SATURDAY, 13 APRIL 1921
Oh, what a spiffing weekend this is turning out to be! thought Poppy as she stepped out of the bathroom she shared with Delilah and opened her wardrobe to decide what to wear. Tonight she, Rollo, and Delilah were going to a speakeasy, which, according to her friends, was a bit like Oscar’s Jazz Club, only its location was supposedly a secret. It was all very intriguing, and Poppy, of course, could never resist a mystery. That, on top of the fun-filled day they’d already had, was making New York a giddyingly exciting place to be.
On Friday, the five of them had settled into their new lodgings – a townhouse owned by Rollo’s family and made available to them for the full duration of their stay. With five storeys, it had more than enough room for them all. Of course, Aunt Dot insisted that she couldn’t possibly impose, as her decision to come to New York had been so last-minute, and if Mr Rolandson would only point her in the direction of the nearest hotel… Rollo, naturally, had pooh-poohed this and said he had the perfect set of rooms for her on the first floor, with a balcony overlooking a small walled garden, and a stair-lift to help her up and down the stairs.
Rollo had had the lift installed the last time he was in New York as his dwarfish legs made ascending and descending most difficult. Back home in London he lived in a penthouse on a single floor, and of course at work – at the Globe office – he had a lift to ride. As Poppy had come to realize, with both an aunt and a boss with handicaps, the world was not built for such as they.
So Aunt Dot and Miss King settled in on the first floor, with connecting rooms and a shared bathroom, and Poppy and Delilah took the matching suite on the floor above. Rollo’s room was on the third floor, along with his private study and bathroom. The top floor housed Freddy (who, to Poppy’s disappointment, was away for a few weeks on business), and other members of the Rolandson family if they chose to visit or stay over in town.
The ground floor held the reception rooms, and below ground was the kitchen and staff accommodation. There was a butler, a cook, and two maids who lived in the house, whether or not any of the family were in residence. Rollo commented on the expense of it all – seeing Freddy was hardly there and his mother only rarely visited – but then added that seeing the family money was no longer his he had no say in it.
The money was no longer his? Poppy wondered what he meant but didn’t probe any further. Rollo, despite his ebullient personality, was a private man, and wouldn’t appreciate her sticking her nose into his business uninvited.
On arriving at the townhouse, everyone was tired from their journey so they decided to stay in to eat and then have an early night. Delilah looked disappointed, but said she would delay painting the town red until Poppy had the energy to accompany her. “But don’t take too long, old girl; I’m not getting any younger!” Poppy had laughed and said she promised to make up for it the next day.
Poppy hummed to herself as she flicked through her wardrobe, remembering the events of the day so far. The morning had dawned bright and lovely. Despite all the traffic in New York, somehow it didn’t have half as much smog as London. During a vast breakfast of eggs, bacon, and some odd-looking but delicious ring-shaped pastries, which Rollo called “bagels”, the household had discussed their plans for the day. It was agreed that they would start with a visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which was only a short walk away on the edge of Central Park, and that they would follow that, if the weather held, with a ride around the park in a horse-drawn carriage.
“And then,” said Rollo, “we’ll top it off with a visit to my favourite café, which makes the most devilish cheesecake.”
Cheesecake? Bagels? Poppy feared her girth would be spreading on this trip to New York, then had stared in horror as Rollo slapped some bacon onto his bagel and drenched the whole lot with maple syrup. Would it be rude to ask just for a slice of toast tomorrow morning? she had wondered.
But as the day turned out, she indulged in everything New York had to offer, from bagels, to museums, to carriage rides, to cheesecake. And yes, Rollo was right: it was devilish.
Poppy sighed at the memory of it all, then pulled in her tummy as far as she could. Sometimes she wished corsets were back in fashion. Her fuller figure didn’t look half as good in the latest shift frocks as the waif-like Delilah’s.
There was a knock on the door. Delilah stuck her head round. “What are you wearing, old bean?”
Poppy turned around, hands on hips, wearing just a pair of camiknickers and one of those new-fangled bandeau brassieres that supposedly flattened the breasts to boyish proportions. Her tummy might not be strapped in, but her bosoms certainly were! Golly, how was a girl supposed to breathe in these things?
Delilah didn’t need a bandeau; Delilah didn’t need anything to make her look more beautiful. Poppy gasped when she saw what her friend was wearing. “By Jove! Isn’t that what you had on the first night I met you at Oscar’s?”
Delilah twirled around. “This old thing? Oh fiddlesticks, I think you might be right! Should I change?”
“No!” said Poppy. “You look – well – you look simply heavenly.”
Poppy remembered the first time she had seen the young actress: when she had just come off the dance floor after swooning from her first ever glass of champagne. Back then, Poppy had thought Delilah looked like Cleopatra reborn into the twentieth century; she thought the same again now.
Delilah had just trimmed her sleek black bob so the fringe – or “bangs”, as the Americans called it – brushed the top of her shapely, dark brows. Her Mediterranean olive skin perfectly accented her coal-dark eyes, further emphasized by thick lines of charcoal. She was wearing the shortest sleeveless dress Poppy – back in the summer of 1920 – had ever seen. A shimmering gold number, covered in tassels from neck to hem, which stopped a good two inches above the knee. She wore a long string of pearls, knotted halfway at waist level, and matching “slave bangles” on each bicep. On her right forearm she wore another bangle, styled like a snake, winding its way up from her wrist.
“Not too much?” asked Delilah with a mischievous smile.
Poppy threw back her head and laughed. “Oh Delilah, you’re always too much. But that’s what I love about you.” And then she turned back to her wardrobe. “But actually, if you’re wearing that, why don’t I wear this?”
She pulled out a dress and held it up for her friend’s approval. It was a sheer red satin shift with a Vandyked hem that would brush the top of her knees and reveal lines of tantalizing flesh between the fingers of fabric. The red satin was overlaid with navy blue lace and cobalt blue beads appliquéd in abstract swirls.
“And that’s the dress you wore the night I met Charlie Chaplin!” squealed Delilah and clapped with delight. “And of course you must wear the red satin shoes with the Cuban heels and that gorgeous little evening bag with the tassels, and the red satin headband with the feather brooch!”
“Of course!” said Poppy and did a little dance on the spot. Oh yes, this is going to be a marvellous night!