Grave Phantoms
Page 84
“I’ll be fine.”
Aida nodded and raised her chin to Hadley. “She’s all yours.”
“Let’s get you settled before it gets too dark,” the curator said, and put her arm around Astrid’s shoulders to lead her into the limousine.
It was, of course, absurd, to drive back the way they’d come, but Astrid didn’t care. She pretended that she was seeing the city for the first time and watched as lights twinkled on in the tall buildings lining the hilly streets. And by the time they got to Nob Hill, she really felt that it was new, because for the first time in her life, she’d be spending the night alone. No roommate, no servants, no family . . . no Bo. It was bittersweet, but the excitement she felt outweighed any lingering sadness or doubt.
Tendrils of evening fog clung to columns flanking the driveway of the French-Renaissance apartment building at Mason. The elegant nine-story high-rise was only a couple of years old and very exclusive—across the street from the Wicked Wenches’ building. Hadley had been living there when she met Lowe almost a year ago. And though Lowe had renovated a looming Victorian on Telegraph Hill for them and little Stella, Hadley hadn’t yet been able to sell her apartment.
“Everything’s been cleaned and dusted,” the curator informed her as they breezed through the small lobby. She introduced her to the attendant and the elevator operator, and once they’d ascended to the ninth floor with her luggage, unlocked the door.
It was a swank apartment. High walls. Marble floors. The windows looked out over the bright lights of the Fairmont Hotel and the steady clack of the cable cars braving the steep hill.
“What do you think?” Hadley asked. “Not bad for temporary accommodations.”
“It’s marvelous.”
“It can get lonely up here, but hopefully you won’t have time for that. The refrigerator is stocked, and anyone in the building will help you find your way around the neighborhood. Otherwise, you’re on your own—except for Friday night, that is. Maria and Mathilda have invited you for dinner at eight.”
“Oh good,” Astrid said. “I have a lot to tell them about that idol.”
“Well, I better get back home before anyone notices me missing. Here are the keys. You know where to find me if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Astrid said, gripping her in a tight hug. “For everything.”
When Hadley pulled back, her cheeks were flushed. “It was nothing. We’re family,” Hadley said. “Besides, Aida’s right. A woman should have a few secrets. Do well with yours.”
“I’ll try,” Astrid promised her. “I’ll try my best.”
—
Astrid spent the night unpacking and getting used to the sounds of the strange apartment. And though she got little sleep—having spent too much time staring out the window, fighting the urge to telephone Bo and tell him everything—she rose at a decent hour, dressed in a smart outfit, and took a taxi to Hale Brothers department store. On the sixth floor, she walked into KPO Radio’s front office, wished the receptionist a Happy New Year, and asked to speak to the station manager. Then she waited until she was ushered into his office.
“I remember you,” Mr. Giselman said when he saw her.
“Astrid Magnusson,” she said, extending her hand. “You told me you liked my voice and said to come see you if I ever I wanted a job. And, well, I do.”
“I do like a gal with gumption. Have a seat,” he said. “And tell me about yourself.”
“I’m a fast learner, I have some college education”—never mind that it was a disaster—“and if you take a look at my references here”—she handed him typed and signed letters from both Aida and Hadley—“you’ll see they’re from a director at the de Young Museum and a woman who used to do nightly performances on stage at a dinner club. She says I’m ‘gifted with a performer’s grace.’”
That was Astrid’s phrase. She was quite proud of it.
Mr. Giselman sat down behind his desk, donned a pair of eyeglasses to read the letters, and then looked her over. “Magnusson . . . Why does that name sound familiar?”
Dammit. “Maybe you’ve heard of my brother?” she said quickly. “He’s a well-known professor at Berkley.” Well-known to her, at least.
The manager shook his head, but it was enough to steer his thoughts away from the bootlegging. “Well, Miss Magnusson. I did say we’re hiring voice actors for radio melodramas—that means you do a dramatic reading from a script, following the director’s suggestions. Four hours, three days a week, and the pay is basic.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to prove myself. But I think you’ll find that my skills are best suited to situations in which I’m able to speak freely. I heard KFRC is doing more talk shows across town that appeal to female listeners. I have some ideas about how you could compete with them.”
“I’ll bet you do,” he said, a look of amusement on his face.
He glanced at her letters again, and while he did, Astrid fiddled with the knob on her wristwatch. It had never recovered after her swim in the ocean that horrid night on the yacht, but she wore it nonetheless, and continually tried to wind it to no avail. It was perpetually stuck on twelve o’clock. But now the knob moved, one turn, and another. She quickly looked at the face. Ten after three. The wrong time, but the hands were moving. A sign, she thought. A very good sign.
Aida nodded and raised her chin to Hadley. “She’s all yours.”
“Let’s get you settled before it gets too dark,” the curator said, and put her arm around Astrid’s shoulders to lead her into the limousine.
It was, of course, absurd, to drive back the way they’d come, but Astrid didn’t care. She pretended that she was seeing the city for the first time and watched as lights twinkled on in the tall buildings lining the hilly streets. And by the time they got to Nob Hill, she really felt that it was new, because for the first time in her life, she’d be spending the night alone. No roommate, no servants, no family . . . no Bo. It was bittersweet, but the excitement she felt outweighed any lingering sadness or doubt.
Tendrils of evening fog clung to columns flanking the driveway of the French-Renaissance apartment building at Mason. The elegant nine-story high-rise was only a couple of years old and very exclusive—across the street from the Wicked Wenches’ building. Hadley had been living there when she met Lowe almost a year ago. And though Lowe had renovated a looming Victorian on Telegraph Hill for them and little Stella, Hadley hadn’t yet been able to sell her apartment.
“Everything’s been cleaned and dusted,” the curator informed her as they breezed through the small lobby. She introduced her to the attendant and the elevator operator, and once they’d ascended to the ninth floor with her luggage, unlocked the door.
It was a swank apartment. High walls. Marble floors. The windows looked out over the bright lights of the Fairmont Hotel and the steady clack of the cable cars braving the steep hill.
“What do you think?” Hadley asked. “Not bad for temporary accommodations.”
“It’s marvelous.”
“It can get lonely up here, but hopefully you won’t have time for that. The refrigerator is stocked, and anyone in the building will help you find your way around the neighborhood. Otherwise, you’re on your own—except for Friday night, that is. Maria and Mathilda have invited you for dinner at eight.”
“Oh good,” Astrid said. “I have a lot to tell them about that idol.”
“Well, I better get back home before anyone notices me missing. Here are the keys. You know where to find me if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Astrid said, gripping her in a tight hug. “For everything.”
When Hadley pulled back, her cheeks were flushed. “It was nothing. We’re family,” Hadley said. “Besides, Aida’s right. A woman should have a few secrets. Do well with yours.”
“I’ll try,” Astrid promised her. “I’ll try my best.”
—
Astrid spent the night unpacking and getting used to the sounds of the strange apartment. And though she got little sleep—having spent too much time staring out the window, fighting the urge to telephone Bo and tell him everything—she rose at a decent hour, dressed in a smart outfit, and took a taxi to Hale Brothers department store. On the sixth floor, she walked into KPO Radio’s front office, wished the receptionist a Happy New Year, and asked to speak to the station manager. Then she waited until she was ushered into his office.
“I remember you,” Mr. Giselman said when he saw her.
“Astrid Magnusson,” she said, extending her hand. “You told me you liked my voice and said to come see you if I ever I wanted a job. And, well, I do.”
“I do like a gal with gumption. Have a seat,” he said. “And tell me about yourself.”
“I’m a fast learner, I have some college education”—never mind that it was a disaster—“and if you take a look at my references here”—she handed him typed and signed letters from both Aida and Hadley—“you’ll see they’re from a director at the de Young Museum and a woman who used to do nightly performances on stage at a dinner club. She says I’m ‘gifted with a performer’s grace.’”
That was Astrid’s phrase. She was quite proud of it.
Mr. Giselman sat down behind his desk, donned a pair of eyeglasses to read the letters, and then looked her over. “Magnusson . . . Why does that name sound familiar?”
Dammit. “Maybe you’ve heard of my brother?” she said quickly. “He’s a well-known professor at Berkley.” Well-known to her, at least.
The manager shook his head, but it was enough to steer his thoughts away from the bootlegging. “Well, Miss Magnusson. I did say we’re hiring voice actors for radio melodramas—that means you do a dramatic reading from a script, following the director’s suggestions. Four hours, three days a week, and the pay is basic.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to prove myself. But I think you’ll find that my skills are best suited to situations in which I’m able to speak freely. I heard KFRC is doing more talk shows across town that appeal to female listeners. I have some ideas about how you could compete with them.”
“I’ll bet you do,” he said, a look of amusement on his face.
He glanced at her letters again, and while he did, Astrid fiddled with the knob on her wristwatch. It had never recovered after her swim in the ocean that horrid night on the yacht, but she wore it nonetheless, and continually tried to wind it to no avail. It was perpetually stuck on twelve o’clock. But now the knob moved, one turn, and another. She quickly looked at the face. Ten after three. The wrong time, but the hands were moving. A sign, she thought. A very good sign.
