Read Online The Light of Evening by Edna O’Brien - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edna O’Brien
Tags: Fiction
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with almond base and for those hands red and rough from scrubbing, a hand cream rich and lubricating to rule out any possibility of offense. Cosmetics alone were not
enough to draw out the impurities of the skin, to bring color, fineness, firmness, and rose complexion, we needed a plasmic pack. Moreover a Mrs. Edna Wallace Hopper had priceless secrets to impart, her wave and sheen perm ideal with our airy frocks for those starlit evenings, for motoring and dancing, either afternoon or night.
When we went to the races it was a must that we pay attention to our nail coloring — natural with bright frocks, rose with a blue or black gown, and coral with beige and gray. At the races we were likely to meet Hank or Elliott, but we must remember that there were five million marriageable young women, all seeking, that life moved quickly, a few hastening years and a Hank or an Elliott would be turning his attentions to a younger girl.
An ideal trousseau consisted of sixty pairs of the sheerest silk stockings, twenty-one nightgowns, three pajamas, fifty-four pieces of lingerie, handkerchiefs, and tucked in an inner secret drawer away from a husband’s searching gaze might be the baby dresses, baby coats, and napkins for when the stork came. Once married we might permit ourselves a cigarette of an evening. A Mrs. P. Cabot did not enjoy a flat cigarette, much preferring a stronger, richer taste but we need not be so sophisticated. The picture showed Mrs. Cabot in her drawing room, in satin, with a big jug of roses beside her and a squat ball of ridged glass on which to strike matches, groomed for the arrival of her husband and possibly some guests, Mrs. Cabot’s cook toiling in the kitchen.
Two hundred and forty brides from eleven cities, Detroit, Chicago, St. Paul, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Brooklyn, Providence, Denver, Cincinnati, and St. Louis, all brilliant home-makers who did not sacrifice their charms or their good looks and why, because of that certain soap powder that they all used.
Nevertheless, some of those brides were troubled by doubts and, living in a distant city as they did, were without a confidante to turn to. Then, the sorry saga of Leonard and Beth. Bliss-
fully happy until misfortune struck, Beth was unable to confide in her dear darling mother, so as not to show her husband in a bad light. He was a salesman for office furniture, a job that entailed traveling great distances. Beth loved her new home, cuddled her new baby, and Leonard was an exemplary husband who at weekends got up at night if the baby cried. They had never had squabbles, never disagreed over money matters, their marriage ideal until a rival stepped in and Beth learned of it. Her friend Mary Jo who had just come from Cleveland had bumped into Leonard walking down a street with a girl, the pair of them linked, laughing. Not long after a letter came for Leonard in a feminine hand and though Beth was tempted to open it, she remained stoical, handing Leonard the letter when he came back, which he reluctantly opened and then put away. Brushing her hair before her mirror that night, Beth broke down and upon being questioned, Leonard said yes, he had met Flora, an old friend who did all she could to vamp him. He tried, oh how he tried to fend her off, even depositing her on her own doorstep after a dinner out, but sadly she returned to his hotel and the inevitable happened. He swore that he loved Beth but Beth could no longer believe in that love, her trust had been quashed, sinking deeper and deeper into the dark grotto of her despair.
We waited on tenterhooks for the next installment, wondering what the outcome would be.
Photographic Studio
“bring your dreams to life.” Bring our dreams to life.
We saved up.
The photographic studio itself was up a side stairs with a stool on the landing. There was a couple in mourning, black from head to toe, the black ribbons fluttering on the brim of the husband’s hat, and an engaged couple
enough to draw out the impurities of the skin, to bring color, fineness, firmness, and rose complexion, we needed a plasmic pack. Moreover a Mrs. Edna Wallace Hopper had priceless secrets to impart, her wave and sheen perm ideal with our airy frocks for those starlit evenings, for motoring and dancing, either afternoon or night.
When we went to the races it was a must that we pay attention to our nail coloring — natural with bright frocks, rose with a blue or black gown, and coral with beige and gray. At the races we were likely to meet Hank or Elliott, but we must remember that there were five million marriageable young women, all seeking, that life moved quickly, a few hastening years and a Hank or an Elliott would be turning his attentions to a younger girl.
An ideal trousseau consisted of sixty pairs of the sheerest silk stockings, twenty-one nightgowns, three pajamas, fifty-four pieces of lingerie, handkerchiefs, and tucked in an inner secret drawer away from a husband’s searching gaze might be the baby dresses, baby coats, and napkins for when the stork came. Once married we might permit ourselves a cigarette of an evening. A Mrs. P. Cabot did not enjoy a flat cigarette, much preferring a stronger, richer taste but we need not be so sophisticated. The picture showed Mrs. Cabot in her drawing room, in satin, with a big jug of roses beside her and a squat ball of ridged glass on which to strike matches, groomed for the arrival of her husband and possibly some guests, Mrs. Cabot’s cook toiling in the kitchen.
Two hundred and forty brides from eleven cities, Detroit, Chicago, St. Paul, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Brooklyn, Providence, Denver, Cincinnati, and St. Louis, all brilliant home-makers who did not sacrifice their charms or their good looks and why, because of that certain soap powder that they all used.
Nevertheless, some of those brides were troubled by doubts and, living in a distant city as they did, were without a confidante to turn to. Then, the sorry saga of Leonard and Beth. Bliss-
fully happy until misfortune struck, Beth was unable to confide in her dear darling mother, so as not to show her husband in a bad light. He was a salesman for office furniture, a job that entailed traveling great distances. Beth loved her new home, cuddled her new baby, and Leonard was an exemplary husband who at weekends got up at night if the baby cried. They had never had squabbles, never disagreed over money matters, their marriage ideal until a rival stepped in and Beth learned of it. Her friend Mary Jo who had just come from Cleveland had bumped into Leonard walking down a street with a girl, the pair of them linked, laughing. Not long after a letter came for Leonard in a feminine hand and though Beth was tempted to open it, she remained stoical, handing Leonard the letter when he came back, which he reluctantly opened and then put away. Brushing her hair before her mirror that night, Beth broke down and upon being questioned, Leonard said yes, he had met Flora, an old friend who did all she could to vamp him. He tried, oh how he tried to fend her off, even depositing her on her own doorstep after a dinner out, but sadly she returned to his hotel and the inevitable happened. He swore that he loved Beth but Beth could no longer believe in that love, her trust had been quashed, sinking deeper and deeper into the dark grotto of her despair.
We waited on tenterhooks for the next installment, wondering what the outcome would be.
Photographic Studio
“bring your dreams to life.” Bring our dreams to life.
We saved up.
The photographic studio itself was up a side stairs with a stool on the landing. There was a couple in mourning, black from head to toe, the black ribbons fluttering on the brim of the husband’s hat, and an engaged couple
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