upset.
They finally reached the fifteenth floor, but Darby didn’t walk away, unwilling to leave Esme when she was so obviously distressed. “Thank you for worrying about me. I promise I won’t turn mean. And let me know when we can go to the Flatted Fifth together again.”
“Yeah.” Esme’s mouth stayed in a tight line, but her eyes gave away her pleasure.
Darby nodded and stepped off the elevator. She gave a little wave and watched as Esme’s face, framed by the glass oval in the door, disappeared from view.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
New York City, 2016
Six out of ten interviews booked.
“Not bad for a hard day’s work.” Rose smiled down at Bird, who gave her the evil eye.
She refilled his water bowl and he slurped it down messily, then slunk off to his usual place on the couch.
The minute she’d woken up that morning, Rose had showered and dressed, and snapped Bird’s leash onto his collar. But instead of heading outside, she’d sat on the sofa, waiting for the elevator’s bright ring or the slamming of a neighbor’s door, and then sprinted with Bird to the front door.
She and Bird would pop into the hallway and cheerily greet whichever neighbor was making her way out. When the neighbor inquired about who she was, she stopped and chatted, mentioning that she was helping out Stella with Darby’s dog while she was away. Luckily, Stella had made many more friends than Darby over the years, and the neighbors responded with sympathetic clucks and expressions of gratitude. Most had recognized her from the news and, after she mentioned that she was doing a story on the elegant lives of the Barbizon ladies, four had immediately agreed to do a sit-down interview within the next two weeks. In one case, the woman had gone on at length about Sylvia Plath, whom she’d seen once in the lobby, before Rose could impress upon her the idea that she was interested in her own story. Blushing, she’d readily agreed.
After each chat, she’d taken Bird around the block and back into the apartment, where she’d lain in wait for her next victim. She’d also reached out to Stella, who’d sounded annoyed at being stuck in New Jersey but relieved to hear that Bird was doing fine, and had agreed to be interviewed next week. Including Alice, that made six interviews lined up. Poor Bird was exhausted, and she’d given him a long ear-scratch for his troubles.
Her phone rang. Jason.
“I’m in the neighborhood; why don’t you show me around the building?” He didn’t even bother saying hello.
Rose’s mind raced. He would have to see the building at some point, particularly if they were going to get the women on camera in their apartments. And she’d have to get permission from the management company to film B-roll in the public spaces. Video sucked. If she were writing a piece for The New Yorker, she wouldn’t have this problem. Ten thousand words, maybe a few photographs. But at WordMerge, even if it aspired to be a site for narrative writing, images and video were required. No one could be bothered to use their imagination anymore.
Since it was Saturday, Griff and Connie were probably up at the house in Litchfield, so she would be less likely to run into them. “Okay, but we can’t film today.”
“Fine. Just show me the place so I can figure out what we’ll need.”
She arranged to meet him at the service entrance. He wore the same army jacket and jeans, looking like a war correspondent on his day off. Which, of course, he was.
“So this is the place, huh?” He looked up and squinted in the bright sunlight.
“Yup. Follow me.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
She brought him inside, past the porter who worked the door on weekends.
“How’s Mr. Bird’s stomach?” he asked. He was a young kid, new to the doorman’s union and eager to please.
“What?”
“You’ve been in and out all morning. Figured he’d eaten something that wasn’t agreeing with him.”
“Right. Little guy’s got the runs, but he’s doing much better now, thanks.”
She entered the stairwell.
Jason’s heavy steps trudged behind her. “Three questions.”
“Shoot.”
“Is Mr. Bird a bird, do birds get the runs, and why are we going up the back way?”
She reached the second-floor entrance. “Mr. Bird is a dog I’m dog-sitting, I don’t know the answer to question number two, and we’re going up the back way because it’s a more direct route to where I want to take you.”
She led him down the hallway and pushed open the door to what the real estate agent had called the lounge, a public space that ran the length of the building.
Jason gave out a low whistle. The room remained a showpiece of the art deco era. Cream ceilings and walls contrasted with the polished mahogany floor, and love seats and sofas had been arranged in tableaux over geometric-patterned rugs. A black baby grand piano gleamed in the center of the room. Hardly any of the residents used the lounge, as far as Rose could tell. It had an air of sterile elegance, the walls dotted with black-and-white photos of some of its more famous residents.
“This is one of the public rooms, back then and still today.” She hugged her arms to her chest. She would have sworn the air still held the weak scent of perfume and cigarettes.
He took out his phone and shot some rough video, as well as several photos. “We should do the interviews in here. How many do you have lined up so far?”
“Seven.” She included Darby in her count, even though she probably ought not to assume.
“Nicely done.”
“Thanks. But keep in mind, this is a print story first and foremost.”
“Print is dead. Or seriously ill, at any rate. Your story is going online, with video elements.”
“I didn’t mean print like paper.” She hated how flustered he made her. “I meant that the words come first, then the visuals.”
“What do you have against video?”
“Nothing. I just prefer long-form writing. Where the writer tells the story, visually, using words. I think we rely on images far too often these days. No one can be bothered to learn about any subject in depth, because it’s all about the images. There’s no intricacy.”
He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, as if he were suppressing a smile. “But what about images of events that rile people up, make them want to improve the world or change things? What about Hurricane Katrina, or Abu Ghraib? Do you think readers would have reacted the same way without the photos, the video?”
“Those images summed up the story in a way that caused outrage, no question. But what about when you’re dealing with a subject that has multiple layers?”
“Give me an example.”
“Watergate. What one photo could explain the ramifications of political corruption in the White House?”
“I’m sure I could think of something.”