At the Telegraph Club there was a couple talking to the bouncer, who said something Lily didn’t catch, but which resulted in the man pulling out his wallet and handing over a few bills. The bouncer took the money and folded it into her jacket pocket, then held the door open for them with a flourish. From inside the club the sound of conversation and laughter escaped out onto the street in a brief, rising wave before it was snuffed out by the door. Jean and Kath approached the bouncer next, and Lily wondered if they would have to pay—she began to reach into her handbag for the money she had brought to pay back Kath for the beers—but Jean said, “It’s been a while, how are ya, Mickey?”
Mickey did an exaggerated double take. “Jean Warnock! Back for Thanksgiving?”
“That’s right. How’s the show?”
“As good as ever,” Mickey said. “This your friend? Oh, I remember you.”
“I’m Kath. And this is my friend Lily.”
Lily came forward hesitantly, feeling out of place among these three girls in blazers and slacks. “Hello.”
Mickey grinned at her. “Welcome back, doll.” Mickey opened the door and gestured them inside with a miniature bow directed at Lily, as if she were an empress.
“Thank you,” Lily said selfconsciously. She followed Jean and Kath through the black door into the dim, narrow bar, and the smell of the club struck her again—cigarettes and beer and perfume and sweat. In the stage room, the tables were nearly full, but they’d arrived slightly earlier than last time, and Jean spied a table in a corner, half obstructed by a black pillar. There were only two chairs, but Jean insisted that Kath and Lily take them, because she was going to the bar first and would return with drinks. Lily wasn’t sure if she should offer to pay. It felt wrong for Jean and Kath to pay for her, but it also felt awkward to insist, as if she were among Chinese people arguing over a restaurant bill. It was loud in the club, and she’d have to shout through the noise—and then it was too late to offer because Jean had already left to go to the bar.
Kath had barely taken her seat before she jumped up again and darted across the room to grab a third chair, maneuvering it back to their table for Jean. Kath sat down again and said, “Hope Jean gets back before the show starts.”
Lily had her purse on her lap, and she opened it and pulled out a couple of dollars. “I brought money.” She held it out to Kath, who seemed surprised. “For the beer. I owe you from last time.”
Kath waved it off. “No you don’t, it was on me.”
Lily suspected that she had more pocket money than Kath, but there was a hint of pride in Kath’s tone that suggested she wanted to pay. It was confusing but also flattering, and as the spotlight came on and the pianist began to play, she let her hand sink down to her lap, still holding the money.
This time she knew what to expect, but that knowledge didn’t blunt her anticipation. Instead it seemed to magnify it: the slow electric thrill that built from deep inside herself as she heard the opening bars of “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered.” When the murmur from the back of the room began, she turned in her chair to search through the dimness for Tommy Andrews’s dark-suited figure. When she finally appeared, her face coming into the light for a transitory moment, Lily caught her breath. And then as she stepped onto the stage, her back to the audience, Lily felt that sweet, warm buzz spreading over her skin as if a charge were rising from her very pores.
When Jean returned with the drinks, Lily barely noticed. Unlike her first visit to the club, when she had squirmed with worry that someone might notice her, tonight she allowed herself to look, to sink into the looking, until all she saw was Tommy. Tommy’s hands as she adjusted the knot of her black tie, the gold signet ring glinting in the light. Tommy’s mouth, surprisingly pink and pretty, as she sang with a tiny smirk into the microphone. Tommy’s dark eyes, lazily half closed or winking at a girl in the front row. The more Lily watched, the more she began to pick out the tiny feminine details that had eluded her last time. Tommy’s face was smooth and softly rounded; her hands were small and slim. And beneath the starched white shirt and tailored tuxedo jacket, Lily detected the slight swell of breasts. That made Lily’s face burn, and for a moment she had to lower her gaze to the table, where she saw the glass of beer Jean had bought for her. She reached for her drink and was startled to discover that she was still clutching her money, now crumpled and limp from her sweaty grasp. She smoothed out the damp dollar bills under the table, replacing them in her purse, and then picked up the beer. She took a trembling sip of the cold, faintly bitter liquid, and then another, and when she raised her eyes back to the stage she could watch again.