Searching for Grace Kelly Read online

  “Page ten,” Dolly replied drolly. “‘No electrical appliances allowed.’”

  “A fan isn’t a waffle iron, for God’s sake.”

  “Mmmm . . . I would love to eat a waffle right now. With ice cream. On the boardwalk at Coney Island.” Dolly flopped onto her back and crossed her legs. “Although I don’t think Frank would like it.”

  Laura stuffed the last of the blouses into the drawer and shoved it closed. How was she going to survive without an iron? She turned back to Dolly. “Who’s Frank?”

  Dolly propped herself up on one elbow. “My fella. Well, he was sorta my fella. But I think he’ll be my fella again. He was always worried I was going to get fat. His sister Regina is really fat.”

  “All of this talk of food has me starving,” Laura said, running her fingers through her damp hair. She’d only had fruit at breakfast—Marmy had insisted that bacon and eggs would make her nauseated on the train ride down. “Want to go get a bite to eat?”

  The Barbizon coffee shop was small and narrow: a long counter, stools, and a ring of leather booths that horseshoed around. It was also, mercifully, air-conditioned. Laura and Dolly slid into a booth, the cool leather a tonic on the skin. “Ohhhhh, that feels nice,” Dolly said, looking around for a waitress.

  Predictably, the place was littered with girls who lived at the hotel, though Laura noticed a few middle-aged types, each eating alone, engrossed in a book or magazine. Dolly followed her stare.

  “They’re the ones we’re all afraid of turning into,” Dolly whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Women. They came here when they were our age, in the thirties and forties, and never left. They’re the Barbizon spinsters.” Dolly dissolved into an exaggerated shudder. “I’d rather die than be living here at twenty-five.”

  Dolly ordered an egg salad sandwich and a Coke. Laura wanted a burger. Marmy would hate that.

  Laura’s eyes kept going back to the Women. There were three or four of them scattered about the coffee shop; Laura thought each had to be at least thirty-five. Maybe forty. What had happened to keep them here? Were these ladies as unhappy as they appeared, slurping as they sat reading Ellery Queen? Had they once been her, young and impatient and curious about the world, thrilled to have arrived in Manhattan, and then watched it all go horribly wrong? Each one of them has a story, she thought. A love gone wrong, a promise unkept, a betrayal uncovered . . .

  “Hello? Hello? Are you still here?” Dolly was saying, waving her hands.

  Laura snapped back into the present. “Sorry. It’s compulsive. I love watching people. It’s the reason I want to be a writer.”

  “I imagine being a writer would be fun. It gives you an excuse to snoop into other people’s lives—Oh my. Don’t look now, but look at who just walked in.”

  Laura ignored the contradiction in Dolly’s commandment and swiveled her head to catch a glimpse. A tall blond man in a sparkling white tennis shirt and draping linen slacks had come in. He had his elbows on the counter, ordering something from a girl who looked agog to be taking his order.

  “Who is he?” Laura asked.

  Dolly shot over a look of disbelief. “And you’re going to be working at a magazine? That’s Box Barnes.”

  Laura’s eyes narrowed. He was impeccably groomed and unquestionably handsome in a country-club style she recognized from growing up in Greenwich. He was clearly, if not an athlete, then at least supremely athletic, with a head of wavy, perfectly Brylcreemed hair and piercing pale blue eyes. In short, the kind of man women noticed and often dreamed of. But there was something else about him, a magnetism that seemed to emanate from him like after-shave. His gaze caught Laura’s and he smiled. She whipped around in the booth, mortified.

  “Did he just wink at you?” Dolly asked, suddenly aflutter.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Laura said. She could feel her cheeks beginning to flush. If she was going to act this embarrassed every time she locked eyes with a man in New York City, she was going to have a very short visit. “So, who is Box Barnes?”

  Dolly leaned across the table. “Just one of the most eligible bachelors in the city, silly. He’s the heir to Barnes & Foster, the Fifth Avenue department store. That’s how he got the nickname: When he was a kid, he was always hanging around the store, playing in the empty boxes they delivered all the merchandise in. His real name is Benjamin. Or maybe it’s Bobby. Anyway, he’s always out at the most fabulous nightclubs and premieres.” She shook her head. “You really need to start reading Cholly Knickerbocker.”

  The waitress came, slid the sandwiches onto the table. Laura took the opportunity to ask her for mayonnaise, turning her head so that the end of the diner counter came into her peripheral vision. But Box Barnes was gone.

  Back upstairs, Laura asked, “So why would a guy like Box Barnes be in the Barbizon coffee shop? Does he live near here?”

  “No idea,” Dolly replied. “Probably meeting someone here. Boys from all over town come here to meet the Barbizon girls.” She looked over at Laura, who was now sitting on her bed, and added quietly, “At least the ones who look like you.”

  “Now, Dolly, I don’t think—”

  A frantic series of raps on the room door interrupted. “Hurry! Hurry! Bloody hell, open up!” came the urgent stage whisper from the other side.

  The two of them exchanged quizzical looks before Dolly walked over and opened the door. A tall girl with flaming red hair burst into the room, quickly moving Dolly aside and throwing her back against the door to slam it shut.

  “Okay,” she said in an unmistakably British accent. “If anyone asks, I was here with you two all afternoon.”

  TWO

  Laura froze, trying to will herself to move, to speak, do something. Anything. She was a good girl who had made a vocation, under the watchful eye and tutelage of a mother fully invested in that vocation’s success, to be a proper girl, the girl who at the age of twelve already knew how to elegantly host a proper tea. She knew everything about the right thing to do. Unless she was in a situation where there was a very clear choice of the wrong thing to do.

  The year before, she’d read an article in Glamour called “The Girl Every Girl Wants to Be,” and looking at this red-haired creature splayed against the door in front of her, the only thought that crashed into her brain was, I want to be her. She wanted to be bold and British and have silky red hair pulled back into a tight bun with a crest of bangs and look elegant in a patterned shirtwaist dress while backed up against a door as if trying to prevent an invasion of creatures in a monster movie. She wanted to be dangerous and unpredictable.

  “Look, I don’t know what’s—” Dolly’s protestation was cut off by another sharp rap at the door.

  “Please open the door, ladies.” Laura instantly recognized the voice. Metzger.

  Remember, the redhead silently mouthed to them, pointing to the floor a few times as she gingerly stepped aside. Dolly walked haltingly to the door, still glancing over at the strange, glamorous invader, and opened it. Metzger stepped in.

  “Ah, yes, Miss Windsor. I see you are indeed present. I was told you’d dashed in here.”

  “Just visiting friends,” the girl replied, with the airiness of Princess Margaret casually reporting it had started to rain. She dropped into the small chair in the corner of the room, lazily turning an eye out the window.

  “I see.” Metzger eyed Laura and Dolly. “You two ladies know Miss Windsor well, do you?”

  Dolly stammered out an answer. “Oh, I wouldn’t say—”

  “No,” Laura interrupted, with more emphasis than she’d intended. “As you know, ma’am, I’ve just arrived here. But Miss Hickey and Miss Windsor both stepped forward and introduced themselves and have been making me feel very at home. We’ve been together all afternoon.”

  Why? she wondered. Why lie, protect a girl she’d never met, whose first name she didn’t even know, who had been up to God knows what? She’d known the answer before she’d
even posed the question. Because it was exciting. Because this was New York, the beginning of her New York, and because in New York you did crazy things you would never do in Greenwich, like making up stories about knowing people you actually didn’t know at all.

  “Is that so,” Metzger was saying. Laura caught Dolly’s panicked eyes and willed some calm into the room. If Laura was caught lying, the consequences could be dire—what would Marmy say if she was kicked out of the Barbizon on her very first day? And yet the adrenaline now roaring through her body overruled everything.

  “Yes,” Laura replied coolly. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the redhead, still absently gazing out the window.

  “Well, that is interesting,” Metzger said. “Because not two hours ago Miss Windsor signed in a male guest . . .” She pulled a piece of paper from her skirt pocket. “A Mr. St. Marks. And obtained a pass for the fourth-floor lounge. And yet”—she looked directly at Laura—“there is no record of the aforementioned Mr. St. Marks ever leaving the hotel. And, in fact, several girls reported to me directly”—she slowly turned her withering stare over to the redhead—“that Miss Windsor and Mr. St. Marks were seen in a rather, shall we say, untoward position in the conservatory.” Her eyes, dark and harsh, shifted back first to Laura then to Dolly, who now appeared as if she might be sick.

  “And yet you two insist that Miss Windsor has been with you all afternoon. My, my, such intrigue! How shall we sort it all out?” She leveled her gaze back on Laura. “Now, Miss Dixon, perhaps you would like to recount exactly how you three spent your afternoon, specifically. I would love to be able to give your mother a full report.”

  The mention of Marmy struck like an elbow to the ribs. What if she truly was forced out for some breach of Barbizon ethics? Her behavior would be reported to Mademoiselle; she’d lose her job before she’d even started. Her parents would have to come and retrieve her, escort her like a murder suspect through the lobby as the other girls stood in clusters, each looking over in whispering disgust. Laura felt her courage slowly dissipating, like the air seeping out of a child’s birthday party balloon.

  “Well, I—” she began.

  “I think it’s time to tell the truth,” Dolly interjected, coming to her side and sliding her arm in Laura’s. “You see, Mrs. Metzger, it’s all quite . . . delicate, as I am sure you’ll see. We’re all just trying to protect . . . Miss Windsor. I mean, what girl doesn’t occasionally get her head turned by a handsome guy? And, of course, you no doubt saw Mr. Sinmarks for yourself—he’s quite dreamy, wouldn’t you say?—and Miss Windsor had no intention of leaving the lounge, of course, but then Mr. Sinmarks—”

  “Yes, Mr. St. Marks,” Laura interjected.

  “. . . Of course. Mr. St. Marks had heard so much about the conservatory, which is lovely, after all, and so she thought, ‘Well, I guess a little pop-in wouldn’t hurt, right?’ and then the next thing you know, Mr. St. Marks was a bit too, well, friendly, you might say, and luckily that’s when Miss Dixon and I happened to be passing by, and so we were able to intervene and convince him that it was best that his visit be cut short, and he was just so horribly embarrassed by the whole episode that he decided to leave by the back stairs, and that seemed like a good idea for everyone to avoid any more fuss, and so . . . yeah. That’s . . . everything. That’s what happened, plain and simple.” Her eyes were positively shining, as if she’d just finished some bravura performance on the stage.

  Laura looked again at the redhead, who by her measure hadn’t moved an inch from her spot in the corner, content to remain securely in the wings as this melodrama of her own creation played out. Her dress fanned out to drape artfully over both sides of the chair, and her legs were crossed daintily at the ankles, as if she were sitting for a portrait by Horst. If she appeared the least bit worried, she betrayed no sign of it.

  “Fascinating,” Mrs. Metzger said, a weariness in her voice that signaled that this was not the first time someone had offered a barely plausible, if inane, version of events centered on the comings and goings of the unpredictable Miss Windsor and one of what was surely her many male visitors. She eyed the still-stoic girl evenly. “Miss Windsor, please make sure in the future that no more of your guests are given unauthorized ‘tours’ within the building and that they leave through the front door. Are we understood?”

  The girl turned her head slowly. “Of course,” she said, producing a smile suitable for a winning hand of bridge. “Always glad to be of service. Good afternoon.”

  “Please don’t forget your appointment with Mrs. Mayhew tomorrow morning, Miss Dixon,” Metzger added as she walked to the door. “Good day, ladies.”

  No sooner had the door closed when Dolly flopped onto her bed. “Oh, good Lord!”

  “Where on earth did you come up with that?” Laura asked.

  “Hell if I know,” Dolly mumbled into the pillow. She turned her head, smiled. “Actually, I’m a little unsettled at my ability to lie that easily. I’m afraid it says something very terrible about me.”

  “Nonsense,” Laura replied. “The only thing it tells me is that if I ever get in a jam, I want you there to get me out.”

  Dolly giggled, sat upright. “Well, I guess this is as good a time as any for introductions,” she said, looking over at their guest. “I’m Dolly, this is Laura. Otherwise known as the girls who just saved your heinie.”

  “Indeed,” the girl replied brightly, rising out of her chair. “Vivian Windsor, proud subject of the queen. Bravo. I knew I’d knocked on the right door. Christ, I need a fag.” She pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and lit one. She offered one to Dolly, who readily accepted.

  Laura declined. “So, what really happened with Mr. St. Marks? I certainly hope he was worth the trouble.”

  “Good girls don’t kiss and tell. Which is, of course, precisely why I do. Despite Miss Dolly’s colorful rendition, alas the real story rather pales in comparison, I’m afraid. So I think I’m going to adopt hers and have the lasting image be one of an absolute rat scurrying down the back staircase.”

  Laura loved the girl’s faintly aristocratic bearing, her stylish wit. She longed to hear her talk further. “I get the feeling this is not exactly a new experience for you.”

  “You mean old Metzger? Oh, bosh no. We understand one another by now. She wags her finger and threatens to send me to the reformatory for bad girls, I say nothing, implying some form of contrition, and then we all happily move on. I must say that I’m not usually forced into such dramatics as intruding into the rooms of girls I haven’t yet met. Terribly rude. So sorry. But any port in a storm and all that, you know? And look at it this way: If there’s one thing the British know something about, it’s good manners. So in order to show my gratitude for saving my lovely ‘heinie’ today, I’d like to invite you girls out tonight, as my guests at the Stork.”

  Dolly looked like she might faint. “The Stork Club!” she exclaimed. “Jeez! Are you serious?”

  “It’s just a nightclub, darling, not a date with Rock Hudson, but I’m nevertheless glad to note your enthusiasm. I start work at ten, so come anytime after that and I’ll get you all squared away.”

  Laura knew the Stork. It was a nightclub famous for its glittering roster of Broadway and Hollywood celebrities, who came there to dance and sip champagne. To imagine that she’d be in such a place on her first night in New York was almost unfathomable. “What do you do there?” Laura asked.

  “Cigarette girl,” Vivian replied matter-of-factly. “One day I’ll be singing with the band, mind you, but for now, it’s strictly selling smokes and avoiding wandering hands.”

  “You’re a singer!” Dolly said, as if amazed that anything could prove more interesting than working at the Stork.

  “Only for money,” Vivian replied. “Well, I must run. See you girls later. Toodles.” And with that she floated out the door, in a strikingly different manner than she’d come in.

  As Laura contemplated the whirlwind that w
as Vivian Windsor—and how many more surprises lay within the walls of the baroque Barbizon Hotel for Women—Dolly had more pressing concerns. “Laura!” she wailed. “What in God’s name are we going to wear?”

  They should have hailed a taxi. But in all of the things she had quickly learned about Dolly, her frugality had been one of the first. Dolly had convinced her that since the Stork Club was only ten blocks away (a lie; that didn’t count the cross blocks from Lexington to Fifth), and since it was also such a nice evening, it was best if they simply sauntered their way to the club.

  It was when they reached Fifty-Third Street that Laura realized the magnitude of their mistake. She’d decided to wear her new black peep-toe heels, which were now pinching; she could already feel the beginnings of a blister on the back of her left foot. To make it all worse, the night had turned unexpectedly humid; her hair, carefully combed down to her shoulders in shiny waves, now felt like a Brillo pad.

  By the time they reached the red awning stretching across the sidewalk, STORK CLUB blazoned in big, bold letters across it, she felt her spirits lifting. “Hi, we’re friends of Vivian Windsor,” Dolly chirped to the dour doorman. He continued looking down at his clipboard, occasionally barking a terse order to a passing page or busboy. Dolly tried again. “I said, we’re friends—”

  “I heard you the first time, dear. I don’t know any Vivian . . .”

  “Windsor. She’s a cigarette girl here,” Laura said. “She invited us.”

  He looked up briefly, with an expression that conveyed that the only bigger waste of time than explaining to him that they’d been invited was telling him they’d been invited by the cigarette girl. “Oh, did she? Well, how kind of her majesty. I’m afraid you’ve come for nothing, ladies. The Stork Club does not admit unescorted women. Club policy, strictly enforced. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  Her feet were killing her and her blood simmered from the rudeness of the rejection, yet the only thing Laura could think of was how her mother would have handled the situation. How she would have demanded to see owner Sherman Billingsley himself, then whipped up such a maelstrom that she would have ended up seated in a booth with Bing Crosby. But Laura was too sore and too tired from all of the earlier drama with Vivian to channel Marmy. “Come on, we’ll take a taxi back,” she said.