Twenties Girl
Page 58
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I sigh. “Look, Sadie-”
“He’s my man! It’s my date!” she cries passionately. “Mine! With my rules! This is my last chance to have some fun with a man, and you want to spoil it by wearing some frightful dreary outfit-”
“I don’t want to spoil it-”
“You promised to do things my way! You promised!”
“Stop shouting at me!” I pull away, clutching my ear. “Jesus!”
“Is everything all right back here?” Norah appears again and eyes me suspiciously.
“Yes!” I try to compose myself. “I was just… er… on the phone.”
“Ah.” Her face clears. She nods toward the bronze silk flapper dress, still in my arms. “You want to try that on? Wonderful piece. Made in Paris. Have you seen the mother-of-pearl buttons? They’re exquisite.”
“I… um…”
“You promised!” Sadie’s about three inches from me, her chin set, her eyes fiery. “You promised! It’s my date! Mine! Mine!”
She’s like a relentless fire-engine siren. I jerk my head away, trying to think straight as best I can. There’s no way I can cope with a whole evening of Sadie yelling at me. My head will explode.
And let’s face it. Ed Harrison thinks I’m a nutter anyway. What difference does it make if I turn up in a flapper dress?
Sadie’s right. It’s her evening. I might as well do it her way.
“All right!” I say at last, cutting across Sadie’s insistent voice. “You’ve talked me around. I’ll try on the dress.”
TEN
If anyone I know sees me, I will die. I will die .
As I get out of the taxi, I look quickly up and down the street. No one in sight, thank God. I have never looked so ludicrous in my life. This is what happens when you let a dead great-aunt take control of your looks.
I’m wearing the flapper dress from the shop, which I only just managed to zip up. Clearly they didn’t go in for boobs in the twenties. My feet are squished into the dancing slippers. Six long bead necklaces are jangling around my neck. Circling my head is a black headband, beaded with jet, and sticking out of that is a feather.
A feather .
My hair has been tortured into a series of old-fashioned-looking waves and curls, which took about two hours to do with the marcel irons. When it was done, Sadie insisted I smother it in some weird pomade stuff that she also found in the vintage shop, and now it feels rock solid to the touch.
And as for my makeup: Did they honestly think this was a good look in the 1920s? My face is covered in pale powder, with a spot of rouge on each cheek. My eyes are heavily outlined in black kohl. My lids are smeared with a lurid green paste, which came out of the old Bakelite case. I still don’t know exactly what’s on my eyelashes: some weird lump of black goo which Sadie called “Cosmetique.” She made me boil it up in a frying pan and then smear it all over my lashes.
I mean, hello, I have a new Lancôme mascara. It’s waterproof, with flexible fibers and everything. But Sadie wasn’t interested. She was too overexcited by all this stupid ancient makeup and telling me how she and Bunty used to get ready for parties together and pluck each other’s eyebrows and take little swigs from their hip flasks.
“Let me see.” Sadie appears beside me on the pavement and scans me. She’s in a gold dress, with gloves up to her elbows. “You need to touch up your lipstick.”
There’s no point suggesting a nice subtle MAC lip gloss instead. With a sigh, I reach in my bag for the pot of red gunk and pat yet more color onto my exaggerated Cupid’s bow.
Two girls pass by, nudging each other and giving me curious smiles. They obviously think I’m off to a costume party and am going for Most Over the Top outfit.
“You look divine!” Sadie hugs herself with excitement. “You just need a gasper.” She starts looking up and down the street. “Where’s a tobacconist? Oh, we should have bought you a darling little cigarette holder-”
“I don’t smoke,” I cut her off. “And you can’t smoke in public places, anyway. It’s the law.”
“What a ridiculous law.” She looks aggrieved. “How does one hold a cigarette party?”
“We don’t hold cigarette parties! Smoking gives you cancer! It’s dangerous!”
Sadie makes an impatient tchuh noise. “Come on, then!”
I begin to follow her up the street toward the Crowe Bar sign, barely able to walk in my vintage shoes. As I reach the door, I realize she’s disappeared. Where’s she gone?
“Sadie?” I turn around and scan the street. If she’s left me in the lurch I will absolutely murder her-
“He’s my man! It’s my date!” she cries passionately. “Mine! With my rules! This is my last chance to have some fun with a man, and you want to spoil it by wearing some frightful dreary outfit-”
“I don’t want to spoil it-”
“You promised to do things my way! You promised!”
“Stop shouting at me!” I pull away, clutching my ear. “Jesus!”
“Is everything all right back here?” Norah appears again and eyes me suspiciously.
“Yes!” I try to compose myself. “I was just… er… on the phone.”
“Ah.” Her face clears. She nods toward the bronze silk flapper dress, still in my arms. “You want to try that on? Wonderful piece. Made in Paris. Have you seen the mother-of-pearl buttons? They’re exquisite.”
“I… um…”
“You promised!” Sadie’s about three inches from me, her chin set, her eyes fiery. “You promised! It’s my date! Mine! Mine!”
She’s like a relentless fire-engine siren. I jerk my head away, trying to think straight as best I can. There’s no way I can cope with a whole evening of Sadie yelling at me. My head will explode.
And let’s face it. Ed Harrison thinks I’m a nutter anyway. What difference does it make if I turn up in a flapper dress?
Sadie’s right. It’s her evening. I might as well do it her way.
“All right!” I say at last, cutting across Sadie’s insistent voice. “You’ve talked me around. I’ll try on the dress.”
TEN
If anyone I know sees me, I will die. I will die .
As I get out of the taxi, I look quickly up and down the street. No one in sight, thank God. I have never looked so ludicrous in my life. This is what happens when you let a dead great-aunt take control of your looks.
I’m wearing the flapper dress from the shop, which I only just managed to zip up. Clearly they didn’t go in for boobs in the twenties. My feet are squished into the dancing slippers. Six long bead necklaces are jangling around my neck. Circling my head is a black headband, beaded with jet, and sticking out of that is a feather.
A feather .
My hair has been tortured into a series of old-fashioned-looking waves and curls, which took about two hours to do with the marcel irons. When it was done, Sadie insisted I smother it in some weird pomade stuff that she also found in the vintage shop, and now it feels rock solid to the touch.
And as for my makeup: Did they honestly think this was a good look in the 1920s? My face is covered in pale powder, with a spot of rouge on each cheek. My eyes are heavily outlined in black kohl. My lids are smeared with a lurid green paste, which came out of the old Bakelite case. I still don’t know exactly what’s on my eyelashes: some weird lump of black goo which Sadie called “Cosmetique.” She made me boil it up in a frying pan and then smear it all over my lashes.
I mean, hello, I have a new Lancôme mascara. It’s waterproof, with flexible fibers and everything. But Sadie wasn’t interested. She was too overexcited by all this stupid ancient makeup and telling me how she and Bunty used to get ready for parties together and pluck each other’s eyebrows and take little swigs from their hip flasks.
“Let me see.” Sadie appears beside me on the pavement and scans me. She’s in a gold dress, with gloves up to her elbows. “You need to touch up your lipstick.”
There’s no point suggesting a nice subtle MAC lip gloss instead. With a sigh, I reach in my bag for the pot of red gunk and pat yet more color onto my exaggerated Cupid’s bow.
Two girls pass by, nudging each other and giving me curious smiles. They obviously think I’m off to a costume party and am going for Most Over the Top outfit.
“You look divine!” Sadie hugs herself with excitement. “You just need a gasper.” She starts looking up and down the street. “Where’s a tobacconist? Oh, we should have bought you a darling little cigarette holder-”
“I don’t smoke,” I cut her off. “And you can’t smoke in public places, anyway. It’s the law.”
“What a ridiculous law.” She looks aggrieved. “How does one hold a cigarette party?”
“We don’t hold cigarette parties! Smoking gives you cancer! It’s dangerous!”
Sadie makes an impatient tchuh noise. “Come on, then!”
I begin to follow her up the street toward the Crowe Bar sign, barely able to walk in my vintage shoes. As I reach the door, I realize she’s disappeared. Where’s she gone?
“Sadie?” I turn around and scan the street. If she’s left me in the lurch I will absolutely murder her-
