Esme wasn’t so easily placated. “Why do you hide from everything that life is throwing at you right now? You can make some easy money, and instead you want to stay uptown and practice typing. You have until June, and then my guess is you’re going to run back to your mother and work as a secretary at the local high school or something like that.”
She didn’t want to mention Charlotte’s offer after the fashion show. Esme would get upset, and by the time Charlotte returned from London, she’d probably have forgotten all about their exchange anyway. “Mother wrote and said she’ll be able to get me a job in Cleveland, working for some businessman Mr. Saunders knows. It’s in the sanitation industry, apparently.”
Esme threw back her head and laughed, causing the old ladies sitting nearby to tut-tut at them. She pretended to be typing. “Dear ma’am, I’m sorry our toilets have been backing up on you. I assure you that your sewage is our foremost concern.”
“It’s a steady job.” Darby scooped some custard out of her éclair with her finger. Esme’s teasing hurt. “Or maybe I’ll go into publishing.”
Esme grimaced. “Don’t be stupid. Either way, you’re stuck behind a desk all day. There’s my friend. I’ll be right back.”
Esme crossed the room, sashaying with every step, and sat down across from an older man, maybe in his thirties, with tightly cropped hair and a rumpled brown suit. He spoke hurriedly, barely moving his mouth. Esme reached into her purse and handed a small parcel to him, which he glanced at before tucking into his jacket pocket.
She was back at the table a couple of minutes later.
“Who was that?”
“Guy from my acting class. Wants to do a scene with me, but I’m not so sure.”
“Why did he come all the way here to meet?”
“He wanted the notes from our scene study class. He missed it last week.”
“What kind of notes?”
Esme picked up her éclair and took a big bite, the custard oozing out the other end.
“That’s indecent,” Darby said, giggling.
“Anyway, his name is Peter and he’s too old to be going to acting school. Kind of creepy, didn’t you think?”
“I guess so. Is there an age limit on acting class?”
“Nope. Especially with the soldiers; we got lots of those.”
“Is Peter a soldier?”
“No idea. You have a lot of questions. Now it’s my turn. What about Sam?”
“What about him?”
“He likes you. He took you to see his mentor, Mr. Kalai, right?”
“He did.” A cold sweat rose up her neck.
“Aren’t you the lucky girl? Maybe when Sam’s brother comes back, we’ll double-date.”
“Sam has a brother?” She was surprised he’d never mentioned it.
“Drummer. Very talented. Mr. Buckley thinks the world of him and lets him do whatever he likes. He’s off on tour now, but he promised to take me out when he returns. Can you imagine, you and me as the Mrs. Buckleys?”
“But your career comes first.”
“It does. And don’t ever forget that. Hey, I just thought of something to convince you to sing with me.”
“What’s that?”
“Finish your dessert and I’ll show you.”
Hordes of people had descended upon Times Square for the Wednesday matinees, and the girls were forced to walk in the street to avoid being separated.
“Like a bunch of cows this time of the week,” yelled Esme. “Being herded into their stalls for milking.”
Esme grabbed Darby’s hand and pulled her close. She’d narrowly missed being sideswiped by a yellow cab. Darby stifled the urge to put her hands to her ears, overwhelmed by the noises. Honking, screeching brakes, and giddy conversation swirled around her. She clutched her purse to her side and held Esme’s hand tight as they cut through the throng like ants tunneling through sand.
Once they were inside a double glass door, the noises were just as loud, only different. Arcade games blasted tinny music, and high-pitched bells rang at irregular intervals.
“What are we doing here?” Darby stopped in her tracks, refusing to go any farther. “I have a class to get to.”
“The Playland arcade; it’s famous. Come on, this won’t take long.”
At the very back of the arcade, nestled in a corner, was what looked like a blue phone booth. VOICE-O-GRAPH was printed on the outside in cursive letters. The side was emblazoned with MAKE A RECORD HERE, PLAY IT ANYWHERE.
The memory of the boy in the park, Walter, swept over Darby. He’d worked for this company, had told her about the machine that recorded sounds. She didn’t want to step foot in the thing.
“It’s a kind of recording studio, a tiny one.” Esme stopped and posed beside it, twirling her wrists and presenting the booth as if she were one of the girls hawking washing machines on television ads.
Darby laughed. Walter wasn’t anywhere near this place; she had no reason to be afraid. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll drop in a quarter, and then we sing into the telephone. Once we’re done, a record drops out the bottom.”
“So you want to sing into it?”
“I want us both to sing. We’ll do ‘Lover, Come Back to Me.’ Then I’ll play it back for you and you’ll see what we sound like, what you sound like. Come on, it’ll be fun.” Esme popped open her purse and held up a shiny quarter with her gloved fingers. “Follow me.”
They squeezed into the booth and Esme slammed the door shut behind them. Inside, the air was still and quiet, a relief after all the commotion. A regular telephone handset was attached to the machine with a black wire, with instructions printed in block letters at eye level. Esme dropped in the quarter and picked up the handset. “You ready? Come closer.”
Esme wrapped her free arm around Darby’s waist and pulled their bodies together, as if they were conjoined twins. The red light turned to green and a nervous laugh escaped from Darby’s lips. Esme sang the first line and Darby joined in, their eyes glued on each other. With no band behind them, the timing was slow, languid. Darby took her cues from Esme as Esme’s fingers tapped the beat on Darby’s side. As the seconds ticked by, the outside world faded away. Stenography, Sam, the girls at the Barbizon, none of that mattered anymore. Esme’s face was just inches away. The button turned red in the middle of a line and they both stopped singing at the same time, then burst out laughing.
“That was ridiculous,” said Darby. “And fun.”
“I told you.” Esme didn’t release her grip on Darby. Unexpectedly, she leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the lips.
Darby drew back as much as she could in the cramped space. “Esme.”
“Sorry, you looked so beautiful as you sang, I couldn’t help myself.” She reached up and touched Darby’s face, her fingers soft as they ran over her jawline and up to her ear.
Darby stood frozen in place as the feathery tracing of her ear sent tiny shock waves down her body. The gesture was innocent, almost childlike, and Esme gazed at her with her lips slightly parted. Their breasts touched when Esme inched closer and this time Darby didn’t pull away. She wanted to soak up the essence of this woman, this human gravitational force who had pulled Darby into her orbit.
The sound of the record dropping into the knee-level slot broke Darby out of her trance.
Esme reached down and grabbed it, then held the recording up, one arm still around Darby’s waist. “Now we’re going to go and listen to it.”
“Where? I don’t have a phonograph.”
“No, but I know someone who does.”
Darby was dying to hear the recording, she had to admit. But when she realized what Esme had planned, she wished she’d gone back to Katie Gibbs instead.
“We can’t go in there. What if she’s there?” whispered Darby, as they stood outside Candy’s room at the Barbizon. Esme held the master key in her hand, inches from the doorknob. Darby hadn’t spoken to Candy since the awful night when Esme had come to her aid.