Diva (The Flappers) - By Jillian Larkin Page 0,10

of prison! Now’s the time to be careful with your reputation—you should be trying to impress the folks at that other party, not rob them.”

Parker was right, Clara realized. What would this stunt do other than convince New York’s literary giants that Clara didn’t deserve to be taken seriously?

He put a hand on her arm. “How about you ditch the yacht and come out with me? There’s a new place called the Chaise Lounge downtown that’s supposed to be the cat’s pajamas.”

“Ah, I see. Your sudden concern for my career is just a way to ask me on another date.” Aside from a near kiss and the pseudodate that had ended in Gloria’s getting arrested, nothing had happened between them. But that hadn’t been for lack of trying on Parker’s part. Barely a day had gone by since that night at the Opera House without Parker inviting her to some new club or play. Clara always said no.

But why shouldn’t she go out with Parker? Marcus certainly wasn’t waiting around for her, was he? “Tell you what, boss. I’m in. Just give me a second to visit the ladies’.”

Parker gave her his usual self-assured smile. “I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby.”

Even the bathroom in this joint was swanky, with plush couches where girls could rest their sore gams, wide mirrors where they could line up to reapply their lipstick and gossip about hemlines, and sinks made of the finest marble.

Clara was really feeling her liquor tonight. It took an embarrassing amount of time to fish her lipstick out of her silver clutch—good thing no one was around to see. Once her lips were ruby red once again, she searched in her bag for something to blot with …

… and retrieved a card she’d been carrying around for the past two weeks.

The pleasure of your company

is requested at the marriage of

Anastasia Juliet Rijn …

There was a photograph in the invitation. That must have cost a pretty penny—but then, the Eastman family had many pretty pennies to spend on things like engagement photos.

Marcus’s betrothed, Anastasia, was a remarkably pretty girl with delicate bone structure and large pale eyes. She looked about as interesting as an ankle-length skirt. Clara couldn’t guess the girl’s hair color from the black-and-white photo—only that it wasn’t blond like her own. Standing next to his bride-to-be and looking happier than Clara had seen him since he’d moved to New York was Marcus. Had he ever looked so delighted with Clara, even in the beginning?

Clara folded the invitation in half and raised it to her mouth. Even though she hadn’t had it for long, it was creased and worn. She looked up at herself in the mirror. Even hours into her evening, she still looked flawless and sexy. Maybe she wasn’t the prissy debutante in the photograph, but who would want to be? She’d never been that girl, good as she’d been at pretending back in Chicago. Instead, she was a flapper, which was a hell of a lot more interesting.

So she didn’t have Marcus anymore. So what?

She crumpled the invitation and threw it in the trash.

“Out with the old,” she slurred.

LORRAINE

Bills, bills, bills, and a reminder of her next dentist appointment—how could a woman as deliciously intriguing as Lorraine accumulate such a dull pile of mail?

She really needed to send out a change of address notice. Lorraine was a Barnard girl now, and had moved from Greenwich Village to Morningside Heights; her friends and admirers needed to know where she was so that they could reach her at a moment’s notice. What if she missed an invitation to a fabulous party or a moonlight stroll with some of the Columbia boys? For all Lorraine knew, she had already received dozens of these invites, only for them to be lost on the long, arduous journey uptown.

But the most exciting letters in this stack were the regular correspondence from Lorraine’s parents. And those might as well have been addressed “To Whom It May Concern.”

Your father and I went to Minnie Wilmington’s engagement party this weekend. She’s had the hardwood floors varnished. They look lovely.

Lorraine fished the check out, crumpled up the letter, and ripped open the next.

Your father and I played golf with the Marlowes yesterday afternoon. It was a temperate day. A bit windy, though.

There were another seven letters in the stack. Her mother carried on a fairly entertaining social life, or so Lorraine had thought—how could she make it sound so utterly dreadful? Finally Lorraine just