He frowns as if I’ve said something ridiculous. “It doesn’t really take much thought, does it? Who do you think caused the damn crash to begin with? Now they’re trying to bankrupt us with somebody else’s war. They will, too, if we don’t cut them off at the knees. Them and the communists with their Union thugs. They’ve already got Roosevelt’s stones in a jar. Congress will be next, mark my words.”
His words have the savor of regurgitation, like a schoolboy doing an impersonation of the headmaster, and I suspect he’s merely parroting someone else’s opinion. Probably because he’s never bothered to form one of his own. I keep that suspicion to myself, of course, along with the rest of my suspicions. Goldie didn’t orchestrate our invitation to this posh little hooey just to watch me get tossed out on my ear.
Teddy, having spat out the last of his political talking points, abruptly shifts to more general topics, eventually working the conversation around to horses and polo. Not that I’m surprised. I’ll wager they’re the only subjects upon which he actually possesses an opinion of his own. But then I suppose when you’re as rich and handsome as young Teddy, you needn’t be clever. The world will always be forgiving for an Adonis with a trust fund—however thickheaded.
I endure long enough to wrangle introductions to a few of his friends—or to be more precise, his father’s friends, with whom it might be advantageous to have a connection—so our conversation isn’t a complete waste. Connections are the point, after all. But when the dialogue begins to peter out, I point to my empty glass and excuse myself, not sure who I despise more—him, for being an utter fool, or you, for even considering marriage to a man so clearly your inferior.
I’ve barely gotten my drink refilled when our hostess calls us in for dinner. I feign surprise at learning that you and I are seated next to one another. In truth, it’s no accident, nor is the fact that Teddy is stationed at the opposite end of the table, as far from us as possible. Goldie is seated at his elbow, flirting openly in order to keep him occupied. I watch, amused as she lays one of those heavily jeweled hands on his arm and dips her head toward his, whispering into his ear. You are not amused.
Your eyes wandering repeatedly to their end of the table is the tell. Again, not so much that others would notice, but enough that I do. But eventually, halfway through the soup course, I manage to gain your attention long enough to begin a conversation.
“I’m both pleased and surprised,” I say, with my most charming smile, “to find myself seated beside the guest of honor.”
“One of them,” you respond snippily. “There are two of us.”
“Yes, of course. But I’m lucky enough to be sitting beside the better half.”
You sniff, brushing aside the compliment. “Wouldn’t you prefer to be sitting beside your . . . date? I’m sure she’s missing you terribly.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I smile blandly, glancing pointedly to the end of the table, where Goldie and Teddy seem to be getting on famously. “She looks to me as if she’s having rather a good time. Your fiancé seems quite engaged.”
“I’m sure she’s a brilliant conversationalist.”
Your remark drips with venom, and it’s all I can do not to bark out a laugh. “Surely you’re not worried about Teddy falling victim to Goldie’s charms.”
You set down your soupspoon and eye me coldly. “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s hardly Teddy’s type.”
I want to point out that Goldie is exactly Teddy’s type—loud and blonde and brassy—and that he isn’t half–good enough for her—or you. I want to, but I don’t. One of two things is true. Either you wouldn’t believe me or you already know I’m right. “Who is his type?” I say instead. “You?”
Your gaze drifts back down the table, lingering icily. “Certainly not someone who calls herself Goldie. It’s a name for a spaniel. Or a vaudeville performer.”
I smile, amused by your cattiness. “It’s to do with the hair, I think. Her father used to call her Goldilocks when she was little. It stuck.”
“What a charming story. She told you that herself, I suppose?”
“She did. Apparently, they were quite close. What about you? Did your father have a pet name for you?”
“I was never my father’s pet. That would be my sister.”
Your cool indifference has fallen away, exposing nerves left raw by some childhood wound. It’s not a door I expected to be invited through—at least not this soon—but I have no intention of ignoring it. “What name did he give your sister?”
“Treasure. He called her My Treasure.”
There’s a broken-glass quality to your voice I’m not meant to notice. I do, though. How could I not, when all at once, despite the collective hum of conversation, we seem to be the only two people in the room? The wine has loosened your tongue, and the unguarded moment feels both awkward and illuminating. Here, at last, is the real Belle, the woman I suspected from the beginning was lurking beneath that counterfeit smile. The one ungoverned by gears and levers. It’s in this moment, this fleeting, evanescent instant when the veil slips and you’re briefly exposed, that I realize I’m truly lost.
Damn you.
I change the subject as we move on to the fish course, remarking on how much better everything seems to taste when one is away from home. “Or maybe it’s to do with the war and how scarce things have gotten back home. Sugar, butter, bacon are all on rations now, and there’s talk of more if the thing drags on. I hope the US will be better prepared than we were.”
“My father says we’re not getting dragged into it this time. The last war taught us that we need to stay home. Teddy thinks so too.”
“And what do you think?”
Your shoulders twitch, not quite a shrug. “I don’t think about it. Not really.”
Your response annoys me. The vagueness of it, as if I’ve just asked your opinion on some obscure mathematical problem. “Too busy?”
“Women aren’t usually consulted on wars. We send our husbands and brothers and sweethearts to do the dying, hold the pieces together while they’re gone, then pick up what’s left when they come home—if they come home—but we’re seldom asked what we think.”
My annoyance falls away as I digest your response. I’m both surprised and relieved to find you’re not quite as cool—or as empty—as I originally feared. The revelation makes me strangely glad. “That’s quite an answer for someone who hasn’t given the subject much thought.”
“And what are your thoughts? You have some, presumably. Tell me, are you as mad at us Yanks as everyone else back home?”
“It’s not a question of being mad. We’re afraid of what might happen if the United States stays out. Hitler certainly hopes you do. And so far, he seems to be getting his way.”
“I assume you’re an interventionist.”
“I’m an observer, watching from a distant shore.”
“Speaking of distant shores, you never did say what brought you to ours.”