Skyscraper by Faith Baldwin Read Free Book Online

What’s your name? Work in the building, don’t you?”
    Lynn told her name and her position. Jennie gave hers. “Le Grande,” she said. “I found it in a book. Pretty nifty?” She laughed suddenly. “Over in Brooklyn,” said Jennie, “I’m still Jane Smith!”
    When they reached her destination she asked, completely recovered, “Must you go home now? I’ve got a date but it isn’t till seven-thirty. I’d like you to see my place.”
    Lynn was curious. Moreover, she rather liked this girl with her graceful height and heavy wheaten hair and Viking coloring. She amused her. She was different from anyone she had ever met. And there was no hurry to get back to the club. It was Tom’s night at the Y. She wouldn’t be seeing him tonight. Nights bereft of Tom were pretty blank.
    She climbed the stairs with Jennie. It was a walk-up apartmenthouse, rather dingy. But the little rooms into which Jennie admitted herself and Lynn with a latchkey were pleasant. A bed-and sitting-room, another bedroom, a tiny kitchen, a tiled bath. Very bright and gay with chintz, and fluffy with far too many pillows, and cluttered with long-legged dolls.
    â€œYou live alone?” asked Lynn, looking about. “It’s very attractive.”
    â€œNo, I’ve a girl friend—she’s a model, too, but over in the regular wholesale district—coats and suits,” explained Jennie. “Want a drink? I’ve got some gin.”
    â€œNo, thanks,” said Lynn instantly, and then added, “If you don’t mind—”
    â€œDon’t bother to apologize or explain,” Jennie said easily. “Lord, my head aches! A little snort wouldn’t do me any harm.” She walked into the kitchenette and came back with a small measure of straight gin in a bar glass in her hand. “Here’s how! And thanks a lot.”
    She went into the bedroom, calling Lynn to follow. She plucked a note from the mirror and frowned at the purple-inked scrawl it contained. “Here’s a swell setup,” said Jennie angrily. “Angie—that’s the girl friend—has walked off with my heavy date for the evening! That leaves me flat!” she mourned. Then she brightened. “Well, it’s all in the day’s work; he’s a washout anyway. Look here, what are you doing this evening? Stay with me, won’t you? We’ll send to the restaurant around the corner and get something to eat. My credit’s good there. Do say you’ll stay,” urged Jennie. “I hate to be alone, it gives me the heebie-jeebies!”
    Lynn stayed. The club was becoming more and more distasteful to her. It was rather fun fussing about the apartment, helping get supper—no, getting all the supper—from the scraps in the ice-box, supplemented by the restaurant service. Jennie drifted about or lay at full length on the bed divan in the living-room, smoking furiously. By the time Lynn left her, a little after ten, she had learned something of Jennie’s background. Twenty-six years old. Born in Brooklyn. A brief stage career—show girl—“But there’s about a million of us out of work now,”Jennie explained, “and this modeling business isn’t so bad. You draw down your forty per and you get your clothes cheap. When they’re taken off the line you buy ‘em, those you want. And sometimes you buy the ones that have been made to your measure—the sample gowns, I mean. Our house does evening and afternoon dresses. I get my suits and coats through Angie—the double-crossing little cat!” said Jennie, with no rancor and less energy. She listened while Lynn, after urging, explained her own work.
    â€œIt’s all too deep for me,” Jennie confessed. “I haven’t the brains. Or the education. Not that I think brains matter getting along. At least they don’t in my line of work. There