The Dollhouse - Fiona Davis Page 0,30

She’d picked it up one day and heard Mother talking on the extension to a friend, listing all of Darby’s faults. Too studious, too inward-looking. A wallflower who’d never attract a man. Mother sighed several times and Darby could tell from the tightness in her voice that she was about to cry.

“Now that Arch is gone, I have to make something of that girl,” she’d said. “And I have to do it all myself, since she doesn’t lift a finger to better herself. Her books are all she cares about. I’m ashamed to have her walking around town, with that hair and that slump in her spine. Mort wants her out of the house as soon as school is over.”

Darby waited until Mother and her friend decided her fate, off to New York City and the hope of being a career girl, before hanging up the phone softly and going to her room.

She knew she was missing something that nearly every other girl possessed: She rarely felt light or silly or flirtatious. Only with Daddy had she ever shown that side of herself. He and Mother had been the best-looking couple of their set, and both were so stylish that Darby could hardly say which of them was more beautiful. But Mother was fiercely protective of her clothing and her coiffures, always pushing Darby away, fearful that embraces would leave her wrinkled and stained. Daddy was different. He often reached for Darby and all her smudges, pulling her onto his lap and tickling her until she felt like Jell-O. Later, when she grew older, he would wrap an arm around her shoulders whenever they were in adult company that made her nervous. He liked to whisper jokes into her ear and together they would make private fun of Mother’s snooty, brainless friends.

“Miss McLaughlin, please come up to the desk.”

Darby jumped. She’d been lost in thought. What had Mrs. Allen been talking about? She looked at Maureen, who gave her an encouraging smile.

Darby walked to the front of the room.

“Keep your head up as you walk; don’t look at the floor.”

Darby obeyed, pulling her shoulders back.

“Very well, sit at the desk. When I say ‘ring, ring,’ you pick up and answer.”

Darby did as she was told. “Hello?” Her voice came out faint, as if she were at the end of a long tunnel.

“No, no, no. Weren’t you listening?”

“I–I’m sorry.”

“Obviously not. Repeat after me: ‘Mr. Blake’s office. How may I assist you today?’”

Darby did, but it wasn’t enough.

“Louder.”

She repeated the words.

“Now make it friendly. Put a smile in your voice.”

Before she could attempt another round, she was cut off. “Don’t actually do it. I said put a smile in your voice, not on your face. No one wants to see you grinning like an idiot all day.”

Tears sprang into Darby’s eyes. The Art of Conversation had said to overenunciate your consonants while speaking on the telephone. Or was it your vowels? The other girls stared at her uneasily, knowing they would get similar treatment but relieved not to be the first. She had to get this right. To prove to Mother that she could. She’d mastered biology and chemistry in school, earning straight As in every class. Surely, she could pick up a phone and answer it.

Esme’s face popped into her head. She imagined Esme onstage, bellowing out a song at the top of her lungs.

She took a deep breath. “Mr. Blake’s office. How may I assist you today?”

The words rang out confident and bright, friendly but businesslike. Perfect.

Mrs. Allen’s overly plucked eyebrows rose in surprise. “Well done. You see, it’s not really that difficult. You may sit down now.”

As she did so, she gave a quiet thanks to Esme.

The dining room was almost empty when Darby poked her head in that evening before entering, ready to retreat in case any of the Ford models still lingered. But the only other occupants were Maureen and two other Gibbs girls Darby remembered from class. Maureen marched over before Darby could pick up a tray.

“Darby, we’re getting together to drill each other for the business communication test. Wanna join in?” She introduced her friends, twins named Edna and Edith, who wore matching ponytails tied with purple ribbon.

Darby was about to decline when she caught the sound of high-pitched laughter from the end of the hall. Candy was coming. “Sure.”

The seventeenth floor, though identical to the one where Darby and the Ford girls were housed, exuded warmth and welcome. Every door was wide-open, and cheery