about running into Charlie Chaplin at the 21 Club. Parker looked like he was posing for a photograph, just like everyone else at Forrest Hamilton’s party.
Clara had been hoping to find more stimulating conversation, but alas—she hadn’t. She’d left the dance floor when she saw a girl in an orange beaded dress dance the treacherously fast quick-time fox-trot with a man in a blue suit. Their moves were perfect, without even the hint of a stumble, their faces etched with the self-satisfied, determined smiles of people eager to impress.
It had annoyed her.
Everyone at this party was trying so hard to prove how wonderful and interesting they were. These flappers and swells were supposed to be the most fun-loving people in the world. But what time was there for fun when a person had to put so much effort into having it?
“You know, Hamilton’s a Broadway producer!” Parker’s oh-so-admiring brunette friend exclaimed, startling Clara out of her reverie. “Harold and I have invested in his new show, Moonshine Melody .”
The much-older man sitting beside her nodded. “No one liked The Cat’s Meow , but a man this young with so much money—this Forrest Hamilton must have some idea what he’s doing.”
“Mmm, because if he’s got money, he must be talented!” Clara said. No one but Parker caught her sarcastic tone. “It’s not like anyone ever made a dishonest dollar in show business. Like Parker here!” she continued. “He makes his living trying to guess which starlet might have an affair next and which ones are married to crooks.”
The mood of the group grew a bit sour. Parker loosened his collar and narrowed his eyes at Clara. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said.
He grabbed Clara’s wrist and steered her out of the room and down the hallway, back to where the party was in full swing. She could hear the faint sounds of someone, a girl with a pretty voice, singing with the band. “What has gotten into you?” Parker asked in a hushed voice.
Clara backed up. Was he serious? “What’s gotten into me ? What about you? Where do you think you got the right to call me your Clara?”
He raised his eyebrows. “We’ve been together for weeks now—”
“No! No, we have not,” Clara said. It had been a stupid idea to come here with Parker. She hadn’t been able to get up the courage to embarrass him in front of his friends. And anyway, what good would it have done? It probably would’ve just gotten Clara fired. Bursting in and making a scene without thinking of the consequences—that was more horrid Lorraine Dyer’s style. Clara just needed to put an end to this … whatever it was Parker thought was going on between them, once and for all. No matter the consequences.
“We’ve gone to dinner twice ,” Clara went on, seething. “Where do you get off bragging to everyone in New York that you and I are an item—ugh! I have half a mind to slap you across the face.” She raised her clutch as though to strike him.
Parker ducked, then opened his mouth and closed it, at a loss for what to say.
“You don’t care about me—all you care about is yourself. I’m just one more trophy on your way to the top!”
Parker’s cheeks reddened. “Clara, lower your voice.”
“I’ve got a better idea.”
Clara whipped around and walked away without looking back. She could faintly hear Parker call her name, but she quickly let herself get lost in the crowd.
And ran straight into a girl in a red dress, sloshing half the girl’s martini onto the marble floor.
“I’m so sor—” Clara began. But as she took in the girl’s dark brown bob, wide hazel eyes, and too-smoky eye makeup, the words died on her lips. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Lorraine latched on to Clara’s arm with her free hand. “Why, Clara Knowles! I’m so glad you’re here!” Lorraine said with a slightly desperate smile. A diminutive blonde in a white dress who looked way too nice and normal to be friends with
Clara had been hoping to find more stimulating conversation, but alas—she hadn’t. She’d left the dance floor when she saw a girl in an orange beaded dress dance the treacherously fast quick-time fox-trot with a man in a blue suit. Their moves were perfect, without even the hint of a stumble, their faces etched with the self-satisfied, determined smiles of people eager to impress.
It had annoyed her.
Everyone at this party was trying so hard to prove how wonderful and interesting they were. These flappers and swells were supposed to be the most fun-loving people in the world. But what time was there for fun when a person had to put so much effort into having it?
“You know, Hamilton’s a Broadway producer!” Parker’s oh-so-admiring brunette friend exclaimed, startling Clara out of her reverie. “Harold and I have invested in his new show, Moonshine Melody .”
The much-older man sitting beside her nodded. “No one liked The Cat’s Meow , but a man this young with so much money—this Forrest Hamilton must have some idea what he’s doing.”
“Mmm, because if he’s got money, he must be talented!” Clara said. No one but Parker caught her sarcastic tone. “It’s not like anyone ever made a dishonest dollar in show business. Like Parker here!” she continued. “He makes his living trying to guess which starlet might have an affair next and which ones are married to crooks.”
The mood of the group grew a bit sour. Parker loosened his collar and narrowed his eyes at Clara. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said.
He grabbed Clara’s wrist and steered her out of the room and down the hallway, back to where the party was in full swing. She could hear the faint sounds of someone, a girl with a pretty voice, singing with the band. “What has gotten into you?” Parker asked in a hushed voice.
Clara backed up. Was he serious? “What’s gotten into me ? What about you? Where do you think you got the right to call me your Clara?”
He raised his eyebrows. “We’ve been together for weeks now—”
“No! No, we have not,” Clara said. It had been a stupid idea to come here with Parker. She hadn’t been able to get up the courage to embarrass him in front of his friends. And anyway, what good would it have done? It probably would’ve just gotten Clara fired. Bursting in and making a scene without thinking of the consequences—that was more horrid Lorraine Dyer’s style. Clara just needed to put an end to this … whatever it was Parker thought was going on between them, once and for all. No matter the consequences.
“We’ve gone to dinner twice ,” Clara went on, seething. “Where do you get off bragging to everyone in New York that you and I are an item—ugh! I have half a mind to slap you across the face.” She raised her clutch as though to strike him.
Parker ducked, then opened his mouth and closed it, at a loss for what to say.
“You don’t care about me—all you care about is yourself. I’m just one more trophy on your way to the top!”
Parker’s cheeks reddened. “Clara, lower your voice.”
“I’ve got a better idea.”
Clara whipped around and walked away without looking back. She could faintly hear Parker call her name, but she quickly let herself get lost in the crowd.
And ran straight into a girl in a red dress, sloshing half the girl’s martini onto the marble floor.
“I’m so sor—” Clara began. But as she took in the girl’s dark brown bob, wide hazel eyes, and too-smoky eye makeup, the words died on her lips. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Lorraine latched on to Clara’s arm with her free hand. “Why, Clara Knowles! I’m so glad you’re here!” Lorraine said with a slightly desperate smile. A diminutive blonde in a white dress who looked way too nice and normal to be friends with
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