Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
I have to stop. I drop the book again, my mind reeling.
I know that Stan travels the world for both work and leisure.
Perhaps these are the names of friends he visits as he travels?
But even as I hope for that, I know it’s nonsense, and a mad laugh slips out of my mouth.
There is my name. Not far below Dinah and Dolly.
Now I really do think I might be sick, and I climb out of the bed and charge toward the door, clutching my stomach.
But before I reach the threshold, I nearly barrel right into Stanny, who has just reappeared in the doorway.
“Oh, Evelyn,” he says, startled, putting his hands on my arms. He takes one look at my wild demeanor, and then, peering over my shoulder, he must see the book spread open on his bed, right where he left me just moments earlier.
And then his gaze careens back toward me, and he stares once more into my ashen face.
He knows I’ve seen it. He knows that I know.
I force the words from my mouth, even as my whole body is trembling: “So then, I’m between Elizabeth V. and Fanny?”
He grimaces at this. But a moment later, when he speaks, his voice is unnaturally calm. “That’s simply a question of alphabetization. I’d put you at the top. At least, for the moment.”
I feel as though I might collapse, so I brace myself on the frame of the doorway. Lists for Paris, London…It’s no wonder he won’t bring me along this summer. I may be young, but I’m no fool. Again, that sound like a madwoman’s laugh slips from me.
My voice is thick and low, but mercifully I am able to keep the tears back. “Lots of work to be done this summer, yes? I see how busy you’ll be.” I force myself to meet his icy gaze. “Will you be revisiting the names already in there, or adding new ones?”
Stan’s face is wiped clean of all feeling. He looks more like a statue of carved marble than the man I know and love. “I suspect a bit of both, if all goes according to plan.”
I hadn’t realized it was possible to feel any worse, but a wave of fresh horror washes over me.
And in its wake, a vile brew of shame and anger.
Heartbreak. I’m so hurt, in fact, that the most overwhelming feeling I have in this moment is a desire to hurt him back.
So I turn on my heels, and I march toward the bed, and there, before I can lose my nerve, I hurl his horrid little book into the fireplace.
Now, at last, I finally get a reaction out of this marble-man Stan.
But it’s not what I had hoped it might be.
He rushes to the hearth, his cheeks flushing with their own scarlet flames as he growls: “How dare you?” And then he bends over to fetch his book.
This makes me even more furious, how committed he is to keeping his list. Is it so that he may be proud of his many conquests or so that he can keep straight his plans for future trysts?
Watching him jabbing at the small book with a poker, frantic to rescue the names of his many mistresses from the flames, I feel myself reeling with both humiliation and hatred. When I speak next, my voice is shrill. “Do you know how many millionaires have asked for my time, Stan?”
He manages to retrieve the book, cursing as he burns his fingers, and he sits back on his haunches beside the hearth. The charred leather smokes at his side, but he says nothing.
“Do you know how many men have made me offers of support?” I press on, feral and furious. “I’ve not entertained a single suitor. Because of you!”
When he finally looks up at me, his lips curl in a grin, but not a happy one. With a shrug, he says, “I’d like to hear what you think after getting on top of some rusty railroad man. Let me know if he teaches you anything useful.”
Fresh horror surges through my entire body. Who is this man before me? So indifferent, so callous and cruel! When was my sweet, tender Stanny replaced by some unfeeling monster? “How dare you treat me like this?” I ask, well and truly mystified.
This comment further displeases him; I can tell from the blaze in his gray eyes as he rises to stand.
“I’ve treated you with nothing but kid-leather gloves,” he responds, his voice hard as crushed gravel.
“Why, I was patient; I was gallant. I let you take your time. I have put you on top of the world.”
My mouth falls open. “But…you told me…” My mind whirls. “Was it all a lie? Everything you said to me? You told me you loved me.”
“Oh, grow up, would you?” Stan bends over and picks up the charred book, holding it like a hot cake between his fingers.
I hope it burns him. He stares directly into my eyes as he says: “You know how this world works. How these arrangements work. How dare you act aggrieved? You’ve had it as good as can be.
Too good, in fact. You know what I did wrong, Evelyn?
I spoiled you. Because, yes, the fact of the matter is, I do care for you.
So I let myself act like a lovesick fool.
And now here you are, acting like a spoiled little girl. ”
Did I mean so little to him? What we had between us, what I believed was love—what he told me was love—it was all merely transactional, temporary, until I no longer kept his interest?
But he’s not done. “I’ve been a very patient man, Evelyn.
And surely you see I put the star next to your name.
I did treat you like you were special, because I do think you are.
But you’re pushing me with this rudeness.
And my patience will eventually run out. ”
The last drop of air leaves my defeated body, an audible exhale, and I turn to leave the room.
I’m more shattered than I felt even on that other day when I fled this bedroom in shame, that time when he had broken my body.
For this time, he’s crushed my heart. Because I allowed myself to believe in him, in us.
He’d told me he loved me, he asked me to love him in return, and I did as he asked.
I gave myself to love, even after he betrayed my trust that first time.
And now he’s done it again. Fool that I am, I never saw it.
This whole time, it was some great illusion, and I was simply playing a part.
Less real than my work at the theater each night.
Back in the hotel suite I avoid Mamma as I storm straight into my bedroom.
I find my jewelry box on the shelf beside my bed, and I yank the top open.
I’ve kept all my letters from Stan in this precious jewelry box, tucked in against the lining of pearls and pink satin.
A gift from him. My jewels are in here, too.
Also from him, of course. Incomparable pieces from Cartier and Tiffany’s, but the truth is that his letters always meant more to me than the diamonds.
His promises of love and devotion, words that had kindled in my heart such hope and happiness.
How many other girls have boxes like this one, lined with Stan’s jewels and his words?
Priceless jewelry beside empty, hollow words. And now here, in this room, my own insides are hollowest of all.