‘I presume she has no husband.’ It was a statement rather than a question.
‘Not that I know of, sir.’
He sighed, rubbed his eyes. ‘She doesn’t want to go to the hospital. But she’ll need this for the pain. And she needs to eat something and drink lots of fluids. Give her anything – just so long as she rests and takes it easy. Do you understand?’
She nodded. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
He put on his hat. ‘She’s having a miscarriage. Quite a good idea to sit in the bath actually. Here.’ He handed her a bill. ‘Call me again if her temperature rises or the pain gets too bad.’
Then he left, going down to the far end of the hallway to use the service staircase.
Eva came back several times to check on Miss Waverley in between her duties. By early evening, she was in bed resting and Eva had managed to get her to eat some ice cream, drowned in Coca-Cola.
She sat in the corner of the room as Miss Waverley drifted in and out of sleep, her face drawn, lips colourless, tense with pain. The man hadn’t rung again.
A little before nine, Miss Waverley woke and sat up in bed.
‘You’re still here.’ Reaching across to the nightstand, she groped for her cigarettes. Lighting one, she leaned back against the pillows and took a deep drag.
‘You need to eat something.’
‘Where’s that medicine?’
‘Here.’
After she’d taken some, washed down by whisky, she looked across at Eva. ‘Why did you stay?’
‘You needed help.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘France. The countryside, near Lille.’
Miss Waverley exhaled, a stream of smoke drifting up slowly to the ceiling. ‘Farmland?’
‘Yes,’ Eva nodded. ‘My grandparents had a small dairy farm.’
‘I came from Minnesota. I can still smell the cow shit. I’d rather die than go back.’
‘Really? I thought maybe you were from New York.’
She laughed, like a hard little cough. ‘Well, we don’t have to tell everyone, do we? Are your parents alive?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry for you. You have to make your own way then, don’t you?’
It had never occurred to Eva that there was another way. ‘Yes. I suppose so.’
The woman tilted her head. ‘There aren’t many professions a girl with no background can go into.’
‘No, ma’am.’
Miss Waverley’s face tensed. Stubbing out her cigarette, she looked exhausted again. ‘You can go now. I’ll be fine. Turn out the light, please. No one needs to know about this, understand?’
The next day, Miss Waverley’s normal morning appointments resumed.
And when Eva went to service her room that afternoon, she was out.
After that, Eva took it upon herself to visit Miss Waverley almost every afternoon. She often entertained at odd hours, with black jazz musicians from Harlem, exotic dancers and nightclub performers. There were buckets of champagne and bottles of gin, and there was music playing constantly. Both she and her guests treated Eva like a cross between a pet and a little sister; calling her Lulu for no particular reason other than it made them laugh, teaching her how to dance, sending her on endless errands for cigarettes, magazines and chocolates. But she didn’t mind. In fact, she loved feeling that she was a part, no matter how peripheral, of Miss Waverley’s glamorous set.
Sometimes there was no one else and Eva and Miss Waverley would spend the time alone. Eva guessed that she didn’t like being on her own much; she sensed that, left by herself, Miss Waverly’s mood could be changeable and even morbid. She needed the reassurance of company. So she would amuse herself by trying on different outfits for her evening engagements and Eva would help her to select her jewellery and accessories. Other times, Miss Waverley would sun herself, lying naked on a silk robe on the balcony while Eva ironed her clothes.
Miss Waverley had no shame of her body but treated it rather like a weapon, meant to disarm those around her. She held her head high, her shoulders back, hips swaying as she sauntered lazily from one room to the next. And she was physically fascinating; her breasts were high and full, with pink swollen nipples. Her pubic hair curled in thick dark tendrils. She teased Eva, winking as she walked by, ‘You know, you really shouldn’t stare,’ which made Eva blush. Only she couldn’t help staring. Eva couldn’t tell if she was in fact perfect, or simply gave the impression of perfection. And Eva was shocked and yet mesmerized by the overwhelming undertow of eroticism that surrounded her. Eva’s own body was just forming, tiny buds of breasts and a pale hint of hair around her groin, of which she was inexplicably both ashamed and frightened. She avoided looking at herself in the mirror. But Miss Waverley was like some wonderful goddess, meant to be openly adored.