dress. I’m imagining our girl as being extremely provocative in the way she walks and talks—that would be you, Celia—but still untarnished by the world, in a way. Sexy, but with an air of innocence about her.”
“A whore with a heart of gold,” said Celia, who was smarter than she looked.
“Exactly,” said Peg.
Edna touched Celia’s arm gently. “Let’s just call your character a soiled dove.”
“Sure, I can play that.” Celia reached for another pork chop. “Mr. Herbert, how many lines do I get?”
“I don’t know!” said Mr. Herbert, looking more and more unhappy. “I don’t know how to write a . . . soiled dove.”
“I can make up some stuff for you,” offered Celia—a true dramatist, that one.
Peg turned to Edna. “Do you know what Billy said when I told him that you were here, Edna? He said, ‘Oh, how I envy New York City right now.’”
“Did he?”
“He did, that flirt. He also said: ‘Watch out, because you never know what you’ll get with Edna onstage: some nights she’s excellent, other nights she’s perfect.’”
Edna beamed. “That’s so sweet of him. Nobody could ever make a woman feel more attractive than Billy could—sometimes for upwards of ten consecutive minutes. But, Peg, I must ask: Do you have a role for Arthur?”
“Of course I do,” said Peg—and I knew in that moment that she did not have a role for Arthur. In fact, it was pretty clear to me that she’d forgotten about Arthur’s existence entirely. But there was Arthur, sitting there in all his simpleminded handsomeness, waiting for his role like a Labrador retriever waits for a ball.
“Of course I have a role for Arthur,” Peg said. “I want him to play”—she hesitated, but only for the briefest moment (you might not have even noticed the hesitation, if you didn’t know Peg)—“the policeman. Yes, Arthur, I plan for you to play the policeman who’s always trying to shut down the speakeasy, and who’s in love with Edna’s character. Do you think you could manage an American accent?”
“I can manage any accent,” said Arthur, miffed—and I instantly knew that he absolutely could not manage an American accent.
“A policeman!” Edna clapped her hands. “And you’ll be in love with me, dear! What larks.”
“I didn’t hear anything before about a policeman character,” said Mr. Herbert.
“Oh, no, Mr. Herbert,” said Peg. “The policeman has always been in the script.”
“What script?”
“The script you’ll commence writing tomorrow morning, at break of day.”
Mr. Herbert looked like he was about to be afflicted with a nervous disorder.
“Do I get a song of my own to sing?” asked Arthur.
“Oh,” said Peg. There was that pause again. “Yes. Benjamin, do be sure to write that song for Arthur, which we discussed. The policeman’s song, please.”
Benjamin held Peg’s gaze and repeated with only the slightest sarcasm: “The policeman’s song.”
“That’s correct, Benjamin. As we’ve already discussed.”
“Shall I just steal a policeman’s song from Gershwin, perhaps?”
But Peg was already turning her attention to me.
“Costumes!” she said brightly, and scarcely had the word left her mouth before Olive declared, “There will be virtually no budget for costumes.”
Peg’s face dropped. “Drat. I’d forgotten about that.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I’ll buy everything at Lowtsky’s. Flapper dresses are simple.”
“Brilliant, Vivian,” said Peg. “I know you’ll take care of it.”
“On a strict budget,” Olive added.
“On a strict budget,” I agreed. “I’ll even throw in my own allowance if I have to.”
As the conversation continued, with everyone except Mr. Herbert getting more excited and making suggestions for the show, I excused myself to the powder room. When I came out, I almost ran into a good-looking young man with a wide tie and a rather wolfish expression, who’d been waiting for me in the corridor.
“Say, there, your friend’s a knockout,” he said, nodding in the direction of Celia. “And so are you.”
“That’s what we’ve been told,” I replied, holding his gaze.
“You girls wanna come home with me?” he asked, dispensing with the preliminaries. “I gotta friend with a car.”
I studied him more closely. He looked like a piece of very bad business. A wolf with an agenda. This was not somebody a nice girl should tangle with.
“We might,” I said, which was true. “But first we have a meeting to conclude, with our associates.”
“Your associates?” he scoffed, taking in our table with its odd and animated assortment of humanity: a coronary-inducingly gorgeous showgirl, a slovenly white-haired man in his shirtsleeves, a tall and dowdy middle-aged woman, a short and stodgy middle-aged woman, a stylishly dressed lady of means, a