If she dined downstairs in the restaurant, service to the other tables would inevitably stagnate while the staff jostled for a view from the kitchen doors to see what she was wearing.
‘Is she a movie star?’ Eva wondered, the first time she saw her.
‘She wishes!’ Rita snorted. ‘She’s a prostitute. Gets treated better than the Queen, though. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? What the world’s coming to.’
Eva couldn’t believe it. Prostitutes were women in cheap garments, standing in the shadows at the wrong end of town. ‘Really, Rita,’ she admonished, ‘you shouldn’t spread gossip.’
‘It’s not gossip. It’s a known fact. And watch who you’re calling a liar!’ Rita trotted off, chin in the air, affronted and superior.
Miss Waverley stayed in room 321 for ten days at the end of July. She’d come at the bequest of Senator Henry Clayton Grimsby of the Boston Grimsbys. However, Senator Grimsby was also travelling with his teenage daughter and son. Therefore, Miss Waverley had a corner room not too far, not too close. And, due to the fact that it was the Grimsby children’s first trip to New York, a little more time to herself.
Eva was only allowed to service her room after 3 p.m. And she looked forward to it as a child anticipates its birthday. At 3.00 precisely, Eva unlocked Miss Waverley’s door and stepped inside a world of glamour and luxury.
The wardrobes were bulging with packages from dress designers and hat makers. Beautiful gowns lay tossed onto the backs of chairs from the night before. Tissue-thin stockings were bunched on the floor; filmy underthings of satin and lace, too sheer, too delicate to even imagine wearing, lay crumpled on the bed. Eva moved slowly, carefully, savouring each moment, hanging the clothes, making the bed, pulling back the thick curtains to let in the blazing afternoon sun. The air smelled of some exotic, rich perfume and stale cigarette smoke. There were full ashtrays on the side of the bath; half-finished glasses of champagne left on the balcony.
Everything about Miss Waverley fascinated Eva. And she refused to believe that someone so sophisticated and charming stooped to the moral depths Rita described. It was most likely that she’d misunderstood; after all, Rita was far too eager to believe the worst of everyone.
Eva’s favourite bit was cleaning the dressing table. Here was the front line of female alchemy. Eva owned an old hairbrush she’d had since childhood and a small box of wiry hairpins to secure her hat – those constituted her only toiletries. But Miss Waverley’s dressing table was covered in mysterious jars, bottles and compacts; gold lipstick cases, round face-powder puffs, tins of pink rouge, black squares of eyeliner and a large perfume atomizer. She dusted and rearranged them, wondering how they were all put to use.
Eva liked to imagine this was her room she was cleaning; that she’d been up all night dancing with Mr Lambert and that these were her golden shoes on the balcony, their half-empty glasses of champagne. Here she was, hanging her beaded dresses, ready for their next evening out; these were her expensive nightgowns she was folding.
She pressed her cheek to the cool, smooth silk. This is what sophistication felt like, what it felt like to be a grownup woman.
‘It’s handmade. I had four fittings on the bodice alone. You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to get that.’
Eva’s eyes shot open.
In the doorway stood Miss Waverley.
Dressed in a tailored black-and-white summer dress and a large rimmed black sun hat, hand on her hip, she looked like some exquisite, if angry, apparition.
Eva dropped the nightgown.
‘Easy does it! Do you have any idea of what that cost?’
‘No, ma’am.’
Miss Waverley tossed her gloves and handbag on the bed. ‘Pick it up. And mind you don’t rip it.’ Taking off her hat, she gave her head a shake and her hair fell automatically back into place. ‘Did you steal anything?’
‘No, ma’am. I wouldn’t dream of it! I’m so sorry, ma’am.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, huh?’ She looked at Eva hard. ‘Just a bit curious, I suppose.’
‘I apologize, ma’am.’
Taking out a silver cigarette case, she lit one. ‘How old are you anyway?’
‘Fourteen.’
She inhaled deeply. ‘I was curious at your age. Got me into a lot of trouble.’ She walked over to the window.
‘Maybe I should come back, ma’am. Clean the room later.’
‘No, no. Later won’t be a good time.’ She took another drag. ‘Later is never a good time. Do it now.’
She went out on to the balcony, where she sat smoking, looking out over the skyline, while Eva finished the room.