Philadelphia Noir

emotions. And they were right. She had a knack for acting. It was just bad luck she and Kyle were doing a piece from The Glass Menagerie in which, ironically, she’d be pitied for lacking gentlemen callers.

Now she needed to focus on another scene: Walnut Street on a lovely August night, with her in a lovely white dress. It was eleven o’clock. Anyone who saw her might think she was heading out to canoodle with someone at a sidewalk cafe and not that her evening was a failure. She concentrated on an actable objective: to be in a rush to meet a date. Glancing at her watch for emphasis, she began to believe it. She walked east on Walnut confidently, passing packs of college girls in skimpy dresses and college boys in untucked button-down shirts headed toward the Irish Pub. Some boys followed her with their eyes as she passed. It was working.

She continued alongside shuttered boutiques and the oddly empty dirt lot north of Rittenhouse Square, where neighbors rejected development ideas as tacky or liable to attract an unwanted element. She sailed through the north entrance of the square when, suddenly, she slipped and fell. It was the heel of her right shoe, purchased last month at the Payless on Chestnut Street, now jutting out at a sixty-degree angle from the rest of the sole.

This latest twist plunged Beth into despair. She couldn’t focus on counting to ten or any of the calming self-talk she’d been taught. The lights in the square blurred and came back into focus when she blinked, then blurred again, but somehow she stood up. Carrying her shoes, she continued along a paved path. She nearly jumped when nearby automatic sprinklers surged on, then nearly jumped again when a woman screamed. The woman screamed a second time, but it was followed by laughter.

“It’s too late now,” a man said.

Beth stopped. A young woman stood on the path ahead. She wore a wet dress, once white but now semitransparent, that clung to her body. She leaned to the side and wrung water out of her long hair, looking in the mist-filled air like a modern water nymph.

“Thanks for the warning,” she said sarcastically to the man next to her. “I’m sliding everywhere.” She leaned one hand on his shoulder for support and with the other removed a pair of strappy sandals.

The man, in a light gray suit without a tie, was far less wet and kept joking. “Can you make it home barefoot, my little blossom? My bitter teacup?”

“Be quiet,” she said.

“Want me to take off my shoes so we match?”

“No, darling. I want you to carry me.” She held onto his lapels as if to draw him in for a kiss, and they remained in this pose like intertwining statues against the lush background of haloed park lights. Beth was moving past them, awkward in the shadow of their glamour, when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Miss,” the man said. He was close enough for her to see droplets of water on his dark blond waves of hair. “Excuse me-”

His companion giggled, arms crossed over her chest. They looked young, maybe just out of college.

“Yes?” Beth asked, a bit too energetically.

“In your opinion,” the man began, “is it worth it to take a cab just two blocks away? We’re damp and my friend here finds it impossible to wear her shoes without slipping.” The man’s voice was higher than she expected and somehow sweet, with a slight British accent.

“Of course it’s worth it,” Beth answered, waving her shoes in front of her. “I was thinking of hailing a cab myself,” she lied.

“A good answer,” the man said, catching her eyes and holding on to them with his. “We’re at the Belgravia. Any chance you’re headed in that direction?”

“I’m actually on Pine Street-”

“Why don’t you join us,” he offered.

The woman flashed him an indecipherable look, then smiled. She ran her hands through her wet hair and spoke with an accent similar to the man’s. “Company might be fun.”

The man rocked slightly on his heels. “We’ll toast to a fine evening, all’s well ending well or ending drenched or something.”

“Okay,” Beth said. I am open to invitations, she told herself. I am trying new things.

When they rolled up to the Belgravia, they stepped into what seemed to Beth like another universe-one that would make returning to her walk-up studio harder.

“Alex, Chloe,” the doorman waved them into the marblelined corridor strung with bright chandeliers.

“Welcome home!” Alex announced when they reached a door at the end of a hall on the sixth floor. It opened into a stuffy living room, cluttered with suitcases and clothing. A mahogany coffee table was covered with papers. More papers spilled out of accordion folders on a stained Persian rug below it, competing for space with numerous keys, empty glasses, and takeout food containers.

“Cleaning,” Chloe remarked in a stage whisper, “is not our highest priority.” She walked into another room.

“We’ve been traveling,” Alex added. “I want to share something we picked up. Do you like port?”

“I love it.” Beth didn’t know if this was true. I am trying new things.

Alex rummaged through a suitcase in the corner. He was slender but broad-shouldered and she noticed he wore no socks under his loafers. The wall next to him was covered with masks she assumed were African, and the other walls had paintings-abstract, with a gray, white, and red palette, one of them hanging cockeyed as if posted hastily and never fixed.

“Aha!” He turned around, wielding a dark brown bottle. “You’ll like this. It’s supposed to have,” he squinted at the label, “notes of honey. ” He handed her a glass and their eyes met again. Beth couldn’t decide if they were blue, gray, or green.

Chloe reappeared in a red dress and high-heeled black shoes. Her hair was drying to a lighter blond.

“That’s a good dress,” Alex said when Chloe spun in a catwalk turn. Beth saw it was backless and still had a price tag on it.

“A toast to our new friend,” he indicated Beth. “Our friend…”

“Beth,” she said.

“To Beth, a fellow underwater traveler.”

The drink was sweet and went down easily.

“Beth,” Chloe suddenly said. “What’s your shoe size?”

“Seven. Why?”

Chloe left the room and came back carrying a shoe box. “I got these last summer.”

Beth pulled out a pair of white high-heeled Manolo Blahniks and gasped.

“They’re yours,” Chloe said. “No worries.”

“I couldn’t,” Beth objected.

“Obviously I never wear them, so they’re of more use to you.”

Elegantly shod, Beth felt ready to dance but opted to lounge, given the steady refills Alex provided. After the port he dug into the rest of his collection, presenting a Calvados from Normandy, a Scotch from Scotland, and more. Beth envied the jet-setting pair. She loved traveling but hadn’t taken any trips lately. She had little time off from her desk job at a plastic surgeon’s office near the square, and besides, she was saving money. There were debts to pay from years ago, the upshot of ill-advised exotic vacations with boyfriends and splurges on clothing. She knew she hadn’t been herself during these periods of excess, bursts of exuberance followed closely by profound regret or worse, but credit card companies didn’t want excuses. They wanted their money back, with interest.

But she didn’t worry about debt or anything else just then. Hours blurred into each other and the three of them got silly. They played several rounds of “Would you rather…” with Alex supplying the most unappealing choices: Would you rather clean a monkey cage or a chicken cage? Go blind and lose the use of both arms or just lose the use of your legs? Shoplift from a store or steal from a very wealthy friend who’d never miss the item in question?

Finally, he asked a straight question when Chloe left the room. Eyeing Beth and crawling over the Persian rug, he kneeled in front of her, placing both hands on her knees and lowering his voice to a whisper: “Would you rather