train times are a fickle friend
You're exhausted to be honest. You just wanted a night off for once. A night off from work thoughts, from thinking about Steve, from thinking about Howard and treason and all the other failings that clung to the edge of your mind.
Angie just seemed to have a sixth sense for this kind of thing, thank goodness. She'd pulled you aside at breakfast.
“What's eating you English?”
“Oh nothing Angie, just the men at work_”
“Jerkbags.”
“Indeed, but I'll be alright once I've had my tea. You know how it is.”
“No way. You busy tonight?_”
You'd shook your head, knowing where this may end up
“Great. Then me and you? We're going out. I got some money from my Nonna for singing lessons_”
“Angie, no you can't waste that on_”
“Hush English, you think I need singing lessons? That old bat, I love her but she thinks I'm still 9. Going in the head y'see.” She'd laughed, and you'd felt your heart speed up a fraction when her hand landed on your shoulder, thumb brushing over your lapel gently, “We'll go out to that new jazz place on 5th, go for a dance and a drink? Push curfew a little, huh?”
That voice in your head, the one that screamed Colleen's name every time you allowed Angie to sneak a little further into your life, is swallowed whole by the feeling of her warm hand through your shirt and the smile mere inches from the one mirrored on your own face.
“That sounds wonderful Angie, I'll see you after work.”
But then after 8 hours of Jack Thompson and paperwork and pouring enough coffee to fill the Hudson, you'd stepped into the Griffith's foyer and were about to head upstairs when Mrs Fry's low tone had called your name, and she'd beckoned you over to her office without even looking up from her crossword.
“Miss Martinelli called asking for you around an hour ago. She sends her apologies, but she's had to stay to cover the closing shift this evening. Something about one of the girls having a family emergency.”
You nod, and thank Miriam for taking the message. You're quite accustomed to disappointment these days, but usually thanks to the SSR.
Not Angie, sweet lovely Angie who is probably feeling awful to let you down but can't afford to turn down the hours, and always wants to help. You don't allow yourself to feel it as a betrayal, because it's absolutely not but kinda feels that way anyway. These blooming feelings you've been trying to ignore in your chest, they try to make you take it personally. But you don't.
You toyed with going to the Automat to keep her company, through what would probably be a very quiet shift. But you know the sight of you there when she'd wanted to be out dancing would make her feel worse, so you decide against it. But you're just so tired of letting yourself sit around on your rare evenings off, dwelling on the past and the crush you've finally realised you've developed on your best friend.
It took a while to let yourself realise that little fact. Hadn't wanted it to be true as much as you'd be a bit clueless for a while. You were still grieving Steve in a lot of ways, so hadn't really noticed how carefully the feisty Italian actress had been finding her way into your affections, and well as your life. Like a warm blanket, draping herself over you entirely.
Over schnapps and stolen slices of pie, Angie had complete enamoured you. God damn that girl.
The whole queer thing? Not something you were having a crisis over at this point in your life. You'd been dealing with that since Sixth Form when Sandra Montgomery had kissed you quite thoroughly after PE in Year 12. Admiring boys and girls in your youth had grown with you into men and women. Not quite the 'phase' Sister Mary Lazarus had insisted such dalliances were in assembly when Sandra had been caught with Frances Jones a few months later.
But it couldn't understated how much easier it made life if you settled with a man, so you'd been grateful when things had fallen into place with Fred, and then you'd been so close to having something with Steve.
And now you had dear Angela. Clueless, kind, beautiful, normal, very Catholic Angie, who would probably be repulsed to learn of your proclivities. A French agent you'd had a very brief fling with in '41 had warned against falling for the 'normal' folk.
“You'll get your heart broken Carter,” she'd murmured around a cigarette.
“Or you'll get arrested,” she'd added as an afterthought, “Whichever's easier for you.”
So yes. You had rather been looking forward to spending an evening with Angie. Regardless of all the rest, she was your friend foremost, and you were disappointed to be missing out on her laughter and some much needed distraction.
An evening alone was out of the question. You didn't want company per se, just the quiet loneliness of your room seemed less preferable then a combat session with Red Skull himself. You didn't want to go to that new jazz bar, as had been the original plan. That too felt like a betrayal, to 'christen' it without Angie when it had been her idea.
There was a certain club that Shirley – one of the girls operating the phone lines - had mentioned after she'd tried it on with you when you'd first moved to the New York office. It didn't have a name, but you knew it was tucked behind a laundromat in a alley just off Perry Street, and the password was Sardines. You hadn't allowed yourself into a bar like that in years. They weren't safe, of course. You saw in the newspaper nearly weekly that one had been raided by the police, and names had been published. Lives ruined for loving the wrong type of person.
But tonight? You were feeling just the right kind of melancholy, the right kind of dangerous.
It didn't take long to touch up your lipstick once your mind was made up. Your feet just took you along the dusk-golden streets down towards Greenwich.
Which is how you found yourself being escorted into a back room of 'Squeaky Clean', after asking a clerk if he knew how to get the smell of sardines out your favourite sweater, into the smoky haze of a bar filled with people like you.
You sit in a corner, nursing a bourbon that burns the back of your throat with each sip. Watching. There's pretty girls here. A few pretty men too. A couple of soldiers swaying to the low saxophone being played on stage. The gentleman behind the bar had dried his hands on his gown before extending his hand towards you, always excited to see a new face.
You're busy watching the ice swirl in your drink when you notice someone has joined you at the little table you'd claimed. Slides in next to you like they either own the place or have known you for years. Neither seems to be the case, so you don't look up. Not yet.
“What's eating you chickadee? You've got a face mean enough to scare off most of the girls in here.”
“Clearly hasn't worked on you,” you reply, smirking at the honesty this woman has opened with. You exhale and raise your eyes, catching green ones a mere foot away, and a shock of bright red hair.
The stranger's eyes widen and her teasing smile forms a perfect 'O' in mock drama. It reminds you of Angie. 'Is that a British accent? Hubba hubba! You must be trying real hard to stay so blue over here. I know half the girls here would swoon you so much as said 'hello'.”
You chuckle at that, and she takes a long sip of her drink, a Martini you think, and you don't miss it when her nose crinkles slightly at the taste. Does she not like it? Seems an odd choice if that's the case.
“I was rather hoping I could find someone to take my mind off someone else. But my heart doesn't seem to be in it, I'm afraid.” you're not sure why you're allowing yourself to be so candid with this woman. Maybe its the 2 empty glasses already on your table, maybe it's the knowledge she's like you, she's safe in that way. Maybe it's those pretty eyes. Maybe it's just the disappointment smarting in the back of your head. You want someone, anyone, to understand.
“Got a crappy husband at home?”
You laugh louder at that, and lift your left hand, wiggling your fingers to show your distinct lack of a ring, “No, thank goodness. Just a... a friend.”
“Ah. I get it. Well if it helps, I was trying the same strategy. My girl hasn't written me in a month, starting to get scared she's gone back to her hubby.” She looks so heartbreakingly sad for the tiniest of moments, before her walls go back up and her smile flickers back into place. You might not have spotted it at all, had you not been so good at looking for tells like that. She's good.
You lift your glass, tilting it enough to hear the ice clink, “Here's to strategies not working out?”
She taps the rim of her own glass against yours in cheers, and drains the last of the clear liquid, exhaling through her nose and pulling a face as she swallows. The glass deposited neatly next to your other empties, she extends a hand.
“I'm Greta,” she smiles widely, auburn curls bobbing as she tilts her head and awaits your introduction.
You accept her hand, and shake it with a grin, “Peggy. It's a pleasure.”
Greta, it turns out, is surprisingly easy to talk to.
She understands.
She, like you, is feminine and proud and still manages a job that men believe should be theirs alone. She plays baseball, over in Illinois. Angie had mentioned the AAGPBL being set up that May, was excited for the opportunity to see girls up at bat. Recounted how the girls in her neighbourhood had wished for that chance when they were kids.
But now, in the colder months of her off-season, she works for Vivienne Hughes. You recognise the brand and the woman, as you buy your favourite shade of lipstick from her stores, and have also personally investigated the woman herself for possible ties to Roxxon early in Howard's investigation. Turned out to be a dead end luckily, otherwise your hackles would have been raised.
Greta's loud and almost flamboyant at times, laughing loudly at your jokes and shaking her head in empathy when you recall how awful the men are at the 'phone company'. It's a shame you're so wrapped up in Angie really, and she in this Carson she's mentioned a couple of times, as you can't deny she's gorgeous and interesting. She's more touchy-feely than you're accustomed to, her stories punctuated with her fingers brushing your hair behind your ear or brushing down the length of your wrist. It doesn't feel flirtatious though, Greta clearly an expert on toeing the line between friendly and amorous.
You're intrigued to find out she would never usually dare come to a place like this, just like you. That last time she had, a friend had been arrested. That she was only doing so to honour the girl she was missing so much, the same reason she was drinking Martinis – which she did hate, and you pride yourself on noticing. You don't believe in destiny, but sometimes it does feel like destiny has let a situation fall directly into your lap.
It's creeping closer to your 10pm curfew when Greta stifles a yawn, and looks down at her watch.
“Listen Peg, I'm having a great time talking, but the last train leaves in a few minutes and if I miss it, it's a long walk up to the Upper East Side.”
You drain your glass, feeling the burn as it settles into your stomach, “Well, I should be heading back too. The place I'm staying has curfew, the matron is incredibly strict. I'll walk you to the train station.”
“Aww, you sweetie!” she bats her eyelids in jest, and you roll your eyes and stand. May as well lean into it, so you offer her a hand.
“If Carson and I don't work out, I gotta find you again Peg,” she laughs, accepting your hand and letting you pull her to her feet. Even without her heels, you think she'd stand a good couple of inches taller than you. You shrug your jacket back over the silk blouse, feeling the room sway ever-so-slightly. Greta had insisted on getting a round in as thanks for your company.
You both wave a farewell to the barkeep, and make sure to head out the bar into the laundromat one at a time. Can't look too suspicious, got to stay safe.
As soon as you reunite on the street though, Greta hooks her arm through yours as if you've been friends for years, not mere hours, and leads you on a fast pace through dim streets. You weave through the crowded sidewalks, and you can tell that Greta is a natural New Yorker. She'd mentioned growing up here, but moving away in her teens, and you'd had the sense not to dig further.
Which is why you're surprised to see she's got the subway times completely wrong and has missed her train by not even a few minutes, but nearly a full half hour.
“Shit,” she breathes out quietly, jaw setting as she looks around at the empty station, “Guess I'll have to start walking!”
You think of Colleen, and the girls you read about in the newspaper who disappear from the streets at night, and you're not sure why you're offering a plan before it's even fully formed in your head.
“You could stay with me? Get your train home in the morning?”
“Peggy! I didn't think you were that kind of girl!” she whispers conspiratorially, “Would your matron approve of you bringing home any old waylaid queers you find on the street?!”
“Oh shut up Gill, and help me hail a taxi. I've got some schnapps or more bourbon if you want a drink you'll actually enjoy this evening.”
You make it back to the Griffith with about 46 seconds to spare, if your watch is accurate. Miriam is stood in the foyer looking unimpressed, and her frown deepens when she sees you aren't alone.
“Miss Carter, you know our policy on guests, 24 hours notice_”
“Oh Mrs Fry I am so, so sorry. Greta works with me at the phone company, but she missed her last train home and she couldn't possibly get home safely alone at this late hour. Did you see the story on that young lady from Queens in the Reporter this morning? Terrible business.” you lay it on thick, appealing to Mrs Fry's better nature, which you hope does exist, somewhere under her steely exterior. It helps it's only a half lie.
“I am terribly sorry to impose Ma'am. It's completely my fault, but travelling alone does frighten me. You just can't trust men these days, you know?”
You take back your previous statement, Greta isn't just good. She's really bloody good. She's even managed a tear, letting it roll down her cheek as she finishes speaking. And Miriam just eats it up.
“Oh. Oh well of course, we can't have you out there alone at this hour. Miss Carter, I shall add this onto your monthly rent. With the understanding it shan't be allowed again.” Her eyes narrow in seriousness, and you know you're on thin ice, before she turns to Greta, becoming a mother hen in an instant, “You'll have to sleep in the armchair and allow your guest the bed, or vice versa, since I had no warning to organise a cot.”
All you can is nod eagerly, ushering Greta up the stairs and past your suddenly sympathetic landlord. Keys jangle in the silence of the hallway, and you've nearly got your room unlocked when you hear the creak of a door to your left. Angie appears in her robe, nose stuck in a magazine.
“Oh thank God English, I was beginning to think...” she looks up from whatever she'd been reading, and her eyes dart between you and the other woman leaning against your door frame, her jaw slack with shock, “Greta?”
Greta blinks and stutters out a reply, “Angie Martinelli?”
What the fuck?