Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1927
L ouisa
I’ve been in a mood since Saturday’s audition. My sour disposition became even more apparent with this morning’s telephone call. The director’s assistant called moments before we stepped out the door to inform me that, though the decision had been difficult, the director has cast Miss Eve Dumont as the female lead for the production of All Soul’s Eve .
“He didn’t even give me the courtesy of telling me himself. Can you believe it?” I huff, creating clouds of frost-tinged air as we trek toward the hotel. Tugging my coat tight with one hand, I realize Clara hasn’t uttered a word all morning. I feel a twinge of remorse. These past few days, I’ve done little except ruminate on and incessantly recount the audition. Even if she had something to offer, I haven’t exactly given her the space to do so. “Is something wrong?”
She looks up from the sidewalk her eyes have been glued to. “Why do you ask?”
Her deflection of my question does not go unnoticed, but I take the hint and let it be. I’ve got enough on my mind without spending hours trying to pry a story from my reluctant-to-share sister. A gust of wind has us ducking our toque-covered heads together as we lean forward into the flurry of snowflakes.
Back to reality, I think glumly as we push through the biting temperatures. I am disappointed the play didn’t pan out. It would have been a nice accolade to add to my accomplishments, in addition to being a happy distraction from my position at the hotel, especially since being discovered for Hollywood seems more out of reach than I first imagined. Every magazine article I read stated the same road to success. So and so was discovered by this Hollywood person or that Hollywood connection. Nowhere did I read that an actress made the decision to become a Hollywood starlet and then proceeded to become one.
“Darn this weather. Whoever said snow in December is idyllic surely didn’t live in a city where it actually snows.”
Clara’s lips curve into a smile at my comment. I tug her arm, drawing her close as we cross the street toward The Hamilton.
By the time we round the corner into the shelter of the alley behind the hotel, I am making a concerted effort to locate a better mood for the day ahead. With the problem of how to get to Hollywood at the forefront of my mind, I lean into the knowledge that a day spent scrubbing is equal to a day spent considering my options. I tug open the door of the back entrance and stop Clara with a gloved hand. “Thanks for listening. I know I’ve been a bit of a bear these past few days.”
Clara steps through the hotel’s back entrance, an unconcealed smirk upon her lips. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
I am about to add a sarcastic comment of my own when I notice young ears in our midst.
“Well, hello there, Masao,” Clara coos as she removes her hat and gloves while stamping her feet on the mat. “What brings you out in this weather?”
Cookie appears from the pastry kitchen, a genuine smile adding a shine to her already pink cheeks. “Ah, he’s got a treat for you, he does.”
I bend at the waist to greet our friend and ruffle his jet-black hair. “What sort of treat? Did you grow us an apple tree in the last week?” I wink in jest, knowing the boy’s biggest ambition is to grow an apple tree from a seed as a gift for his grandmother.
A full belly laugh erupts from the boy. “Miss Louisa, I can’t grow an apple tree in winter.”
Cookie encourages him from behind. “Go on, then. Show them what you’ve got.”
Masao pulls from his jacket pocket two tiny rounds wrapped in delicate green paper. “This is a Japanese mandarin orange. We give them to our friends in December to say thank you for being kind to us.” Masao’s words, though clearly scripted by his mother, speak to the truth of our friendship with the boy.
He places an orange in my hand, then one in Clara’s. As I unwrap the tissue paper, the most perfectly shaped little orange peeks up at me.
“Masao, what a lovely gift. Thank you.”
The boy beams as Cookie places an arm around his shoulders. “Wait until you taste them. There is nothing better than a Japanese mandarin at Christmastime.”
Cookie eyes the clock on the wall. “Ms. Thompson knows Masao was waiting for you. I took him down to her office so he could deliver oranges to her and Mr. Olson, but time is getting on.”
I follow Cookie’s second glance at the clock and realize the lateness of the hour. Turning to Masao, I thank him again for the special gift and promise to savour it.
Waving a quick goodbye, I inhale the warm, sweet, festive concoction Cookie is surely responsible for as we move swiftly down the stairs to the locker room.
I say goodbye to Clara on the fifth floor, wishing her a pleasant day as she makes her way to the eighth. I sneak into the roll-call line just in time to hear Ms. Thompson call my name.
“Miss Wilson, I want to introduce you to our newest maid.”
The girl from The New Orpheum Theatre steps forward at Ms. Thompson’s urging.
“Gwen?” My surprise must be plastered across my face.
“That’s right, Miss Wilson. I didn’t realize you two knew each other.” Ms. Thompson tilts her head in question.
“Not really, ma’am. We only met briefly at the new theatre last week.” I glance in Gwen’s direction, expecting to see a bashful reaction to my frank words, but she gives nothing away, wearing only a placating expression.
“I see. Well then, I am sure you won’t mind showing Miss Russell how we do things here on the fifth floor?”
“I’d be happy to, ma’am.”
Ms. Thompson directs her attention to Gwen. “Miss Wilson will be your guide for the remainder of the week. You will shadow her and learn from her.” Ms. Thompson examines the papers on her clipboard. “You will do well to follow Miss Wilson’s every lead. She is one of our most accomplished maids, having been with the hotel since its opening.”
Gwen meets Ms. Thompson’s eyes with a serious “Yes, ma’am.”
Though I am certain Ms. Thompson meant well by her compliment, hearing the words aloud only fuels my desire to find a way toward the future I am dreaming of.
As the roll-call line scatters, with maids heading off to tackle their duties, I direct Gwen toward the linen cupboard where my cleaning cart is waiting.
“So, what brings you to The Hamilton?” I keep my tone light, despite being keen to learn the reason behind the girl’s appearance here.
Gwen has the good sense to blush at my question, making me wonder if her reactions are more calculated than I first assumed. Perhaps she isn’t the doe-eyed girl I pegged her as.
“You inspired me.”
“Me?” I feel my left eyebrow lift toward my hairline.
“Yes, you.” Gwen giggles and I feel myself warm to her once more. “When you said that we all have to start somewhere. I figured if The Hotel Hamilton is good enough for Louisa Wilson, then surely it is a good place for me to start too.”
I gesture toward the linen cupboard, and we enter the small space. “You know the hotel has nothing to do with my theatre work? I work hard both on the stage and here in the hotel, and let me tell you, tacking a four-hour rehearsal to the end of work hours makes for a long day.”
“I’m not afraid of a little hard work.” Gwen’s angelic expression does little to conceal the disparaging nature of her comment.
I bite my tongue and hold back further mention of the sacrifices I make in order to pursue a career on the stage: little sleep, no days off for weeks on end, and the immense and continual feeling of being unable to do either job well enough.
I change tactics and nudge her back toward her corner. “I thought your father didn’t approve of a life in the theatre.”
Gwen tilts her head to the side and smiles sweetly without saying a word.
Despite our somewhat stilted start, the morning goes by relatively well. Gwen follows close on my heels as we move from one guest room to the next. She is a quick study, and I am relieved to see the speed with which she learns. Even the bedding’s hospital corners are no match for her dogged determination.
As the lunch hour arrives, I give Gwen a tour of the rest of the fifth floor before we retrieve our lunches from the locker room. I show her to the lunchroom and introduce her properly to the other fifth-floor maids, and they welcome her while accosting her with questions about The Orpheum’s grand-opening celebration. Did she meet Phylis Haver in person? What is it like in the ladies’ retiring room? Does she have a favourite act?
Gwen glows in the flurry of questions and attention, and I scan the room for Clara. I am not surprised when I don’t spot her. Over the past few days, I’ve learned that the eighth-floor maids seldom eat lunch until the bustle of the morning is behind them, their duties being far more involved than those of the lower-floor maids.
Biting into my ham sandwich, the mustard Clara slathered on the bread hits my tongue with a delightful tang. Rosemary leans toward the centre of the table, a sure sign she is about to spill some gossip.
Her voice a touch above a whisper, Rosemary asks, “Did you hear about the Hollywood director who is staying on the eighth floor?”
My head snaps up. “What Hollywood director? Clara hasn’t said anything about him.” As the words tumble out, I am reminded that Clara hasn’t said much of anything these past few days.
Rosemary leans in a little further. “Apparently this is his second stay in less than a week. My friend at the bellhop’s desk overheard Mr. Olson saying Mr. Barnes is scheduled to stay on and off right through to the new year. Can you believe it? Our very own celebrity roaming these halls.”
The girls chatter on as an idea begins to take shape in the corner of my mind. Maybe it is true that when one door closes, another is opened. The trick is to pay attention to the door that has opened in front of you.
One of the other maids teases Rosemary about the boy she has yet to name. “So, who’s your friend at the bellhop’s desk?”
A chorus of giggles erupts and I smile at the playful banter throughout the rest of the lunch break, but as we filter out to continue the workday, I know exactly what I have to do. I must find a way to meet this Mr. Barnes. I’d be crazy not to take advantage of an opportunity like this. Maybe he is looking for a fresh face to whisk back to Hollywood.
“They are a lively bunch.” Gwen, whom I almost forgot I was responsible for, interrupts my daydream as we climb the stairs to the fifth floor. “Friendly, but lively.”
“You’ll get used to the banter. Don’t worry.” I pat her shoulder. “Though I do suggest you keep anything you don’t wish to be shared throughout the hotel close to your heart.”
She nods in understanding, but her pursed lips tell me she has something more to ask.
“Was there something else?” I pause at the top of the fifth-floor landing, giving the girl time to collect her thoughts as the other maids file past.
“I was wondering about the director.” Her gaze falls to the cement landing, shyness emanating from her like a July heatwave. “You know, with you being a famous actress and all, I thought you might be able to introduce me to him.”
I almost laugh at what I can only assume is her put-upon antics. I tilt my chin up and look down at her with scrutinizing eyes. So this little minx does know her way around a manipulative scheme. Bold for certain, but is she smart enough to know the difference between a fanciful girlhood dream and the reality of what it takes to succeed as an actress? Or for that matter, what it takes to succeed as a maid here at the hotel? I’ll have to keep my eye on her.
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up. We fifth-floor maids stay on the fifth floor. Ms. Thompson might show you the door if you were caught snooping around where you aren’t permitted.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to— Well, never mind. I wouldn’t know what to say to a director from Hollywood, anyway.” Gwen shrugs off her blunder and tugs open the stairwell door, checking for guests, as I instructed, before stepping onto the fifth floor.
I heed my own warning as I follow Gwen into the hall. Doing my best to appear subdued, I organize our next task of the day. I wait until we are separated by a wall before I invite the thrill of excitement to take over. I can hardly believe the solution to my Hollywood problem lies a few floors above me. For months, I’ve hoped my position at the hotel would result in introductions to celebrities, but The Hamilton hasn’t had movie stars and musicians roaming its corridors like The Hotel Georgia.
I put Gwen in charge of scrubbing the bathtub so I can linger in my thoughts, mindlessly waving the feather duster as I consider the options that lie before me.
Running into an eighth-floor guest isn’t as easy as one might think. They spend hours lazing about in their suites, with coffee service and daily newspapers being delivered to their rooms. Not to mention my uniform doesn’t look anything like Clara’s eighth-floor one.
I shake the obstacles from my mind. If I am going to succeed as a Hollywood actress, I will need to be much more brazen, less like a flatterer and more like the professional actress I am. Heaven knows the man must be accosted on a daily basis by those with little talent but plenty of dreams.
Thankful for my experience on the stage and my recent favourable reviews, I am confident my resume is enough to woo the man into at least listening to what I have to offer. All I have to do now is create an opportunity for us to meet.
I hear the final gurgle of water being drained from the bathtub. By the time Gwen appears in the bedroom, ready to help me make the bed, I have talked myself around the hurdles my plan involves. I am an actress, after all. If I have to act my way into a once-in-a-lifetime chance to secure my future in Hollywood, then that is precisely what I will do.
Catching a glimpse of Gwen’s face, deep in concentration as she dresses a pillow with its case, I feel a twinge of guilt at having misled the girl. But there is something untrustworthy about her, and besides, she has freely admitted that she has no experience when it comes to the stage.
I weigh the challenges of the situation and decide Gwen’s lack of acting chops are reason enough to keep her hopes at ground level when it comes to our Hollywood guest. I will take some of my own advice and keep my plans regarding Mr. Barnes close to my heart.