VALLEY OF THE DOLLS - 1

VALLEY OF THE DOLLS

JACQUELINE SUSANN

( INSTALMENT 1 )

You’ve got to climb to the top of Mount Everest to reach the Valley of the Dolls. It’s a brutal climb to reach that peak, which so few have seen. You never knew what was really up there, but the last thing you expected to find was the Valley of the Dolls. You stand there, waiting for the rush of exhilaration you thought you’d feel—but it doesn’t come.

You’re too far away to hear the applause and take your bows. And there’s no place left to climb. You’re alone, and the feeling of loneliness is overpowering. The air is so thin you can scarcely breathe. You’ve made it—and the world says you’re a hero. But it was more fun at the bottom when you started, with nothing more than hope and the dream of fulfillment.

All you saw was the top of that mountain— there was no one to tell you about the Valley of the Dolls. But it’s different when you reach the summit. The elements have left you battered, deafened, sightless—and too weary to enjoy your victory.

Anne Welles had never meant to start the climb. Yet, unwittingly, she took her first step the day she looked around and said to herself, “This is not enough— I want something more.” And when she met Lyon Burke it was too late to turn back.

Anne

September, 1945

The temperature hit ninety degrees the day she arrived. New York was steaming—an angry concrete animal caught unawares in an unseasonable hot spell. But she didn’t mind the heat or the littered midway called Times Square. She thought New York was the most exciting city in the world.

The girl at the employment agency smiled and said, “Aaah, you’re a cinch. Even with no experience. All the good secretaries are away in those big-paying defense jobs. But honest, honey, if I had your looks I’d head straight for John Powers or Conover.”

“Who are they?” Anne asked.

“They run the top modeling agencies in town. That’s what I’d love to do, only I’m too short and not skinny enough. But you’re just what they’re looking for.”

“I think I’d rather work in an office,” Anne said.

“Okay, but I think you’re crazy.” She handed Anne several slips of paper. “Here, they’re all good leads, but go to Henry Bellamy first. He’s a big theatrical attorney. His secretary just married John Walsh.” When Anne failed to react, the girl said, “Now don’t tell me you never heard of John Walsh! He’s won three Oscars and I just read he’s gonna get Garbo out of retirement and direct her comeback picture.”

Anne’s smile assured the girl she would never forget John Walsh.

“Now you get the idea of the setup and the kind of people you’ll meet,” the girl went on. “Bellamy and Bellows—a real great office. They handle all kinds of big clients. And Myrna, the girl who married John Walsh, she couldn’t touch you in the looks department. You’ll grab a live one right away.”

“A live what?” “Guy ... maybe even a husband.” The girl looked back at Anne’s application. “Say, where did you say you’re from? It is in America, isn’t it?”

Anne smiled. “Lawrenceville. It’s at the start of the Cape, about an hour from Boston by train. And if I had wanted a husband I could have stayed right there. In Lawrenceville everyone gets married as soon as they get out of school. I’d like to work for a while first.”

“And you left such a place? Here everyone is looking for a husband. Including me! Maybe you could send me to this Lawrenceville with a letter of introduction.”

“You mean you’d marry just anyone?” Anne was curious.

“Not anyone. Just anyone who’d give me a nice beaver coat, a part-time maid, and let me sleep till noon each day. The fellows I know not only expect me to keep my job, but at the same time I should look like Carole Landis in a negligee while I whip up a few gourmet dishes.” When Anne laughed the girl said, “All right, you’ll see. Wait till you get involved with some of the Romeos in this town. I bet you rush for the fastest train back to Lawrenceville. And on the way, don’t forget to stop by and take me with you.”

She would never go back to Lawrenceville! She hadn’t just left Lawrenceville—she had escaped. Escaped from marriage to some solid Lawrenceville boy, from the solid, orderly life of Lawrenceville. The same orderly life her mother had lived. And her mother’s mother. In the same orderly kind of a house. A house that a good New England family had lived in generation after generation, its inhabitants smothered with orderly, unused emotions, emotions stifled beneath the creaky iron armor called “manners.”

(“Anne, a lady never laughs out loud.” “Anne, a lady never sheds tears in public.” “But this isn’t public, I’m crying to you, Mama, here in the kitchen.” “But a lady sheds tears in privacy. You’re not a child, Anne, you’re twelve, and Aunt Amy is here in the kitchen. Now go to your room.”)

And somehow Lawrenceville had pursued her to Radcliffe. Oh, there were girls who laughed and shed tears and gossiped and enjoyed the “highs” and “lows” of life. But they never invited her into their world. It was as if she wore a large sign that said, Stay Away. Cold, Reserved New England Type. More and more she retreated into books, and even there she found a pattern repeated: it seemed that virtually every writer she encountered had fled the city of his birth. Hemingway alternated between Europe, Cuba and Bimini. Poor bewildered, talented Fitzgerald had also lived abroad. And even the red, lumpy-looking Sinclair Lewis had found romance and excitement in Europe.

She would escape from Lawrenceville! It was as simple as that. She made the decision in her senior year at college and announced it to her mother and Aunt Amy during her Easter vacation.

“Mama ... Aunt Amy ... when I finish college I’m going to New York.”

“That’s a dreadful place for a vacation.”

“I intend to live there.”

“Have you discussed this with Willie Henderson?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Well, you’ve kept company since you both were sixteen. Everybody naturally assumes ...”

“That’s just it. In Lawrenceville everything is assumed.”

“Anne, you are raising your voice,” her mother said calmly. “Willie Henderson is a fine boy. I went to school with his daddy and his mother.”

“But I don’t love him, Mama.”

“No man can be loved.” This from Aunt Amy.

“Didn’t you love Daddy, Mama?” It wasn’t a question. It was almost an accusation.

“Of course I loved him.” Her mother’s voice bristled. “But what Aunt Amy means is ... well ... men are different. They don’t think or react like women. Now take your father. He was an extremely difficult man to understand. He was impulsive, and he enjoyed his drink. If he had been married to anyone but me he might have had a bad end.”

“I never saw Daddy drink,” Anne said defensively.

“Of course not. There was Prohibition, and I never kept a drop in the house. I broke him of the habit before it could take hold. Oh, he had a lot of wild ways in the beginning—his grandmother was French, you know.”

“Latins are always a little crazy,” Aunt Amy agreed.

“There was nothing crazy about Daddy!” Suddenly Anne wished she had known him better. It seemed so long ago ... the day he had reeled forward, right here in the kitchen. She had been twelve. He never said a word, just slumped quietly to the floor and quietly died, before the doctor even reached the house.

“You’re right, Anne. There was nothing crazy about your father. He was a man, but he was a good man. Don’t forget, Amy, his mother was a Bannister. Ellie Bannister went all through school with our mama.”

“But Mama, didn’t you ever really love Daddy? I mean, when a man you love takes you in his arms and kisses you, it should be wonderful, shouldn’t it? Wasn’t it ever wonderful with Daddy?”

“Anne! How dare you ask your mother such a thing!” said Aunt Amy.

“Unfortunately, kissing isn’t all a man expects after marriage,” her mother said stiffly. Then, cautiously, “Have you ever kissed Willie Henderson?”

Anne grimaced. “Yes ... a few times.”

“And did you enjoy it?” her mother asked.

“I hated it.” His lips had been soft—almost slimy—and his breath had smelled sour.”

“Did you ever kiss any other boy?”

Anne shrugged. “Oh, a few years back, when Willie and I first started dating, at parties we’d play Spin the Bottle. I guess I got around to kissing most of the boys in town, and as I recall, each kiss was as repulsive as another.” She smiled. “Mother, I don’t think we have one decent kisser in all of Lawrenceville.”

Her mother’s good humor returned. “You’re a lady, Anne. That’s why you don’t like kissing. No lady does.”

“Oh Mama, I don’t know what I like or what I am. That’s why I want to go to New York.”

Her mother shrugged. “Anne, you have five thousand dollars. Your father left that specifically for you to use as you wished. When I go, there will be a good deal more. We’re not rich, not like the Hendersons, but we’re comfortable and our family stands for something in Lawrenceville. I want to feel that you’ll come back and settle in this house. My mother was born here. Of course Willie Henderson may want to add a wing—there’s plenty of ground—but at least it will be our house.”

“I don’t love Willie Henderson, Mama!”

“There is no such thing as love, the way you talk about it. You’ll only find that kind of love in cheap movies and novels. Love is companionship, having friends in common, the same interests. Sex is the connotation you’re placing on love, and let me tell you, young lady, that if and when it does exist, it dies very quickly after marriage—or as soon as the girl learns what it’s all about. But go to your New York. I won’t stand in your way. I’m sure Willie will wait. But mark my words, Anne, after a few weeks you’ll come running home—you’ll be glad to leave that dirty city.”

******

It had been dirty—and hot and crowded—the day she arrived. Sailors and soldiers joggled along Broadway with a reckless holiday spirit in their eager stares, and a convulsive, end-of-the-war excitement. But mingled with the dirt, humidity and strangeness, Anne had felt excitement, and an awareness of living. The littered and cracked pavements of New York made the trees and clear air of New England seem cold and lifeless. The unshaven man who had removed the “Room for Let” sign from the window, after accepting a week’s rent in advance, looked like Mr. Kingston, the mailman back home, but his smile had been warmer. “It’s not much of a room,” he’d admitted, “but the ceiling is high and it kind of stirs the air. And I’m always around to fix anything you want.” She felt he liked her, and she liked him. There was an acceptance at face value in New York, as if everyone had just been born, with no past heritage to acknowledge or hide.

And now, as she stood before the imposing glass doors engraved Bellamy and Bellows, she hoped she’d find the same kind of acceptance from Henry Bellamy.

Henry Bellamy couldn’t believe his eyes. She couldn’t be for real. In her way, maybe she was one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen, and he was accustomed to beautiful girls. And instead of wearing the outrageous pompadour and platform shoes that had come into style, this one just let her hair hang loose, natural, and it was that light blonde color that looked real. But it was her eyes that really rattled him. They were really blue, sky blue—but glacial.

“Why do you want this job, Miss Welles?” For some reason he felt nervous. Dammit, he was curious. She was dressed in plain dark linen, and there wasn’t a sign of jewelry except the small, neat wristwatch, but there was something about her that made one certain she didn’t need a job.

“I want to live in New York, Mr. Bellamy.”

Just that. A straight answer. Why did it make him feel like he was snooping? He was entitled to ask questions. And if he made it too easy, she might not take the job. That was crazy, too. She was sitting here, wasn’t she? She hadn’t just dropped by for tea. Then why did he feel as if he were the applicant, striving to make a favorable impression on her?

He glanced at the form the agency had sent along. “Twenty years old and a B.A. in English, eh? Radcliffe. But no office experience. Now tell me, what good is this fancy background going to do around here? Can it help me handle a bitch like Helen Lawson or get a drunken bum like Bob Wolfe to turn in a weekly radio script on time? Or convince some fag singer to leave the Johnson Harris office and let me handle his affairs?”

“Am I supposed to do all that?” she asked.

“No, I am. But you have to help.”

“But I thought you were an attorney.”

He saw her collect her gloves. He turned on one of his relaxed smiles. “I’m a theatrical attorney. There’s a difference. I draw up contracts for my clients. Contracts that have no loopholes, except in their favor. I also handle their taxes, help them invest their money, get them out of any and all trouble, arbitrate their marital problems, keep their wives and mistresses apart, act as godfather to their children and wet nurse to them, especially when they’re doing a new show.”

“But I thought actors and writers had managers and agents.”

“They do.” He noticed the gloves were back in her lap. “But the ‘jumbos,’ the kind I handle, they also need me to advise them. For instance, an agent naturally pushes them toward the job that pays the most. He’s interested in his ten per cent. But I figure which job will do them the most good. In short, a theatrical attorney has to be a combination of agent, mother and God. And you, if you get the job, have to be their patron saint.”

Anne smiled. “Why don’t theatrical attorneys replace all agents?”

“They probably would, if there were enough dedicated schmucks like me.” He caught himself quickly. “Excuse the language. When I get going, I don’t realize what pops out.”

“What language? Schmuck?” She repeated it curiously. It sounded so outrageous coming from her that he laughed out loud. “It’s a Jewish word, and the literal translation would make you blush. But it’s become slang—for dope ... Oh, don’t let the fancy tag of Bellamy fool you, or even my freak Episcopalian face. I was born Birnbaum. When I was a kid I worked summers as entertainment director on cruises—wrote the ship’s column. And they didn’t like their fancy columns headed ‘Boating by Birnbaum,’ so one guy suggested Bellamy. I met a lot of important people on those cruises. A singer who was working the tour became my first client. A lot of people got to know me as Bellamy and I stuck with it. But I never let anyone forget that under Bellamy there’s always Birnbaum.” He smiled. “Now you have the whole picture. Think you can handle it?”

This time her smile was real. “I’d like to try. I type fairly well, but I don’t know much about shorthand.”

He waved his hand. “I got two broads out there who could win shorthand contests. I want someone who is more than a secretary.”

Her smile vanished. “I don’t think I understand.”

Dammit! He hadn’t meant anything like that. He ground his cigarette in the tray and lit another one. Jesus, she sat straight. Unconsciously he straightened in his chair.

“Look, Miss Welles, being more than a secretary means not sticking to the usual nine-to-five routine. There may be days when you won’t have to come in until noon. If I’ve made you work at night I wouldn’t expect you to come in. But on the other hand, if there was some crisis and even if you had worked until four in the morning, I’d expect you in before the office opened, because you would want to be there. In other words, you make your own schedule. But you’d also have to be available some evenings.”

He paused a second but she did not react, so he hurried on. “Say I was having dinner at ‘21’ with a prospective client. If I go for the right dinner and make with the right words, it’s a pretty good bet he’ll sign with me. But I may have to have six or seven drinks with him and listen to his gripes about his present management. Naturally I’ll swear on my life not to do any of these things. I’ll promise him everything—the moon with his name on it. Now I can’t give him all the things I promise. No one could. But I will want to make an honest effort to avoid the mistakes of his present management and keep what promises I can. Only the next morning I won’t remember a goddam word. That’s where you come in. You won’t have a hangover, because during this thrilling evening you will have sipped one sherry and you will remember everything I have said. The following day you will present me with a list of all the promises and I can study them when my head is clear.”

She smiled. “I’d be sort of a human Dictaphone?”

“Exactly. Think you could handle it?”

“Well, I have an excellent memory and I hate sherry.”

This time they laughed together.

“Okay, Anne. Want to start tomorrow?”

She nodded. “Will I also work for Mr. Bellows?”

He gazed into space and said quietly, “There is no Mr. Bellows. Oh, there’s George, his nephew, but George is not the Bellows in Bellamy and Bellows. That was George’s uncle, Jim Bellows. I bought Jim out before he went to war. I tried to talk him out of it, but no, he went to Washington and got carried away with that Navy uniform and a commission.” He sighed. “War is for the young. Jim Bellows was fifty-three. Too old for war ... but too young to die.”

“Was he killed in Europe or the Pacific?”

“He died of a heart attack in a submarine, the damn fool!” But the gruffness in his voice only punctuated the affection he felt for the dead man. Then, with an abrupt change of mood, he flashed one of his warm smiles. “Okay, Anne, I guess we’ve exchanged enough of our life stories. I can start you at seventy-five a week—how does that set with you?”

It was more than she had expected. Her room cost eighteen, food about fifteen. She told him she could manage quite well.

October, 1945

September had been a good month. She had found a job she liked, a girl friend named Neely and a gentle, eager escort named Allen Cooper.

October brought Lyon Burke.

She had been welcomed with instant acceptance by the receptionist and two secretaries. She lunched with them each day at the corner drugstore. Lyon Burke was their favorite topic, and Miss Steinberg, the senior secretary, was the expert. She had been with Henry Bellamy ten years. She had known Lyon Burke.

Lyon had been with the office two years when war was declared, and had left to enlist the day after Pearl Harbor. Jim Bellows had often suggested that his nephew join the firm. Henry had nothing against George Bellows, but he had always refused. “Business and relatives don’t mix,” he had insisted. But with Lyon gone, Henry was left with little choice.

There was nothing wrong with George. He was a capable lawyer, but he lacked the chemistry of Lyon Burke—at least in Miss Steinberg’s eyes. Lyon’s activities in the war had been avidly followed by all of the staff, and when he had received his captain’s bars, Henry had taken off half the day to celebrate. The last letter had come from London in August. Lyon was alive, Lyon sent regards—but Lyon said nothing about returning.

At first Henry had watched the mail each day. When September passed without word he moodily reconciled himself to Lyon’s permanent withdrawal from the firm. But Miss Steinberg refused to give up. And Miss Steinberg was right. The wire came in October.

It was direct and to the point:

DEAR HENRY: WELL IT’S OVER AND I’M STILL IN ONE PIECE. VISITED SOME RELATIVES IN LONDON AND STOPPED OFF AT BRIGHTON FOR SOME SEA AND REST. AM IN WASHINGTON WAITING FOR MY OFFICIAL RELEASE. AS SOON AS THEY LET ME TRADE THEIR UNIFORM FOR MY OLD BLUE SUIT I SHALL RETURN. BEST. LYON.

Henry Bellamy’s face lit up when he read the wire. He jumped from his chair. “Lyon’s coming back! Goddam, I knew he would!” For the next ten days the office was in a turmoil of interior decorators, excitement and speculative gossip.

“I can’t wait.” The receptionist sighed. “He sounds just like my type.”

Miss Steinberg’s smile was loaded with secret knowledge. “He’s everybody’s type, honey. If his looks don’t polish you off, the English accent does the rest.”

“He’s English?” Anne was surprised.

“Born here,” Miss Steinberg explained. “His mother was Nell Lyon. That was way before your time. Mine too. But she was a big English musical comedy star. She came here in a show and married an American lawyer, Tom Burke. She retired and Lyon was born here, so that makes him an American citizen. But his mother held on to her British citizenship, and when Lyon’s father died—I think Lyon was about five—she took him back to London. She went back on the stage and he went to school there. When she died he came back and went to law school here.”

“I know I’ll fall madly in love with him,” the younger secretary said.

Miss Steinberg shrugged. “Every girl in the office had a crush on him. But I can’t wait to see his reaction when he meets you, Anne.”

“Me?” Anne looked startled.

“Yes, you. You both have the same quality. A standoffishness. Only Lyon keeps blinding you with that smile and it fools you at first. You think he’s friendly. But you can never get really close to him. No one could. Not even Mr. Bellamy. Deep down Mr. B.’s a little in awe of Lyon, and not just because of his looks or manner. Lyon delivers. You watch, Lyon Burke will own this town one day. I’ve seen Mr. B. pull some pretty brilliant deals, but he has to fight every inch of the way because everyone knows he’s smart and they’re prepared for him. Lyon just walks in with the English charm and the movie-star looks, and wham! he comes off with everything he wants. But after a while you realize you don’t know what he’s really like—and what he thinks of you, or of anyone. What I mean is, he seems to like everyone equally. So you get the feeling that maybe deep down he doesn’t really care about anyone or anything—except his work. For that, he’ll do anything. But whatever you think about him, you still wind up adoring him.”

The second wire arrived ten days later, on a Friday morning: DEAR HENRY: HAVE BLUE SUIT. ARRIVE IN NEW YORK TOMORROW NIGHT. WILL COME DIRECTLY TO YOUR FLAT. SEE IF YOU CAN BOOK HOTEL RESERVATION. EXPECT TO START MONDAY. BEST. LYON.

Henry Bellamy took off at noon to celebrate. Anne was just finishing the mail when George Bellows stopped at her desk.

“Why don’t we go somewhere and celebrate, too?” he asked casually.

She couldn’t hide her astonishment. Her association with George Bellows had been confined to an official “good morning” and an occasional nod.

“I’m asking you to lunch,” he explained.

“I’m very sorry, but I promised to join the girls at the drugstore.”

He helped her into her coat. “Too bad,” he said. “This may be our last day on earth.” He smiled ruefully and drifted back to his office.

At lunch she listened to the endless chatter about Lyon Burke with half a mind, wondering idly why she had turned down George’s invitation. Fear of complications? From one lunch? How silly. Loyalty to Allen Cooper? Well ... Allen was the only man she knew in New York, and he was very kind. Perhaps that did rate him a kind of loyalty.

She recalled the day he had burst into the office, determined to clinch some kind of deal—insurance, Anne later found out. Henry had been unusually cold and had gotten rid of him quickly. So quickly, in fact, that Anne’s sympathies were aroused. As she led him out she had whispered, “Better luck next stop.” He had seemed almost startled at the warmth in her voice.

Two hours later her phone rang. “This is Allen Cooper. You remember me—the dynamic salesman? Well, I want you to know that my session with Henry was a wild success compared to my other stops. At least at Bellamy’s I met you.”

“You mean you haven’t made a sale?” She felt genuinely sorry.

“Nope. Struck out everywhere. Guess this just isn’t my day ... unless you want to give it a happy ending by having a drink with me.”

“I don’t ...”

“Drink? Me either. So let’s make it dinner then.” That’s how it began—and continued. He was pleasant and had a nice sense of humor. She thought of him as a friend rather than a date. Very often she didn’t bother to change her clothes after work. He never seemed to notice what she wore. And he always seemed eagerly grateful for her company. They went to little unknown restaurants and she always selected the least expensive item on the menu. She wanted to offer to pay her end, but she was afraid it might make him feel more of a failure.

Allen was hopelessly miscast as a salesman. He was too nice and mild-mannered for his profession. He asked questions about Lawrenceville, her days at school, even the events at the office. He made her feel like the most interesting, fascinating girl in the world.

She continued to see him because he made no demands upon her. Sometimes in a movie he held her hand. He made no attempt to kiss her good night. Her feeling was one of relief mixed with a curious sense of inadequacy. It was almost embarrassing not to be able to arouse any passion in poor Allen, but she was content to let matters rest. The thought of kissing him brought on the same distaste she had experienced when she had kissed Willie Henderson back in Lawrenceville, and this made her wonder again about her own capacity for love. Perhaps she wasn’t normal—or maybe her mother was right, maybe passion and romance did exist only in fiction.

Later that afternoon George Bellows stopped at her desk again. “I’ve come to make another pitch,” he said. “How about the sixteenth of January? You can’t be dated up that far ahead.”

“But that’s almost three months away.”

“Oh, I’ll be glad to take anything that opens before then. But Helen Lawson just called, screaming for Henry, and it reminded me that her show opens on the sixteenth.”

“That’s right, Hit the Sky goes into rehearsal next week.”

“Well, will you or won’t you go with me?”

“I’d love it, George. I think Helen Lawson is wonderful. She used to break in all her shows in Boston. When I was a little girl my father took me to see her in Madame Pompadour.”

“Okay, it’s a date. Oh, and Anne, once this show goes into rehearsal, Helen is liable to come crashing in here a good deal. If you two ever get around to the small-talk department, don’t come up with that ‘I-loved-you-when-I-was-a-little-girl’ routine. She might stab you.”

“But I was a little girl. And ridiculous as it sounds, that was only ten years ago. But even then Helen Lawson was a mature woman. She was at least thirty-five.”

“Around here we act like she’s twenty-eight.”

“George, you can’t be serious! Why, Helen Lawson is ageless. She’s a great star. It’s her personality and talent that make her so attractive. I’m sure she’s too intelligent to think she looks like a girl.”

George shrugged. “Tell you what. I’ll phone you twenty years from now and ask you how you feel. Looking twenty-eight seems to be an infectious disease that most women catch the moment they hit forty. To play it safe, just don’t bring up the subject of age around Helen. And please mark your calendar. January sixteenth. In the meantime, have a nice weekend and take it easy. It’ll be plenty hectic around here on Monday—when the conquering hero comes marching home.”

******

The receptionist was wearing a tight new plaid. The junior secretary’s pompadour was two inches higher. Even Miss Steinberg had broken out with last spring’s navy suit. Anne sat in her cubbyhole outside Henry’s office and tried to concentrate on the mail. But like the others, her attention was riveted on the door.

He arrived at eleven o’clock. With all the office gossip and speculation, she was still unprepared for anyone as striking as Lyon Burke.

Henry Bellamy was a tall man, but Lyon Burke towered over him by a good three inches. His hair was Indian black and his skin seemed burned into a permanent tan. Henry bristled with unconcealed pride as he led Lyon around and performed introductions. The receptionist colored visibly when she shook his hand, the junior secretary simpered and Miss Steinberg went absolutely kittenish in her excitement.

For the first time Anne was grateful for her rigid New England reserve. She knew she presented a calm she did not feel as Lyon Burke took her hand.

“Henry hasn’t stopped talking about you. Now that we meet, it’s quite easy to understand.” The English accent was definitely an asset. Anne managed a gracious answer and was grateful when Henry Bellamy steered Lyon toward the newly decorated office.

“Anne, you come in with us,” Henry ordered.

“It’s overwhelming,” Lyon said. “Makes one a bit apprehensive of the work expected in return.” He eased into a chair and smiled lazily. Anne suddenly understood what Miss Steinberg meant. Lyon Burke did smile at everyone, and that easy smile was impenetrable.

Henry beamed paternally. “Just be the same lazy bum you were before you left and I’ll redecorate for you every year. Now, let’s get down to cases. Anne, Lyon needs an apartment. He’s staying with me until he gets set,” Henry explained. “Would you believe it? We couldn’t get him a hotel room.”

She believed it. But she wondered why it should concern her.

“I want you to find him a place,” Henry said.

“You want me to find Mr. Burke an apartment?”

“Sure, you can do it,” Henry said. “That’s part of being more than a secretary.”

This time Lyon laughed heartily. “She’s a beauty, Henry. She’s everything you said. But she isn’t Houdini.” He winked at Anne. “Henry’s led a very sheltered life. He hasn’t looked for a flat in New York lately.”

Henry shook his head. “Listen, this girl arrived here two months ago and she didn’t know Seventh Avenue from Broadway. She not only found an apartment the first day, but landed this job and has me eating out of her hand.”

“Well, mine isn’t really an apartment. It’s very small ...”

His direct gaze was unsettling. “My dear Anne, after some of those bombed-out places I slept in during the war, anything with a ceiling looks like the Ritz.”

“Anne will come up with something,” Henry insisted. “Try for the East Side. Living room, bedroom, bath and kitchen, furnished, around a hundred and fifty a month. Go to one-seventy-five if you have to. Start in right away, this afternoon. Take tomorrow off, take as long as you need ... but don’t come back until you have the apartment.”

“Henry, we may never see this girl again,” Lyon warned.

“My money’s on Anne. She’ll come up with something.”

******

Her room was on the second floor of the brownstone. Today the two flights suddenly seemed insurmountable. She stood at the landing, holding the battered New York Times. She had spent the afternoon visiting every apartment listed, and they had all been taken. Her feet ached. She had dressed that morning for the office, not for apartment hunting. Tomorrow she’d get an early start—in flat heels.

Before she tackled the stairs she knocked at Neely’s door. There was no answer. She plodded up the shaky stairs and let herself into her room. She was grateful to hear the steam hissing through the ancient radiator.

Regardless of Lyon Burke’s “I’ll-take-anything” attitude, she couldn’t quite visualize him in a room like this. Not that it was a bad room. It was clean and conveniently located. Of course, compared to her spacious bedroom in Lawrenceville it was an awful room! The lumpy studio bed looked as if it might not last another year. Sometimes she wondered how many people had slept on it—hundreds, perhaps. But she didn’t know them, and perhaps it was just this anonymity that made it her bed. As long as she paid her rent, everything in this room belonged to her. The small, battered night table, crisscrossed with scratches and old cigarette burns; the bureau with the three drawers that had to be left slightly open because they stuck if they were closed and if you pulled too hard the knobs came off; and the pregnant easy chair, its lowered belly bulging with springs that just longed to burst through.

It could be made attractive, but there was never enough money left at the end of the week. (She was determined not to touch the five thousand she had in the bank.) She was still paying off her Bloomingdale bill for the good black dress and the good black evening coat.

She heard the familiar knock and called, “I’m in,” without looking up.

Neely entered and flopped on the chair, which groaned and came perilously close to disemboweling itself. “What’s with the ads in the Times? Thinking of moving?”

When Anne explained her new assignment, Neely laughed out loud. “You mean he doesn’t want a terrace thrown in, along with about four walk-in closets?” Then, dismissing the incident as impossible and thereby closed, she turned to the Important Matter. “Anne, did you get a chance to talk about it today?”

“It” was a favor Neely had been hammering at for two weeks.

“Neely, how could I? Today of all days ... with Lyon Burke coming back.”

“But we’ve got to get into Hit the Sky. For some crazy reason Helen Lawson seems to like our act. We’ve been called back to audition three times and she was there at all our auditions. Now just one word from Henry Bellamy would cinch it.”

“We” meant Neely and her two partners. Neely’s formal name was Ethel Agnes O’Neill (“Isn’t that a pistol?” she had exclaimed), but the nickname of Neely had stuck since childhood, and since she was one third of a dance team called The Gaucheros, there was no need to do anything about the unwieldy names.

Anne’s acquaintance with Neely had begun with a casual nod in the hall and had rapidly moved into a warm friendship. Neely looked like a gurgling, exuberant teen-ager. She had a snub nose, large brown eyes, freckles and curly brown hair. And in fact, Neely was a teen-ager, a teen-ager who had toured in vaudeville since she was seven.

It was hard to think of Neely as a performer. But one night she had dragged Anne along on a club date at a midtown hotel. And there, a strange transformation had taken place. The freckles vanished under a thick coat of greasepaint, and the childish figure matured with the help of a sleazy sequined dress. It was a passable, pedestrian kind of an act. Two men in frayed sombrero hats and tight pants, gyrating with the inevitable foot stamping and finger clicking designed to pass for Spanish dancing. Anne had seen similar acts in vaudeville back home. But she had never seen anyone like Neely. She wasn’t sure whether Neely was exceptionally good or outrageously bad. She never actually became a part of The Gaucheros. She danced in time with them, spun with them, and bowed with them, but it wasn’t a trio. You watched only Neely.

But without the costume and makeup, sitting on the sagging chair, Neely was just an eager seventeen-year-old girl. The first real friend Anne had ever known.

“I wish I could help you, Neely, but I can’t go to Mr. Bellamy with a personal matter. Our relationship is strictly business.”

“So what? Everybody in town knows he was Helen Lawson’s lover way back and that she still listens to everything he says.”

“He was what?”

“Her lover. Her guy. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

“Neely, where did you hear a silly thing like that?”

“Silly! Geez, you mean nobody told you about it? It was a long time ago, and she’s had three husbands since then, but they were the hottest item around for years. Why do you think I’ve been on your neck about talking to Bellamy? Can you mention it to him tomorrow?”

“I’ll be apartment hunting tomorrow. And Neely, I’ve told you—it just isn’t right, bringing your personal life into the office.”

Neely sighed. “Those fancy manners are gonna stand in your way, Anne. You gotta go in a direct line for the thing you want. Come right out and ask for it.”

“And what happens if you get turned down?”

Neely shrugged. “So what? You’re no worse off than if you haven’t asked. At least this way you give yourself a fifty-fifty chance.”

Anne smiled at Neely’s logic. Neely had no education, but she had the inborn intelligence of a mongrel puppy, plus the added sparkle that causes one puppy to stand out in a litter. This puppy was clumsy, frank and eager, with a streak of unexpected worldliness running through her innocence.

Neely had spent the first seven years of her life in foster homes. Then her sister, who was ten years older, met Charlie, one of The Gaucheros, and married him. They turned the act into a trio, and she immediately rescued Neely from the monotony of a foster home and formal schooling and introduced her to the life of a traveling third-rate vaudeville troupe. That was the end of school, but there was always someone on the bill who took a hand in helping Neely with her reading and arithmetic. She learned geography through train windows and picked up history from the European acts who played on the bill. And there was always a friendly doorman who sent in the alarm when an investigator from the Board of Education came around to check.

When Neely was fourteen her sister retired to have a baby, and Neely, who knew the act backwards, replaced her. And now, after all the small-time years, The Gaucheros had a chance at a Broadway show.

“Maybe I can bring it up with George Bellows,” Anne said thoughtfully as she freshened her makeup. “He invited me to the opening of Hit the Sky.”

“That’s the long way around,” Neely said, “but it’s better than nothing.” She watched Anne change into a tweed suit. “Oh, seeing Allen tonight?”

Anne nodded. “I figured. With Mr. Bellamy it’s the black dress. Gosh, doesn’t he ever get tired of that same black dress?”

“Mr. Bellamy never even notices me when I go out with him. It’s business.”

“Hah!” Neely snorted. “Boy, it sure sounds jazzy working in that office. Show business is a drag in comparison. You got George for an opening coming up, Mr. Bellamy for those fancy dinners at ‘21,’ you even found Allen in the office. And now Lyon Burke! Geez, Anne, you got four guys and I haven’t even got one!”

Anne laughed. “Mr. Bellamy is not a date, the opening isn’t until January, and to Lyon Burke I am nothing more than a renting agent. And Allen ... well ... Allen and I just date.”

“That’s still four times the action I got. I’ve never had a real date. The only men I know are my brother-in-law and his partner Dickie. And Dickie’s a fag. My big social life is going over to Walgreen’s Drugstore and talking to the other out-of-work actors.”

“Haven’t you met any actors who could take you out?”

“Ha! You don’t know actors if you ask a question like that. Take you out? They won’t even lift your tab for a five-cent Coke. It’s not that actors are born cheap, but they’re out of jobs so much they got to be. And most of them have jobs at night—they’re busboys, elevator operators, desk clerks, anything that’ll leave them free to job hunt during the day and see the managers.”

“Do you expect to go on the road soon?” Anne suddenly realized how much she would miss Neely.

“I hope not. My sister says the baby’s just beginning to know his father. That’s why Charlie’s knocking himself out taking all these club dates. But Dickie’s beginning to holler. We can make more money on tour. They want us for a nightclub route in Buffalo, Toronto and Montreal. That’s why we’ve got to land this spot in Hit the Sky. Helen Lawson shows are always hits. We’d be able to stay in New York for a whole season, maybe more. Then maybe I’d be able to meet a decent guy and get married.”

“Is that why you want to be in the show? To meet someone and get married?” “Sure, because then I’d be somebody. I’d be Mrs. Somebody. I’d live in one place. I’d have friends. People on the block would know who I was.”

“But what about love? It isn’t that easy to find someone you really love.”

Neely wrinkled her nose. “Look—if someone loved me, I’d love him. Geez, Anne, if you’d only go to Mr. Bellamy ...” Anne smiled. “All right, Neely, I will. The first chance I get. Who knows, you might become the next Pavlova.”

“What’s that?”

“She was a great dancer.” Neely laughed. “That’s for the birds. The star bit. Oh, I think I could be a star. Not with this act. But something funny happens inside of me when I get before an audience. I dance fairly well, but I feel if they applauded loud enough, I could fly. I don’t have a really good voice, but I feel if they liked me, I could do opera. It’s a feeling I get when. I’m out there ... like they’re all taking me in their arms or something. I talked to Dick and Charlie about it, but they think I’m crazy. They don’t feel a thing.”

“Neely, maybe you should study, go to acting classes. Maybe you can make it to the top.”

Neely shook her head. “The odds are too tough. I’ve met too many old-timers on the circuit who told me how they almost made it.”

“But you’re talking about people who weren’t quite good enough,” Anne said.

“Listen, no one sticks in show business because it’s got good hours or steady dough. Every kid who goes into it thinks she can make it. But for every Mary Martin, Ethel Merman or Helen Lawson there’re thousands of bit players who almost made it starving in fifth-rate road companies.”

Anne was silent. She couldn’t argue with Neely’s logic. She gave her makeup a final pat. “All right, Neely, I’ll do what I can with Mr. Bellamy. But who knows, maybe you’ll get the job anyway. They must like your act if they’ve called you back three times.”

Neely laughed out loud. “That’s what I don’t get. Why have they called us back? How could Helen Lawson like our cockemamie act? Unless every other dance team in town has smallpox or something. Listen, if I thought our act was good, I wouldn’t be nagging at you. I can’t understand why Helen Lawson seems interested—unless she’s got a letch for Charlie. She’s supposed to have eyes for anything in pants, and even though Charlie’s not too bright, he is good looking.”

“But what would Charlie do if she did like him? After all, there’s your sister.”

“Oh, he’d lay Helen Lawson if he had to,” Neely said without emotion. “He’d figure he was doing it for my sister in a way. After all, he wouldn’t really enjoy banging Helen. She’s not exactly a great beauty.”

“Neely, you mean you’d stand still and let that happen? Your sister would never forgive you.”

“Anne, you not only talk like a virgin but you think like a priest. Look, I’m a virgin, but I do know that sex and love are two different things for a man. Charlie used to live in the cheapest room on the road and send my sister three quarters of his pay check so she and the baby could live nice. But that didn’t mean that once in a while he wouldn’t take a flier with a nice-looking girl on the bill. He just needed sex ... It had nothing to do with his love for Kitty and the baby. I’ve hung on to my virginity because I know men put a high value on it, and I want some man to love me the way Charlie loves Kitty. But it’s different with a man. You don’t expect him to be a virgin.”

The buzzer sounded in Anne’s room. That meant Allen was at the front door. She pressed the button to signal she was on the way down and grabbed her coat and bag. “Come on, Neely, I’ve got to go. Allen may be holding a cab.”

“Wait—got any more of those terrific chocolate marsh-mallow cookies left?” Neely began poking around in the small closet.

“Take the whole box,” Anne said, holding the door open.

“Oh, marvelous!” Neely followed her, cradling the box. “I’ve got a library copy of Gone with the Wind, a quart of milk and all these cookies. Wow! What an orgy!”

******

They went to a little French restaurant. Allen listened attentively as she told him about her new assignment. When she finished, he gulped down the remainder of his coffee and called for the check.

“Anne, I think the time has come.”

“Time for what?”

“Time for the moment of truth. Time for you to leave Henry Bellamy in a blaze of glory.”

“But I don’t want to leave Mr. Bellamy.”

“You will.” His smile was strange. Confident. His entire manner had changed. “I assume getting Lyon Burke an apartment would be a great achievement.”

“You mean you know of one?”

He nodded, smiling mysteriously as though at a private joke. Outside, he signaled a cab and gave a Sutton Place address.

“Allen, where are we going?”

“To see Lyon Burke’s new apartment.”

“At this time of night? Whose apartment is this, anyway?”

“You’ll see,” he said. “Just be patient.”

The rest of the ride was silent. The cab stopped in front of a fashionable building near the East River. The doorman sprang to attention. “Good evening, Mr. Cooper.” The elevator man nodded and automatically stopped at the tenth floor. Allen nonchalantly slipped a key into the door of the apartment. He switched on the lights, revealing a skillfully decorated living room. He pressed another button and soft music drifted through the room. It was a perfect apartment. An apartment made to order for Lyon Burke.

“Allen, whose apartment is this?”

“Mine. Come see the rest of the place. The bedroom is quite large ... good closet space.” He pulled open sliding doors. “Bathroom here, kitchen out there. Small, but it has a window.”

She followed him around without speaking. It was inconceivable. Mild little Allen living here?

“Now I’ll show you the one sour note.” He walked into the living room and drew the floor-length drapes, exposing a neighboring apartment and a window that looked almost near enough to touch.

“That’s the sad story,” he said. “This dream house has everything but a view. Although I’ve got to admit there’s a fat guy across the way who fascinates me. He lives alone, and in two years I’ve never seen him touch a drop of food. He lives on beer—breakfast, lunch and dinner. Look!” As if on cue, a stout man in his undershirt lumbered into the kitchen and opened a bottle of beer.

Allen drew the drapes. “I used to worry about him in the beginning. I was sure he’d wind up with a vitamin deficiency or something. But he seems to be thriving on it.” He led her to the couch. “Well, does it fit the bill for Mr. Burke?”

“I think it’s wonderful, even with the fat man. But Allen, why would you ever give up such a marvelous apartment?”

“I’ve found a better one. I can move in tomorrow. But I want you to see it first. It’s important that you like it too.”

Good Lord! He was going to ask her to marry him! Nice, sweet little Allen? She didn’t want to hurt him. Maybe she could pretend not to understand.

She forced an impersonal airiness into her voice. “Allen, just because I’ve been assigned to find an apartment for Lyon Burke doesn’t mean I’m an expert. This was just done to expedite things at the office, because Lyon Burke can’t take the time off. If you found this apartment on your own, you certainly don’t need any advice from me ...” She knew she was talking too fast.

“You say he can pay one fifty,” Allen said. “But he could go to one seventy-five. Tell you what—we’ll give it to him for one fifty. That should make a real hero out of you. He can take over my lease. That’s what I pay, unfurnished, but I’ll throw in the furniture as a bonus.”

She was suddenly concerned. “But you’ll need it in your new place,” she protested. “Besides, it must have cost a lot ...”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said gaily. “Can Lyon Burke move in here right away?”

“Well, I guess—”

“Sure he can,” Allen said. “Come on, I’ll show you my new place.” He hustled her out and down in the elevator, ignoring her protestations about the late hour.

On the street again, the attentive doorman charged over. “Taxi, Mr. Cooper?”

“No, Joe, we’re just going down the street.”

He led her down the block and into another building, one that seemed to be hanging over the river.

The new apartment was like a movie set. The living room was covered with forty feet of thick white carpet. The bar area was inlaid with Italian marble. There was a long staircase that obviously led to some upstairs rooms. But the breathtaking feature was the view.

Glass doors opened on to an immense terrace that overlooked the river. He led her out. The cold wind blew the dampness in her face, but the beauty of the scene was overpowering. Bright lacework bridge lights looped the river, and tiny diamonds trickled across the spans. She stared, transfixed, not noticing Allen at all.

“Shall we drink to the new apartment?” he asked.

She came out of her reverie to accept an offered Coke.

“Allen, whose apartment is this?” she said quietly.

“Mine, if I want it.”

“But who does it belong to now?”

“A man named Gino. But he says it’s too big for him. He lives at the Waldorf—likes it better that way.”

“But Allen, you can’t afford anything like this!”

“You’d be surprised at what I can afford.” He was wearing that strange smile again.

She started back inside. “Allen, I think I had better go. I’m very tired ... and very mixed up.”

“Anne ...” He caught her arm. “I’m rich, Anne—very, very rich.”

She stared at him silently. And suddenly she knew he was telling the truth.

“I love you, Anne. In the beginning I just couldn’t believe you were going with me all this time and didn’t know.”

“Know what?”

“Who I am.”

“Who are you?”

“Oh, I’m still Allen Cooper. That’s the only thing you do know about me. My name. Only to you it doesn’t seem to ring any bells. You accepted me as an unsuccessful little insurance salesman.” He grinned. “You don’t know what it’s done to me these past few weeks, hiding you out at inexpensive restaurants, watching you order the least expensive thing on the menu, knowing you were worried about my sales. Anne, no one has ever really cared about me before. At first I thought it was a gag, that you knew and were conning me. Oh, it’s been tried before. That’s why I asked so many questions—where you came from, all about Lawrenceville. Then I had a detective make a check.”

He saw her eyes narrow and grabbed her hands. “Anne, don’t be angry. You were too perfect to be true. Gino couldn’t believe it. But when the reports came in, when it all turned out to be on the level—the family home, the widowed mother, the aunt and your good New England background—you’re class, Anne, real class. Jesus, when I found out I wanted to send off rockets. I’d been so sure nothing like this could ever happen to me—that someone I worshipped could like me for myself! Can’t you see what that means to me?” He danced her around the room. “You care! You really care! Not for what I have, but for me!”

She broke away from him and caught her breath. “Allen, how would I know who you were—or about any of this—unless you told me?”

“I don’t know how you couldn’t know. I was always in the columns. I figured one of your girl friends would tell you. Or certainly Henry Bellamy.”

“I don’t read the columns, and I have no girl friends except Neely. She only reads Variety. And I never discuss my personal affairs with Mr. Bellamy—or anyone else at the office.”

“Well, now you can give them a big piece of news. About us!” He took her in his arms and kissed her.

She stood there limply—then abruptly broke the embrace. God, it had happened again! At his kiss, a surge of revulsion had swept through her.

He looked at her tenderly. “My sweet little Anne. I know you must be confused.”

She walked to the mirror and repaired her lipstick. Her hand was trembling. Something was wrong with her. Why should she feel this cold distaste at a man’s kiss? Many girls enjoyed kissing men they didn’t love. It was supposed to be normal. And she liked Allen, he wasn’t a stranger. So it wasn’t just Willie Henderson or the boys in Lawrenceville. The trouble must lie within herself.

He stood behind her. “I love you, Anne. I realize this has come very fast. It’s enough to confuse anyone. But I want to marry you. And I want you to meet Gino—my father.”

He handed her a key. “Give this to Lyon Burke tomorrow. Tell him to get in touch with me at my office. I’ll have the lease switched immediately. And Anne, if this apartment is too overdone for you, you can throw everything out. Redo it. Gino spent a fortune on it, but somehow I guess it doesn’t look like you. Or if you like, we can buy a town house—anything you want.”

“Allen ... I ...”

“We’ve talked enough for one night. I love you. And you’re going to marry me. Just hold that in mind for now.”

She was deep in her own thoughts as they drove home. She knew the truth now. She was frigid. That awful word the girls at school used to whisper about. Some girls were born that way—they never reached a climax or felt any real passion. And she was one of them. God, she couldn’t even enjoy a kiss! Maybe she was lucky she had found someone like Allen. He was kind, he might be able to help her. She might as well marry him. Her mother had been right. That great feeling—it didn’t happen to a “lady” who felt revulsion at a kiss. But at least she had escaped Willie Henderson and Lawrenceville. Some people never even had half a dream come true.

He held the cab when they reached her brownstone. “Try to dream of me, Anne.” He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Good night.”

She watched the cab disappear, then she ran inside and banged on Neely’s door. Neely appeared, her head bent over Gone with the Wind. Without putting the book down, she motioned Anne in and continued to read.

“Neely, put that book away for a minute. This is important.”

“I wouldn’t leave Rhett Butler right now for anything in the world!”

“Neely, have you ever heard of Allen Cooper?”

“Hey, what is this, a gag?”

“I’ve never been more serious. Who is Allen Cooper? Does the name mean anything to you?”

Neely yawned and closed the book, carefully turning the corner of the page to hold Rhett in place. “All right, if you want to play games. Allen Cooper is a very nice boy who dates you three or four nights a week. From what I’ve seen of him from my window I’d say he wasn’t exactly Cary Grant, but he’s reliable. Now. Can I go back to Rhett? He’s lots more interesting, and Scarlett doesn’t seem to appreciate him at all.”

“Then you’ve never heard of Allen Cooper?”

“No. Should I? Has he been in pictures or something? I know about Gary Cooper and Jackie Cooper, but Allen Cooper ...” She shrugged.

“All right, go back to Rhett Butler.” Anne started for the door.

“You’re acting funny tonight,” Neely muttered. “Hey, you didn’t have a drink or something, did you?”

“No. See you tomorrow.”

Neely nodded absently. She was already back with Rhett and Scarlett.

In the darkness, Anne lay awake sorting the facts. Allen was not a poor little insurance agent—Allen was rich. But why should she have heard about him? Was there something else she should know? How could she find out more about him? George Bellows! Of course. If there was anything to know about Allen or anyone, George Bellows would know.

******

George Bellows looked up in surprise when she entered his office. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be out apartment hunting?”

“May I talk to you, George? It’s personal.”

He crossed the room and closed the door. “Any time. Sit down. And make it as personal as you like. Here, how about some coffee?” He poured her a cup from a thermos. “All right now, let’s have it. Something bothering you?”

She studied the coffee. “George, do you know Allen Cooper?”

“Who doesn’t?” He looked at her carefully. “Hey ... don’t tell me you’ve gotten involved with him!”

“I know him. I understand he’s quite rich.”

“Rich!” He chuckled unpleasantly. “Baby, they’d have to invent a new word for his kind of money. Of course, his father, Gino, started the empire. They own half the real estate in this town. They’re rumored to be partners with those millionaire Greek shipping tycoons. Time magazine did a piece on Gino a few years ago. Maybe I can dig up a back copy in the library for you. They said his wealth couldn’t even be estimated. They ran Allen’s picture, too. Sole heir to the entire empire. You can imagine what an ad this was for the pair of them. Ever since, they’ve needed elephant guns to keep the girls away. So if you’ve met Allen, I give you one piece of advice—don’t take him seriously. He’s a louse.”

“He seems very nice,” she insisted.

George laughed. “Oh, he’s smoother than glass—but I think he’s as tough as his father underneath. He’s put over some pretty shrewd deals on his own. Managed to stay out of the Army by buying some plant that made parachutes, I believe.”

She stood up. “Thanks, George.”

“Any time, honey. I can give you a rundown on every wolf in town—with your looks you’re bound to meet them all.”

******

Henry Bellamy’s face sagged with disappointment when he saw her. “Now don’t tell me you’ve given up already! Look, Anne, I know it’s tough. I called a few renting agents myself today. But you’ve got to keep trying.”

“I have the apartment for Mr. Burke.”

“No! Good God, you are sensational!” He buzzed Lyon’s office and called him in.

“I have the key,” she said. “Mr. Burke can look at it this afternoon.”

“What’s wrong with this morning?” Lyon said as he walked in. “Can’t give them a chance to change their minds. Anne, you are a wonder! What’s the address?”

He scribbled it down. “Great location. Can I afford it?”

“It’s a hundred and fifty a month.”

He shook his head. “You’re a wizard. But why the key? Is the tenant away?”

“No. He’s probably at his office.”

“What’s the name?” “Allen Cooper,” she said quietly. Lyon merely wrote down the name, but Henry looked at her curiously. “How did you find this apartment, Anne? Through an ad?”

“No. Allen Cooper is a friend of mine.”

Henry’s expression relaxed. “If he’s a friend of yours, he can’t be the Allen Cooper I know.”

“I met him in this office, Mr. Bellamy.”

“Here?” Henry seemed puzzled. “By God you did!” He rose with such violence that his chair banged against the wall. “Anne! You and Allen Cooper! No ...” He shook his head in disbelief.

“I thought he was just an insurance salesman when I met him,” she said.

“The sonofabitch was here trying to get a chorus girl off his back. One of our minor clients. Wanted me to pay her off and throw a scare into her. I threw him out pretty quick.” He shot Anne an angry scowl. “But obviously not quick enough!”

“Henry!” Lyon’s voice was sharp. “Anne is certainly capable of choosing her own friends.” Then, with a quick smile at the older man, he added, “You’re not being very fair. You send Anne out on an impossible assignment, and when she delivers, instead of shouting her praises you fire accusations and pry into her personal life.”

“Allen Cooper ...” Henry repeated the name in disbelief. “Lyon, if you knew this Allen Cooper—”

Lyon smiled. “I don’t want to know him. I just want his apartment.”

“Have you ever heard of him?” Henry asked.

Lyon looked thoughtful. “Seems I have. He’s frightfully rich, I believe. But one shouldn’t hold that against him.”

“But Anne’s no match against a guy like that. She doesn’t play in their league. She’s got to get killed,” Henry insisted.

She stood there quietly, slightly annoyed that they were talking about her as if she weren’t there.

“Okay!” Henry turned and retrieved his chair. “It’s none of my business. Just as long as I go on record how I feel. From now on it’s your ball game.”

“And I’m sure she knows the rules,” Lyon said. He turned to her and smiled. “I’d like very much to look at the apartment. Mind if Anne goes with me, Henry?”

Henry waved his hand in dismissal and returned to his work. Anne heard him sigh heavily as they left the office.

******

She fastened her attention on the taxi window as they drove crosstown. It was one of those last wonderful days in October, when the air is balmy and the faded sun tries to pretend it’s spring.

“Don’t be angry,” Lyon said quietly. “Henry only blew off because he’s fond of you, in the nicest possible way. He doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’m not angry—just confused.”

“Since everyone seems to be offering unsolicited advice, let me add some of my own. Never judge anyone by another’s opinions. We all have different sides that we show to different people.”

She smiled. “You mean that even Hitler could be soft and playful with Eva Braun.”

“Something like that. And King Henry didn’t kill all of his wives. If I recall correctly, the last one actually henpecked him.”

“But Allen is really very nice,” she insisted.

“I’m sure he is. And if this is his building, it’s quite impressive.”

The cab had stopped. A different doorman was on duty. “We’ve come to see Mr. Cooper’s apartment,” Anne said.

He nodded. “Mr. Cooper told me about it. Tenth floor.”

She handed Lyon the key. “I’ll wait in the lobby.”

“What? No guided tour? Come, my girl, I expect you to point out all the advantages of the flat. Where the linens are stored, how to work the stove, where the fuse box is hidden ...”

She felt herself blushing. “I was there only once, to look at the apartment for you.”

“Then you still know more about it than I,” he said easily.

He liked everything about the apartment. He even insisted he liked the view of the fat man across the way. “Makes it rather neighborly. I shall call Allen Cooper this afternoon and thank him. But first I must express my gratitude to you. I suggest we both have a very expensive lunch on Henry.”

They went to the Barberry Room. She liked the soft blue darkness, the tiny artificial stars twinkling in the ceiling and the generous armchairs. She accepted a sherry. In the last twenty-four hours too many things had happened so fast. She felt unnerved and strangely off balance.

Lyon didn’t pressure her into conversation. He talked on easily about the marvels of the new apartment, the luxury of civilian food, his new appreciation of civilian life. Gradually she felt herself unwinding. She liked his clipped accent, the soothing atmosphere of the room. She liked watching his face ... his changes of expression ... his quick smile.

“You’ll have to bear with Henry’s meddling in your life,” he said as he leaned across to light her cigarette. “But it’s only because he wants the best for you. He’s placed you on a bit of a pedestal.”

“You’re the one he’s put on a pedestal,” she said. “One about seventy feet high. You’re the future of Bellamy and Bellows.”

“He felt that way four years ago,” Lyon said. “People change in four years.”

“Mr. Bellamy hasn’t changed his opinion of you.”

He took her hand. “Anne, can’t we cut this ‘mister’ business? I’m Lyon. ‘Mister’ Bellamy is Henry.”

She smiled. “All right ... Lyon. You must know how anxiously Henry’s been waiting for you to come back.” She stopped suddenly. This was none of her business. She had never intruded into anyone’s personal life before. But she felt an urgency to protect Henry. She suddenly understood Henry’s stand against Allen—it was part of being a friend. She also saw the logic behind Neely’s argument with new clarity. You couldn’t be a real friend and remain politely impersonal. She would speak to Henry about Neely and Hit the Sky. She felt a new freedom, as if she had shed another shackle that bound her to Lawrenceville.

“I’m aware of Henry’s hopes and plans,” Lyon answered. “And perhaps I won’t let him down. But God! It’s a bastard business at best, neither lawyer nor agent.”

“But everyone said you were a—a dynamo. You have to love something to give it such energy.”

“I loved a good fight ... the challenge ... even the wheeling and dealing.”

She was confused. Everything he said contradicted the reputation that had preceded him.

He took her silence as concern for Henry. “Now don’t fret. I probably just have a touch of battle fatigue.”

“But you are glad to be back with Henry?”

“I am back, am I not?”

She looked puzzled. “You say it as if there was really something else you’d rather do.”

“Does anyone actually have the luxury of doing exactly what he wants to do?”

“I’m doing what I want to do.”

He flashed his smile. “I’m flattered.”

“I mean working for Henry. Living in New York. But what do you want to do, Lyon?”

He stretched his long legs under the table. “Be dreadfully rich, for one thing. Sit in some lovely spot in Jamaica, have several beautiful girls who look exactly like you to look after me and knock out a best-selling novel about the war.”

“You want to write?”

“Of course.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone who comes out of the Army feel positive he has the only true war novel in him?”

“Then why not write it?” “For one thing, working for Henry is a full-time proposition. And that charming flat I’m inheriting does not come rent free. I’m afraid literature’s loss will be Henry Bellamy’s gain.”

She realized Lyon Burke could not be categorized and neatly filed away. He had feelings, but he would always mask them with a smile or a contradictory statement.

“It’s odd, but you don’t strike me as a quitter,” she said boldly.

His eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

“Giving up without even trying. I mean—if you want to write, if you honestly feel you have something to say, then do it. Everyone should at least try to do the thing he wants to do. Later in life situations and responsibilities force people to compromise. But to compromise now ... it’s like quitting before you start.”

He leaned across and cupped her chin in his hand. Their eyes met, and he looked at her intently. “Henry certainly doesn’t know you. You can’t be the girl he’s been talking about. So far the only thing he’s been right about is your incredible beauty. By God, you’re a fighter, you are.”

She sat back in her chair. “This isn’t really me today.” She felt drained. “I’m kind of off balance. Things have happened too quickly. And when nothing has ever happened to you for twenty years, I guess you do act strange. I mean ... all this about Allen Cooper. I didn’t even know who he really was until last night.”

“Don’t let Henry’s opinion bother you. He’s not: exactly eager to break in someone new. He’ll fight off your suitors with hand grenades if necessary.”

“Allen is just a friend ...”

“That’s excellent news.” This time he looked at her without smiling.

She felt flustered. To cover her embarrassment she said, “What I said before, about people trying to do the thing they really wanted to do. I meant that. I did it when I came to New York. No one should give up a dream without giving it a chance to come true.”

“I have no dreams, Anne. I never had. This idea of writing just came to me after the war. Before the war I was dedicated to success, and making a pile of money. But now I’m not even sure I want that any more. In fact I’m not sure there’s anything I particularly want.” Then, with one of his quick changes of mood, he smiled. “Yes, there’s one thing I do want. I want to be aware of the minutes and the seconds, and to make each one count.”

“I can understand that,” she said. “It’s a natural feeling for anyone who’s been in the war.”

“Oh? I was beginning to wonder if any females over here recalled there was a war.”

“Oh, I’m sure everyone felt the war.”

“I can’t agree. When you’re over there, in it, you don’t think there’s anything else in life. You can’t believe that somewhere people are sleeping in comfortable beds or sitting in a restaurant like this. It’s different in Europe. Everywhere you walk you see a bombed-out building—you live with the constant reminder. But when I came back here all of the death and bloodshed seemed so remote. It seemed that it couldn’t have actually happened—that it was some hellish nightmare. There was New York, the Paramount Building was still standing, its clock running just as it always had. The pavements had the same cracks, the same pigeons or their relatives were messing up the Plaza, the same lines were standing outside of the Copa, waiting to see the same stars.

“Last night I was out with a beautiful creature who spent hours telling me about the hardships she had endured during the war. No nylons, plastic lipstick containers, no bobby pins ... it was awful. I think the shortage of nylons affected her the most. She was a model, and her legs were important to her. She said she was terribly glad we finally discovered the atom bomb—she had been down to her last six pair when it hit.”

“I suppose if you’re in it, nothing matters but getting out alive,” she said quietly.

“You don’t chance thinking even that far ahead,” he answered. “You think from day to day. If you allow yourself to think of the future—any personal future—you lose your nerve. And suddenly you recall all the senseless time-wasting things you’ve done ... the wasted minutes you’ll never recover. And you realize that time is the most precious thing. Because time is life. It’s the only thing you can never get back. You can lose a girl and perhaps win her back—or find another. But a second—this second—when it goes, it’s irrevocably gone.” His voice was soft, remembering, and she noticed the fine lines around the corners of his eyes.

“There was this corporal ... we were spending the night in what was left of a barn. Neither of us was sleepy. The corporal kept sifting some of the earth through his hand. He kept saying, ‘This is great earth.’ Seems he had a farm in Pennsylvania. He began telling me the trouble he had with his peach trees, and about his plans for enlarging the farm when he returned. He wanted it to be a good farm for his children when they grew up. But the soil bothered him. It wasn’t rich enough. That’s all he talked about. Soon I found myself worrying about his miserable soil—even offering suggestions. I think I fell asleep dreaming of fertilizers and acres and acres of peach trees. The next day was a bad one. We ran into land mines ... snipers ... the weather was foul. That night I made the reports on the missing men. I checked the dogtags. One of them was the corporal. I sat and stared at the dogtag. Last night it had been a man—a man who wasted his last night on earth worrying about fertilizer and soil. And now his blood would fertilize some foreign soil.”

He looked at her and suddenly smiled. “And here I am, wasting your time talking about it.”

“No, please go on.”

He looked at her strangely. “I’ve said a great many things today ... things that probably should have stayed locked away in my mind.” He signaled for the check. “But I’ve taken up enough of your time. Make the rest of the afternoon count. Buy a new dress, have your hair done—or do any of the wonderful things a beautiful girl should do.”

“This girl is going back to the office.”

“Nothing of the kind. I’m giving this order. Henry expected you to be gone several days. The least you deserve is a half-day holiday. And a two-week salary bonus. I’ll see to that.”

“But I couldn’t think of—”

“Nonsense. I expected to hand a renting agent a full month’s rent under the table. Let’s call this my first official act at Bellamy and Bellows. You get a two-week salary bonus and the afternoon off.”

******

She took the afternoon off, but she didn’t do any of the things he suggested. She walked up Fifth Avenue. She looked at the new winter styles. She sat in the square at the Plaza. And she thought about Lyon Burke. He dwarfed anyone she had ever known. She had been overwhelmed by the smiling, inscrutable Lyon, but the Lyon who talked about the war—he seemed accessible, capable of caring. He had cared about the corporal. Who was Lyon Burke, really?

She left the square and walked down Fifth Avenue. It was getting late. She had to go home and change. Allen was picking her up. Allen! She couldn’t marry Allen! That would be refuting everything she had said. That was really giving up! It was too early to compromise with even part of a dream.

She would tell him at dinner. But it had to be brought up gently, with tact. She couldn’t just open with, “Hello Allen I’m not going to marry you.” But during dinner, she’d work into it and break it easily—but firmly. It was as simple as that.

But it wasn’t. No quiet little French restaurant now. Allen no longer needed to hide his identity. They went to “21.” Waiters bowed to him and everyone called him by name. He seemed to know most of the people in the room.

“By the way, Anne, do you like country living?” he asked suddenly. “We have this house in Greenwich ...”

This was the opening. “No, I had enough of that in Lawrenceville. As a matter of fact, Allen, there’s something I want to say ... something you’ve got to understand ...”

He looked at his watch and suddenly signaled for the check. “

Allen!”

“Go on, I’m listening.” He was signing the check.

“It’s about what you said last night. And now about country living. Allen, I like you very much but—”

“Oh, I’m glad you reminded me. I sent the lease over to Lyon Burke. Talked to him this afternoon. He sounds like a nice guy. English, isn’t he?”

“He was raised in England. Allen, listen to me.”

He stood up. “You can tell me in the cab.”

“Please sit down. I’d rather tell you here.”

He smiled and held her coat. “It’s dark in the cab—more romantic. Besides, we’re late.”

She stood up helplessly. “Where are we going?”

“Morocco.” He tipped his way out of the room with a series of surreptitious handshakes. In the cab, he settled back and smiled. “My father is at Morocco. I told him we would stop by. Now, what did you want to tell me?”

“Allen, I’m very flattered about the way you feel. I’m also very grateful about the apartment for Lyon Burke. It’s saved me a lot of trouble and pavement pounding. I think you’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, but—” she saw the neon sign of El Morocco and her words rushed out—”but about marriage ... what you said last night ... I’m sorry, Allen, I—”

“Good evening, Mr. Cooper!” The doorman at El Morocco sang the greeting as he swung open the door of the cab. “Your father is inside.”

“Thanks, Pete.” Another bill exchanged hands. Allen led her into the club. She had failed to make her point—or had Allen consciously made it a point not to understand?

Gino Cooper was sitting with a group of men at a large round table near the bar. He waved at Allen, signaling he’d join them. The waiter led Allen to a table against the wall. It was ten-thirty, still early for El Morocco. Although this was Anne’s first visit to the famous club, she had seen pictures, in newspapers and magazines, of various celebrities sitting against the famous zebra stripes. She looked around. There were plenty of zebra stripes, but otherwise it was just a large room with a fairly good orchestra playing some show tunes.

Gino joined their table immediately. Without waiting for any introduction, he grabbed Anne’s hand and pumped it violently.

“So this is her, huh?” He whistled softly. “Kid, you were right. This one was worth waiting for. She’s got real class. I can tell without her even opening her mouth.” He snapped his fingers; a captain seemed to materialize from the atmosphere. “Bring some champagne,” he ordered without taking his eyes away from Anne.

“Anne doesn’t drink,” Allen began.

“Tonight she’ll drink,” Gino said heartily. “Tonight’s an occasion.”

Anne smiled. Gino’s warmth was infectious. He was swarthy, heavyset and floridly handsome. His black hair was streaked with gray, but his immense vitality and enthusiasm were almost boyish.

When the champagne was poured, he toasted her. “To the new lady in our family.” With one gulp he drained half his glass. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and said, “Are you Catholic?”

“No, I—” Anne began.

“Well, you gotta convert when you marry Allen. I’ll make an appointment with Father Kelly at the Paulist Center. He can rush it through with private instruction.”

“Mr. Cooper—” It had been almost a physical effort to find her voice.

Allen quickly interrupted. “We haven’t discussed religion, Dad. And there’s no reason for Anne to convert.”

Gino considered this. “Well, no ... not if she’s dead set against it. Long as she marries in the Church and promises to raise the kids Catholic—”

“Mr. Cooper, I’m not going to marry Allen!” There! She had said it, loud and clear.

His eyes narrowed. “Why? You that anti-Catholic?”

“I’m not anti-anything.”

“Then what’s the hitch?”

“I’m not in love with Allen.”

At first Gino’s stare was blank. Then he turned to Allen in bewilderment. “What in hell did she say?”

“She said she wasn’t in love with me,” Allen answered.

“Say, is this a gag or something? I thought you said you were gonna marry her.”

“I did. And I will. But first I have to make her love me.”

“You both crazy or something?” Gino demanded.

Allen smiled pleasantly. “I told you, Dad—up until last night, Anne thought I was just a struggling little insurance agent. She has to readjust her thinking.”

“What’s to readjust?” Gino asked. “Since when did money become a handicap?”

“We never discussed love, Dad. I don’t think Anne allowed herself to take me seriously. She spent too much time worrying I’d lose my job.”

Gino looked at Anne curiously. “You really went with him all these weeks and ate at those hash houses he told me about?”

Anne smiled faintly. She was beginning to feel conspicuous. Gino’s voice carried, and Anne was sure half the room was enjoying their conversation.

Gino hit his thigh and laughed aloud. “This is a good one!” He poured himself more champagne. A waiter leaped to assist him. Gino motioned him away. “I used to open these bottles with my teeth. Now six flunkies feel they gotta help me pour it.” He turned to Anne. “I like you! Welcome to the family.”

“But I’m not going to marry Allen.”

He waved his hand in dismissal. “Listen—if you lived through six weeks of bad eats and accepted him as a punk, you’ll love him now. Drink your champagne. Start cultivating rich tastes, you can afford it. Hi, Ronnie.” A thin young man had appeared from nowhere and was standing silently at their table.

“This is Ronnie Wolfe,” Gino told her. “Sit down, Ronnie.”

Gino snapped his fingers and called into space, “Bring Mr. Wolfe his usual.” And from space a waiter appeared and placed a pot of coffee before the stranger.

“Now, don’t tell me you never heard of Ronnie—everybody reads his column,” Gino said proudly.

“Anne’s new in New York,” Allen said quickly. “She only knows about the Times.”

“Good paper,” Ronnie said crisply. He pulled out a worn little black leather book. His dark eyes darted from Allen to Gino. “All right, let’s have her name—and who’s staked the claim? Father or son?”

“Both of us this time,” Gino said. “This little girl is gonna be related to me soon. Anne Welles. Spell the name right, Ronnie—she’s gonna marry Allen.”

Ronnie whistled. He looked at Anne with curious respect. “Big story, all right. New model in town lassos big prize. Or actress? Now don’t tell me—see if I can guess. Texas?”

“I’m from Massachusetts and I work in an office,” Anne said coldly.

Ronnie’s eyes twinkled. “Next thing I expect you’ll even tell me you can type.”

“I hardly think that’s news for your column. And I also think you should know that Allen and I—”

“Now Anne,” Gino said quickly. “Ronnie’s a friend.”

“No, let her go on.” Ronnie was looking at her with something close to respect.

“Aw, have some more champagne,” Gino said, refilling her glass.

She picked up her glass and sipped it in an effort to control her anger. She wanted to insist she was not marrying Allen, but she knew Gino had deliberately stopped her and probably would again. It would be embarrassing to him to be contradicted in public. The moment Ronnie Wolfe left she would tell Gino not to make any more statements. She had told them both—father and son—that she was not going to marry Allen. Did money give people a blind spot? Rob them of their hearing?

“Who do you work for?” Ronnie asked.

“Henry Bellamy,” Allen said. “But that’s temporary.”

“Allen!” She turned to him angrily, but Ronnie interrupted.

“Look, Miss Welles—questions are my job.” He smiled in a frank and friendly way. “I like you. It’s refreshing to run into a girl who didn’t come to New York to be an actress or a model.” He looked at her closely. “Great cheekbones. You could make a fortune if you wanted. If Powers or Longworth ever saw you, you might even get richer than your boyfriend.”

He winked at Gino. “If she wanted to work we’d buy her a modeling agency,” Gino bellowed. “But she’s gonna settle down and raise babies.”

“Mr. Cooper—” Anne’s face was burning. Allen broke in.

“Dad, let’s take first things first.”

Ronnie laughed. “Here comes your friend, Gino. Does she know the news?”

They looked up as a tall, stunning girl approached the table. Without rising, Gino moved over and patted the seat. “This is Adele Martin. Sit down, baby, and say hello to Anne Welles, my son’s fiancée.”

Adele’s penciled brows shot into a higher arch. Without acknowledging Anne, she looked from Allen to Ronnie for verification.

Ronnie nodded, his eyes bright with amusement at Adele’s consternation. But the girl’s recovery was quick. She snuggled beside Gino and offered Anne a weak smile. “How’d you swing it, honey? I’ve been trying to drag this baboon to the altar for seven months. Give me the magic word and we can make it a double ceremony.” She looked up at Gino adoringly.

“You’re a career girl, Adele,” Ronnie said, winking at Gino.

Adele stared at him murderously. “Listen, Ronnie, it takes a certain amount of talent to be a showgirl. Don’t knock it.”

Ronnie smiled and tucked his notebook away. “I think you’re the best showgirl in town, Adele.”

“You can say that again,” she said, somewhat mollified. “I’ve turned down two movie offers to stay with my baby here.” She leaned over and kissed Gino’s cheek.

Ronnie rose and jerked his head in farewell. Anne watched him join another table as another waiter swiftly appeared with a fresh pot of coffee. Ronnie sipped the coffee slowly and took out his black book, his eager eyes constantly darting to the door to scan each new arrival.

Allen followed her glance. “Ronnie’s a nice guy. No legmen ... gets all his own items.”

Adele sneered. “He’s a busybody.”

“You’re just mad because he printed we’re engaged to be engaged,” Gino said.

“Well, it’s a hell of a line. Made me look like a fool.” Then she smiled. “How about it, baby? You can’t let your son beat you to the altar.”

“I been to the altar,” Gino said. “After Rosanna died, that was the end of my married life. A guy can only have one wife. Romances? Plenty. But one wife.”

“Who made that rule?” Adele demanded.

Gino poured the girl some champagne. Anne sensed that they had covered this ground many times. “Adele, forget it.” His voice was cold. “Even if I did remarry, it couldn’t be you. You been divorced.”

Then, as Adele sulked, he said, “Oh by the way, I told Irving to bring two coats to your place tomorrow. Take your pick.”

Adele’s expression changed instantly. “Both mink?”

“What else? Maybe muskrat?”

“Oh, Gino ...” She snuggled close to him. “Sometimes you get me so mad, but I have to forgive you. I love you so.”

Gino looked down at Anne’s silk coat lying crushed on the seat. “Hey, Allen. Okay with you if I send one over to Anne as an engagement present?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned to Anne. “What color do you like?”

“Color?” Anne had always thought mink was brown.

“He means ranch or wild, honey,” Adele explained. “I think wild mink would go great with your hair.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t accept it,” Anne said quietly.

“Why not?” Gino snapped.

“Perhaps Anne would like her coat to come from me—after we’re married,” Allen said quickly.

Gino laughed. “You mean when you get your mink you want it to be legal?”

“What’s illegal about taking a mink coat?” Adele asked. “I think it’s illegal to turn one down.”

Anne felt uncomfortable. The champagne made her feel warm. The club was packed; the dance floor had shrunk as waiters frantically placed dime-sized tables on the floor for important new arrivals. People were mashed against the velvet rope and there wasn’t an inch of space on the side of the room where they were sitting—yet curiously enough there were some empty tables on the other side. Allen explained that that was “Siberia.” If you sat on that side of the room no one respected you. Squares and out-of-towners sat there. They didn’t know the difference. But a “regular” would die of embarrassment if he had to sit there.

There was a constant swirl of people, a continuous flow of introductions. At some point another columnist joined them briefly and someone took their picture. Gino ordered more champagne. Girls who looked like exact replicas of Adele stopped by the table and congratulated Allen and tossed sympathetic winks at Adele. Some greeted Allen with familiarity—a hug and a kiss, explosive declarations of eternal devotion or “Did Anne realize how lucky she was,” stares of envy, and of curiosity.

She sat quietly, her outward calm denying her mounting panic. She had to straighten this out with Allen on the way home. Then he could call Ronnie Wolfe and the other columnist. She had to make him understand.

She tapped his arm quietly. “It’s one o’clock, Allen. I should be getting home.”

Gino looked amazed. “Home? That’s a dirty word. The party’s just getting going.”

“I have to work tomorrow, Mr. Cooper.”

Gino smiled expansively. “Little lady, you don’t ever have to do anything again except be good to my boy.”

“But I have a job—”

“So quit it,” Gino said, pouring champagne all around.

“Quit my job?”

“Why not?” This time it was Adele Martin who asked the question. “If Gino asked me to marry him, I’d give up my career in a second.”

“What career?” Gino laughed. “Standing around as a back-drop two hours every night?” He turned to Anne. “Miss America here has to show up for work. She belongs to some kind of an actors’ union. But you got no contract.”

“I like my job and I wouldn’t walk out on anyone,” Anne replied.

Gino shrugged. “Okay, I go along with that. You’ve got class. A guy should get notice. Tell him tomorrow, give him a chance to find someone else.” He signaled for the check. “Guess we could all stand one early night for a change.”

Anne slipped into her coat. She’d straighten this out when she got Allen alone in the cab going home ...

But there was no cab. A long black chauffeured car was waiting. Gino motioned them inside. “Get in,” he said. “We’ll drop Tillie the Toiler first.”

When they reached her brownstone, Gino and Adele waited in the car and Allen walked her to the door.

“Allen,” she whispered, “I’ve got to talk to you.”

He leaned over and kissed her lightly. “Anne, I know tonight has been wild, but it won’t be like this again. You had to meet Gino. That’s over and done with. Tomorrow we’ll go out alone.”

“I like Gino. But Allen, you’ve got to tell him!”

“Tell him what?”

“Allen, I’m not marrying you! I never said I would.”

He stroked her hair lightly. “I don’t blame you for panicking. Tonight would scare anyone. But tomorrow everything will be different.” He took her face in his hands. “And believe it or not, you are going to marry me.”

“No, Allen.”

“Anne ... are you in love with someone else?”

“No, but—”

“That’s enough for me. Just give me a chance.”

“Hey!” Gino bellowed out of the window. “Cut the gab and kiss her good night!”

Allen leaned over and kissed her lightly. “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty tomorrow night.” He turned and ran down the steps.

She stood there shivering as the car rolled away. Well, she had tried. If Ronnie Wolfe printed it, he’d have to retract it. She ran up the stairs to her room. There was a white envelope pasted on her door. The childlike printing said: Wake me no matter what time you come in. Urgent! Neely.

She looked at her watch. It was two o’clock. But the “urgent” was underlined. She made her way slowly down the stairs and tapped lightly, half hoping Neely wouldn’t hear her. She heard the bed creak, saw the sliver of light appear under the door. The door opened and Neely rubbed her eyes.

“Geez, what time is it?”

“It’s late, but your note said urgent.”

“Yeah. Come on in.”

“Can it wait until tomorrow? I’m awfully tired too, Neely.”

“I’m wide awake now. And freezing!” Neely balanced from one bare foot to the other on the cold floor. Anne followed her into the room as she bounced back into bed and under the covers. She bunched up her knees and grinned. “Well, guess what!”

“Neely—either tell me or let me go to sleep.”

“We got the show!”

“Fine. Now Neely, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to—”

“That’s it? Fine? And good night? The biggest thing that ever happened to me? We land Hit the Sky and you dismiss it?”

“I am thrilled for you,” Anne said, trying to force some enthusiasm into her voice. “It’s just that this has been a terrible evening.”

Neely looked instantly concerned. “What happened? Did Allen try to get fresh or something?”

“No. He asked me to marry him.”

“What’s terrible about that?”

“I don’t want to marry him.”

“Then tell him.” “I did, but he won’t listen.”

Neely shrugged. “Tell him again tomorrow.”

“But it will be in a column.”

Neely looked at her strangely. “Anne, you’re acting funny again. Why on earth would any columnist print that you are marrying some jerky little insurance guy?”

“Because that jerky little insurance guy is a millionaire.”

When Neely finally understood, she was ecstatic. “Anne!” She leaped out of bed and danced around the room. “Anne! You’ve made it!”

“But Neely—I don’t love Allen!”

“With all that money it will be easy to learn,” Neely insisted.

“But I don’t want to get married, or give up my job. I’m on my own for the first time, and I’m not ready to give it up. I’ve only had two months of freedom—”

“Freedom! You call this freedom?” Neely shrieked. “Living in a hall bedroom, getting up at seven and rushing to the office, eating lunch at the drugstore, maybe tagging along to ‘21’ once in a while with Bellamy and some client and freezing in that black silk coat? You want to stay free for this kind of gloriousness? Tomorrow is November first. Wait until January and February. Boy, it’s gorgeous in New York in February! Nothing but black slush. And that one little stinking radiator in your room is gonna seem like a matchstick. What are you giving up? Just tell me!”

“My identity, maybe my future, my whole life. Giving up before it begins. Neely, nothing ever happened to anyone in my family. They married, had children, and that was it. I want things to happen to me. I want to feel things, to—”

“But it’s happened!” Neely hollered. “Only you hit the jackpot right away. Are you angry because you didn’t have to slave away for years, wear six-dollar shoes and bargain-basement clothes? Anne, if you blow this it won’t happen again. Do you think when you’re bored playing secretary another millionaire will suddenly appear on the scene and say, ‘Okay, Anne, time to get married’? Ha!”

“I’m not especially looking for someone rich. That’s not important.”

Neely sneered. “You’ve never been poor.”

“Neely ... let me put it this way. You’re thrilled because you’ve landed Hit the Sky. Suppose after a few weeks of rehearsal someone like Allen came into your life and asked you to marry him and chuck the show before it even opened. Would you?”

“Would I? But so fast it’d make your head spin. Look, let’s say I have real talent. And let’s say someday I get a chance to prove it. If I work real hard for years, what will I wind up with? Money, position and respect. That’s it. That’s all there is. And it could take me years of hard work to get that. Allen is handing you the works on a silver platter.”

Anne couldn’t believe her ears. Neely with the scrubbed face, looking younger than her seventeen years, pinning everything down so cynically. She started for the door. She was too tired to argue. “Good night, Neely. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“Talk, nothing. You marry him! Maybe I’ll come live with you if Hit the Sky bombs.”

November, 1945

When the alarm went off, Anne woke with her usual sense of well-being. But as she stretched and came into full consciousness she felt a sudden stab of apprehension. Something was wrong ...

Allen! Last night! Ronnie Wolfe! Then her apprehension changed to anger. She had done her best. How many ways were there to say no?

She dressed quickly. She’d phone Allen the moment she reached the office. She would settle it once and for all.

There were several men standing in the hall outside the office when she arrived. They parted to let her through. Suddenly one shouted, “Hey, it’s her!” Cameras flashed, questions were shouted. Through the confusion she heard Allen’s name. She pushed past them, but they followed her into the office, calling her name. It was like one of her childhood nightmares, where she was pursued and no one tried to help. There was the receptionist—smiling! And the secretary and Miss Steinberg—they were smiling too! Finally she stood trembling behind her desk, surrounded and alone. “When did you meet meet Allen Cooper, Miss Welles?” Cameras flashed and blinded her. “Hey, Annie, look this way, will you . . . that’s a good girl ... smile, Annie ...” Flash ... flash ... “Will it be a church wedding, Miss Welles?” “Hey, Annie! How does it feel to be Cinderella?”

She wanted to scream. She dodged around them and fled into Henry Bellamy’s office. Lyon Burke caught her as she stumbled in. She started to speak but the door burst open. They had followed her! And Henry was smiling ... greeting them. Lyon was smiling, too.

Henry put his arm around her paternally. “Now Anne, you’ve got to get used to this. It’s not every day a girl gets engaged to a millionaire.” He felt her trembling and tightened his grip. “Come on, just relax and make a statement. After all, these boys have to earn a living.”

She faced the reporters. “What do you want?”

“They want a follow-up story on this.” Henry reached over to his desk and held up a morning tabloid. She stared at the large picture on the front page. There she was, smiling ... and Allen ... and the zebra-striped walls. There were big black headlines: BROADWAY’S NEWEST CINDERELLA—ALLEN COOPER TO WED SECRETARY.

Henry put his arm around her again. “All right, fellows. Take one more. You can title it ‘Henry Bellamy congratulates his new millionaire secretary.’ ”

More flashes. Someone told her to smile ... someone asked for another shot ... someone climbed on a chair and shot down at her ... several voices asked her to look this way, their voices seeming to come from a distance. It was as if the sea was roaring in her ears, and through it all she saw Lyon Burke watching with a slight smile.

Then Henry was shaking hands, playing the jovial host as he led them out of the office. As the door closed she heard him saying, “Yeah, they met here in the office ...”

She stared numbly at the closed door. The sudden silence seemed more unreal than the confusion. Lyon walked over and handed her a lit cigarette. She inhaled deeply and coughed.

“Take it easy,” Lyon said pleasantly.

She collapsed into a chair and looked up at him. “What shall I do?”

“You’re doing fine. You’ll get used to it. In time you may even get to like it.”

“I’m not going to marry Allen Cooper.”

“Don’t let this throw you. Everyone panics at front-page publicity.”

Henry bustled back into the office. “Well!” He looked at her with genuine pride. “Now why did you let me make such a fool of myself yesterday? If I had known the guy was serious I’d never have said those things.”

“Anne has a rare talent,” Lyon said. “She lets others do the talking.”

She felt her throat close up. (A lady doesn’t cry in public.) This was insane. Lyon with that cold smile ... Henry acting like a proud father.

“I’ll call the agency right away,” Henry said. “You must have a pretty crowded schedule, Anne. Don’t worry about things at the office. We’ll manage. I’ll find someone.”

She felt light-headed. A funny weakness, beginning somewhere under her stomach, seemed to separate her head from her body. Everyone was pulling away from her. Henry was actually thumbing through the phone book for the employment agency!

“You expect me to quit my job?” Her voice was strained.

Henry took her by the shoulders, smiling warmly. “Honey, I don’t think all this has penetrated yet. Wait till you start with the wedding list, the invitations, the fittings, interviews ... You’re going to need a secretary of your own.”

“Henry, I’ve got to talk to you.”

“I’ll leave,” Lyon said. “Henry rates a private good-by.” He nodded at Anne, and winked. “Good luck. You deserve the best.”

She watched the door close and turned to Henry. “I can’t believe it. Neither of you seems to care.”

Henry looked bewildered. “Care? Of course we care. We’re delighted for you.”

“But—just like that, you expect me to walk out, never see me again ... and it doesn’t matter. You just replace me with a new girl and life goes on.”

“It matters,” Henry said quietly. “It matters like hell. Do you think anyone can follow you? Do you think I like the idea of breaking in someone else? But what kind of a friend would I be if I let it matter? And what kind of a friend are you? So you expect to walk out of here and never see me again? Oh no! I’m not letting you off that easily. I expect to be invited to the wedding ... to be godfather of your first child. Hell, I’ll be godfather to all of them. And I’ll even learn to love Allen. Actually, I really have nothing against him. He’s just so goddam rich, and I was afraid you might get hurt. But now it’s different, now I love his money!”

She felt her throat thicken again. “Lyon didn’t care either.”

“Lyon?” Henry looked puzzled. “Why should Lyon care? Miss Steinberg takes care of his mail and—” He stopped suddenly. His expression changed. “Oh no ...” It was almost a groan. “Not you, Anne. One lousy lunch and you get hooked?”

She looked away. “It isn’t that ... but we talked ... I thought we were friends ...”

He sank down on the leather couch. “C’mere.” She sat down and he took both her hands. “Look, Anne, if I had a son I’d want him to be just like Lyon. But if I had a daughter, I’d tell her to stay the hell away from him!”

“That doesn’t make much sense . . .”

“Honey ... without meaning it, some guys are bad news to women. Allen used to be, but you’ve taken him out of circulation.”

“Bad news in what way?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Things come too easily to them. With Allen, they came because of his money. With Lyon, it happens because he’s so goddam beautiful. And in a way I can understand. Why should these guys settle for one woman when they can have them all, just for the taking? But Anne, you landed Allen, a thing the whole town would have bet couldn’t happen. And instead of sending up Roman candles, you’re sitting around moping.”

“Henry, I don’t love Allen. I dated him for about six weeks in the most casual way. I didn’t even know who he was. I mean, I thought he just sold insurance. Then, suddenly, two nights ago, all this began.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “He’s like a stranger to you, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“But one lunch with Lyon, and suddenly you’re soul mates?”

“That isn’t true. I’m talking about Allen now. I don’t love him. Lyon has nothing to do with it.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Henry, I swear it. Allen never meant a thing to me.”

“So how come you dated him all these weeks? He was fine until Lyon came along.”

“That’s not true. I dated him because I didn’t know anyone else. And I felt sorry for him. He seemed so innocuous. There was never any talk of romance between us. Why, he never even tried to kiss me good night. Then, two nights ago ...” She stopped and fought for composure. Her voice was quiet when she went on. “Henry, I told Allen I didn’t love him. I told his father the same thing.”

“You told them that?” He sounded incredulous.

“Yes. Both of them.”

“And what did they say?”

“That’s what’s so unbelievable. I’ve never known people like them. They seem to ignore anything they don’t want to hear. Allen keeps saying he loves me—and that I’ll learn to love him.”

“That can happen,” Henry said quietly. “Sometimes it’s the best kind of love. Being loved.”

“No! I want more than that.”

“Sure—like staying here!” Henry snapped. “Want me to draw the picture for you? You give Allen the air. Sure, why not? Millionaires with marriage proposals are a dime a dozen. In a little while this will blow over. Allen will start dating someone else. Then you figure Lyon will ask you out. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Oh, it’ll be great ... in the beginning. For maybe a month. Then one day I’ll come in and see your eyes are all red. You’ll give me a story about a headache, only the red eyes will continue, so I’ll talk with Lyon. He’ll shrug and say, ‘Henry, sure I dated the girl. I like her a lot. But she doesn’t own me. Have a talk with her, will you? Get her off my back.’ ”

“It sounds like you’ve had experience,” she said bitterly. “Do you always make this speech to your secretaries?”

“No—not to my secretaries. But then we’ve never had one who looked like you. But yes, I have made the speech before, dozens of times. To girls with more know-how than you. Unfortunately, I had to make the speech after the damage was done, when they were carrying a torch bigger than China. But at least they didn’t go around giving up millionaires first.”

“You make him sound like quite a heel,” she said.

“What heel? He’s a guy, free and single. And any girl who appeals to him is the right girl—for the moment. And there are a hell of a lot of moments and a hell of a lot of right girls around this town.”

“I can’t believe every man feels that way.”

“Lyon Burke isn’t ‘every man.’ Just like New York isn’t ‘every town.’ Sure, maybe there will come a time when Lyon gets his fill and will settle for one girl. But that will only come after a lot of living—and even then he’ll never really settle for just that girl.”

The phone jangled. Automatically Anne started to get it. He waved her aside. “Sit down, heiress. Remember, you don’t work here any more.”

He walked to the desk. “Hello ... sure, put her on. Hi, Jennifer. Yeah, it’s all set ... What? Yeah, how about that? Matter of fact, she’s sitting right here. Sure she’s thrilled. You should see her—she’s wearing out my rug dancing for joy.” He turned to Anne. “Jennifer North sends you her congratulations.” He returned to the phone. “Yeah, you bet she’s lucky. Listen, baby, the contracts should be ready today. Soon as I okay them, I’ll send them around for you to sign ... Fine, honey ... check with you around five.”

He hung up. “Now there’s a smart girl. Jennifer North.”

“Who is she?”

Henry groaned. “Oh, come on! Don’t you ever read the papers? She just unloaded a prince. She’s been on the front pages almost every day. She burst into town from nowhere, like a cyclone—actually she’s from California, about your age—and wham! along comes this prince. The real thing, with money, too. He courts her, the whole works—mink coat, diamond ring. The AP, UP, all the press covers it. A mayor in Jersey officiates. Every celebrity in town goes to the reception. Four days later, front pages—she wants an annulment.”

“But you aren’t a divorce lawyer.”

“No. She’s got a good lawyer working on that, but he recommended me as a business manager. And she sure needs one. For a smart girl, she did one very stupid thing. Seems she signed a little thing like a premarital agreement. If she wants out, she doesn’t get a dime. And she wants out. Won’t say why—just wants to unload him. So she’s got to work.”

“Is she talented?”

Henry smiled. “She doesn’t need talent. If she wants it she’s a cinch for pictures. You’ve never seen such a kisser. And her figure ... I’d say Jennifer North is about the most beautiful girl in the world.” He paused. “Actually, that’s not true. You’re more beautiful, Anne. The longer a guy looks at you, the more beautiful you become. But Jennifer—her beauty hits you right in the eye. The first glance carries a thousand volts. She’s got it made. As soon as we get that annulment and she opens in Hit the Sky, I’m a cinch to land her a big movie deal.”

“Does she sing?” Anne asked.

“I told you—she does nothing.”

“But if she’s in Hit the Sky ...”

“I’ve set her in a small bit—sort of a glorified showgirl—with feature billing. Helen okayed it. That’s one thing I taught Helen way back. Carry the show talentwise, but surround yourself with pretty scenery. But why am I talking about Helen, or Jennifer? It’s you I’m concerned about. I’ve got my lumps coming up with them later.”

“Henry, I want to keep my job with you ...”

“Translated, ‘Henry, I want to have a go at Lyon Burke,’” he snapped.

“I won’t even look at him if that’s what’s worrying you.”

Henry shook his head. “You’re begging for a broken heart and I’m not going to be a part of it. Now get out of here—you’re fired! Go marry Allen Cooper and be happy.”

She stood up. “All right. I’ll get out. But I won’t marry Allen Cooper. I’ll get another job.” She started for the door.

“Go ahead. If you louse up your life, at least I won’t have to sit and watch.”

“You’re not really a friend, Henry.”

“I’m the best friend you’ll ever have.”

“Then let me stay,” she pleaded. “Henry, you don’t understand. I don’t want to marry Allen. But if I leave here and get another job, it might be a job I don’t like. And Allen would be pressuring me, and all the publicity that would follow if I took another job ... and Allen’s father with the questions. You don’t know what happens when Gino and Allen start in. It’s like you’re carried along, with no will of your own. Henry, please—help me. I don’t want to marry Allen Cooper!”

“Anne, he’s got millions—billions, maybe.”

“I ran away from Willie Henderson in Lawrenceville, Henry. Maybe he didn’t have as many millions as Allen, but he had money. And I’ve known Willie all my life, and his family. Can’t you see it doesn’t mean anything to me? I don’t care about money.”

He was silent for a moment. “Okay,” he said finally. “You can stay ... on one condition. You stay engaged to Allen.”

“Henry! Are you out of your mind? Haven’t you been listening to me? I don’t want to marry Allen.”

“I didn’t say marry. I said engaged! That way you’ll be safe.”

“Safe?”

“Yes. At least I won’t worry about you getting involved with Lyon. One thing about Lyon—he doesn’t go after another guy’s girl.”

She smiled faintly. “At least you give him some code of honor.”

“What honor? He doesn’t need that kind of trouble. There’s too much free stuff thrown at him.”

“And what about me? If I stay engaged, what do I do with Allen?”

“Stall him. You can do it. If you were smart enough to land him, you’re smart enough to stall him.”

“But that’s dishonest. I don’t want to marry Allen, but I still like him as a person. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“You’ll be more fair in the long run. First of all, you’ll be fair to me. I’ll have enough to worry about with the show starting without worrying about you. And you’ll be fair to Allen ... yes, you will. Because at least he’ll have a chance to make a decent pitch. But most of all you’ll be fair to yourself because right now you can’t see any further than Lyon Burke.” He raised a hand to silence her objection. “No matter what you think, you’re stuck on him. But hang around, start reading the Broadway columns and see how fast he changes girls. The glow will wear off from that wonderful luncheon. And you’ll have saved your virginity and a lot of heartache.” He smiled as she colored. “Look, Anne, you’re pretty rare—we’ve got to take care of you.”

She thought about it a moment, then shook her head. “I couldn’t do it, Henry. It would be living a lie.”

“Anne ...” His voice was gentle. “In time you’ll learn everything doesn’t have to be black or white. You can be honest with Allen. Tell him New York is still new, that you want to be on your own for a little while, not rush right into marriage. When will you be twenty-one?”

“In May.”

“Fine. Tell him you want to wait until then.”

“And then what?”

“By May another atom bomb could fall. Allen could meet another girl. Lyon Burke could turn into a fag. Who knows, anything can happen. You might even fall in love with Allen. But you can change your mind in May. Remember, you’re never stuck until you’re at the altar. And even then you can make a run for it before the final words are said.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“When you’re climbing Mount Everest, nothing is easy. You just take one step at a time, never look back and always keep your eyes glued to the top.”

******

She spotted the reporters and cameramen standing in front of her brownstone when she came home. She held her head down and dashed up the steps, brushing through them into the safety of the building. Neely was standing in the hall waiting.

“Anne, oh golly—I almost fainted when my sister called me this morning. Here”—she proudly extended a flat package—”it’s my engagement present to you.”

It was a large scrapbook filled with the newspaper stories and pictures of Anne. “I worked on it all day,” Neely said proudly. “I filled six pages and this is only the beginning. Wait until the marriage and all ... Golly, you’re gonna be famous!”

That night Allen arrived with the limousine. “We’re having dinner alone,” he said, “but Gino will join us for coffee. I know I promised we’d be alone, but he insists on taking us to Tony Polar’s opening at La Ronde.”

“Tony Polar?”

He smiled. “Anne—don’t tell me you’re not one of his fans?”

“I’ve never even heard of him.”

Allen laughed. “He’s the biggest singing sensation since Sinatra.” He leaned across and spoke to the chauffeur. “Leon, drive through the park till I tell you to stop.” Then he rolled up the window. “You’re probably starving, but I have a special reason for the drive.”

He took her hand. She pulled it away. “Allen, I’ve got to talk to you.”

“Not just yet—shut your eyes.” He snapped open a small velvet box. “Now you can look. I hope it fits.”

Even in the darkness of the car, with only the intermittent streetlights to give it life, the diamond was overwhelming.

She shrank away. “I can’t take that!”

“Don’t you like it?”

“Like it! It’s the most fantastic thing I’ve ever seen!”

“Ten karats,” he said easily. “But in a square cut it’s not at all ostentatious.”

“Of course not.” She laughed nervously. “Every secretary has one.”

“Which reminds me—have you handed in your notice to Henry Bellamy?”

“No, and I don’t intend to. Allen, you’ve simply got to listen to me. We’re not engaged—”

He slipped the ring on her finger. “It just fits.”

She looked at him intently. “Allen . . . can’t you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“Yes. That you’re not in love with me.”

“Then why do you go on like this?”

“Because there’s nothing in the world you can’t get if you want it badly enough. And I’ve never really wanted anything—until I met you. I’m determined to have you, Anne. Just give me a chance. That’s all I ask. You’ve seen me for the past weeks as some timid jerk. One month with the real me and you’ll either love me or hate me. I’ll take the chance.”

He rolled down the window. “Okay, Leon. Take us to the Stork Club now.”

She was silent. Did he really think things would change? Rich or poor, his chemistry was the same. Allen was Allen, in a cheap French restaurant or at El Morocco.

She felt the world closing in on her. It was easy for Henry Bellamy to sit behind a desk and deal with facts and offer ultimatums. He wasn’t dealing with people. He couldn’t see the expression in Allen’s eyes.

Her depression lasted through the ride, and she could find little to say as they were ushered through the echelons of captains to the Stork Club’s Cub Room (“It’s the only room”) and presented with a gift-wrapped box (“It’s perfume—Sherman sends it to all his favorites”) and champagne (“We’d better drink it or we might hurt Sherman’s feelings”).

Gino arrived at ten, greeting friends at various tables in a loud voice that brought a slight frown to Allen’s face. At last Gino joined their table and tore into the champagne.

“Dad, you shouldn’t table-hop here,” Allen said quietly. “You know they don’t like it.”

“Who cares?” Gino said loudly. “Listen kid, this here’s your hangout. You can have it. I don’t go for the snob treatment. When someone’s willing to take my money, I want to act the way I feel comfortable ... not to some crazy set of rules. What you do is your own business.”

Allen seemed relieved when they left the Stork and went to La Ronde.

Judging from the voracious welcome Gino got from all the captains, La Ronde was one of his favorite haunts. He hugged several of them and called them paisan as they escorted him to a choice ringside table. It was eleven o’clock and the club was already filled. Gino ordered champagne and a bottle of Scotch.

“Adele likes Scotch,” he said. “She’ll be here after her show. She says champagne is too fattening.”

Anne watched the people crowding to the tables, arguing for better locations, palming bills discreetly into the captain’s hand. Photographers hired by the club to service the newspapers came over and took pictures of Anne and Allen and returned to the door to await more celebrities.

Adele arrived at eleven-thirty wearing full stage makeup.

“Whaddaya wearing that crap for?” Gino demanded. “You know I hate it.”

“Gee, sweetie, I powdered it down and took off my false lashes. I didn’t want to miss anything and it takes so long to get this off and put on a new face.” She looked around the room while she spoke. “God, this is the biggest opening of the season. Everyone is here.” She waved gustily at a columnist.

“A couple of years ago it was Sinatra,” Allen said. “Now the women are killing themselves over Tony Polar. I don’t get it.”

“Don’t knock it,” Gino said with a grin. “They’re both our paisans.”

“Hey, look ...” Adele pointed. “There’s Helen Lawson at the door. Look at her mink, it’s practically turning red. I bet it’s ten years old. And with all her money. I hear she’s the tightest—Hey, that must be Jennifer North!”

“Maron!” Gino pounded the table. “Now that’s what I call a build! Hey, Adele—beside her, you look like a boy.”

Anne’s attention had also been drawn to Jennifer North, who was now surrounded by photographers. The girl was undeniably beautiful. She was tall, with a spectacular figure. Her white dress, shimmering with crystal beads, was cut low enough to prove the authenticity of her remarkable cleavage. Her long hair was almost white in its blondeness. But it was her face that held Anne’s attention, a face so naturally beautiful that it came as a startling contrast to the theatrical beauty of her hair and figure. It was a perfect face with a fine square jaw, high cheekbones and intelligent brow. The eyes seemed warm and friendly, and the short, straight nose belonged to a beautiful child, as did the even white teeth and little-girl dimples. It was an innocent face, a face that looked at everything with breathless excitement and trusting enthusiasm, seemingly unaware of the commotion the body was causing. A face that glowed with genuine interest in each person who demanded attention, rewarding each with a warm smile. The body and its accouterments continued to pose and undulate for the staring crowd and flashing cameras, but the face ignored the furor and greeted people with the intimacy of meeting a few new friends at a gathering.

Somehow the captains managed to lead her to a ringside table directly across the room. Anne did not see Henry Bellamy until the party was seated.

“Say, your boss really picks his dates,” Allen said. “Helen Lawson and Jennifer North. That’s some parlay.”

“No, there’s another guy,” Adele said. “See, he’s just sitting down. That must be Jennifer’s date. Hey, he’s gorgeous!”

“That’s Lyon Burke,” Anne said quietly.

“Oh, so that’s Burke,” Allen said.

Anne nodded as she watched Lyon help Jennifer adjust her fur on the back of the chair. Jennifer rewarded this courtesy with a blinding smile.

Allen whistled. “I wonder if that Golden Venus is going to be bouncing around in my old bed tonight.”

“She’s Mr. Bellamy’s client,” Anne said coldly. “I imagine Lyon Burke is just acting as escort.”

“Sure. And he’s making Henry pay him overtime for such a rough assignment.”

“Well, Henry struck it rich with Helen Lawson,” Gino said. “That old bag pays better dividends than A.T.&T. She’s got a lotta mileage on her, but I’ll still pay a broker fifty bucks for a pair of seats to see her. She’s got a great set of pipes.”

Allen pointed out the continuing flow of arriving celebrities, giving a complete rundown on their personal lives. Anne managed a show of interest, but her attention kept returning to Henry’s table. What could a girl like Jennifer be saying that was so amusing? And what was Lyon saying to her? It was obvious he wasn’t telling her about the bombed-out barn and the corporal. She saw him throw back his head and laugh. He hadn’t laughed like that at the Barberry Room. No, she had been the dreary girl from the office who had urged him to write, had gotten him all involved so he remembered the ugly things in his past. She turned away as he lit a cigarette and handed it to Jennifer.

The lights suddenly dimmed. Waiters dashed to take last-minute orders. Gradually all activity stopped, the audience grew expectantly silent, the room went dark and the orchestra played a song identified with Tony Polar. The spotlight centered on the stage and then Tony walked on, to a boisterous ovation. He bowed and accepted the applause with pleasant modesty. He was tall and good-looking, with a boyishness that made him seem vulnerable and appealing. A girl would trust him. A woman would want to protect him.

Although he appeared shy, he sang well and handled the audience with an easy assurance. After his first set of songs, he loosened his tie to show he was really working hard, took a hand mike and walked around the room, spotting various celebrities, singing to them, clowning with the newspapermen, selecting a few matrons and favoring them with portions of a love lyric, smiling shyly as they gushed openly, oblivious to the presence of their embarrassed husbands.

When he passed Jennifer, their eyes met. He missed a lyric and moved along quickly. Then, as if not believing what he had seen, he slowly retraced his steps and finished the song with his eyes riveted on her. The audience, transformed into a body of eavesdroppers, watched eagerly. When he finished his song, he bowed, returned to the center of the room and went through the rest of the performance without looking at her again.

The audience refused to let him off. He took bow after bow. The lights came up but the applause continued, accompanied by stamping and demands of “More! More!” The orchestra, uncertain, played a few bars of his theme as if waiting for some definite order. The applause grew more insistent. He stood there, smiling in boyish gratitude. He pointed to his throat, gesturing fatigue. The applause grew even louder. Then, shrugging good-naturedly, he held a hurried conference with his accompanist and returned to the center of the floor.

When the music began, he turned and sang directly to Jennifer. It was a current love ballad, and like many popular songs, the words could take on a highly personal meaning. It seemed to have been written just so Tony Polar could confess to Jennifer and the eight hundred people in the room that he had suddenly found love.

He finished the song, bowed to the audience, turned back and looked at Jennifer intently for an embarrassingly long moment, and then walked off. There was more insistent applause, but the lights came up and the orchestra went into a loud set of dance music.

Allen asked Anne to dance. As she rose, she noticed Lyon leading Jennifer to the floor. He saw her and waved.

“Anne! And this must be Allen, my landlord.” His smile was quick and warm. Introductions were exchanged as they all swayed to the music. Several times Anne was jostled by couples who pressed closer to stare at Jennifer.

Jennifer smiled warmly at Anne. “Isn’t it murder? Every time I move, at least a hundred beads pop off this dress.”

Anne searched for an answer, but she could only manage a frozen smile. They parted, and Allen danced her off to another part of the small floor.

The crowd quickly thinned out, leaving only the few stragglers who remained to drink out their minimum. Anne noticed that Jennifer’s table had been one of the first to be deserted. She wondered where they had gone. Some place with a larger dance floor, perhaps. Her head ached and she wanted desperately to leave, but Gino showed no inclination to end the evening.

“Let’s go to Morocco for a nightcap,” he said when the waiter brought the check.

Anne secretly blessed Adele, who announced it was too late—she had a matinee the following day.

******

A few days later Anne was back in the columns. Ronnie Wolfe had an item about the engagement ring. She arrived at the office to find Miss Steinberg and the girls waiting in quivering excitement.

“Let’s see it!” the receptionist demanded.

“When did you get it?” “Is it really over ten karats?” Miss Steinberg asked.

Anne reluctantly held out her hand as they gasped over the ring. She had been wearing it turned the other way and it had escaped detection. It was too valuable to leave in her furnished room, and she had been promising herself to return it to Allen as soon as she could—but now it was an item.

She was sorting the mail when Lyon Burke came in. He stopped at her desk, picked up her hand, whistled and dropped it. “Heavy, isn’t it?” Then he added, “He seems like quite a decent chap, Anne.”

“He’s very nice,” she said lamely. “And Jennifer North seemed very nice too.”

A curious expression crossed his face. “Jennifer North is one of the nicest girls I have ever known,” he said quietly. “Really nice.” Then he walked into his office.

She sat back miserably. Had she sounded insincere? Jennifer was nice. She had meant it. Perhaps it had come out wrong because she was flustered.

She ducked lunch with the girls and spent the hour wandering along Fifth Avenue. Staring vacantly into the window of a novelty shop, she thought of Neely. She had bought Neely a rabbit’s foot yesterday—rehearsals for Hit the Sky started this morning. She envied Neely, so vibrant and uncomplicated. Nothing bad could ever happen to someone like Neely.

There was a newspaper propped up on her desk when she returned. One of the girls had probably put it there. Probably some other item about the ring. She was about to drop it into the waste basket when she saw the office memo clipped to the corner. Memo from Lyon Burke was printed on it, and in his hand was scribbled, Perhaps of interest to Anne Welles. Story on page two.

It was a beautiful picture of Jennifer—and Tony Polar! The black caption blazed: BROADWAY’S NEWEST ROMANCE. The story was written tongue in cheek. “It was a lightning bolt that struck me,” Tony was quoted as having said. Jennifer’s prose was less explosive, but she blushingly admitted the attraction was mutual. They had been introduced after the show by a mutual friend, Lyon Burke.

“Lyon just brought her in and handed her over,” Tony had gone on. “He said to me, ‘Tony, I told you I had an opening night present for you.’ ”

Anne closed the paper and sat back, suddenly weak with an inexplicable happiness. “Lyon handed her over ...”

The line kept running through her mind. “Anne ...”

She came out of her reverie. Neely was standing in front of her desk.

“Anne, I know it’s awful my coming here. But I couldn’t go home. I had to see you.” Neely’s face was splotched with tears.

“Why aren’t you at rehearsal?” Anne asked.

Neely suddenly broke into uncontrolled sobs.

Anne shot a worried look toward the closed door to Henry’s office. “Neely, sit down.” She pushed Neely into her chair. “Stay there ... try to control yourself. I’ll get my coat. We’ll go home.”

“I don’t wanna go home,” Neely said stubbornly. “I couldn’t face that room. I was so happy when I left it this morning. I wrote ‘The Gaucheros make Broadway!’ on the mirror in lipstick. I couldn’t face it now.”

“But Neely, you can’t sit here and—have a breakdown.”

“Who says I can’t? I didn’t go to Radcliffe. If I feel like having a breakdown, I’ll have it wherever I want. And right now I happen to be here.” The tears spilled down her face and onto her dress. “Ooooh!” She sobbed louder. “Look ... my new dress, and it’s all spotted with my crying. It’s ruined, isn’t it?”

“Button your coat. It will clean.” She watched Neely obediently button her coat. Secretly, she couldn’t feel sorry about the dress. It was awful. (“Neely, people don’t wear purple taffeta to work,” she had said when Neely brought the dress home. “You don’t,” Neely had argued, “but I want to stand out at rehearsal.”)

Anne sat down. “All right, Neely, if you insist on staying here. Try to tell me about it quietly. Why aren’t you at rehearsal?”

“Anne, I’m not in the show.”

“You mean they’re not using The Gaucheros?”

“Oh, Anne, it was awful! They are—and they aren’t ...”

“Well, start from the beginning. What happened?”

“I got there this morning, five minutes early even. I was all caked up and I had your rabbit’s foot in my bag. Then some skinny fag with a crew cut came in, carrying a book of the script. Dick and Charlie arrived next—”

“Neely, get to the point!”

“There is no point. I’m telling you how it happened. Then the showgirls arrived. I began to feel real crummy. Even in my new dress. You should see the getups on some of those showgirls. Six of them had real mink coats, and the rest had beaver or silver fox. Not one cloth coat! And everyone knew everyone else, except us. And when Jennifer North arrived, you’da thought Rita Hayworth was making an entrance. The assistant director rushed to her with cooing noises like how glad he was she was joining them. She was ten minutes late and he was making like it was a thrill that she managed to come. I felt lousy, like we just didn’t fit. We looked like vaudeville and cheap clubs. Charlie hadn’t shaved close enough and Dick seemed more faggy than ever, and my taffeta dress suddenly looked like it cost ten ninety-eight. For about fifteen minutes everyone kept greeting everyone and talking about the last show they did together. Even the chorus kids knew each other. Then the director got there. I think he’s a fag, too.”

“Neely ...” Anne tried to cover her exasperation. “Please, just tell me what happened.”

“I am! I’m not leaving out a thing. Then Helen Lawson walked in like the Queen of England. The director introduced her. He said, ‘Cast, your star. Miss Lawson.’ I felt like maybe we should all stand up and sing The Star-Spangled Banner or something. The director walked around with her and introduced her to the people she didn’t know. Then she met us ...” Neely stopped. Her eyes brimmed with fresh tears.

“Then what?” Anne was insistent. “She nodded at Dick and Charlie but looked right over me like I wasn’t even there. She’s ice water, Anne. Then she said, real tough like, to Dick and Charlie, ‘Oh yeah. You’re The Gaucheros. We’re gonna do a dance together. You fellas better eat a lot of spinach, because you’re gonna have to toss me around.”

“Her?”

“That’s right. Her. I stood up and said, ‘Hi, Miss Lawson. You know there’s three Gaucheros. I’m one of them. I’m Neely ...’ And without even looking at me, she turned to the director and said, ‘I thought that had all been settled.’ Then she turned and walked away. Then maybe a few minutes later the director called Charlie off into a corner and they had a little talk. It looked like the director was telling Charlie off good, and Charlie was trying to explain something. Then Charlie comes back and says, ’Look, Neely, they didn’t pick us to really do our dance. They picked us because they want us to do a comedy number burlesquing our dance. It’s a dream sequence, and we’re supposed to toss Helen Lawson around.”

“But what about you?” Anne demanded. “You have a contract.”

Neely shook her head. “Charlie always signs our contracts. This one just says ‘The Gaucheros.’ It’s for five hundred a week. He and Dick were to get two hundred each and I was to get one hundred. Now Charlie says I’ll get the hundred anyway, even if I don’t work. But I don’t trust him. If he’d toss me out this easy, how can I believe he’ll pay me? Besides, what am I supposed to do? Just sit in that lousy room and mope? I don’t know anyone—my whole life has been the act.”

“It is awful,” Anne agreed. “But I can see Charlie’s dilemma. If they just sprang this on him, he can’t afford to walk out on all that money. Maybe to keep busy you could find another job.”

“Doing what?”

“Well ... let’s go home and talk about it. We’ll figure out something. I can send you to the employment office I went to and—”

“I can’t type. I got no college degree. I can’t do anything—and besides, I wanna be in the show!” Neely started to sob violently again.

“Please, Neely,” Anne begged. She knew Miss Steinberg and the girls were staring, but her worst fear materialized when Lyon Burke opened his door. She smiled at him weakly as he came over and stared at the shrieking Neely.

“This is Neely. She’s a little upset.”

“I’d say that was a classic understatement.”

Neely looked up. “Geez, I’m sorry. When I cry, I cry loud.” She looked at him, wide eyed. “You’re not Henry Bellamy, are you?”

“No, I’m Lyon Burke.” Neely smiled through her tears. “Geez, now I see what Anne means.”

“Neely’s had a big disappointment today,” Anne said quickly.

“Disappointment! I’m ready to die.” Neely went on to prove it with a fresh outpouring of sobs.

“Well, it must be quite uncomfortable dying out here in a straight-backed chair,” Lyon said. “Why don’t we transfer this wake into my office?”

Sprawled comfortably in Lyon’s leather chair, Neely repeated the entire story, punctuated with fresh howls.

When she had finished, Anne looked at Lyon and said, “It is a shocking thing to have happen. This show meant so much to her.”

Lyon nodded sympathetically. “But I can’t believe Helen would do such a thing.”

“She’s a killer,” Neely shouted.

Lyon shook his head. “Oh, I’m not defending her. She’s rough—but this is just not like Helen. She’d have someone else do her axing—unless she was taken by surprise.”

“It happened just like I said. I’m not making it up,” Neely insisted.

Lyon lit a cigarette and seemed thoughtful for a moment. Then he said, “Would you accept being in the show even if you weren’t part of The Gaucheros?”

“Those bums! After the way they dumped me, I’d do anything not to have to work with them again. But what could I do in the show?”

“A musical is quite elastic,” Lyon said. “Now it’s up to us to stretch it a bit.” He picked up the phone and dialed. They both listened as he asked for Gilbert Case, the producer of the show. Lyon was affable as he exchanged greetings, discussed the coming football schedule.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “By the way, Gil, you’ve signed an act called The Gaucheros ... Yes, I know Helen wants to clown a dance with them. But you did know there were three Gaucheros ... yes ... of course it’s not your business ...” He held his hand over the receiver while Gil Case ranted on and whispered to Neely, “Your brother-in-law is really a louse—he sold you out before he signed the contract.”

Neely leaped up. “You mean that slob let me come to rehearsal and make a fool of myself! Why I’ll—”

Lyon motioned her to be quiet. But Neely’s eyes were blazing with anger. “I’m gonna go over there and kill him,” she muttered.

“Look, Gil,” Lyon said in an easy voice, “I know it’s not really your concern. Technically you’re in the clear, If the boys promised you they’d take care of their partner, quite naturally you believed them.”

Anne saw him staring at Neely. She knew he was stalling for time. He put his hand over the phone again and whispered, “Neely, how old are you? Truth!”

“Nineteen—”

“She’s seventeen,” Anne hissed.

“I have to say I’m nineteen to work in some states,” Neely argued.

Lyon’s face broke into a victorious smile. “Look, Gil,” he said cheerfully. “We certainly don’t want any trouble. We have Helen Lawson in the show, plus the choreographer and Jennifer North. It’s to our advantage to have everything run smoothly. The last thing any of us wants is a lawsuit. Yes, I said lawsuit. Gil, this little partner The Gaucheros brushed off is only seventeen. And these chaps have been trotting her across the country for some time, lying about her age. Now if she wanted to sue them it could get messy. I imagine the contract is just for The Gaucheros ... nothing about an agreement to dissolve the current act. Gil, I know they told you it would be all right—but the fact is, it isn’t all right. How do I know she’ll sue? Because she’s sitting right here.” He winked at Neely and leisurely lit a fresh cigarette.

“Now Gil, of course I know it’s rough to start looking for a new dance team. But I think we can solve things right on the phone. The Gaucheros have a standard Equity contract for five hundred, right? You can drop them any time during the first five days without paying them a dime, right? Then just give them the facts of life and issue them a new contract for four hundred, then issue another contract to their little partner for one hundred. Put her in the chorus, let her understudy, do bits—anything, just so long as she’s in the show. It doesn’t cost you an extra penny and everyone’s happy ... Of course. Yes, I’ll tell her to report back to rehearsal tomorrow ... Delighted. The Copa? When, tonight? Love to join you. All right, see you there.”

He hung up and smiled at Neely. “Young lady, you are in the show.”

She crossed the room and threw her arms around him in a spontaneous burst of gratitude. “Oh, Mr. Burke ... golly, you’re terrific!” Then she rushed back to Anne and hugged her. “Oh, Anne, I love you! I’ll never forget this. You’re the only friend I have. Even my brother-in-law turned against me. And my sister—that louse musta known about it! Charlie wouldn’t dare pull this whammy without letting her know. Oh, Anne, if I ever make it—or get anywhere—or if you ever need anything, I’ll repay you. I swear, I’ll—”

Anne gently released herself from the frenzied embrace. “I’m glad for you, Neely. Really I am.”

The phone buzzed. Lyon picked it up. “It’s Gil Case again,” he whispered, one hand over the mouthpiece. Anne felt a lurch of apprehension until Lyon laughed.

“I don’t know, Gil.” He turned to Neely. “By the way—what is your name?”

The childish eyes opened wide. “It’s Neely.”

“Neely,” Lyon repeated into the phone. “Yes, N-e-e-l-y.” He looked back to Neely for confirmation. She nodded vaguely. Then he asked, “Neely what?”

She stared at him. “Oh gosh ... I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never had to bother with a name because I’ve been one of The Gaucheros. I can’t use Ethel Agnes O’Neill.”

Lyon placed his hand over the phone. “Shall I tell him to wait until tomorrow, until you come up with something?”

“And give him a chance to change his mind? Not on your life! Anne, what shall I call myself? Can I use your name? Neely Welles?”

Anne smiled. “You can think of something more exciting.”

Neely looked at Lyon wildly. “Mr. Burke?”

He shook his head. “Neely Burke has no magic.”

Neely stood still for a moment. Suddenly her eyes flashed. “Neely O’Hara!”

“What?” Lyon and Anne choked on the word together.

“Neely O’Hara. It’s perfect. I’m Irish, and Scarlett is my favorite person—”

“She’s just read Gone with the Wind,” Anne explained.

“Neely, I’m sure we could come up with something more euphonious,” Lyon suggested.

“More what?”

“Yes, Gil, I’m still with you,” Lyon said. “We’re just having a small board meeting on a name.”

“I want to be Neely O’Hara,” Neely insisted stubbornly.

“It’s Neely O’Hara,” Lyon said with a grin. “Yes, O’Hara. That’s right. And have the contract at rehearsal tomorrow—she’s the nervous type. And Gil, make it a white contract—standard Equity, not chorus. Let’s start the girl off right.” He hung up. “And now, Miss Neely O’Hara, you’d better go over to Actors Equity and join immediately. There’s a rather stiff initiation fee—might be well over a hundred dollars. If you need an advance ...”

“I’ve got seven hundred dollars saved,” Neely said proudly.

“Fine. And if you’re really determined to stay with the name, I’ll be glad to put through the necessary forms to make it legal.”

“You mean so no one can steal it?”

He smiled. “Well—let’s say it will make things easier. Your checking account, Social Security ...”

“Checking account? Geez, when would I ever need a checking account?”

The phone buzzed again. “Oh, Geez,” Neely muttered. “I bet he’s changed his mind.”

Lyon picked it up. “Hello? Oh, hi ...” His voice changed. “Yes, I saw the story in the paper. I told you all along I was just playing Cupid. ... Come now ...” He laughed. “You make me feel seven feet tall. Look, Diane angel, there are some people in the office and I’m keeping them waiting. We can talk about it tonight. Would you like to see the show at the Copa? Gil Case invited us along ... Fine, I’ll pick you up around eight ... Good girl. ’By.” He turned back to Neely and Anne with a slight smile that begged forgiveness for the interruption.

Anne stood up. “We’ve already taken up too much of your time. Thank you very much, Lyon.”

“Not at all. I owed you a whopper of a favor ... in fact, I owe you the very bed I sleep in. At least this helped even the score.”

When they were in the outer office, Neely did a pirouette and hugged Anne ecstatically. “Anne, I’m so happy I could shout at the top of my lungs!”

“I’m very happy for you, Neely.”

Neely stared at her. “Hey, what’s the matter? You look upset. Are you mad because I busted in like I did? I’m sorry. But Lyon wasn’t mad and Mr. Bellamy didn’t even know I was here. See, it all worked just fine. Please, Anne, say you’re not mad or it will ruin my whole day.”

“I’m not mad—just a little tired. Honestly, Neely.” Anne sat down at her desk.

Neely looked puzzled. “Yeah, I guess we both have been through a lot of excitement.” She leaned over and hugged Anne. “Oh, Anne, some day I’ll make this all up to you ... somehow. I swear I will!”

She watched Neely skip out of the office. Mechanically, she inserted a fresh piece of paper in the typewriter. The carbon smudged her engagement ring. She polished it carefully, then began to type.

***

Anne found herself living with Hit the Sky. In the beginning her exposure was limited to Neely’s detailed descriptions of the daily rehearsals. Neely was in the chorus, and for three days she showed Anne every step. Then came the startling announcement: Neely had a “part”—three lines in a crowd scene. But the crowning achievement was the understudy role.

“Can you stand it?” Neely asked. “Me—understudying Terry King! Terry has the second lead, and usually with Helen they have the dreariest ingenue they can find. But Terry King is sexy and beautiful. Imagine me ever trying to look sexy and beautiful!”

“Then why did they choose you?”

“Guess they were stuck. I’m the only one in the chorus who can sing. And besides, they usually don’t hire real understudies until the show comes in. I’m just a standby job for the tour.”

“Do you sing well, Neely?”

“Huh? Oh, I sing like I dance. Though I must say I get the steps a lot quicker than most of those chorus girls.” She did a high kick and narrowly missed a lamp. “Now all I need is a boyfriend and I’ll be set.”

“Is there anyone attractive in the show?”

“Are you kidding? A musical is like a sexual desert—unless you’re a fag. Dickie is having a ball with all those chorus boys—it’s like smorgasbord. The leading man is straight—handsome, too—but he has a wife who looks like his mother, and she sits around and watches him every second. The guy who plays opposite Terry King is bald without his rug. The only normal man is the old lech who plays Helen’s father. He’s sixty-five if he’s a day, but he’s always trying to grab a feel. But one of the girls in the chorus has a boyfriend who’s got a friend named Mel Harris. He’s a press agent, and she’s going to arrange for me to double-date with them. I hope something comes out of it. It’d be awful not to have a date on my own opening night. Are you still going to the New York opening with George Bellows?”

“Of course not. I’m ... well ... I’m engaged to Allen.”

“Then lemme buy you a pair of seats for the opening. It’ll be my present to you.”

“Don’t you get seats free?”

“Are you kidding? No one does, not even Helen Lawson. But she gets to buy four house seats every night, and someone told me when a show is a hit she sells them to a scalper and makes a fortune.”

“But Neely, I couldn’t let you buy my seats ... Allen will get them. And Neely, if the Mel thing doesn’t work out, we’ll take you out after your opening.”

Neely had her date with Mel Harris the following week. He was divine, she insisted. He had taken her to Toots Shor’s and told her all about himself. He was twenty-six, had been graduated from New York University, was a press agent but one day hoped to be a producer. He lived in a small midtown hotel and went to Brooklyn every Friday night to have dinner with his family.

“You see, Jewish men are very family conscious,” Neely explained.

“Do you really like him?” Anne asked.

“I love him!”

“Neely, you’ve only had one date. How can you be in love?”

“Look who’s talking. All you had was one lunch with Lyon Burke.”

“Neely! There’s nothing between Lyon Burke and me. I don’t even think about him. In fact, I’m getting quite fond of Allen.”

“Well, I know I love Mel. He’s beautiful. Not beautiful like Lyon, but great.”

“What does he look like?”

Neely shrugged. “Maybe a little like Georgie Jessel, but to me he’s gorgeous. And he didn’t try to get fresh, either. Even when I lied and said I was twenty. I was afraid seventeen would scare him off.”

Neely cocked her head toward the open door. They were sitting in Anne’s room, and the telephone was downstairs in front of Neely’s room. It was both a convenience and a hazard. She was constantly forced to take messages for everyone in the house.

“This time it’s for me,” she shrieked as she heard the tinny ring.

Five minutes later she bounded back, breathlessly triumphant. “It was him! He’s taking me to the Martinique tonight. He handles some singer there.”

“He must do very well,” Anne said.

“No, he only makes a hundred a week. He works for Irving Steiner and Irving handles about twelve big accounts. But soon he’s going out on his own, though he’s trying to get connected with radio. You know, Jewish men make marvelous husbands.”

“So I’ve heard. But how do they feel about Irish girls?”

Neely knit her brows. “Look, I can always tell him I’m part Jewish. That I took the O’Hara as a stage name.”

“Neely, you’d never get away with it.”

“If I had to, I would. I’m going to marry him. You watch.” She hugged herself and danced across the room, singing softly.

“That’s a pretty song. What is it?”

“From the show. Hey Anne, why don’t you take that mink coat Allen’s father offered you and sell me your black coat? I need a black coat.”

“Neely, sing that song again.”

“Why?”

“Just sing it.”

“It’s Terry King’s number. But I think Helen Lawson is planning to take it. She’s already taken one of Terry’s songs. Poor Terry only has two left, this and another. One’s a real torcher—Helen can’t take that from her. Helen’s character can’t sing that number in the show. It’d be against the plot.”

“Sing the song, Neely—the one you were singing.”

“If I do, will you sell me your black coat when you get the mink?”

“I’ll give it to you ... if I ever take the mink. Sing the song.”

Neely sighed, and like a child forced to recite, stood in the center of the room and sang the ballad. Anne could hardly believe it. Neely had an extraordinary voice, crystal clear. Her low notes were strong and melodious, and her higher range had power and beauty.

“Neely! You can really sing!”

“Oh, anyone can sing,” Neely said, laughing.

“Not like that. I couldn’t carry a tune if my life was at stake.”

“If you grew up in vaudeville you could. I can dance, juggle, even do some sleight of hand. You stand around in the wings, you pick it up.”

“But Neely, you sing well. Really well.”

Neely shrugged. “That and a nickel will get me a cup of coffee.”

******

Anne became personally involved with Hit the Sky at the end of the second week of rehearsals. Henry called in late one afternoon just as she was about to leave the office.

“Anne, thank God you’re still there. Look, honey, you can save my life. I’m stuck at N.B.C. The Ed Holson show airs tonight at nine and the last twenty minutes has to be rewritten. Ed is a ballbreaker—the writers are ready to quit and he’s thrown out the producer. I can’t leave. And Helen Lawson expects me to drop by with a portfolio of her new stocks. It’s on my desk.”

“Shall I send it by messenger?”

“No, take it to her. But don’t say I’m at N.B.C. Tell her I’m locked in a board-of-directors meeting on that real-estate deal she’s interested in and that I couldn’t get away. As long as she thinks I’m out making a buck for her, she won’t mind. Give it to her personally, and for God’s sake be convincing with the message.”

“I’ll do my best,” Anne promised.

“Take it to the Booth Theatre, backstage entrance. They should be breaking any minute. Tell her I’ll go over everything in detail with her tomorrow.”

She was sorry Henry had caught her. If only she had left earlier. She wasn’t good at things like this. Meeting Helen Lawson face to face was not her idea of a casual everyday encounter.

She was nervous when she reached the theatre and timidly opened the black, rusted stage door. Even the old doorman who sat near the radiator reading the racing form looked formidable.

He looked up. “Well? Whaddaya want?”

She wondered about all those movies where the gay chorus girls called a paternal stage doorman “Dad.” This one was staring at her as if she were in a police lineup.

She explained, pointing to the portfolio as added proof. He jerked his head, said, “In there,” and went back to his paper.

“In there” she bumped into a frantic man holding a script. “What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered angrily.

She went through the entire explanation again, secretly cursing Henry.

“Well, they’re still rehearsing,” he grumbled. “You can’t stand here in the wings. Go through that door and sit in the audience till we break.”

She groped her way into the dark, empty theatre. Gil Case was sitting on the aisle of the third row, his hat tilted to shade his eyes from the glaring work light on the stage. The chorus girls were sitting in a tired little group against the back wall of the bare stage. Some were whispering quietly among themselves, a few were massaging their calves, one was knitting. Neely was sitting erect, her eyes fastened on Helen Lawson. Helen stood in the center of the stage, singing a love song with a tall, handsome man.

She was belting out the lyrics in her famous style. Her smile was bright and merry, and even in the love song she exuded her familiar hale and hearty attitude. Her eyes flashed with grinning humor when the lyrics went into comedy, and her face went serious when the song moved into the inevitable lover’s lament. Her figure was beginning to show signs of middle age—the thickness through the waist, the slight spread in the hips. Recalling Helen’s appearance in the past, Anne felt as if she were gazing at the cruel distortion of a monument. Age settled with more grace on ordinary people, but for celebrities—women stars in particular—age became a hatchet that vandalized a work of art. Helen’s figure had always been her biggest asset. Playing broad comedy in a high-styled wardrobe had been a Helen Lawson trademark. Her face, although never classically beautiful, had been attractive and vivacious with her shock of long black hair.

Helen had not had a Broadway opening for five years. Her last show had enjoyed a two-year run, then a year on tour. She had met her last husband on that tour. There had been a whirlwind courtship in Omaha, Nebraska, then a huge wedding, with Helen telling the press that she intended to settle on his ranch as soon as the show ended its run. There she would play her greatest role, her final role—that of a wife. The big, smiling husband, Red Ingram, also assured the press that Helen’s place was on his ranch. “I never saw this little girl in any of her shows,” he told the world. “Just as well—I mighta nipped her career long ago. She’s for me.”

Helen had settled down—for two years. Then her image once again flashed across the AP and the UP wires as she told the world that “it’s been pure hell on the ranch” and that Broadway was her real home. Henry had quickly gone through the arrangements for a Reno divorce, composers and librettists rushed to Helen with their newest scores, and now Helen was back where she belonged—rehearsing for Hit the Sky.

She couldn’t be the love interest, Anne decided. Not with that padding of flesh on her jawline. It was practically a double chin. Yet she was singing a love song, her eyes still flashed merrily, the old vivacity was still intact, the long shock of curly black hair was still shoulder length ... From the lyrics of the song Anne realized Helen was playing a widow, searching for a new love. Well, it probably would work—but why hadn’t Helen taken off about fifteen pounds before she tackled the show? Or didn’t she realize the change the years had brought? Maybe it happened so gradually you never noticed. I haven’t seen her in eight years, Anne thought, so it comes as a shock to me. Maybe Helen still looks the same in her own eyes.

These were the thoughts that rambled through her mind as she watched Helen do the number. At the same time she was conscious that Helen’s magnetism did not rely on her face or figure. There was something that compelled you to watch her, and soon you forgot the wide waistline, the sagging jawline, and felt only her tremendous warmth and rakish good humor.

When she finished the number, Gilbert Case called out, “Wonderful, Helen! Just great!”

She walked to the edge of the stage, looked down at him and said, “It’s a piece of shit!”

His expression never changed. “You’ll get to love it, dear girl. You always feel this way about boy-girl ballads in the beginning.”

“Are you kidding? I loved the one I did with Hugh Miller in Nice Lady. I loved it the second I heard it. And Hugh was tone deaf—I had to carry the slob. At least Bob keeps on key.” She tossed her head to acknowledge the handsome, wooden man at her side. “So don’t tell me I’ll get to like it. It stinks! It doesn’t say anything. And I hate combining comedy with torch. The tune’s okay, but you’d better tell Lou to come up with a better set of lyrics.”

She turned and walked off the stage. The assistant director shouted an eleven o’clock call for the following day and that the names of those with costume fittings were posted on the call board and for God’s sake to get to Brooks in time. There was a general buzzing all around and no one seemed at all concerned with Helen’s attack on the song—including Gilbert Case. He rose slowly from his seat, lit a cigarette and walked to the back of the theatre.

When the stage had cleared, Anne gingerly made her way back. The young man with the script pointed toward the door of Helen’s dressing room.

Anne tapped, and the famous raucous voice yelled, “Come in!”

Helen looked up in surprise. “Who in hell are you?”

“I’m Anne Welles and I—”

“Look, I’m tired and busy. What do you want?”

“I came with this portfolio.” Anne placed it on the makeup table. “Mr. Bellamy sent it.”

“Oh. Well, where in hell is Henry?”

“He’s tied up with some real-estate board meeting. But he said he’ll talk to you tomorrow and explain anything you don’t understand.”

“Okay, okay.” Helen turned back to the mirror and waved her hand in dismissal. Anne started for the door and Helen shouted, “Hey, wait a minute. Aren’t you the girl I read about? The one who got Allen Cooper and the ring and all?”

“I’m Anne Welles.”

Helen grinned. “Well, hey ... glad to meet you. Sit down. I didn’t mean to be nasty, but you should see some of the characters who slip by the stage doorman and get in to see me. All of them with something to sell. Hey, lemme see the ring!”

She grabbed Anne’s hand and whistled in appreciation. “Wow, that’s a beaut! I got one twice that size, but I bought it for myself.”

She stood up and slid into her mink coat. “I bought this myself, too. No man ever really gave me anything.” She said it plaintively. Then she shrugged. “Well, there’s always tomorrow. Maybe I’ll meet a right guy who’ll shower me with presents and rescue me from this rat race.”

She grinned at Anne’s surprise. “Yeah, that’s what I said. You think it’s fun going through these four stinking weeks of rehearsal, and then the hell that goes on during the out-of-town tryout? And if you come in with a hit, so what? Big deal—you still wind up with the News and Mirror after the show.”

She started for the door. “Where are you going? I have a car, I can drop you.”

“Oh, I can walk,” Anne said quickly. “I live right near.”

“So do I, but that’s one thing I get in my contract—the producer pays for the car and chauffeur to pick me up and call for me. During rehearsals and after performances of the New York run. Unless I get lucky and have a date,” she added with a grin.

It was drizzling when they came out of the stage door, so Anne accepted Helen’s lift. “Drop me first,” Helen called to the chauffeur, “then take Miss Welles wherever she wants to go.”

When they stopped before Helen’s apartment building, she took Anne’s hand in an impulsive gesture and said, “Come up and have a drink with me, Anne. I hate to drink alone. It’s only six. You can call your fella from my place. He can pick you up there.”

Anne wanted to go home—it had been a long day—but there was an urgency about the loneliness in Helen’s voice. She followed Helen into the building.

Inside the apartment, Helen’s mood changed as she looked around proudly. “Like it, Anne? I paid a fortune to the faggot who did it. That’s a real Vlaminck over there ... and that’s a Renoir.” It was a warm, attractive apartment. Anne stared at the bleak snow scene by Vlaminck with deep admiration. This was a side of Helen she never would have imagined.

“I don’t know my ass from my elbow about art,” Helen went on. “But I like to have the best of everything around me. At this point in my life I can afford it. So I told Henry to pick me some good pictures that would go well with the apartment and be good investments. The Renoir’s not bad, but that snow scene—ugh! But Henry says a Vlaminck will triple in value. Come on in the den. That’s my favorite room . . . the bar’s in there.”

The walls of the den were a pictorial cavalcade of Helen’s theatrical life. Glossy photographs were neatly framed and mounted with assembly-line precision. There were pictures of Helen in short skirts and the frizzy hair of the twenties, autographing a baseball bat for Babe Ruth. A smiling Helen with a mayor of New York ... Helen with a famous senator ... Helen with a well-known songwriter ... Helen receiving the Best Broadway Star award ... Helen sailing to Europe with her second husband ... Helen in affectionate poses with other theatrical luminaries. There were also plaques, framed scrolls, commendations, all proclaiming Helen’s greatness. There was also a bookcase filled with leather-bound volumes—Dickens, Shakespeare, Balzac, De Maupassant, Thackeray, Proust, Nietzsche. Anne surmised that Henry had also been assigned to furnish the bookcases.

Helen noticed her looking at the books. “All the right classic junk, huh? I tell you that Henry knows everything. But you’ll never convince me people actually read that shit I tried a few pages once ... Christ!”

“Some of them are tough going,” Anne agreed. “Especially Nietzsche.”

Helen’s eyes widened. “You read those books? Know something? I never read a book in my life.”

“Now you’re teasing me,” Anne insisted. “Nope. When I work in a show, I work hard. After the show, if I’m lucky I have a date. If not, I come home from the show alone. And by the time I take a bath and read the trade papers and the columns, I’m ready to pop off. I sleep till noon, read the afternoon papers, go through my mail, get on the horn with my friends ... by that time I’m ready for dinner. I never go out for dinner when I’m doing a show and I never have a drink till after the show. But after the show I like to hoot. Oh, yeah ... I almost read a book during my last marriage. That’s when I knew it was going sour. How do you like your champagne—on the rocks?”

“I’ll take a Coke, if you don’t mind,” Anne said.

“Oh, come on, take some of my bubbly water. It’s the only thing I drink, and if you don’t help me with it, I’ll wind up killing the bottle myself tonight. And let me tell you, the grape adds bloat.” She patted her waistline knowingly. “I’m still trying to get rid of the weight I gained on the ranch.” She handed Anne a glass. “Christ! You ever lived on a ranch?”

“No. I come from New England.”

“I thought I was gonna live on that ranch for life. C’mere ...” She dragged Anne into the bedroom. “See that bed? It’s eight feet wide. That was the bed I had custom made when I married Frank. He was the only man I ever loved. I had that fucking thing shipped all the way to Omaha when I married Red, and I had it shipped back here again. I bet I paid more for shipping that bed around than it cost to begin with. That’s Frank.” She pointed to a photograph on her night table.

“He’s very attractive,” Anne mumbled. “He’s dead.”

Tears came to Helen’s eyes. “He got killed in an auto accident two years after we were divorced. It was that bitch he married that drove him to it.” Helen’s sigh went through her entire body.

Anne glanced at the clock on the night table. It was six-thirty. “Do you mind if I use your phone?”

“Come on in the den and use it there. You’ll be more comfortable.”

Helen poured some more champagne while Anne called Allen.

“Where are you?” he asked. “I’ve called you three times and got Neely every time. She was getting pretty tired of me, especially since she’s dressing for a date with her big love. Which reminds me, I’m with Gino. He wants to know if you mind his horning in on our dinner date tonight.”

“I’d love it, Allen. You know that.”

“Fine. We’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

“Okay, but I’m not at home. I’m at Helen Lawson’s.”

There was a fractional pause, then Allen said, “You can tell me about that at dinner. Want me to call for you there?”

He wrote down the address. “She’s at Helen Lawson’s,” she heard him tell Gino. “What? You’re kidding!” This was also to Gino. Then he returned to her. “Anne, believe it or not, Gino says to bring Helen Lawson along for dinner.”

“Oh ... do they know one another?”

Anne asked. “No, but what difference does that make?”

“Allen, I couldn’t—”

“Ask her!” Anne hesitated. You just didn’t ask a woman of Helen’s stature to come along on a blind date. And with Gino, of all people! Allen noticed the pause. “Anne, are you still on?”

She turned to Helen. “Allen would like to know if you would care to join us. His father is coming along.”

“As his father’s date?”

“Well ... there’d be just the four of us.”

“Sure!” Helen shouted. “I’ve seen him at El Morocco. He’s kinda sexy looking.”

“She’d like to very much,” Anne said coolly into the receiver. Then she hung up. “They’ll call for us in half an hour.”

“Half an hour? How can you go home and get dressed up in that time?”

“I won’t. I’ll go this way.”

“But you’re wearing a polo coat. And a tweed suit.”

“Allen’s taken me out like this before. He won’t mind.”

Helen’s face puckered into a pout, causing her to look like a bloated baby. “Aw gee, Annie, I wanted to get all gussied up. Now I can’t. I’d look like a Christmas tree with you dressed like that. And I wanna make a good impression on Gino. He’s a live one.”

This couldn’t be happening. Helen Lawson acting like a high school girl over a date with Gino. And this sudden attack of coyness did not fit Helen’s personality, which drew its strength from a certain roughneck dignity. She found herself hoping this baby pout was a rare side of Helen’s nature.

“Call them back and tell them to make it a little later,” Helen suggested. “That way you’ll be able to run home and change.”

Anne shook her head. “I’m too tired. I’ve been working all day.”

“What the hell do you think I’ve been doing?” Helen’s tone was that of a child who has been left out of a game. “I was up at nine this morning. I worked for three hours on a dance routine with those slobs The Gaucheros. I fell on my ass at least six times. I went through that stinking song a hundred times. And I’m still raring to go. And I’m a little older than you. I’m ... thirty-four.”

“I haven’t got that kind of energy,” Anne said, managing to cover her surprise. Thirty-four! George Bellows had been right.

“How old are you, Anne?”

“Twenty.”

“Stop with the bullshit! I read that in the papers. How old are you really?” The expression in Anne’s eyes made Helen change her tone. She broke into a little-girl smile. “Hey, are you one of those broads who faints at four-letter words? My old lady gets so mad when I use them. Tell you what, I’m gonna try and stop. Any time tonight I use bad language, you just give me one of those icy looks of yours.”

Anne smiled. There was something appealing in Helen’s swift changes of mood. She was guileless in her honesty and so vulnerable in spite of her position.

“Are you really only twenty, Anne?” Then she added quickly, “It’s just so fantastic that you made it so fast, catching someone like Allen Cooper. I’ll wear a black dress and just a little jewelry.” She started for the bedroom to change, talking all the while. “Hey, c’mon in with me. I may have the biggest voice on Broadway, but I can’t make it from there.”

Helen kept up a running stream of conversation while she dressed. Most of it concerned her husbands and how badly they had treated her. “All I ever wanted was love,” she kept repeating mournfully. “Frank loved me—he was an artist. God, if he could only see me with a real Renoir. Not that Frank painted like that. He was an illustrator, but on the side he used to paint what he called serious. His dream was the day he could afford to give up illustrating and paint like he wanted to.”

“Oh, were you just beginning then?”

“Hell, no! I was starring in Sadie’s Place when we got married. It was my third starring show. I was making three thousand a week and he was only making a hundred bucks, so you can see I really married for love.”

“Then why couldn’t he paint as he liked?”

“I should support him? Are you kidding? If I did, how would I know if a man was marrying me for love and not my loot? I put it to him square on the line. I had a big apartment then, and I like to live good. I said, ‘Frankie, you can move in. I’ll pay the rent. I’ve been paying it anyway. I’ll also pay for the maid, my clothes, the bar and the food. But when we go out, you pick up the tabs.’ He used to complain that two nights on the town took up his whole week’s salary. With the free rent and all. God, I loved him. I even tried to have a baby with him, and that woulda meant blowing a whole season. So you can see how much I loved him. But I just never got knocked up. Here, zip me. How do I look?”

Helen looked good. Anne thought she had a little too much jewelry on, but after all, she was Helen Lawson. She could get away with it.

The buzzer sounded. Helen reached for a flaming red silk coat, trimmed with sequins. She looked at Anne. “Too flashy?”

“Why not wear the mink you wore this afternoon?” Anne asked.

“How conservative could I be? A black dress and a brown coat. Look, I believe if you got ’em, wear ’em. I’m not one of those blue-book fancy broads.”

The buzzer sounded again. “All right, all right!” Helen yelled. She hesitated for a second, picked up the mink coat and smiled. “You win, angel. I know you got taste.”

The meeting between Gino and Helen went off like a Roman candle. They decided on El Morocco, a place they both adored. They ordered the same food, howled incessantly over each other’s jokes, consumed endless champagne. Columnists stopped by the table to pay their respects to Helen; the orchestra played and replayed the scores from Helen’s past hits. Anne quickly caught the mood of hilarity and even found herself laughing at some of Helen’s off-color jokes. It was impossible not to like Helen.

Gino roared in approval. “I love this girl!” he shouted, slapping her on the back. “She says what she means. No phoniness with her. Tell you what, Helen. We’ll make up a big party to celebrate your opening night.”

Helen’s entire personality changed. Her smile was shy, and in a small, girlish voice she said, “Oh, Gino, that’s wonderful! I’d love to have you as my date at the opening.”

Gino was taken off guard. Anne knew he had meant Adele to be along. He naturally assumed Helen would have her own escort.

“When is the exact date?” Gino asked slowly.

“January sixteenth. We leave for New Haven in two weeks. Then we do three weeks in Philadelphia.”

“We’ll come to New Haven,” Gino said quickly. “Anne, Allen and I—”

“No!” Helen wailed. “New Haven’s a mess. We only have three performances there to iron things out before Philadelphia.”

“We’ll make allowances,” Gino said easily.

“It isn’t that,” Helen pouted, her face contorting into the unflattering babyish pucker. “But we open on Friday night and have a matinee the next day and often a rehearsal the morning before, to stick in new things. If you come, I’ll want to stay up late and hoot. And I can’t hoot the night before a matinee.”

“January is too far off for me to plan anything,” Gino said firmly. “With my business, I could be out of the country by then. New Haven is possible—unless you don’t want us to come.”

Helen moved closer to Gino, put her arm through his and winked coyly. “Aw no ... I’m not letting you off the hook. I’ll settle for New Haven. And if you’re in town, you’ll come opening night in New York too.”

“You mean see it twice?”

“Listen, you sonofabitch, people come to see my shows five times,” Helen said good-naturedly. “Come on, Annie,” she said. “Let’s go to the little girls’ room and fix our faces.”

The attendant in the powder room threw her arms around Helen. “She was my first dresser,” Helen told Anne.

“You shoulda seen her,” the woman said affectionately. “She was all legs and as friendly as a puppy.”

“I still got good legs,” Helen said. “But I gotta knock off a few pounds. Ah, that’ll happen on the road.” Helen sat down and powdered her face. When the attendant turned to assist a new arrival, Helen said, “Anne, I like Gino.”

She said it quietly, and the lack of expression on her face seemed to intensify the feeling behind the words. Helen played with her hair and kept her eyes on her own image. “I mean really like him, Anne. Do you think he likes me?”

“I’m sure he does,” Anne said, trying to keep her voice light.

Helen turned to her urgently. “I need a fella. Honest, Anne, that’s all I want—someone to love.”

Anne’s heart went out to the battered, pathetic face, the eyes pleading for reassurance. She thought of all the violent stories she had heard about Helen Lawson, stories undoubtedly spread by the legions of lesser people, jealous of her success or shocked by her coarseness. But it was hard to see how anyone could honestly dislike this woman whose ribald personality was a mask for a sensitive nature and a desperate longing for affection.

“Gee I like you, Annie. We’ll be buddy-buddy. And we’ll double-date a lot. I don’t get a chance to have many girl friends. Hey, Amelia”—Helen’s voice boomed out to the attendant—”gimme a pencil and a piece of paper.”

The attendant brought a pad. “Miss Lawson . . . while you’re at it, will you write your autograph for my niece?”

“I wrote three of them for you last week,” Helen grumbled as she scribbled her name. “Whaddaya do, sell ’em?” She handed the attendant the paper, then scribbled a number and handed it to Anne. “This is my phone number. Don’t lose it, it’s unlisted. And for Chrissake don’t give it to anyone—except Gino. Tattoo it on him if you can. Here, write down your number.”

“You can always reach me at Henry Bellamy’s office.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know—but in case I want you at home.”

Anne wrote down the number of the hall telephone on West Fifty-second Street. “But I’m at the office from nine-thirty to five,” she repeated. “And I’m usually out with Allen every night.”

“Okay.” Helen stuffed the paper into her purse. “We better be getting back. They’ll think we fell in.”

It was close to three when the black car drove up to Anne’s rooming house. They had dropped Helen first. Gino was almost asleep and Allen seemed tired, but Anne felt keyed up after the exciting evening. There was a light showing under Neely’s door, so she tapped lightly.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Neely said. “Have I had an evening! I told Mel the truth, that I was only seventeen. And he doesn’t care. He says I’ve seen more of life than most girls of twenty. I also told him I was a virgin.” Then she added, “Where’ve you been so late?”

Anne told Neely about her evening with Helen Lawson, starting with the meeting at rehearsal. When she finished, Neely shook her head in disbelief. “You act like you had a great time. Next thing, you’re gonna tell me you like Helen Lawson.”

“I do. I like her very much, Neely. All those stories about her—they’re told by people who don’t even know her. Once you know her, really know her, you have to like her. Confess—now that you’re over the idea that she tossed you out of the show the first day—and now that you’ve worked with her—don’t you really like her?”

“Oh sure, she’s adorable.”

“I mean it.”

“Are you sick?” Neely reached out and touched Anne’s head. “She’s a horrible woman. No one likes her.”

“That’s not true. Anyone who talks against her just doesn’t really know her.”

“Look. The only people who adore her are those in the audience, and that’s because they’re separated from her by an orchestra and a stage. And they don’t like her, they like the part she plays. Listen, one thing people overlook—Helen is not only a big musical comedy star, she’s also a terrific actress. Because she plays those warm, heart-of-gold gals and makes you believe it. But Helen really—when she’s not acting—she’s cold. She’s a machine.”

“Neely, you don’t know what she’s really like.”

“Oh boy! You kill me, Anne. You go out with Allen for a whole month and know nothing about him. But wham! One night with Helen Lawson and you’re an authority. You’re ready to buck all the people who’ve worked with her and know her and hate and despise her. She’s rough, tough, unfeeling, coarse and rotten. Maybe she had her company manners on with you tonight, or maybe she wants something from you. But let me tell you, if you get in her way, she’ll step on you as if you were a worm.”

“That’s how you see her. You’ve heard the legend so long you won’t even try to see her as she really is. I don’t doubt she can be tough when she’s working. That’s her job. She has to fight for what she wants. But divorce her from her work and you’ll find a sensitive, lonely woman, longing for a real friend. And for someone to love.”

“Love!” Neely screeched. “Anne, the real Helen Lawson is the monster I see at rehearsals. And it has nothing to do with being a star. She was born that way. You don’t get that way. Why, if I was ever a star, I’d be so darned grateful that an audience loved me ... that people would pay just to see me ... that writers would write for me. Wow! I’d go around kissing the world. Listen, even Mel, who only met her once at a benefit, calls her Jack the Ripper.”

“I won’t argue any more,” Anne said wearily. “But I don’t want you to knock Helen in front of me, Neely. I like her.”

“Geeeez. . . .” The phone jangled outside the door. “Now what nut would call anyone at this hour?” Neely asked. “Must be a wrong number.”

“I’ll get it.” Anne went to the phone.

“Hi, girl ...” Helen’s happy voice rang over the phone. “Helen! Is anything wrong?”

“Helen!” Neely shouted through the open door. “Gosh, you’re not kidding. You are chummy!”

“I just wanted to call and say good night,” Helen said cheerfully. “I’ve gotten undressed, washed my panties and stockings, creamed my face, set my hair, and now I’m in bed.”

Anne thought of Helen luxuriating in the eight-foot bed and involuntarily shivered as she stood in the unheated hallway. Then, in spite of Neely hovering at her elbow, her curiosity got the best of her. “Helen, did you say you washed your stockings and pants?”

“Aw, you must be kidding,” Neely whispered.

“Sure I do,” Helen answered. “Honest. It’s a habit my old lady taught me, and even though I have a personal maid, I do this every night before I go to bed. I guess that’s the Irish in me, the O’Leary side.”

“Is that your real name?”

Neely couldn’t stand it. “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna put my bathrobe on if we’re gonna chat. It’s freezing out here.” She ran into the room.

“No—my real name is Laughlin,” Helen answered. “That’s Scotch. I’m Scotch, French and Irish. But I changed the Laughlin to Lawson. I figured it would look better in lights.”

“You sound as if you always knew it was going to be in lights.”

“You bet your ass. I was singing at lodge benefits when I was ten. At sixteen I started singing lessons. After two years I started auditioning. I got into a Broadway show with a small part and one song and copped all the notices. Everyone seemed surprised but me. If I didn’t think I was a hell of a singer I wouldn’ta auditioned for the part.”

“Then you never had any trouble, never had to job hunt?”

“She made it right away.” Neely was back, wrapped in a warm bathrobe, nibbling at a Fig Newton. “That’s why she’s so mean to people like me—she doesn’t know what it is to struggle.”

“No, I made it easy,” Helen went on. “I admit it’s not that easy for everyone. But if you’ve got it, you make it. Period! It might take some a little longer, but no one who really has it gets lost in the shuffle. I can’t stand all this hard-luck shit I hear ... all the talent that never gets a chance. It takes more than just a set of pipes to make it. Hell, lots of girls can sing. I’ve heard plenty of band singers who make seventy-five a week who sound better than me. But they haven’t got it.”

Anne shifted her weight and shivered. She had left her coat in Neely’s room. “Helen, I’ve got to get in bed. The heat’s turned off and I’m freezing.”

“I’ll wait.”

“But I can’t ... I mean ... the phone ...”

“Isn’t the wire long enough?”

“The phone is in the hall.”

“Whaaat?”

“It’s in the hall. I live in a rooming house. I don’t have my own phone.”

“You must be kidding! You mean you wear a rock on your finger worth fifty G’s and you don’t have a phone? Where in hell do you live, anyway?”

“On West Fifty-second Street—right near Leon and Eddie’s.”

“But that’s a crummy neighborhood!” Helen screamed. Then her voice changed. “But what the hell, you’re getting married soon. But how can you live without a private phone in your room?”

“I never really need it.”

“Well, for Chrissake!” Anne heard a yawn and the sound of newspaper rustling. “Oh, I see I’ve made two columns,” Helen said sleepily. “All right, angel, go to sleep. Drop by at rehearsal tomorrow after you’ve finished work.”

“Well, I finish pretty late. And then I rush home and dress to see Allen.”

“Yeah, you better. Dress, I mean. You’re real good-looking, Anne, but that polo coat and tweed suit department has gotta go. Remember, the most important thing in the world is to have a man who loves you. Dress up for him. I’ll call you at the office tomorrow.” The phone clicked.

Anne walked back to Neely’s room. She picked up her coat and bag. Neely followed her to the door. “I don’t get it, Anne.” She stood there shaking her head. “I don’t get it. If I hadn’t heard it with my own ears I wouldn’ta believed it.” Then her expression changed. “But I still say she’s gotta have an angle.”

“No, she hasn’t. She had fun tonight ... She’s so lonely really. And she liked Gino.”

“Then that’s it!” Neely screamed. “She’s just using you to get Gino.”

“That’s not true. She was warm and friendly even before I arranged the date. She had me up to her apartment—”

Neely grinned. “Maybe the old war horse is turning queer in her old age.”

“Neely!”

“It happens. Listen, some of those big stars—especially broads like Helen who like sex—they get so fed up with the cold shoulder from men that they turn to women for their, kicks. There was this faded movie star who played at a nightclub with us, and—”

“Neely, Helen is absolutely normal!”

Neely yawned. “Okay, I won’t fight you on that. She’s got too big a reputation for being man crazy. She’ll lay anything in pants. She’s always been known for that. That’s how she lost her first husband. He came home and found her doing it with a gangster she had gone with way back.”

“Neely, that’s untrue. She loved her first husband.”

“Anne, I sit and gab with the girls all day. Everyone knows Helen sang in a speakeasy that was owned by Tony Lagetta. She was mad for him. But he was Italian and Catholic and had a wife and seven kids. He’d lay her, sure—but that’s all. When she made it in her first show, Henry Bellamy stepped in and made her drop Tony. She was getting too famous, and if the wife sued it could hurt Helen’s image. She had a long affair with Henry, but she still slept with Tony on the sneak. Everyone knew but Henry. He just kept managing her and making her a star and a millionaire. Then Tony found someone else, and Helen got so mad she married the first guy who came along—the artist. By this time there were no more speakeasies and Tony ran some fancy joint—a French-Italian restaurant—and Helen used to bring this artist she married in and neck with him to get Tony jealous. I guess it worked, because one day the artist comes home and he finds Helen and Tony having this little reunion ... He left her and he was never the same. He got married again—but he was a drunk.”

“And where did you get all this folklore?”

“The Tony part I knew ages ago. Geez, when anyone mentioned Helen’s name they used to say ’Tony’s girl,’ but the Henry Bellamy part and the husband part I got from the kids in the show. Everyone knows—”

“Everyone knows,” Anne interrupted impatiently, “like you know—through hearsay. And like everyone, you’ll spread the same story to everyone you meet. And it will grow. But were you there? Did you ever see Helen and Tony together? I’ve talked to Helen. I know how she felt about her husband. Look, Neely, Helen has a few rough edges, sure. I think she made it so fast she never had time to catch up with her talent. It took her to the top, but at heart she’s still a little girl from New Rochelle. And she pretends to be tough so she won’t get hurt.”

“All right, I give up,” Neely said. “She’s adorable, she’s sweet, and since it looks like you two are gonna be inseparable and you’re the only one who understands her, why not tell her what a big talent your second-best friend has. Maybe she’ll toss me a few bits in the show.”

Anne smiled. “Neely, no one could replace you.”

“Sure. I can just see it. The three of us all getting together and having little girlish chats.”

“Why not? Neely, tomorrow walk over to Helen at rehearsal. Tell her you’re my close friend.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Why not?”

“Because no one just walks over and chats with Helen.”

“Try it, you might be surprised.”

“Sure. Maybe I’ll ask her to compare notes on washing stockings. Does she use Lux or Ivory? Or if she gets her kicks that way, I’ll be glad to send her a few of my slips that need washing.”

“Good night, Neely.”

“Good night. But Anne, I mean it. If this glorious friendship does continue and you do get the chance, slip in a word for me. Try it ... please?”

CONTINUED IN

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