The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [126]
He mopped his face again and beamed at her. “I’ll pay you a hundred dollars a week.”
“A hundred!” she exclaimed, shocked.
“Oh, well, then, a hundred and fifty,” he said quickly, “with a raise after three months.”
Missie stared at him, awed into silence.
“I’ll speak to Elise about it,” he said confidently. “She won’t like losing her new star mannequin so soon, but I’ll make it up to her. I’ll let her design all your clothes for the show. She’ll sell a million just from that alone. I’ll tell her I want you to look like gossamer and moonbeams and we’ll drape you with ropes of diamonds from Cartier—nothing but the best for Verity Byron, Ziegfeld’s latest and most glittering star.”
He beamed, patting her shoulder paternally. “One thing I can guarantee you, Miss Verity, is success. And of course”—he grinned knowingly at her—“a hundred and fifty bucks every Saturday, regular as clockwork.”
Missie shivered. The sun had gone and it was getting dark. “I … I don’t know what to say,” she murmured, bewildered. “It’s all so fast. I mean, a few weeks ago I didn’t even have a job.”
“That’s New York for ya.” He grinned, taking her elbow as they walked back to the house. “Just don’t worry about a thing, I’ll work it out with Elise.”
“But, Mr. Ziegfeld,” she said, clutching his arm, “the truth is, I’m scared.”
Her eyes were round and she looked close to tears. He said gently, “What is there to be scared of? It’s only the same as you’ve been doing for Elise, just the audience is bigger, that’s all. I’m telling you, you’ll love it. All my girls do. Just one big happy family, that’s Ziegfeld’s. I’ll keep an eye on you, I’ll vet all those stage-door Johnnies personally and make sure you only go out with the best. Okay? I’ll go right now and talk to Elise. I’ll be in touch, Miss Verity.”
Missie stared after him as he bustled up the steps. Had she really agreed to become a Ziegfeld girl, or had he just assumed she had? She closed her eyes, trying to imagine herself on an enormous stage, dressed in gossamer and diamonds and dating stage-door romeos, and she wondered how she could even think of it. And then she thought of the hundred and fifty dollars “every Saturday, regular as clockwork” and she knew she would.
She shivered again. It was dark now. The false warmth of a too-early spring day had disappeared and the wind had a March edge to it. But she had lost all her mannequin’s aloof poise. She was just Missie again and she didn’t want to go back inside and face the party.
Tires crunched on the gravel and a long yellow car drew up in front of the house. She turned away as a man got out and ran past her up the steps. His footsteps stopped suddenly and then she heard them returning. As he drew level with her she could smell the smoke from his cigar.
“B’jaysus, Missie?” O’Hara’s astonished voice said. “Can that really be you?”
She swung around, staring at him in amazement. It was O’Hara, all right, but O’Hara with a difference. His bright red curls were pomaded flat, he was wearing a sharp gray suit, patent leather shoes, and a gray silk ascot with a large pearl stickpin, and he was smoking a very large cigar.
He grabbed her hands eagerly, crushing them in his. “I turn out of a Sunday evenin’ to make a delivery, and what’s me reward? Why, Missie O’Bryan, the girl of me dreams!” He laughed uproariously. “That’s what you get for being a man of your word. Delivery anytime, day or night, that’s O’Hara’s motto, and I’m proud to tell you it’s a successful one.