Dollface: A Novel of the Roaring Twenties by Renée Rosen Page A

made her jaw clamp shut as she pressed her fingers to her mouth like she was blowing herself a kiss.
    “Ah, here comes Dora and Basha,” said Shep, gesturing toward a tall blonde and petite brunette coming our way. “Wait till you meet these two. You’re a cream puff compared to them.”
    “Is that Chanel?” Basha asked, eyeing my dress after we were introduced. She leaned over and pinched the fabric of Barbara Lewis’s favorite loaner dress with the beading down the front. “Oh, well.” She frowned.
    “Oh, cut it, Basha.” Dora snickered. “You wouldn’t know Chanel if it bit you in the ass.”
    “I’ll have you know,” said Basha, “this is a Jeanne Paquin.”
    Dora rolled her eyes and pulled out a gold compact and a tube of crimson lipstick from her pocketbook. She didn’t notice—or maybe she didn’t care—that people were staring. I stared, too. It was the sort of behavior reserved for the powder room, and I couldn’t believe she was doing it in the middle of an elegant restaurant.
    Dora was married to a man named Nathan Sloan but everyone called him Knuckles. “He’s my little roly-poly, aren’t you, sweetie?” she said with a wink.
    Knuckles was short and thick around the middle with a bald head and a bulbous nose. But Dora, she was something else. She was a tall, striking blonde with fluttery blue eyes that rivaled a kewpie doll’s. The rock on her finger was enormous, and so was the diamond in her matching necklace.
    Basha stood next to me, barely coming up to my nose. I thought she had something on the side of her face before I realized it was a beauty mark. And she was beautiful, but not in the same way as Dora. No, Basha’s beauty sneaked up on me, and I noticed then that a lot of men were looking at her, too, admiring her permanent marcel-waved hairdo, or maybe it was the mink stole draped over her bare shoulders. She had a cigarette holder with so many gems on it, it practically blinded me each time the light caught it just right. Basha was with Stanley, a handsome man they called Pip Squeak, or Squeak for short.
    “How long have you and Stanley been married?” I asked.
    “Oh, boy!” Knuckles started to laugh.
    “Shut it,” Basha snapped, and with her jaw set and her lips barely moving, she said, “I’m not the wife.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, feeling my face flush red. “I didn’t know. I’m so—”
    “Shep”—Knuckles was still laughing—“didn’t you tell her Squeak’s double-breasted?”
    I turned to Shep, bewildered.
    “Squeak here’s got two sets of breasts,” said Shep. “One set belongs to Basha and the other pair belongs to his wife.”
    Basha drew a long, luxurious puff from her cigarette before dramatically tilting her head back as she blew a stream of smoke toward the chandelier.
    As I looked at Dora’s sparkling diamonds and Basha’s mink, I felt like a schoolgirl in comparison. I was still cursing myself over my earlier blunder with Basha, afraid I was making a horrible first impression. I hoped I hadn’t embarrassed Shep.
    Dora poked her platinum blond hair with a handful of red-lacquered fingernails and said, “What’s taking them so long to get our table ready?”
    “What’s your rush?” said Basha. “You gotta train to catch or something?”
    Just then, the maître d’ came to seat us, and everybody in the restaurant turned and looked, thinking they were somebodies. I felt like a tagalong, someone’s kid sister who had wandered in behind them.
    I watched how Dora sat, so easy-like, her elbow resting on the back of her chair, her fingers dangling down, fluttering as she flashed her rock. Basha was just the opposite. She leaned in on one elbow, keeping her chin cradled in the heel of her hand. In her other hand she held her cigarette holder, using it as a pointer each time she talked. I liked the effect. It made everything she said seem important.
    The restaurant owner came over and shook Shep’s hand. “I’m gonna take