CHAPTER 3
LONDON
FEBRUARY 1939
Ethel Maltby dropped a teaspoon of Bovril into two cups just as the kettle began to whistle. Balancing both cups, she practiced walking gracefully without spilling, putting one foot directly in front of the other, moving in time with the rhythmic precision of the BBC news announcer on the wireless. She paid little attention to what the man was saying, listening instead to the way he enunciated his words.
Perfecting her accent was the reason why she and her fellow model and roommate, Precious Dubose, had splurged on the matinee they’d seen the Sunday before, The Lady Vanishes. Margaret Lockwood’s intonation was exactly what Ethel had been aspiring to and practicing since she’d first realized at age twelve that her own Yorkshire accent would always put her back into her mother’s world of doing someone else’s laundry and mending.
Ethel carefully brought both cups over to the small table by the stove, which was used for eating, stockpiling mail, and applying makeup. Precious sneezed loudly, and Ethel gave her friend a worried look. “That’s it. I’m putting you to bed with a hot flannel on your chest and making some chicken soup. But first, I’m going to run to the chemist for some Cephos powders. That will clear you up in a jiffy—that’s what the adverts say.”
Precious sniffled, staring into her Bovril. “If only this were sweet iced tea, I’d feel a whole lot better. But nobody in this entire country seems to know how to make it correctly. As soon as I’m better, I’m going to teach you so at least one person will know.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Ethel said. “For now please drink your Bovril, and you’ll be right as rain in no time.”
After retrieving the flannel and getting Precious settled in bed, Ethel pinned her hat to her hair. She was buttoning the large buttons on her serviceable wool coat when her gaze landed on a small box handbag hanging from the coatrack. Gold embroidered leaves sprouted against dark green velvet, a matching gold rope handle draped across the top and attached on each side. Her fingers itched to touch it, and she found herself picking it up and stroking the soft fabric. She felt beautiful fabrics all the time at House of Lushtak, where she and Precious had just started modeling, but she’d never seen a purse made of velvet, or one in the shape of a box. And she’d certainly never seen anything this fine in their flat.
“Where did this come from?” Ethel asked, turning around and holding out the handbag, unable to keep the note of accusation from her voice or her fingers from stroking the soft velvet.
“Isn’t it just darling? Madame Lushtak copied an Elsa Schiaparelli bag design for last season’s show. I couldn’t resist. I paid five shillings for it, but if we both use it, it’s like getting it half price.” Precious looked hopefully at Ethel.
Five shillings! Ethel almost shouted out loud. She’d even opened her mouth, but her fingers couldn’t stop stroking the soft velvet or imagining how smart she’d look on the street, running to the chemist with the beautiful bag hanging from her arm.
“Well, I suppose if you look at it like that . . .” She smiled at Precious, propped up on pillows in bed, her tissue clutched in her hands. Even with a red nose and glazed eyes, she was beautiful. Her long gold hair—just a shade lighter than Ethel’s own—lay against her shoulders and reflected the light from the bedside lamp; her eyes, although moist and red rimmed, were an incredible pale blue that would have looked cherubic if they hadn’t been placed in the sharply drawn and chiseled face of Precious Dubose.
“I’ll be off, then.” Ethel ran down the three flights of stairs, smelling boiled cabbage and sausages mixed with an assortment of other cooking scents that lingered like a putrid fog in the hallways and stairwells of their block of flats. She had begun the habit of holding her breath as she ran toward the ground floor so that she wouldn’t absorb the smells of the working class. She understood that being a clothes peg—as Madame Lushtak referred to her models—was far from being respectable in most people’s estimations, but to her it was much more refined than washing someone else’s underpinnings. And if she continued to practice speaking and deportment, it could always lead to better things.
She hurried out the door and breathed deeply. Despite cooler than normal temperatures, the sun shone valiantly through indecisive gray clouds, a brisk breeze keeping the dirty fog at bay. Ethel walked four blocks, stopping to wait for a red bus and two black taxis to pass before crossing to the high street. She realized she was holding her arm at an angle, her elbow bent, so that the beautiful handbag could sway on her wrist as she walked, the gold embroidered leaves reflecting the meager sunlight. She wanted to believe that everyone must be looking, and kept her head held high and her shoulders straight, walking with determined poise, pretending that the rest of her outfit matched the extravagance of the purse. Even with her worn but polished shoes and unfashionable coat, she imagined she could be Bette Davis in Dangerous.
Ethel selected her items, then carefully placed the handbag on the counter and counted out the coins. As she took the proffered bag, the chemist, an older man with a bald head as round as his belly, said, “You’d better hurry, miss. It’s about to rain cats and dogs.”
Ethel sent a glance out the front shopwindow, surprised to see a dark rain cloud cocooning the sun. She’d forgotten to bring her brolly, and although her hat and coat could withstand a soaking, she was worried for the handbag.
“Thank you,” she said, grabbing her purchases before dashing out onto the sidewalk without looking, eager to beat the rain. With her head bent against the first sprinkles, she was only
