Chapter One Wednesday, 2 September Queen Mary I stared down into the churning water, wondering how long it would take for an object to hit the surface if it fell from such a height. I had found a spot at the quieter end of the Promenade Deck, several stories above the fierce white-capped waves. I opened my hand and let the bottle fall, holding my breath as it began to spin, almost hitting the side of the boat. Small and brown, the bottle looked ordinary, but its contents were lethal, and I welcomed its demise, the bottle destined to sink until it came to rest on the floor of the English Channel. I felt a weight lift and wiped tears from my cheeks as my body sagged forward over the railing, my legs shaking. For days, I had carried death with me, and finally, I was free of it. The Queen Mary sailed on toward France, Cherbourg our only port of call before we would strike west toward New York. The ship brushed the waves aside as gracefully as the women of Hampstead danced their breaststroke across Kenwood Ladies'' Pond.
Smooth. Effortless. Even so, I hoped that anyone seeing me in such a state would assume an attack of seasickness, that they''d glance out on the relative calm of the sea and take pity on me, wondering how I''d survive once we hit choppier waters. Only I knew that my nausea had nothing to do with the sea. I had left London that morning, catching the boat train down to Southampton and holding my breath at each station stop until I was sure that the police wouldn''t suddenly appear, hot on my trail. Boarding the ship had been finely managed chaos, crowds of people everywhere as families roamed the dock, waiting to wave off their relatives, the Queen looming over us, regal and magnificent. I had felt anonymous in the hubbub, trying to look as though I knew what I was doing, accidentally overtipping the porter who carried my solitary trunk. It was never too early to get used to American customs, Maggie had told me as she waved me off in the taxi from Hampstead.
It''ll be like learning a role for a play, she''d said. I was good at that. It was getting the roles in the first place that I''d always struggled with up to now. I was reaching into my handbag for my cigarettes, hoping the familiar rush would calm me down, when a gust of wind tugged at my head scarf. I put a hand to the knot, checking it was secure. Someone else wasn''t so lucky; I heard a cry and saw a navy felt fedora tumble along the deck like a top. A young man, freshly graduated from boyhood, caught it in midair, and bowed as he handed it back to its blushing owner. She was quite obviously taken by him, but she was a plain girl, bless her.
They exchanged a few words, but I saw his gaze wander as she talked, her conversation slowing to a trickle as she realized he wasn''t listening. He glanced in my direction and I turned away, struggling to light a match in the breeze. I knew his type too well. Handsome, the sort of chap who''s used to women fawning over him. Pay him too much attention and he''ll extricate himself in a heartbeat, as the fedora lady had found out. I''d forgotten that if you turn your back and act as though you couldn''t care less, they''re as hard to get rid of as a white cat hair on your best black dress. "Can I offer some assistance?" He appeared by my side, gold lighter in hand. "Oh, thank you!" I widened my eyes and tried not to smile at his predictability.
"This wind!" I put on my posh voice, the one Maggie and I used when we went to a fancy hotel for afternoon tea. "You''re English?" I nodded. "And you''re American." He was too fresh faced and healthy-looking to be anything but. Even wealthy Englishmen have a pallor to their skin that marks them out from any other nationality. Blame it on the gray skies and overabundance of cabbage in the diet. "That obvious, huh?" He ran a hand through his blond hair, a grin adding to his boyish air. He was tall, almost a foot taller than my five feet and a few inches.
"I admit, I wondered if you were Italian maybe, or Spanish." "My grandmother was Italian," I lied, parroting what I''d been told to say. "Not that I ever knew her. She died before I was born." I leaned my head toward the lighter''s flame, and my hand grazed his as we protected the flame with our palms. He might have been young, but he knew a few tricks already. He hadn''t told me his name, but we were standing so close to each other that his hand brushed my hip as he lowered it. I fought the urge to take a step back.
"Thank you." I smiled as my anxiety was replaced with a familiar electric tingle from the nicotine. I held out my hand, forcing some distance between us. "I''m Lena. Lena Aldridge." "Francis Abernathy." He shook my hand. "But everyone calls me Frankie.
" He lit his own cigarette and leaned next to me on the railing, still slightly too close for comfort. "So, what''s taking you to New York?" I considered my answer for a moment before deciding to stick with the truth. Frankie was young, after all, less likely to judge me unfavorably for my profession. "I''m a singer. And I act a little." "But you don''t call yourself an actress?" "I''ve had a few bit parts on the stage but nothing big," I admitted. "Yet, I should say. That''s why I''m going to New York.
I''ve been offered a job on Broadway." "Really? Broadway?" He looked impressed. "I''ll have to come down and see your show. I''m sure you''ll be spectacular. You certainly look spectacular." The small relief from my cigarette was waning. I really didn''t want to talk to Frankie, but he made no attempt to leave, and the silence became excruciating. "You live in New York?" I asked, snatching at the first question that dropped into my head.
He nodded. "Just graduated from college. My mother wanted me to go to law school, but I''m done with books. I''m going to work for my grandfather. Earn some money. I think it''s important for a man to learn to stand on his own two feet, don''t you?" Nothing shouted independence like going into the family business. "I do like a man who knows his own mind." I smiled sweetly and dropped my cigarette end overboard.
"Well, it was lovely to meet you, Frankie. Thank you for the light." I left before he could wipe the look of surprise from his face. He wasn''t used to having people walk away from him, I could tell. It was a petty attempt to teach him a lesson, but I craved a moment of control; the last few days had been like a nightmare, one where I was falling from a great height, my legs kicking, hands grasping at thin air. I was hoping to wake up before we reached New York. Before I hit the ground. Anyone could travel on the Queen Mary, they said, and that was true enough as long as you knew the rules.
Up here, where one mingled with the likes of Frankie Abernathy, the air was reserved for the wealthy. They called it "cabin class," avoiding the crass bluntness of the term "first," though that was absolutely what it meant. It reminded me of those boorish upper-class men I''d spent too much time with recently, spouting their fake Cockney slang and frequenting the Soho nightclubs, splashing their cash on cheap gin for good-looking girls. When you''re at the top of the ladder, the only natural way to look is down. The cabin-class smoking room was set out like the lobby of a luxury hotel, its walls lined with huge surrealist paintings. To complete the picture of English gentility, there was a grand fireplace at the far end of the room, and they were doing a roaring trade in cocktails from the small bar. I looked around and congratulated myself on my timing, darting forward to grab a table as a couple vacated it. I untied my head scarf and gave my hair a quick pat to make sure my curls were still behaving.
I''d spent the previous afternoon in the Hampstead hairdresser that Maggie always used. For the price I''d paid, I wanted to get at least a few days'' wear. "A dry martini, please," I told the waiter who came trotting over to take my order. I had no sooner lit another cigarette than Charlie Bacon arrived, pulling up the chair opposite. "I''ll take one of those," he said to the waiter as he delivered my drink, the sparkling glass adorned with olives on a stick, just like in the movies. "No regrets?" he asked me. "No." I picked at a rough cuticle on my left thumb.
"Good." I could feel his eyes on me. "Lena, you need to forget about what happened in London. It wasn''t your fault." "I''m fine," I said, wishing he hadn''t brought it up. "It''s been a long few days is all." Charlie Bacon. Who was he? A fixer, he''d called himself.
A man who solved problems, a former New York police detective now working as assistant to a Broadway impresario named Benny Walker. A week ago, that name had meant nothing to me, but Walker was the man who''d paid for my passage to New York, apparently on the basis that he''d known my father decades earlier and had sent Charlie Bacon to London to check in on his daughter and see if she was anywhere near as good as old Alfie. It''s a new musical, Charlie had told me when I''d asked if Mr. Walker wanted me to do a formal audition. He needs a singer first and foremost. We can worry ''bout the acting later. There were plenty of good-looking girls getting jobs in the West End who couldn''t act for toffee, so why couldn''t it be my turn?.