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Catherine sat in the bath and watched as the last of the bubbles flattened in the lukewarm water. She lost track of how long she had been in there, but no one had come for her yet. Judging from the darkening of light filtering through the bathroom window, it wouldn't be long until someone knocked on the door.
She urged herself to get up but she couldn't find the energy. She couldn't summon the energy to do much lately. It was happening again, one of her "fits" or "tantrums", as Mother liked to say, as if Catherine were an impossible child fretting because she had been denied ice cream. No one understood her dark moods, not even her dearest friend, Franny. When Catherine found herself being taken over by one, she found it best to retreat into her bedroom until it passed or until she was forced back out into society.
Mother, especially, couldn't understand the all-encompassing sadness that gripped and suffocated Catherine until she felt less than human, until she felt like a broken shell that could any moment turn into dust. Their world was filled with money and parties and glamor, and the years after the war—or "that rather grim affair," as Catherine's father called it, as if it were a toothache—had been kind to her family. They had always been wealthy and influential, but they found themselves to be even more so as New York in general seemed to swell with fortune and excess.
There was also the matter of Edward, a serious man of twenty-five who had recently become convinced that Catherine should be his wife. He should be enough, her mother said, to haul her back from her manufactured despair. Mother was beyond taken with him, and frequently invited him over for torturous dinners in which he said perhaps five words and stared at Catherine with something like distaste. If she didn't receive awkward love letters from him weekly, she would be convinced he loathed her. He had black curly hair that he sometimes forgot to smooth down, and brutally black eyes that constantly assessed his surroundings. Catherine couldn't imagine ever being happy with him, but happiness didn't seem to be something guaranteed to anyone.
The only thing that sometimes helped was writing, but she couldn't think of anything worthy to say. She had spent hours scratching needy and hopeless words on paper, dreaming they would be the key to making her feel like part of everything again—part of the pulsing, breathing, hoping city in which she lived. She had yet to dream up something that could do such a neat trick.
The door to the bathroom pushed open and Franny rushed into the room, a garment bag grasped in one dainty hand. Her face, beautiful but overdone with makeup, was scrunched with annoyance. She wore an ivory dress that barely hit her knees, and her flame-colored hair had been styled in careful waves that elegantly framed her face. Pearls she'd borrowed from Catherine and had never returned swayed from her neck. She looked every bit like the heartbreaker she was, and Catherine thought, not for the first time, how much she wished she could emulate her style.
"I just had the honor of running into your mother. I thought she was out of town this week."
Catherine shifted in the cool water and rested against the back of the tub. "Next week."
Franny scowled. "I made plans for us tonight."
"We can still keep them. My father has been drinking all day; he won't make it to dinner."
"And your mother?"
"Mother and I got into an argument before. I am sure she'll be relieved that I'm out." Catherine glanced at the garment bag. "What do you have there?"
Franny's expression transformed from put-upon to thrilled. Her red lips stretched into one of her breathtaking grins as she unzipped the bag. "Only the most fabulous dress in New York!" A silky pale green dress with delicate beading emerged from the bag. Catherine could tell that the neckline was even lower than Franny's. "Bee's knees, no?"
"Very pretty."
"It's for you," Franny said. "It doesn't fit me right. Richard said I could give it to you."
Richard was Franny's husband. He was friends with Edward and almost as severe, but Catherine had spied him smile a few times at the prettier servants. He was exactly the type of husband Franny wanted; he turned his head as easily as she did, and their arrangement served them well.
Catherine smiled, knowing that Franny was likely lying and had intentionally purchased the dress for her. "Thank you. Could you hand me that towel?"
They chatted about gossip while Catherine readied herself. Franny typically knew the extra good news because of her status as a married woman, and she enjoyed shocking Catherine with the stories she collected. She enjoyed shocking Catherine, in general.
"And Dorothy's husband walked in on them?" Catherine asked after one particularly torrid story. She slipped on the dress and looked for heels to match.
"Threatened to kill them both!" Franny shrugged. "She's just a quiff, anyway. A boring one, at that. This is the most interesting thing that ever happened to her."
"So she's running off to Paris with her man?"
"No. Her husband is moving out to California with her. Thinks that'll make her a good girl."
Catherine grinned and shook her head. "Dorothy was never a good girl."
"She used to go with Edward." Franny watched for Catherine's reaction and rolled her eyes when Catherine remained calm. "I don't know why you're so cool about Edward. If he had even sniffed in my direction back in the day, I would have snatched him up and made him mine."
"He's so... stiff."
Franny raised her eyebrows. "Are you speaking from experience?"
"Behave," Catherine laughed.
"He's swell, Catherine. All the girls think so. And you don't have to like your husband, didn't anyone ever tell you that? As a matter of fact, most women don't."
"You like Richard."
Franny twisted her lips. "Only when he buys me things."
Catherine laughed and grabbed her purse. They walked downstairs, their heels clicking on the stairs. Catherine's mother appeared and frowned. Her eyes, a darker green than Catherine's own, scanned Catherine's dress and the frown deepened.
"Are you eating with Frances tonight?"
Catherine adjusted the clip in her hair and fought back a snarky response. "Yes, Mother. I won't be back until late."
Mother nodded. "Very well. Stay out of trouble, girls."
Franny smiled sweetly, aware of Mother's dislike of her. "We always do."
*****
Cheerful jazz greeted them when they pushed open the doors to their favorite secret little place. People packed together in happy little circles, clutching their forbidden liquor. Although it was only eight, it was clear that the majority of them had been there for hours already. The wood floor underneath their floors was slightly sticky from the overflowing drinks, and the air smelled like a strangely alluring combination of booze, perfume and sweat. The lights were so dim that one could hardly make out the features of a person just a few feet away, but the stage was bright and sharp around the musicians and the dancers moving dangerously close to the edge.
"Billy should have a table for us," Franny shouted in Catherine's ear.
The women moved through the crowd and found their friend sitting lazily in the corner. A small purple lamp sat in the middle of the table, illuminating his face. Billy was the best looking man Catherine had ever seen, with dark wavy hair and gray eyes that seemed to sizzle when they met your own. They had experimented with kissing when they had been younger. If Billy's tastes didn't lie elsewhere, he would have been an excellent match for Catherine. As it was, he wanted to remain unattached to pursue his illicit attractions and she respected that.
"You two look swell," he said, a grin brightening his features. "Catherine, are those... is that your bosom?"
He smirked when she stopped and blushed, though it was too dark to make out the red on her cheeks. He knew the effect of his words, just as he knew the effect of his looks.
Franny dropped into a chair across from him. "Men can thank me for that tonight."
"So charming," Catherine murmured, uselessly pulling her dress up. The same amount of cleavage remained on display.
Billy's careless eyes assessed her in the scant light. "You do look good, Kitty Cat. Eddie would be all over you like you were catnip."
"She's the cat's meow," Franny laughed. "Meow, Cat." She beckoned a waiter over with a hand and asked for a bottle of champagne. When he went off to get it for them, she hunched over the table as if she were telling a secret. "I told Cat it was time to give poor Edward a break."
Billy pulled out a few cigarettes and handed them to the women before lighting his own. "Does seem like a good idea."
"If we could only talk about something interesting for a change," Catherine said.
