The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [140]
Rosa thought she had never seen her look so lovely. She was wearing a beautiful red taffeta dress with the diamond snake bracelets around her upper arms and her lovely hair was swept up at the sides with diamond clips. But it wasn’t the dress and the diamonds, she thought, awed. Missie didn’t need them tonight. The poor, pretty girl from Rivington Street had acquired the beauty and sparkle of “a star.”
“Rosa!” The other girls turned to stare curiously as Missie flung herself at the bedraggled figure standing by the door. “Oh, Rosa, I’m so glad you came. I got you a good seat so that you wouldn’t miss anything. Tell me, what did you think?”
Her eyes searched Rosa’s anxiously for approval and Rosa grinned. “Mr. Ziegfeld kept his promise,” she said. “He made Missie O’Bryan into Verity Byron, the star. You were wonderful, Missie, just beautiful.”
Missie laughed, then her face fell suddenly, “The only thing is, Rosa,” she said uncomfortably, “I don’t actually do anything—like dance or sing or make jokes. All I do is stand there to be looked at.”
“For two hundred a week—is enough,” Rosa said firmly. “If Ziegfeld wants you to dance and sing, he pays a thousand.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Missie said, laughing.
“The ticket I changed for fifty dollars also,” Rosa said. “I couldn’t sit next to the swells in the stalls dressed like this, could I?”
“Ohhh.” Missie hugged her contritely. “Of course, I should have thought of it.”
“No reason you should,” Rosa replied softly. “You should forget all about being poor as soon as possible. Poverty does not make good memories.”
“But there’s you, Rosa,” Missie retorted, “I will never forget you. You are still my best friend. And Zev.” She looked at her, puzzled. “But, where is Zev?”
“You don’t know?” she asked, astonished. “By the butcher, by the baker, by the carts, everyone is talking about it. How Zev Abramski sold up his pawnbroker shop and left for Hollywood. To make his fortune in the movie business. That’s what they said.”
Missie glanced at the flowers on her dressing table, “You mean he has gone?” she asked, shocked. “Without saying anything? Without at least telling me?” She felt let down, sad … like O’Hara, Zev had always been there, he had become part of her life, her friend … and now this.
“Believe me,” Rosa whispered, patting her arm reassuringly, “is for the best. A young man like Abramski is not for you. And he knew it too. He left no forwarding address. It’s better what he’s done. Forget him, Missie, and live your own life. Like Ziegfeld said, ‘Enjoy. ’”
“It’s time to leave for the party,” the girls called.
Missie looked sadly at Rosa and said, “I have to go. Ziegfeld is throwing an opening night party at Rector’s. Will you come and see me soon, Rosa? Bring the children?”
She clutched her arm, looking suddenly pathetically young despite the new veneer of sophistication, and Rosa replied, “I’l? come when you need me. Don’t worry, Missie, I’m still your friend.” And with a wave and a smile, she disappeared down the corridor, sniffing at the irate doorman as she scampered past.
Eddie Arnhaldt sat in the aisle seat in the fourth row of the stalls in the New Amsterdam Theater, feeling vaguely irritated by Fanny Brice’s comedy routine and wishing that Gaby Delys had been on longer. But what he was really waiting for was Verity Byron. In the interval he took a stroll round the foyer, smoking a special handmade Turkish cigarette and inspecting the ladies, though he thought they compared unfavorably with German women: too slight, too breastless, too brittle. Not one of them in this foyer could compare with his mother when she was a young woman and even now that she was older, she was still stately and handsome. And strong. Eddie knew what he liked in women. He was the same as all the Arnhaldts; he liked them tall,