If I Had You by Heather Hiestand Page B

not convinced she should give away Mrs. Plash’s secret. Mr. Eyre had to know the poor woman had her troubles, given his relationship with the daughter.
    â€œI’d like you to speak to Mr. Eyre, the manager.”
    â€œOf course,” Alecia said, her midsection turning to butterflies. “I’ll find him tomorrow.”
    â€œHe’s here now, miss. In the Coffee Room. He’s there most hours after I come on duty at seven.”
    A couple, dusty and road weary, but dressed respectively in a Poiret driving costume and custom plus fours, walked up to the counter. Alecia had a feeling she ought to know who they were, if for no other reason than the woman had an unworldly beauty, from her carefully lacquered black hair, almost geometrically arranged around her face, and her perfect, thin black brows, to her oversized carmine lips. The man had a ruddy, squashed face and ginger hair. He matched the lady not in beauty but in distinction and individuality.
    When he saw Alecia’s perusal, he doffed his hat with a grin. “Yes, dear, of course you can have my autograph. But Miss Page, you know, never signs them.”
    The beauty gave them both a bored stare, and Mr. Dew began to fuss over her.
    â€œOh, you’re Teddy Fortress,” Alecia said, finally placing the man. A well-known movie comedian, one of many Brits who’d attempted to replicate Charlie Chaplin’s success in Hollywood. Miss Page was his wife, and an actress too.
    He chuckled. “I’m pleased such a beauty recognized me.”
    â€œHe needs your John Hancock, Teddy,” his wife said in an unpolished American accent.
    â€œOf course, of course,” Teddy said, giving Alecia a wink and stepping around her. “Catch you later, doll.”
    She walked briskly away, realizing she preferred Mr. Eyre’s unsettling urbanity to Mr. Fortress’s gangster-speak and teasing, especially in front of his wife, who must be very used to it, given her demeanor.
    The Coffee Room was considered by many to be the most beautiful room at the Grand Russe. The most up-to-date, certainly, with its stunning navy and silver geometric wallpaper. The parquet floor’s dizzying pattern could make a girl’s head spin a bit, even more than the champagne that flowed between eight and eleven P.M.
    Even though the champagne hour had not yet begun, the room had filled with Bright Young Things of the sort who drank their evening meal instead of eating it. The law insisted food must be available when alcohol was served, so a buffet was ever present along the side wall. Alecia had never investigated it in the evening, and wouldn’t now, since Mr. Dew had gestured at her apron-wrapped package with disdain.
    Instead, she walked across the floor with her eyes focused on her package, trying to ignore how she might appear in her black dress—her newest frock, sewn to wear to her grandmother’s funeral initially—and hoping she channeled the bored attitude of Miss Page, though she was no actress.
    When Mr. Eyre saw her though, he treated her as a special guest and not a bedraggled supplicant. He rose from his chair, holding his cigarette, and inclined his head, smoke spiraling around his carefully combed sandy hair. “Why, Miss Loudon, what a treat.”
    â€œI found these upstairs,” she said.
    Mr. Eyre smiled and took the bundle from her.
    â€œIt’s ashtrays,” she explained. “I attempted to leave them with Mr. Dew, but he was busy with new arrivals.”
    â€œHave Mr. Fortress and his lovely wife entered stage right?” he asked.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œI’ll have to welcome them personally,” he murmured, taking a peek in her bundle. His expression seemed to sharpen, though his face didn’t move.
    â€œWhat are you doing with my mother’s apron?” A brassy blonde with dark eyebrows that didn’t match approached, holding a long, empty cigarette holder. Her