“Give us one, will you?” the green fairy asked, striking a very artificial pose and indicating the cigarette case in his hand. She was too young to be so world-weary, Ramsay thought. He suspected she was acting. She had a suitcase with her. Was she just off the train and already plying her trade?
“Please,” he said.
“Give us one, please.”
He offered a cigarette reluctantly and then lit it for her. She choked immediately.
“Turkish tobacco,” Ramsay said. “Highly unsuitable for juveniles. You have to work your way up to them from something milder.”
She took another, less ambitious drag and, stifling a cough, said, “I am not a juvenile.” Holding out a hand towards him, she said, “Fay le Mont, how d’you do? It’s my stage name,” she added defensively when she saw his sceptical expression.
Ramsay returned her handshake rather warily and said, “Ramsay Coker. Not a stage name,” he added.
“Are you one of the Cokers?” she asked eagerly.
“Well…” he demurred. Must he always be tarred with notoriety? Never to have his own identity? But—a stage name! Why hadn’t he thought of that? Not a stage name, a nom de plume. An identity far removed from his mother’s business. The name Coker implied infamy, he would never be able to shake it off and acquire respect in the world of literature. What should he choose? Something manly, like John Buchan. Something more enigmatic. Ricard de Saint Pierre, Jean DeFlamme. That had been the name of his French teacher at school. They had—
“Still here,” the green fairy said, grinding out her barely smoked cigarette beneath the heel of one of her silver dance shoes. They looked identical to the one he had found in the storeroom of the Sphinx.
Ramsay sighed. “What do you want?”
“A job.”
“A job?”
“Yes, a job. Dancing. In there,” she said, indicating the Amethyst. “Please.”
Nellie would never take her on. She was waif-thin, a half-starved stray. “When did you last eat?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer he sighed again and, stubbing out his own cigarette, said, “Follow me.”
* * *
—
In the office behind Nellie’s booth Ramsay could see Kitty, sprawled on the sofa that was kept back there, leafing idly through a copy of Picture Play. Ramsay had to stifle the urge to join her, but he was under Nellie’s whip now that he’d crossed the threshold of the club.
Their mother was wearing a strange concoction of feathers and fringing. Her dressmaker took the latest fashions and translated them for Nellie’s figure. “The Queen of Puddings,” Betty said. Both Betty and Shirley had evening dresses from all the best couturiers in Paris. Edith, too, for that matter, although she never wore them in the right spirit. The dresses were “business expenses,” according to Nellie, who said the girls had to “look the part,” as if they were characters on a stage.
“You are,” Nellie said.
* * *
—
Nellie raised an eyebrow at Ramsay. “Who is this?”
“A girl,” Ramsay said.
“I can see that.”
“She wants a job as a dance hostess.”
“Does she now?”
Nellie peered at Freda over the top of her spectacles and said to Ramsay, “How old is she?”
“Don’t know.” He turned to Freda and said, “How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Sixteen,” he reported back to Nellie. Nellie laughed and went back to sticking bills on a spike. Freda glanced at Ramsay for clarification. He shrugged.
Eventually, Nellie looked up again and said to Freda, “What’s your name?”
“Fay. Fay le Mont.”
Nellie laughed scathingly now and said, “And I’m the Queen of the Fairies. What’s your real name, dear? Tell me the truth.”
Ramsay knew from a lifetime’s experience （literally） that it was impossible to lie to Nellie when she turned the spotlight of her attention on you, and Freda crumbled like many before her and admitted, “Freda. Freda Murgatroyd.”
“Take Miss Murgatroyd down to Betty, Ramsay. See what she makes of her.”
“Really?” Ramsay said, surprised. He had been expecting his mother to reject her. The girl would be a bagatelle down there, snapped up like one of the novelties that were sold in the club.
“Yes, really,” Nellie said. “We’re short of hostesses.”
“If you say so, Ma.”