“It’s almost done,” Florence protested, though she didn’t try to hold on to the dress.
“Good, then I won’t mess it up too badly. Call it my penance for all the booze I drank tonight.”
“I don’t like it when you talk that way.”
“I know. That’s why I do it.” Vivian turned a cheeky smile on her sister as Florence rolled her eyes and stood, stretching and rubbing the small of her back. She waited until Florence had opened the door to their bedroom—the only other room they had, even more sparsely furnished than the main room—before adding, “I love you.”
Florence’s sigh was so quiet it barely traveled across the space between them. “I love you too, Vivian.”
Vivian waited for the click of the door, then pulled the lamp closer and bent over her work. There was no reason to tell her sister about the dead man at the club. Florence’s disapproval was already a headache without a body to justify it. And Honor Huxley was clearly a woman who could handle things on her own.
Vivian’s stockinged feet tapped out a quiet Charleston beat against the floor. There was no need to tell Florence anything at all.
The clatter of the stove jolted Vivian out of sleep. She lifted her head off her arms with a groan, rubbing her eyes as the room came into slow focus. “What time is it?”
Florence glanced over from where she was making coffee. “Six thirty. Did you mean to sleep out here?”
“Of course not,” Vivian muttered, running her fingers through her hair. “I fell asleep after I finished the dress, is all.” Vivian gestured at the neatly folded bundle, yawning so widely that her jaw popped. “Mrs. Parker had better be thrilled with that thing. I don’t even want to think how many beads are on there.” She watched as Florence unfolded a corner of the dress, rubbing the silk between two fingers.
For a moment there was an unmistakable look of longing on Florence’s face, but when she saw Vivian watching she dropped the cloth abruptly and turned back to her task. “You did a good job with the beading. Go wash, and for God’s sake put on something decent. I can’t believe you let strangers touch you when you’re wearing that.”
Vivian bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying anything. She had found her dress in a secondhand shop and made it over herself to match the newest fashion. But it wasn’t worth arguing.
“Coffee will be ready when you’re respectable. I’m heading out to the market.”
“We have to be at the shop at eight.”
“I won’t take long.”
Florence had already brought in a bucket of water from the building’s common washroom and left it in the bedroom. Vivian poured a basin full of water, then stripped out of her dress, brassiere, and drawers, rolling her stockings down carefully to avoid snagging them, since she wouldn’t be able to afford a new pair for a couple of months. The water was frigid, and she scrubbed with a flannel until her skin was pink and tingling.
Her clothing from the night before was stiff with perspiration andsmelled of smoke, so she wrapped up in Florence’s dressing gown—her own had finally finished falling apart a few months ago and been turned into a curtain in the main room—and washed her dress and stockings in what was left of the water before hanging them over the creaky metal footboard of her bed. She took her time with the washing, careful of the spangles on her dress, but that meant she had to dress quickly or risk Florence returning and finding her still not ready for work.
Hemlines had been creeping up for two years. It was a style that Vivian loved and her sister detested, but working at a dressmaker’s shop meant they both had to be fashionable at work, though not too fashionable or customers would think they were getting above themselves. Miss Ethel, the shop’s owner, preferred her seamstresses and shopgirls to look a little conservative—to counteract what she clearly believed were the loose morals of any girl without a family supporting her in the city—so Vivian pulled a simple cotton skirt and sailor sweater over her underthings. There was no makeup or jewelry permitted at work, so all that was left was to run a brush over her bob until each sleek black hair fell into place.
By the time Florence returned, clad in a skirt and pretty blouse, the felt hat that she had trimmed herself perched on her tidy head, Vivian was seated at the table once more, sipping black coffee and wishing they could afford sugar.
“You look pretty today, Flo,” Vivian said. “That shade of pink always looks nice on you.”
Florence paused in the middle of unpacking the groceries and glanced over. “You look nice too.” She glanced back at the groceries and grimaced. “I hate to ask, but—”
“Are some of those for Mrs. Thomas?”
Florence nodded. “I don’t mind buying things for her,” she said, a defensive note creeping into her voice. “Really, I don’t. She has an unreasonable number of children to provide for. And I’m grateful for everything she did for us.”
“We’re both grateful. But she’s also mean as a cat and doesn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.” Vivian finished her coffee and stood. “I’d rather you not talk to her, anyway. You’ll be upset for the rest of the day if you do.”
“I don’t know how you deal with her,” Florence said, sighing as she handed over the basket of Mrs. Thomas’s groceries.
“I ignore her. That’s what you have to do with about three-quarters of the people in this world.”
“Well, my skin’s not as thick as yours.”
“I know.” Vivian stood beside her for a moment, then leaned over to press her shoulder against her sister’s. Neither of them were particularly affectionate with the other—the nuns at the home had frowned on too much touching or hugging—but that much at least she knew Florence wouldn’t flinch at. “Will you pack sandwiches? I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Vivian slipped on her shoes and tucked her purse into the basket, which she needed two hands to carry to Mrs. Thomas and her unreasonable number of children, ranging in age from five to twenty-five. Most of the older children would be out at work, though the oldest two had five children between them now and lived next door to their mother. Mrs. Thomas had married a second time ten years ago, and the second round of children that resulted had left her even sharper and more sullen than she had been when she’d had no husband around at all. Vivian had to steel herself before she knocked on the door.
“Whoever it is, you can let yourself in if you ain’t too proud, I’ve got my hands full in here!”
