The Dollhouse by Fiona Davis Page A

Rose talked, and Darby McLaughlin listened. “I’m Rose Lewin, by the way.” Rose stuck out her hand.
    â€œI’m Stella Conover. But like I said, I only have twenty minutes.” She rubbed one arm. “My nerve pain is acting up again. I recognize you from the news show. You don’t work there anymore?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGood. You all looked like a bunch of idiots, sitting around yapping just like Bird here. Hope that doesn’t offend you.”
    â€œFar from it. I think you summed up the job perfectly.”
    Ms. Conover handed her a mug. “Although it was terrible the way they forced you out. Especially since you were right about Senator Madden all along, that sleazebag. Embezzling money from senior citizens. You’re the hero, in my book. You and Gloria Buckstone.”
    Rose remained silent. She’d learned by now there was no point in setting the record straight. After all, she’d benefited from the assumption that she was an aggressive journalist with a righteous cause. It had landed her the job at WordMerge.
    â€œCome into the other room. And I’m only doing this because you’re a fellow resident.”
    â€œOf course, and I appreciate it.”
    They ventured into the living room, where two south-facing windows filled with plants served as the focal point, along with an oversize couch.
    â€œIt’s not grand, but in New York, it’s a steal.”
    â€œI’m sure.” Rose sat down on the couch, sinking in so far her knees rose above her hips, and tried not to spill her tea. “So kind of you to dothis, Ms. Conover.” She placed the cup on the table beside her and took out a notebook and a pen from her bag.
    â€œOh, please, call me Stella.”
    â€œStella. When did you come to the Barbizon?”
    â€œBack in 1952. I was scouted by the Eileen Ford agency. I worked as a model for ten years, and then became a muse of sorts for the designers, if you know what I mean.”
    Rose blinked.
    â€œI made the rounds. Let certain men take care of me for the pleasure of having me on their arm. Don’t be squeamish. Figured it would lead to other Cinderella-type things like in the movies, but no such luck. I did well, though. I made enough to take care of myself.”
    â€œI see.” If all of the women were as forthright as Stella, the piece for WordMerge would be terrific. “What was it like when you first arrived? I understand men weren’t allowed above the first floor?”
    â€œThe rules were strict. I remember coming down in slacks one day and the matron on duty, this dour woman, told me to go right back upstairs and change. I couldn’t cross the lobby in pants, only a skirt. And this lasted through the sixties, mind you. Seems so silly today.”
    â€œWhat about the girls who went to secretarial school?”
    â€œRight. The Katharine Gibbs girls. We always felt so smug when we saw them dressed in their gloves and hats for class. They had their own floors and we didn’t interact much. The place was like a beehive with all these tiny rooms off long, dark hallways. Lively, though, everyone had a great time. J. D. Salinger used to show up at the café on the ground floor, hoping to pick up one of the models.”
    â€œDid you date J. D. Salinger?”
    â€œNo, not my type.”
    â€œThis is exactly what I’m looking for; the history is fascinating.” She tapped the notepad with her pen. “You know, I’ve tried to reach some of the other women on the floor, but they don’t want to talk, it seems.”
    â€œOld biddies, the lot of them.” She let out a husky laugh. Her profile was aristocratic, with a high forehead and strong nose. Rose could verywell imagine her dressed to kill in the cinched, girdled fashions of a bygone era. “When it was still a hotel, they used to sit in the lobby all day commenting on the other guests like a Greek chorus. After it went