The Forgotten Flapper: A Novel of Olive Thomas (Forgotten Actresses series Book 1) by Laini Giles

Author:Laini Giles [Giles, Laini]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sepia Stories Publishing
Published: 2015-07-31T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

HOTEL MCALPIN BAR, NEW YORK CITY, January 7, 1918

“Ollie, let’s get married tomorrow,” Jack said, sipping his Scotch.

Tom Meighan, the Pickford family friend, had arrived from Los Angeles that week, and we’d taken him out for a whirl, Jack and me.

“Tomorrow?” I said. “Don’t be silly. We haven’t planned anything.”

“I want to marry you. Mother and Mary have given us their blessing, so we might as well go ahead and make this legal.”

“Like hell they gave their blessing. Lottie wore them down,” I said.

“Tom, would you like to be our witness?”

“I certainly would,” Tom said, studying the both of us. “You two could make some beautiful babies. What do you say, Ollie?”

I downed the rest of my Bronx cocktail in one gulp and peered at them. Tom reached over and lit my cigarette.

“Where should we go?” I said.

“Why not just drive to the courthouse? We’ll use our real names to throw reporters off our scent. And it’s less trouble. We’ll go to the Knickerbocker for some drinks afterward, then back here for the fun part.” Jack winked.

“I’ll phone Marjorie. She’s in town too,” I said. “Last week she told me she’s taking a leave of absence to work on a revue. She’ll want to come.”

Tom held up his whiskey in a toast. The next morning, we all took a cab to the courthouse in Manhattan. We filled out the license as John Charles Smith and Oliveretta Duffy, and Tom and Marjorie stood up for us. The clerk signed the bottom, and a little while later, we were officially man and wife. Jack slipped the ladies in the office each a fifty-dollar bill to ensure their silence to the trades and the newspapers.

Afterward, we all headed for the Knickerbocker bar and uncorked about a hundred bottles of champagne, sharing them with the other patrons but keeping mum on the reason for our excitement. That night, Tom left us to hop his train west, Marjorie headed home to study her lines, and Jack and I checked into the McAlpin. You bet your ass we celebrated.

Though Charlotte and Mary had given a halfhearted blessing to us getting hitched, relations were still strained. When we returned to California, Jack moved us into his apartment at Mary’s house on Fremont Place. We called it The Compound, a cheerless term that conjured up thoughts of a penal colony, and it sure felt that way to me. We had a separate entrance, but I still felt like a caged rat. If it hadn’t been for Effie’s company, I’d have lost my mind. It was a farce of false cheerfulness and play-acting every time we saw them. But what better way to perfect my craft than blowing air kisses to two of the women I detested most in the world?

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