Whole book · 21 sections
“I know,” Peggy said excitedly. “But which airline?”
PEGGY LANE THEATER STORIES
By VIRGINIA HUGHES
Illustrated by Sergio Leone
GROSSET & DUNLAP Publishers
NEW YORK
©GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC., 1962
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
PEGGY PLAYS OFF-BROADWAY
“First casting calls are so difficult,” Peggy Lane said, looking ruefully at the fifty or more actresses and actors who milled about nervously, chatting with one another, or sat on the few folding chairs trying to read.
“With only nine roles to be filled,” she continued, “it doesn’t matter how good these people are; most of them just haven’t got a chance. I can’t help feeling sorry for them—for all of us, I mean. After all, I’m trying for a part, too.”
Peggy’s friend and housemate, Amy Preston, smiled in agreement and said, “It’s not an easy business, honey, is it? But the ones I feel sorriest for right now are Mal and Randy. After all, they have the unpleasant job of choosing and refusing, and a lot of these folks are their friends. I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes.”
Peggy nodded thoughtfully, and reflected that it must, indeed, be more wearing on the boys. Mallory Seton, director of the new play, had been an upper-class student at the Academy when Peggy had started there, and he was a good friend of hers. She had worked with him before, as a general assistant, when they had discovered a theater. It would not be easy for him to consider Peggy for an acting role, and to do so completely without bias. It would not be a question of playing favorites, Peggy knew, but quite the reverse. Mal’s sense of fair play would make him bend over backward to keep from giving favors to his friends. If she was to get a role in this new production, she would really have to work for it.
And if it was difficult for Mal, she thought, it was more so for Randy Brewster, the author of the play, for her friendship with him was of a different sort than with Mal. Mal was just a friend—a good one, to be sure—but with Randy Brewster, somehow, things were different. There was nothing “serious,” she assured herself, but they had gone on dates together with a regularity that was a little more than casual and, whatever his feelings were for her, she was sure that they were more complicated than Mal’s.
“Do you think they’ll ever get through all these people?” Amy asked, interrupting her thoughts. “How can they hope to hear so many actors read for them in just one afternoon?”
“Oh, they won’t be doing readings today,” Peggy replied, glad to turn her attention from what was becoming a difficult subject for thought. “This is just a first cast call. All they want to do today is pick people for type. They’ll select all the possible ones, send the impossible ones away, and then go into elimination readings later.”
“But what if the people they pick for looks can’t act?” Amy asked. “And what if some of the rejects are wonderful actors?”
“They won’t go back to the rejects,” Peggy explained, “because they both have a pretty good idea of what the characters in the play should look like. And if the people they pick aren’t good enough actors, then they hold another cast call and try again. Mal says that sometimes certain parts are so hard to cast that they have to go through a dozen calls just to find one actor.”
“It seems kind of unfair, doesn’t it, to be eliminated just because you’re not the right physical type,” Amy said, “but I can understand it. They have to start somewhere, and I guess that’s as good a place as any.” Then she smiled and added, “I guess I’m just feeling sorry for myself, because Mal told me there was no sense in my trying out at all, because I didn’t look or sound right for any part in the play. If I don’t get rid of this Southern accent of mine, I may never get a part at all, except in a Tennessee Williams play!”
Peggy nodded sympathetically. “But it wasn’t just your accent, Amy,” she said. “It’s your looks, too. At least for this play. Mal and Randy told you that you’re just too pretty for any of the parts that fit your age, and that’s nothing to feel bad about. If anybody ought to feel insulted, it’s me, because they asked me to try out!”
“Oh, they were just sweet-talking me,” Amy replied. “And as for you, you know you don’t have to worry about your looks. You have a wonderful face! You can look beautiful, or comic, or pathetic, or cute or anything. I’m stuck with just being a South’n Belle, blond and helpless, po’ li’l ol’ me, lookin’ sad and sweet through those ol’ magnolia blossoms!” She broadened her slight, soft accent until it sounded like something you could spread on hot cornbread, and both girls broke into laughter that sounded odd in the strained atmosphere of the bare rehearsal studio.
It was at this point that Mal and Randy came in, with pleasant, if somewhat brisk, nods to the assembled actors and actresses, and a special smile for Amy and Peggy. In a businesslike manner, they settled themselves at a table near the windows, spread out scripts and pads and pencils, and prepared for the chore that faced them. Amy, who was there to help the boys by acting as secretary for the occasion, wished Peggy good luck, and joined the boys at the table. Her job was to take names and addresses, and to jot down any facts about each actor that Randy and Mal wanted to be sure to remember.
Mal started the proceedings by introducing himself and Randy. Then, estimating the crowd, he said, “Since there are fewer men here, and also fewer male roles to cast, we’re going to do them first. I hope that you ladies won’t mind. We won’t keep you waiting long, but if we worked with you first, we’d have these gentlemen waiting most of the day. Shall we get started?” After a brief glance at his notes, he called out, “First, I’d like to see businessman types, young forties. How many have we?”
Four men separated themselves from the crowd and approached the table. Peggy watched with interest as Mal and Randy looked them over, murmured to Amy to take notes, and asked questions. After a few minutes, the men left, two of them looking happy, two resigned. Then Mal stood and called for leading man types, late twenties or early thirties, tall and athletic. As six tall, athletic, handsome young men came forward, Peggy felt that she just couldn’t stand watching the casting interviews any longer. It reminded her too much of the livestock shows she had attended as a youngster in her home town of Rockport, Wisconsin. Necessary though it was, she felt it was hardly a way to have to deal with human beings.
Slipping back through the crowd of waiting actors, she joined the actresses in the rear of the room, and found an empty seat next to a young girl.
“Hi,” she said. “What’s the matter, can’t you watch it either?”
The girl smiled in understanding. “It always upsets me,” she replied, “but it’s something we simply have to learn to live with. At least until we get well-known, or get agents to do this sort of thing for us.”
“It sounds as if you’ve been in a few of these before,” Peggy said.
“I have. But not here in the East,” the girl replied. “I’m from California, and I’ve been in a few little-theater things there, but nobody seems to pay much attention to them. I heard that off-Broadway theater in New York attracts a lot of critics, and I thought that I’d do better here. Have you had any luck?”
“Oh, I’m just beginning,” Peggy said. “I’m still studying at the New York Dramatic Academy. I hope I can get some kind of supporting role in this play, but I don’t think I’m ready for anything big yet. By the way, my name is Peggy Lane. What’s yours?”
“I’m Paula Andrews,” the girl answered, “and maybe I’m shooting too high, but I’m trying out for the female lead. I hope I have a chance for it.”
Peggy looked carefully at her new friend, at the somewhat uncertain smile that played about her well-formed, generous mouth and the intelligence that shone from her large, widely placed green eyes. Her rather long face was saved from severity by a soft halo of red-brown hair, the whole effect being an appealing combination of strength and feminine softness.
“I think you do have a chance,” Peggy said. “In fact, if you can act, I bet you’ll get the part. I’ve read the play, and I know the author and director, and unless I’m way off, you look just the way the lead should look. In fact, it’s almost uncanny. You look as if you just walked out of the script!”
“Oh, I hope you’re right!” Paula said with animation. “And I hope you get a part, too. I have a feeling that you’re going to bring me good luck!”
“The one who needs luck is me, I’m afraid,” Peggy said. “Being friendly with Randy and Mal isn’t going to help me in the least, and I’m going to have to be awfully good to get the part. And it’s really important to me, too, because I’m getting near the end of my trial year.”
“Trial year?” Paula asked curiously.
“Uh-huh. My parents agreed to let me come to New York to study acting and try for parts for a year, and I agreed that if I didn’t show signs of success before the year was up, I’d come home and go back to college. I’ve been here for eight months now, and I haven’t got anything to show my parents yet. The part I’m trying for now isn’t a big one, but it’s a good supporting role, and what’s more, we get paid. If I can show my mother and father that I can earn some money by acting, I’m sure that they’ll let me go on trying.”
“But do you expect to make enough to live on right away?” Paula asked.
“Oh, no! I’m not that naïve! But when my year is over at the Academy, I can always take a job as a typist or a secretary somewhere, while I look for parts. If you can type and take shorthand, you never have to worry about making a living.”
“I wish that I could do those things,” Paula said wistfully. “The only way I’ve been able to make ends meet is by working in department stores as a salesgirl, and that doesn’t pay much. Besides, the work is so unsteady.”
“My parents are very practical people,” Peggy said with a smile, “and they made sure that I learned routine office skills before they would let me think about other and more glamorous kinds of careers. Daddy owns the newspaper in our small town in Wisconsin, and I’ve worked with him as a typist and a reporter of sorts and as a proofreader, too. I’ll always be grateful that he made me learn all those things. I don’t think he has much faith in the acting business, but he’s been wonderful about giving me a chance. What do your parents think of your wanting to be an actress?”
Instead of answering, Paula suddenly stood up. “Let’s go see how they’re coming with the actors,” she said. “I think they’re almost finished.”
Not wanting to press Paula further, and feeling that perhaps she had asked too personal a question on such short acquaintance, Peggy reluctantly stood too, and joined Paula to watch the last of what she now could only think of as the livestock show.
As she drew closer to the table, she heard Mal saying, “I’m really sorry, Mr. Lang, but you’re just not the right type for the role. Perhaps some other....” and his voice trailed off in embarrassment.
Lang, a short, thin, unhappy young man, answered almost tearfully, “But, Mr. Seton, looks aren’t everything. I’m really a funny comedian. Honestly! If you would only give me a chance to read for you, I know that I could make you change your mind about the way this character should look!”
“I don’t doubt that you could,” Mal said gently, “but if you did, the play would suffer. I’m afraid the comedian we need for this must be a large, rather bluff-looking person, like these three gentlemen whom I have chosen to hear. The part calls for it. I’m sorry.”
Mr. Lang nodded sadly, mumbled, “I understand,” and walked off, his head hanging and his hands thrust deep in his pockets, looking less like a comedian than any man in the world. Peggy watched him go, not knowing whether to feel sorrier for him or for Mal.
“All right, gentlemen,” Mal called out. “That takes care of the male roles. All of you who are left will be given copies of the play to study, marked at the passages I want to hear. Be sure to read the whole play carefully, so that you understand the workings of the characters you have been selected to read. You have three days to look it over. We’ll meet at ten o’clock on Saturday morning at the Penthouse Theater to hear you. Thank you. And now for the ladies.”
The men left, after being given their scripts, and though they chatted amiably with one another, Peggy was sure that each was casting rather hostile looks toward others who were trying for the same parts. Keeping friendships in the theater was not an easy thing, she thought, particularly for people of similar physical types!
Mal’s first concern in reviewing the actresses was, of course, for the leading role. And, of course, it was for this role that he had the most applicants. More than twenty girls came forward when the announcement was made, and Peggy thought that she had never seen so many striking and beautiful faces and figures. It was not going to be easy for Mal to make a choice. As Paula, her new friend, went forward to join the others, Peggy whispered a word of encouragement, then stood to one side to watch.
Mal went down the line, regretfully dismissing one after the other of the girls, and occasionally asking one to step aside to try for another role. His tough-looking expression hardly varied as he spoke to each one, but Peggy thought she saw the ghost of a smile cross his face when he spoke to Paula Andrews. Another review of the remaining girls eliminated a few more. Finally, there were only four left, Paula among them. Mal thanked them, distributed scripts, and asked them to be at the Penthouse Theater on Saturday at noon.
Paula returned to Peggy with eyes shining. “Oh, Peggy! I think you were right! I just know I’m going to get the part! I know it!”
“Don’t count too much on it,” Peggy cautioned, “or you may be too bitterly disappointed if you don’t get it. But,” she added, enthusiastically violating her own rule of caution, “I’m sure, too! I’ll see you Saturday. Even if I don’t get a script, I’ll be there just to hear you read!”
Then, with a smile of farewell, Peggy turned her attention to the “career woman, early thirties” classification that Mal had called for next. Once that was out of the way, she knew it would be her turn.
This time, there were not so many applicants and Peggy remembered Randy telling her that this would be one of their most difficult roles to cast. Only four actresses came forward, and Mal, with difficulty, reviewed them all. Unable to eliminate by type, he gave them all scripts and asked them to come to the theater. Then he called for “character ingénues” and Peggy joined seven other girls in the “livestock show.”
Mal reviewed them carefully, managing to look at Peggy with complete lack of recognition. He gently eliminated three of them on the basis of hair coloring, height or general type. Another, curiously enough, was eliminated, like Amy, for a Southern accent, and a fifth, also like Amy, was too beautiful. “The part calls for a pretty girl,” Mal said with a rare smile, “but not for a girl so pretty that she’ll dominate the stage! It was a pleasure to look at you, but I’m afraid you’re not quite right for the part.”
When he was done, Peggy and two others were given scripts and told to come to the theater on Saturday. Feeling lightheaded and giddy, Peggy settled herself on one of the folding chairs that lined the back wall, and waited for Mal, Randy, and Amy to finish so she could join them for coffee.
Scarcely noticing the rest of the proceedings, she thought only about the coming readings. She was so familiar with the play that she knew she had an advantage, perhaps unfairly, over the other two girls. She had watched the script grow from its first rough draft to the finished text now in her hands, and had discussed it with Randy through each revision. She knew she could play the part; in fact, she suspected secretly that Randy had written it for her, and the thought made her blush. Still, it would not be easy, she knew. Mal’s sense of fairness and his absolute devotion to the play above everything else would keep him from making up his mind in advance.
But despite this knowledge, she could not help looking ahead—all the way ahead—to the restless stir of the opening-night audience out front, the last-minute preparations backstage, the bright, hot lights and the smell of make-up and scenery paint as she waited to go on in Act One, Scene One of Come Closer, Randy Brewster’s brilliant new play in which Peggy Lane would be discovered!
The audience consisted of a handful of actors and actresses, and Randy Brewster and Mallory Seton. The stage lighting was a cold splash produced by two floodlights without color gels to soften them. The scenery was the brick back wall of the stage, two ladders, a table and two straight-backed chairs. Only the front row of house lights was on, and the back of the theater was dark, empty and gloomy, a shadowy wasteland of empty rows of seats like tombstones.
On the stage, a “businessman type” was reading his lines. Peggy knew, after the first few words, that he would not do. He had somehow completely missed the character of the man he was portraying, and was heavily overplaying. Mal, being perhaps more patient than Peggy, listened and watched with great care. Amy, who was acting as Mal’s assistant for the production, sat in a chair by the proscenium, reading her script by the light of a small lamp and feeding the actor cue lines. Mal followed the whole sequence with no visible sign of impatience and, when the actor was through, said, “Thank you. We’ll let you know our decision in a day or two.”
The next “businessman type” was better, but still not quite on target, Peggy thought. He seemed to be playing the part for laughs, and although there were some comic values to be extracted from the role, it was really far more a straight dramatic character. Still, he was clearly a better actor than the first, and with direction might do well.
Following his reading, Mal again repeated his polite, invariable formula, “Thank you. We’ll let you know our decision in a day or two,” and called for the next reading.
Peggy watched the remaining actors try for the role, and made mental notes of which ones were possible, which probable, and which stood no chance at all.
The same process was then followed for the leading men, and the same wide range of talent and understanding of the part was displayed. Some seemed to have no idea at all about the play or its meaning, and Peggy was sure that these men had read only the parts marked for them. Others had a clear understanding of the kind of character they were playing, and tried to create him in the brief time they had on stage. Others still were actors who had one rather inflexible way of playing, and used it for all kinds of parts. Their performances were uniform imitations of each other, and all were imitations of the early acting style of Marlon Brando. They seemed to forget, Peggy thought, that Brando’s style developed from the roles he had to play, and that as he got other roles, he showed other facets of a rounded talent. It made her angry that some actors thought they could get ahead in a creative field by being imitative.
Each actor, no matter how good or how bad, was treated with impersonal courtesy by Mal, and each left looking sure that the part was his. Peggy was glad that she would not have to see their faces when they learned that they had not been selected.
“The pity of it,” she whispered to Randy, “isn’t that there are so many bad ones, but that there are so many good ones, and that only one can be selected for each role. I wish there were some way of telling the good ones you can’t take that they were really good, but that you just couldn’t take everyone!”
“You can’t let yourself worry about that,” Randy replied. “The good ones know they’re good, and they’re not going to be discouraged by the loss of a role. And the bad ones think they’re good, too, and most of them have tremendous egos to protect them from ever finding out—or even thinking—otherwise!”
The door at the back of the theater opened quietly, and Peggy, turning around in her seat, saw a few of the actresses entering. They quietly found seats in the rear and settled down to await their turn.
“I think I’ll go back there with the girls,” Peggy whispered. “I’m looking for a girl I met at the casting call, and I’d like to chat with her for a few minutes when she comes. Do you mind if I don’t look at all this?”
Randy grinned. “Go ahead. I’d get out of here, too, if I could without getting Mal mad at me. This kind of thing always breaks my heart, too!”
As she went up the aisle as unobtrusively as possible, Peggy glanced at the actresses who had just come in. She recognized a few of their faces from the casting call of three days ago, but did not see her new friend among them. She decided to go out to the lobby to wait for her there. A new group of girls entered the theater as Peggy was leaving and, as she passed, one reached out and grabbed her arm.
Peggy turned in surprise to find herself greeted with a broad grin and a quick companionable kiss.
“Greta!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”
“Come on out to the lobby, and I’ll tell you,” Greta Larsen said, with a toss of her head that made her thick blond braid spin around and settle over her shoulder.
“But I thought you were in New Haven, getting ready to open Over the Hill,” Peggy said, when they had reached the lobby. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I’m afraid you don’t read your Variety very carefully,” Greta said. “Over the Hill opened in New Haven to such bad notices that the producer decided to close out of town. At first we thought he’d call in a play doctor to try to fix things up, but he finally decided, and very sensibly, that it would be easier to just throw the whole thing out. I’m afraid he lost a lot of money, and he didn’t have any more left.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Peggy said. “And it was a real chance for you, wasn’t it?”
“Not really,” Greta said. “The part wasn’t too good, and I’d just as soon not be in a disaster. Anyway, it gave me a chance to work for a few weeks, and an agent saw me and said he thought I was good, so maybe I’m not any the worse for the experience.”
At that moment, Peggy saw Paula Andrews enter the lobby, and she motioned to her to join them. “Greta, this is Paula Andrews. She’s reading for the lead today, and I hope she gets it. Paula, I want you to meet Greta Larsen, one of my housemates.”
“Housemates?” Paula questioned, a little puzzled.
“Yes. There are about a dozen of us, more or less. We live in a place called the Gramercy Arms—a wonderful place—and we live like one big noisy family. The Arms is run just for young actresses, so we all have a lot in common. I haven’t seen Greta for weeks—she’s been out of town with a play—and I’m just getting over being stunned at seeing her now.”
“Peggy tactfully neglected to mention that the play flopped,” Greta laughed, “and now I’m back in town without a job. In fact, that’s why I’m here.”
“You mean you’re going to read for Mal?” Peggy asked excitedly.
“Uh-huh. I met him on the street an hour or so ago, and he told me he had a part he thought I should try out for, and that he was thinking of me for it all along, but assumed that I wouldn’t be available. Well, you can’t be more available than I am, so here I am!”
“Have you read the play?” Paula asked.
“I’m lucky there,” Greta replied. “I’ve seen it in three different drafts since it started. Peggy’s friendly with Randy Brewster, the boy who wrote it, and each time she brought a draft home, I got to read it. So I’m not at a disadvantage.”
“What do you think of Come Closer, Paula?” asked Peggy.
“I think it’s wonderful! I hope more than ever that I get the part! Do you really think I have a chance?”
Greta nodded decisively. “If you can act, you’re made for it,” she said.
“That’s just what Peggy said!”
Peggy stole a glance through the doors to the theater. “I think we’re about ready to find out whether or not you can act,” she said. “They seem to be about through with the actors, and that means you’re on next!”
Wishing each other good luck, they entered the darkened part of the house and prepared for what Peggy could only think of as their ordeal.
Afterward, as Peggy, Amy, Paula, and Greta sat at a table in a nearby coffeehouse waiting for Mal and Randy to join them, each was sure that she had been terrible.
“Oh, no!” Peggy said. “You two were just marvelous! But I couldn’t have been worse. I know I read the part wrong. I thought I had the character clear in my mind, but I’m sure that the way it came out was a mile off!”
“You have a lot more talent than judgment,” Greta said mournfully. “You were perfect. And so was Paula. As for me....” Her voice trailed off in despair.
“I don’t know how you can say that, Greta,” Paula put in. “I know you were the best in your part, and nobody even came close to Peggy. But I’ve never felt so off in my life as I did reading that part. It’s a wonder any of you even want to be seen with me!”
Only when Amy started to laugh did the three others realize how much alike they had sounded. Then they joined in the laughter and couldn’t seem to stop. When they seemed at the point of dissolving helplessly into a permanent attack of the giggles, Randy and Mal joined them.
“If you’re laughing at the play,” Randy said gloomily, “I can hardly blame you. You never know just how badly you’ve written until someone gets up and starts to read your lines.”
All at the same time, the girls started to reassure him and tell him how good the play was, and how badly the actors, including themselves, had handled the lines, but this was so much like their last exchange of conversation that once more they broke up in helpless laughter.
When they got their breath back, and when coffee and pastry had been ordered, they tried to explain the cause of their hilarity to the boys.
“... so, you see,” Peggy concluded, “we were each explaining how good the others were and how bad we were, and when Randy started telling us how bad he had been as a writer, we just couldn’t stand it!”
It was Mal who got them back to sane ground. With his tough face, like a movie gangster’s or private detective’s, and his gentle, cultured English voice and assured manner, he calmly gave his opinion of the afternoon’s auditions.
“First of all, I think the dialogue plays remarkably well, Randy. It’s a good play, and I don’t think there’ll be too many changes to worry about. Secondly, you’re all right and you’re all wrong. I might as well tell you now that you each have the part you tried out for. I’m very pleased with you, and proud to have you in the cast.”
Peggy and Greta excitedly embraced each other, and when they turned to do the same to Paula, were dismayed to see that she was crying. “What’s wrong?” Peggy asked. “Is anything the matter?”
“Oh, no,” Paula wailed, trying to smile through her tears. “It’s just that I wanted this so much, and I’m so happy, and I started to laugh and it came out tears....” She rummaged for her pack of tissues, dabbed her eyes, and emerged with a radiant smile.
“There, that’s better,” Randy said.
“The tears were all right too,” Mal said. “I feel like doing the same thing when I’m really happy, but it wouldn’t go with my face. It looks great on yours!”
By the time the coffee and pastry arrived, Paula’s emotional storm had so far been put behind her that she fell on the cakes with the appetite of a lumberjack.
“A little restraint, please, madam,” Mal said, “or you’ll lose your part. We want a nice, slim leading lady, not a butterball! You’re in training now!”
“Let me take them,” Greta said. “I have a fat, round face to begin with, and you wouldn’t have picked me if you wanted a sylph for the part. You’ll never notice a few ounces more!”
“I’m sorry to tell you that we not only would notice it, but we’d mind it very much,” Mal said, “but nobody minds a fat director. So....” He reached for the cause of the debate.
“What I can’t understand,” Greta said, “is how you picked me for the part. Why did you want me to try for a thirtyish career girl role? I’m not really the physical type, and those other girls were. Will you tell me?”
“Just a hunch,” Mal said. “You’ll be the type with your hair out of that braid and put up, and with a little make-up to age you a few years. I felt that you had the kind of crisp delivery we wanted, and it looks as though I was right. As for Peggy, it’s as if the part were written for her.” This last he said with a sly side look at Randy, who reddened slightly. “And as for Paula, well....” He broke off and looked at her intently.
“I don’t know what it is, but the minute I saw you in cast call, I knew you were our girl. And when I heard you read, I knew that I hadn’t made a mistake. There’s something about you ... some quality that I seem to recognize ... I suppose it’s talent. But that’s enough of compliments. If we don’t get out of here, we’ll soon be writing long epic poems to each other’s genius.”
So, finishing their coffee with a toast to the success of Come Closer, they said their good nights and parted outside the coffeehouse.
“Don’t forget,” Mal called after them, “rehearsal Monday night. See you then!” He walked off with Paula, and Randy escorted Peggy, Amy, and Greta back to the Gramercy Arms.
Peggy was at stage center, under a bright bank of floodlights. Amy entered from stage right, crossed down center and turned her back to the house to look upstage. She paused a moment before speaking.
Her position, back to the audience, would have been unforgivable if there had been an audience, and her lines, when she spoke them, were scarcely dramatic.
“You have paint on the side of your nose,” she said, “and there’s a rip in the seat of your jeans. Now where I come from, no lady....”
“The same to you,” Peggy grinned, looking around from the flat she was painting. “At least, the same to you as regards the paint on your nose. I can’t see the seat of your jeans from here!”
Amy put down the bucket of paint that she had brought with her and stepped back to the apron of the stage to get a better look at Peggy’s handiwork. It was a small wing flat that was to represent the corner of a frame house. A window frame had already been installed in it, and later the suggestion of a back porch would be added. Peggy was busy with the somewhat tedious work of painting clapboards on the flat canvas. Each was made with two lines of gray paint drawn across the white-painted surface; first a dark line, then a somewhat broader light-gray line. From working distance, it looked like nothing but striped canvas, but from a few feet away, the dimensional effect was surprisingly real. Peggy joined Amy at the edge of the stage to get a look at what she had been doing.
“It looks pretty good, doesn’t it?” she asked.
Amy nodded. “Keep it up, honey child, and you may find a real niche for yourself in the theater!”
Laughing, the two friends worked together on the flat, each using one of the shades of gray. The work went much faster now, which pleased Peggy, because she didn’t want to leave the flat half-finished when it was time for her to stop and go to her section of the readings.
In the early part of working on a play, the stage is seldom used. First readings usually take place in small groups gathered in any convenient spot, and it is not until the actors are fairly familiar with their lines and with the way the director wants them read that the play begins to take form on the stage. Come Closer was in the earliest days of rehearsal, and Mal was still in the first stages of familiarizing himself with his cast and them with the play.
The Penthouse Theater was ideally suited for the work they were doing. It was actually a very old theater which Peggy and Amy had discovered, under exciting and mysterious circumstances, when they had first come to New York and met Randy and Mal. The theater itself occupied the top floor of an old loft building, and when Randy and Mal had leased it, they had rented the whole building. Both the theater and the other floors below it had seen much alteration since, and it was now a unique actors’ workshop from top to bottom.
The boys had converted part of the loft space into compact apartments for themselves, and other rooms into living quarters for young actors whose rent, although low by city standards, was still enough to pay most of the costs of operating the building. The ground floor had been turned into a series of rehearsal studios, which, when not being used by Randy and Mal for a current play of their own, were rented to other groups. In its short time of operation, the Penthouse Theater had already become an off-Broadway institution.
For Randy and Mal it had proved to be the best thing that had ever happened to them. It not only gave them a theater in which they could stage their productions, but it gave them enough income so that they no longer had to work at other jobs while trying to pursue their careers in the theater world.
Before, Randy had worked in small night clubs as a song-and-dance man—a way of life for which he had the deepest contempt. Mal had been an actor in movies and television where, because of his tough face, he had been type-cast as a gangster. He not only didn’t like gangster roles, he found it hard to get them because of the cultured English accent that issued so surprisingly from that face. For both boys, the Penthouse Theater meant a new life and new opportunity, doing Randy’s plays, directed by Mal.
Peggy and Amy put the last touches on the clapboard wall, stepped back to review the work, and smiled with satisfaction.
“It looks perfect,” Peggy said. “Now I just hope that we stretched the canvas tight enough on the frame in the first place, so that it doesn’t flutter if somebody bumps into it. If anything looks terrible, it’s a clapboard wall that flutters!”
“I think it’s tight enough,” Amy said, “and besides, if it isn’t, it’s too late to think about it now.”
“You’re right,” Peggy agreed. “Not only that, but I think it’s too late to think about anything right now but my part. I’ve got to clean up and be downstairs for a reading in five minutes. Do you want to keep working here, or will you come down to hear us?”
“I’ve got to come to hear you,” Amy said, “whether I like it or not. Mal asked me to work out the first go-round with you and make notes on the script as we go. He’ll be in to hear you and the others in about an hour.”
“Like it or not!” Peggy said in mock indignation. “What makes you think there’s even a chance you won’t like it? I propose to be brilliant!”
Of course she knew better. Brilliance is not in the picture in these early readings. A half hour later, in Studio 3, having gone once through Act Two, Scene Two, she realized wryly just how far from brilliance they were!
The play, which Randy described as a fantasy, or a “modern morality play,” was not an easy one for the actors. The parts could, with too broad a reading, descend into farce or, with not just the right quality of the fantastic, slide off into dullness. The setting was a resort which was, in actuality, a sort of rest home for wealthy people who needed to get away from themselves for a while—or to find themselves. The point of the play, which gradually emerged, was that each of the characters had somehow led at least two distinct kinds of lives and had found both of them unsatisfactory. All the people in the play were trying, in whatever ways they could, to find some third or fourth kind of life that might be more pleasant and satisfying than the last; all of them were getting more confused every day they tried.
Peggy’s part, then, was not easy. She was playing the role of a young girl of twenty-one who had been a very successful child movie star, but who had not made a picture since she was twelve. Realizing that she was through with show business, she had tried to pretend that she was just an ordinary person who could live an ordinary life. She had gone through college and started work as a secretary, keeping secret the fact that she had been a movie star. But shortly before the play opens, she has suddenly come into the fortune which she had earned as a child, but which had been held in trust for her. The money confuses her, and the publicity she gets when the story of the money comes out makes it impossible for her to continue as a secretary.
The difficulty for Peggy was in making this character seem true and alive. This meant that the personalities of an ex-child movie star, a quiet, precise secretary, and a bewildered new heiress must all be combined in one believable whole.
Each of the other actors had a similar problem of dual personality, and they all had great difficulty not only in interpreting each role, but in deciding how any two or more characters were to speak to each other. Part of the point of the play, cleverly conceived and written by Randy, was that each character brought out one special aspect of each other character, so that Peggy had to act quite differently, almost minute by minute, depending on whom she was speaking to.
Their first efforts in this reading were often so wrong as to be hilarious. The scene included Peggy, Greta, the “businessman type” who was an affable, charming man named Alan Douglas, and the comedian, a roly-poly actor named Gil Mulligan. Their attempts at finding a suitable kind of relationship for this scene were not very successful, and they were so intent on establishing character that they often paid very little attention to their lines, and garbled the words. To make matters worse, Mulligan had a knack of taking each “fluff,” which is what actors call a mistake, and carrying it on one step farther toward madness. When Mal finally arrived to see how the group was doing, they were all doubled up in helpless laughter.
When they had caught their breath, Amy tried to explain to Mal. “The characters are so shifting,” she said, “that everybody’s confused about how they’re supposed to act to whom. Or am I confusing it more? Anyway, they’ve all been fluffing lines like mad.”
“Of course,” Mal said matter-of-factly. “Wrong approach, and all of you should have known it. It’s far too early in the game to try to define your characters. You have more than enough work to do in just getting your lines down cold. What I want you to do for a while is just to go over the lines and learn your cues. Read your parts straight. After you’re easy in what you’re doing, we’ll work at establishing character and shifting viewpoint and response. Besides—and pardon me if I sound like a tyrannical director—I’d rather you wouldn’t play around with character development when I’m not here. Now, have you read the scene through yet?”
“Nearly,” Peggy answered, “if you can call what we’ve been doing a reading. I don’t think any of us benefited much by it, though.”
“All right,” Mal answered. “Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you start it again from the top? I think we have time to go through it at least one time, just to get the feel of it. Then you can all go off by yourselves to learn your own sides.”
This time, with no worrying about character, the scene went smoothly. Almost mechanically, Peggy thought. At first she could not understand the point of having them all just sit around and read the words of the scene to each other without any attempt at acting, but gradually she began to appreciate the value of the method. As each one read in turn, she discovered that every actor had his own personal style or rhythm of reading, a rhythm which, by the end of the scene, she was beginning to catch and anticipate. By the time they were done, she thought that she could tell fairly accurately in advance how each would read his next line. Now that they weren’t trying to make themselves fit the parts, they fell easily into their own natural patterns of speech.
Things went much more quickly in this fashion, and they were able to run through the scene twice before it was time to call a halt. The second time around was much smoother, Peggy noticed, and as they worked, the pattern of the scene and the interplay of the characters began to emerge. When it was done, all the actors agreed that they now had a much clearer idea of what they were doing, and would be better able to go home and study their lines.
As they were on their way out, Peggy fell into step alongside Mal. “I noticed that you didn’t say a word about how we should read,” she said, “and I also noticed that the individual reading styles of the people were pretty clear this time. Is that what you were after?”
“Exactly,” Mal said. “You’re catching on to the tricks pretty quickly, Peggy. You see, a director has to work with actors, as well as with a play. I can’t force anyone to fit precisely into my own preconceived notions of a character, because if I tried, the performance would be stiff and unnatural. What I have to do first is get to understand the actors as they are, and then start building from there. That’s why a Broadway play has a much better chance than an off-Broadway venture. When you’re working with stars, you have known quantities—and qualities—and you cast people who already correspond to your own vision of the part. But when you have to work with unknown actors, you must remember that they’re unknown to the director as well as to the audience. Because of this, my first job is to get to know them as they are, and to get the feel of each one’s natural way of reading a line. Then I can build on that.”
“My, there sure are a lot of hidden problems in directing a play,” Amy said. “I used to think of a director as a kind of wild-animal tamer, standing in the middle of a ring of snarling actors with a whip and a chair, and making them jump through hoops, but it’s more complicated than that, isn’t it?”
Mal laughed. “The wild-animal trainer’s life isn’t so simple, either,” he said with a mischievous grin. “After all, they have to understand the psychology of lions and tigers, and that must be nearly as difficult as understanding actors!”
Rehearsals had been going on for over a week now, and Peggy was feeling strangely depressed.
The actors were learning their lines, all right, and cues were not being missed too often, but somehow, the play showed no sign of coming together as a whole. What seemed worse to her, the first attempts at characterization were bad—shockingly bad—and did not correspond in the least to her ideas about the play.
Unfortunately, neither Mal nor Randy, nor any of the cast did a thing to cheer her up or make her feel that she might be wrong. Now it was nearly midnight, and Peggy’s depression was deepened by a sheer physical tiredness that was the result of working all day at the New York Dramatic Academy and all night in the rehearsal studios at the Penthouse Theater.
Peggy, Amy, and Greta, in mutual silent gloom, put on their coats and prepared to go home to the Gramercy Arms. In the hallway, they saw Randy and Mal, equally silent and equally gloomy, looking at each other through a cloud of pipe smoke.
“Is it that bad?” Peggy said.
“It’s not good,” Randy said hollowly.
“I’m sure you’re overstating,” Greta said, in an attempt to cheer them up. “I’ve seen rehearsals go a lot worse than this for a long time, then suddenly pull into brilliant shape overnight. After all, it’s less than two weeks, and it’s not as if this were a simple drawing-room comedy. It’s a good play, and a complicated one, and it’s not the easiest thing in the world to do....”
“It may be impossible to do,” Randy said. “But cheer up, girls. We weren’t concerned about your acting. We’ve got other problems.”
“Not problems. Just problem,” Mal put in.
“What’s wrong?” Peggy asked. “Can you tell us, and is there anything we can do?”
“You’re going to have to know sooner or later,” Randy answered, “so we might as well tell you now. Come on in for a cup of coffee and we’ll tell you all about it.”
Nothing more was said until the three girls were seated in Mal’s comfortable living room upstairs. Then, while Mal was in the kitchen getting the coffee ready, Randy told Peggy and the other girls what was on his mind.
“It’s the age-old theater problem,” he sighed. “To put it in one word, it’s money. I’m afraid we badly misjudged our budget for Come Closer, and unless we can find a way to raise some more cash in a hurry, we may have to close up shop.”
“But how can that be?” Amy said. “You were so sure that you had enough, and it’s not as if this were a high-cost production with a lot of costumes and expensive sets and all that—”
“No, that’s not it,” Randy said. “We figured the scenery and costumes and lighting right down to the nickel. What threw us is the salary expense, and a bad guess about the amount of rehearsal time we would need.”
“My fault,” Mal said, as he came in from the kitchen, bearing a tray of cups and saucers, sugar, cream, cookies and an enormous pot of coffee.
“Why do you say it’s your fault, Mal?” Peggy asked.
“I figured the rehearsal time into the budget, and I figured wrong. I didn’t take into account just how difficult the play is to do, and I should have known that we would need to go into extra weeks. Actually, I think we’ll need at least three and maybe four more weeks of rehearsal than I had first called for, and that’s a big hunk of salary money that wasn’t figured in.”
“We have twelve actors, all working for minimum scale wages,” Randy explained. “During the contracted rehearsal period, as you know, they get paid half of scale. We put aside enough money to pay for that, plus full scale for two weeks after opening. Unfortunately, when we go into extra rehearsal weeks, we have to pay full scale for those, just as if the play were open. What it means is that we’ll be short by about a month’s full salary money, and although it doesn’t seem as if you’re getting paid much, when you add it all up, it comes out to be quite a sum.”
“Three thousand, seven hundred dollars, to be exact,” Mal said.
A moment of silence followed, while the girls took in this disturbing new fact. They covered their distress by the routine of pouring coffee and passing cream, sugar, and cookies.
“What about the original group of backers?” Peggy asked. “They already have a good-sized investment to protect. Won’t they put up the extra money just to keep from losing what they’ve already put in before the play even opens?”
“I’ve already approached them,” Randy said, “and they all agree that it makes sense to put up more money. Unfortunately, none of them has any more to put in. I’m afraid that the only thing left to do is to find more money from other people.”
“I should think it would be easier now than it was before,” Greta observed. “After all, when you started, all you had was a script to show. Now you have a cast and some scenery and—”
“And that’s all,” Mal interrupted.
“I don’t understand,” Amy said. “Why doesn’t that make it easier?”
“Because at this stage,” Mal explained, “a prospective backer would want an audition—at least a home reading of the play, if not a stage performance of a couple of scenes. And we’re not ready for that. You know yourselves how the readings sound. That’s why we need more rehearsal time and therefore more money. A backer’s audition at this stage of the game would be a pure disaster.”
“Couldn’t we change the rehearsal schedule?” Peggy asked. “I mean, if we all started working just on one particular scene, couldn’t we get it in good enough shape to be heard in about a week’s time?”
“We probably could,” Mal answered, “but there are a few problems in working that way. For one thing, we take a chance on throwing the whole development of the play out of balance by perfecting one scene before we’ve worked on the rest. My own method is to work slowly on all parts at once, bringing them into focus at roughly the same time. The second problem, a smaller one, is that by doing this at all, we let the cast know that we’re in financial trouble. I’d rather avoid that, if we could.”
“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” Peggy said. “I’ve gotten to know them pretty well in this last week or so, and I don’t think there’s one of them who would panic about money or refuse to go into the extra rehearsal time and the auditioning. They’re a good group. Don’t you think so?” She appealed to Greta and Amy.
“Absolutely,” Greta said firmly.
“I’m sure of it,” Amy agreed.
“Well, then! That ought to settle it!” Peggy said. “Now all you have to do is find someone to audition for, and give us a week to get ready for him!”
“I’ve got him,” Randy said quietly.
“You’ve what?” Peggy gasped.
“I’ve got him. I’ve got the man to audition for.”
“But ... but,” she sputtered. “How? And why were you so gloomy if you have a good prospective backer?”
“I was gloomy because I hate to have to raise more money, not because I didn’t think we could do it,” Randy explained. “And as for the backer—if he turns out to be a backer and not just a prospect—I’ve had him from the beginning. He’s a wealthy and important man, and although he’s crazy enough to like to invest in plays, he’s cautious enough never to put up a nickel unless he’s seen an audition he likes. I showed him the play quite a few months ago and he said he liked it and was very interested, but he wouldn’t put up any cash until I could show him a cast and have them read. In a way, I guess he’s right. He claims that in off-Broadway shows even more than on Broadway, the actors make the play. You can have the best play in the world but a bad group of amateurs can ruin it, and there’s always a chance of getting a group of amateurs when you put on a play downtown. At any rate, he’s half-sold already, so I guess we have a good chance of selling him all the way,” Randy finished.
“Who is he?” Peggy asked.
Randy hesitated. “He’s ... well, he’s a rich man who’s interested in the theater,” he said awkwardly.
“We know that much,” Peggy replied, “but which rich man? What’s his name?”
“Well—” Randy said, “it may sound peculiar, but I’d rather not say just yet. You see, I can tell you this much about him, he’s a very important sort of a man—a public figure, you might say—and I know how he hates publicity of any sort. I spoke to him earlier this evening to see if he’d be willing to come down for an audition, and he agreed, providing we told nobody about it. It’s not that he’d mind having it known that he’s invested in a play, after he decides to do it. But if it were to get out that he was coming down here for a private audition, the Penthouse Theater would be crawling with newspaper reporters and photographers. Not only would he be bothered, but the publicity would almost force him to invest, whether he wanted to or not.”
“Boy!” Peggy said in wonder. “He must be really important!”
“He is,” Randy said. “I wouldn’t be this secretive if he weren’t. You’ll just have to go along with the game until next week. Then you’ll find out who he is when he shows up.”
“You can trust us,” Amy said. “We wouldn’t breathe a word of it. And besides, we don’t know any reporters!”
“I do,” Greta said. “And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t want to know any secret. If it ever got out, I wouldn’t want to be among the suspected leaks.”
“That’s just why I’m not telling anybody,” Randy agreed. “That way, if anybody finds out he’s coming down here, it will have to be from one of his associates, not from one of us.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Amy agreed ruefully. “But I can hardly wait to find out what this is all about!”
“What scene are we going to do, Mal?” Peggy asked.
“I think the best one,” he replied, “would be Act Two, Scene Three. The second-act curtain is really powerful, and besides, it’s Paula Andrews’ best scene. Not only that, but it brings most of the main characters together at a time of crisis, when they can be understood without having seen the rest of the play.”
“Most of the characters except me,” Peggy said. “Couldn’t you have chosen something where I’m on stage?”
“Sorry, Peggy,” Mal said, “but this one really makes the most sense.”
“I suppose it does,” she agreed, “but I just hate to be so useless at an important time like this.”
“Maybe you’ll be useless,” Mal answered, “but I’m going to see to it that you won’t be idle. Since we don’t want anything to slip up, and since Paula hasn’t been looking well lately, I want you to understudy her part for this audition. Amy will understudy you, Greta. Some of the other actors who aren’t on in that scene will back up other parts. Nobody’s going to be left out of the preparation, even if everyone isn’t actually used. In that way, the whole cast can get a chance to see how I go about developing a complete scene, and maybe that will keep us from throwing the development of the play off balance, which is what I’m worried about.”
“It might even help,” Randy said hopefully.
“It might,” Mal said, looking completely unconvinced.
“Before you sink into that swamp of gloom again,” Peggy said with a laugh, “I think that we’d better get going. Do you realize that it’s almost one in the morning, and tomorrow I have a nine-o’clock class in TV acting techniques? If I don’t get some sleep I’m going to be the only out-of-focus actress in the picture!”
Quickly finishing their coffee, the girls put on their coats once more and said good night to Randy and Mal. Mal, always thoughtful, insisted on coming downstairs and seeing them into a taxi, so they wouldn’t have to make their way home alone at that late hour.
“There’s only one thing now that worries me,” Peggy said to Amy and Greta as they were being driven to the Gramercy Arms.
“What’s that?” Amy asked.
“The rest of the cast,” she answered. “We promised a lot of cooperation from them, and the fact is that we hardly know them at all. I just hope we were right!”
Peggy had not been wrong. Far from grumbling about the extra weeks of rehearsal, most of the actors were happy about being assured of the additional pay. Of course there was the inevitable disappointment that comes from the postponement of an opening night, but this did not seem really to upset anyone. Most of the actors agreed that the extended rehearsal time was needed, and everyone felt a relaxation of some of the pressure under which they had been working.
Of course, the main question in the air was the identity of the secret investor, but Randy maintained a stubborn silence on this score.
Peggy attended all of Paula’s rehearsals as well as separate readings of Paula’s role for Mal. She wrapped herself so thoroughly in Paula’s part that she nearly forgot her own, which was not difficult, since rehearsals of all other scenes had been stopped.
Even her lunch hours at the Academy were spent studying Paula’s lines.
It was not an easy part at all. If the other characters had seemed difficult because of their double or triple points of view, the leading role was almost impossible. It had no point of view at all, and every point of view imaginable!
Paula was to play the part of the daughter of a pair of embittered millionaire eccentrics who had withdrawn from society and had never allowed their only child any contact with the world. She had been educated by her mother and father and had grown to the age of twenty-three without ever leaving their enormous estate. She had never seen any adults except her parents and a few servants. Before the action of the play, both of her parents have died within a few months of each other, and the girl is suddenly left alone to cope with the problems of existence in a world for which she is completely unprepared. Dazed both by the loss of her parents and the new business of having to deal with people, she decides to come to the rest home which is the scene of the play, to slowly get used to her new position.
The principal difficulty of the role, Peggy saw, was quite the reverse of the difficulty of the other parts. Instead of having been two or three different people, this girl has never actually been anybody. As a result, she reacts to each of the actors according to their characters at the moment. And since each of them assumes many different roles, depending on whom he is talking to, the girl is in complete confusion.
Listening to Paula read, Peggy was filled with admiration. Somehow, in the short time in which the rest of them had been trying to grasp their roles, Paula seemed to have mastered hers. Each time she slipped into a new manner of speech and action, she gave the impression of doing so with a mixture of eagerness and fear. As the pace quickened and the characters and manners changed more rapidly, the balance between eagerness and fear changed until, as the scene rose to its climax, eagerness was replaced by hysteria, fear by terror. At the curtain, Paula sobbed wildly as the characters around her shifted as swiftly as the pieces in a kaleidoscope.
The whole group, including the usually taciturn Mal, broke into applause for Paula, who managed to smile through the play-tears that she seemed unable to control.
“We’ll have a fifteen-minute break,” Mal called. “Then, if Paula can stand it, we’ll run through it again!”
As the actors stood up and stretched before drifting off to different parts of the room to talk in groups of twos and threes, Peggy went to Paula Andrews, still sitting in her straight chair.
“You were wonderful!” she said. “I feel like a fool understudying you!”
“Don’t be silly, Peggy,” Paula replied. “It’s not me. It’s the play. Randy has written a marvelous role in Alison; it almost plays itself. If you have to do it, I know you’ll do every bit as well.”
“I certainly won’t,” Peggy said, “but what worries me is that I may have to try if you don’t take care of yourself. Paula,” she said in a softer tone, “is there anything the matter? You haven’t been looking at all well lately, and I’m worried about you. Is something wrong that I might be able to help you with? If there is, I wish you’d tell me. You know that I want to be your friend.”
Smiling wanly, Paula took Peggy’s hand. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong. I guess I’ve just been working too hard—at—at the department store, you know—and then at night with these rehearsals. And the part is so demanding, and I’m so wrapped up in it—” She stopped abruptly, as if on the verge of tears, but not acting tears this time. Then she once more managed to smile. “Thank you, Peggy, but you don’t have to worry. I’ll be perfectly all right.”
Peggy said nothing more. She had done all she could by offering to help, and if Paula wouldn’t admit anything was wrong, there was nothing further she could say. But Paula’s manner had convinced her that something was very wrong indeed, something far more than a simple case of overwork.
However, when Mal called the cast together again for a second reading of the scene, all of Paula’s tiredness seemed suddenly to vanish. She drew strength from some inner reserves and played with the same conviction and brilliance as before. Even more, perhaps, Peggy thought.
Caught in the pace and rhythm of her reading, the rest of the cast took hold and played up to her, shifting in and out of character with all the timed precision of a complex machine. Once again the action built to the climax, the tears, the curtain, and the applause. And once again Paula, unable to stop the crying, went as limp and washed-out as a rag doll.
“That’s all for tonight,” Mal called. “But before you go, Randy has a bit of a surprise for you.”
“As you know,” Randy began when the actors had formed a circle about him, “tomorrow night is the audition performance. Our possible backer is grateful for all the work you’ve done on this scene for him, and to show his gratitude, he’s buying us all a good dinner first. So instead of coming here, come to Paolo’s Restaurant on East 48th Street, to the private dining room upstairs. See you there about six o’clock.”
Delighted with this gesture, the cast gathered their coats and hats and prepared to leave. Peggy hesitated, looking at Paula, who was no longer crying, but who still sat exhausted where she had finished the scene.
“Peggy,” Randy said, “will you take Paula home, please? She looks really exhausted, and I don’t want her walking, so take a cab, and I’ll pay for it.”
“That’s a good idea,” Peggy agreed. “I’ve been worried about her, too. Maybe I can get her to tell me if something’s bothering her. I tried once, but she didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe in the taxi, though....”
Paula gladly accepted the lift but, though still friendly and warm, was no more inclined to talk about her troubles, if any, than before. The address she gave proved to be in a fine block of remodeled town houses on East 36th Street, just a half block off Park Avenue—not at all the sort of place where Peggy expected a department-store salesgirl to live.
Without inviting Peggy in, she thanked her for the ride, waved good-by, and let herself in through a green-lacquered door with polished brass fittings.
Puzzled and worried, Peggy leaned back in the taxi seat and gave the driver the address of the Gramercy Arms.
Peggy had been in the crowded, brightly lighted, vaulted cellars of Paolo’s before, on dates with Randy, but this was the first time she had ever been in the private dining room. In fact, until now, she had not even suspected that such a room existed. She could not have been more astonished, then, to find that the restaurant occupied the entire four-story building instead of just the basement.
A tiny automatic elevator, that had barely room enough for four passengers squeezed together, carried Peggy and Amy to the top floor. Although they were scarcely five minutes late, the rest of the cast had already preceded them and were wandering about talking gaily and eating appetizers from the long, beautifully decorated table that filled one end of the room. Peggy spotted Paula, eating hungrily and, between bites, talking with animation to Greta and Alan Douglas. She looked much better than she had the night before, and Peggy felt a sense of relief. Maybe she had been making too much of just a normal case of tiredness.
Randy and Mal came hurrying over to take the girls’ coats and to lead them into the room, which they showed off as if they owned it.
“This is just the lounge,” Randy said, waving his hand to indicate the laden table, the fine paneling, the handsome chandeliers. “Wait till you see the dining room!”
Leading Amy and Peggy to the other side of the little entry hall that separated the two rooms, Randy opened the door of the dining room to let them get an advance look. The room was dominated by the biggest circular table that any of them had ever seen—with ample room for place settings for fourteen. The center of the huge table was filled with a low floral centerpiece, punctuated by dozens of tall, thin candles.
The heavily beamed ceiling sloped sharply upward from a row of six dormer windows facing a courtyard. On the high wall opposite was an enormous fireplace whose blaze was reflected in the bright crystal and silver on the table.
Dazzled by the setting, the girls allowed themselves to be led back to the lounge to help themselves to appetizers. Giant cheeses of all shapes alternated with towering bowls of apples and oranges in the center of the table, while at the foot of these mountains were platters of smoked fish, caviar, sliced cheeses, spiced Italian ham sliced so thin as to be almost transparent, orderly rows of crackers, baskets of sliced bread and rolls, bunches of grapes, bowls of black and green olives, slivers of smoked turkey and brilliant platters of sliced tomatoes. And surrounding it all were the actors, airing their manners like the traditional strolling players invited to a baronial feast, behaving grandly as if they ate this way every day in the week!
Laughing at the sight, Peggy happily helped herself to some of the more exotic foods, wisely conserving her appetite. After all, if these were just the appetizers, whatever would dinner be like?
An hour and a half later, contentedly sighing as the waiter poured a second cup of coffee, Peggy was glad that she had saved a little appetite. Otherwise she might never even have tasted it all! Dinner, from the delicate clear soup, to the lobster Newburg, the tiny green peas with pearl onions, the crackling thin julienne potatoes, the crisp, herb-tinged salad, and the sweet-sour key lime pie, had been a sheer delight.
Now, while everyone was resting over coffee and quiet conversation, Randy stood up to speak. He tapped gently on his glass with a spoon, and the crystal rang like a clear, thin bell. The cast members turned their attention to him.
“I think that you would like to know now whom to thank for this wonderful dinner,” he said. “I’m allowed to tell you all at this point, because we’re going straight from here to his house for the reading. It seems that the gentleman has several other appointments, and can’t allow himself time to come down to the theater, but he does want to hear the reading, so we’re bringing the theater to him, from eight to nine-thirty. Now, not to keep you in suspense any longer, I’ll tell you his name: Sir Brian Alwyne, Special British Representative to the United Nations!”
A murmur of surprise went up around the table as the actors turned to each other to comment on this distinguished man’s interest in their play, and to speculate on the experience of acting in his home. But, looking from face to face, Peggy noted, with surprise, Paula’s peculiar expression. She had gone pale and white as the table linen, and her face was drawn. One hand, held to her mouth, was trembling. Suddenly she stood up, bunching the tablecloth in a tight grip.
“No!” she cried. “No! I won’t! I won’t act in his house!”
A shocked silence gripped the room as everyone turned to stare at her.
“But, Paula, I don’t understand....” Mal began. “What does it matter if it’s in his house instead of in the theater? I think you’re being—”
“No!” she said again tensely. “You don’t understand. Of course you don’t. But”—she paused and looked about her in bewilderment—“I’m sorry,” she said abruptly, then turned and ran from the room.
Before Mal and Randy could recover their senses sufficiently to run after her, she had grabbed her coat from the startled cloakroom attendant and run down the stairs. They could hear her heels clattering more than a floor below.
Randy started after her, but Mal restrained him.
“No use, old chap,” he said. “I don’t know what’s got into her, but whatever it is, she’s not going to act tonight. And as far as I’m concerned,” he added grimly, “I don’t care if she never acts again. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s temperament. Forget it. Peggy will do the role, and she’ll do it well.”
Jittery though they all were after this startling experience, the audition went off with surprising smoothness. Sir Brian, a handsome gentleman with beautiful manners, received them cordially, allowed them to rearrange his drawing room, and made them feel thoroughly at home.
Peggy, though feeling too dazed at Paula’s behavior to be really aware of what she was doing, somehow turned in a fine performance. But even as she was acting to the climax of the scene she was aware that she was not so much playing the character of Alison as she was playing Paula’s version of Alison.
At the scene’s end, Sir Brian and Lady Alwyne applauded enthusiastically, complimented Peggy especially, and thanked the company for their trouble in preparing the scene and coming uptown to act it.
“It was most good of you,” Sir Brian exclaimed to Randy. “And I must compliment you on having found a company that does justice to your splendid play. And by the way,” he added in a quieter voice, “my check for five thousand dollars will be in the mail tomorrow.”
“Five thousand?” Randy asked, startled. “But that’s really more than we need, sir.”
“Nonsense,” Sir Brian said firmly. “There’s no such thing as too much money. You can use the extra for a little more advertising than you had planned, or for an extra bit of scenery or something. Now, I don’t like to hurry you along, but you really must excuse me if....”
Thanking him profusely, Randy rounded up the cast, let them know the good news, and hurried them out. Only the cold bite of the night wind off the East River convinced him that the whole evening had not been some sort of fantastic dream, engendered by an overheated imagination.
“The whole evening!” he said to Peggy, who was walking arm-in-arm with him a few paces behind Mal and Amy. “Everything about it seems completely unlikely!”
“I know,” she agreed. “That fantastic spread at Paolo’s ... the peculiar business with Paula ... Sir Brian and Lady Alwyne, looking like a movie Lord and Lady sent in from Central Casting ... and then a check for five thousand dollars! It’s almost too much to believe!”
“What do you think about Paula?” Randy asked. “Have you any idea what could have been behind that outburst of temperament?”
“I don’t know,” Peggy said, “but I don’t think that temperament is the word to describe it. You know yourself that she’s not a prima donna type. She’s always cooperative, works hard at rehearsals, takes every direction that Mal gives her.... No. I know she’s not a temperamental person. This is something else; something we haven’t any idea about. But whatever it is, I think she’s in some kind of trouble, and I want to help her if I can.”
“Mal says he doesn’t want to have her in the show any more,” Randy said. “He told me he thinks you can do a good job in the part. If you just forget about Paula, you can have the role.”
“Randy!” Peggy said in a shocked voice. “Paula’s my friend, and I want to help her, not steal parts from her! And besides, I couldn’t possibly do Alison as well as she does. You saw for yourself tonight that I wasn’t creating a role. I was imitating a role. Paula’s a far better and more finished actress than I’ll be for many years, if ever, and I think that we owe it to your play to get her back, if she’ll come.”
“And if Mal will have her,” Randy added.
“And if she’s all right,” Peggy mused. “Randy, I’m really worried about her. Let me go talk to her right now for a half hour or so, and I’ll join you three for coffee after. When I’ve spoken to her, I’ll have a better idea, I know, about whether or not we can count on her. Leave it to me, will you, Randy?”
Randy walked along in silence for a moment before replying. “All right,” he said. “I’m perfectly willing to trust your judgment, and I know that Mal will give every consideration to what you say. I guess it is a good idea for someone to go see her now. Whatever’s wrong with her, she’s gone through a bad evening and can use a friend.”
After catching up with Amy and Mal and explaining what Peggy wanted to do, they arranged to meet at Dodo’s Coffeehouse downtown. Randy hailed a cab and helped Peggy in. “I think you’re right about Paula,” he said before closing the door. “And I’m glad you want to help her. Good luck!”
At 36th Street, Peggy dismissed the cab, sure that she would find Paula at home. She pushed the button marked “ANDREWS” and waited a moment until the little speaker crackled and Paula’s voice, sounding tired and far away, answered, “Who is it?”
“It’s Peggy Lane. May I come up to see you?”
A moment’s hesitation, and then, “All right. Third floor rear.” A buzzer sounded in the green door, and Peggy let herself in.
Going up in the little elevator, Peggy wondered again how Paula could afford to live in such an elegant place. She had some idea of the rents in these well-maintained remodeled buildings, and also some idea of what a salesgirl in a department store earned. “Well, it’s none of my business,” she told herself. “Maybe someone left her an income or something. Or maybe her parents pay the rent for her. But that’s not what I’m here to find out.”
Paula, looking more pale, drawn, and tired than Peggy had ever seen her before, opened the door and motioned Peggy in. The apartment, obviously rented furnished, was comfortable enough, but almost without personality, like a hotel room. It consisted of one bedroom-sitting room, a compact kitchenette and a bath. The only sign that anyone lived in it was a small collection of books, no more than a dozen, on a shelf.
“Sit down, Peggy,” Paula said formally. Then, as if she were asking about some event that didn’t concern her at all, but asking only out of politeness, she said, “And how did the audition go? Were you good? And did Sir Brian invest in the play?”
“It went very well,” Peggy said gloomily, “considering that it was me and not you. Sir Brian is putting five thousand dollars into the production.”
“Then I guess I’m fired,” Paula said, in the same lifeless tone.
“You don’t have to be,” Peggy said. “If you can only explain—or just convince Mal and Randy in some way that it won’t happen again—I know they want you back!”
“That’s nice of you, Peggy,” Paula said, “but I can’t explain. And there’s no point in my trying to. No, the part is yours.”
“But I don’t want it!” Peggy said earnestly. “I’d never have been able to play that scene if I hadn’t seen you do it so often! All I was doing was a fair imitation. You’ve got to come back and do the part!”
“Peggy,” Paula said with sudden intensity, “it’s not a question of my wanting to come back and do the part or not. It’s a question of being accepted back. Of course I want to do it! But Mal and Randy have to make the decision that they’re willing to let me come back after the terrible way I acted this evening.”
“If you could just tell them why—” Peggy began.
“I can’t. Honestly, I can’t,” Paula interrupted. “I would if I could, but if they’re going to take me back, it can’t depend on an explanation. They’ll just have to do it on faith—and on my promise that nothing like this will happen again. That’s the only assurance I can give them.”
“Are you so sure it won’t?” Peggy asked. “I mean, it was such an emotional outburst, you hardly seemed to know what you were saying. How can you be positive that you won’t fly off again like that? I don’t mean to be hard on you, but they have to know.”
“All I can say, Peggy,” Paula answered, “is that as long as the rehearsals are as private as they have been, and as long as Sir Brian doesn’t come around the theater till opening night, I’ll be all right.”
“And after opening night?” Peggy pursued.
“Oh, once we open, I don’t care who comes!” Paula said. “In fact, all I want is to have the whole world come to see us!”
“Well,” Peggy said after a moment’s reflection, “I’m convinced that you’ll be all right, and I’ll do what I can to convince the boys. But I won’t mention what you said about Sir Brian not coming around. It’ll just sound peculiar, and I’m sure he won’t come anyhow, he’s so busy. We’ll be lucky if he even comes to a performance.”
“Thanks, Peggy,” Paula said warmly. “Thank you so much for your faith in me. You’re a wonderful friend. And I know you’ll convince the boys! I’ll call you in the morning to find out, all right?”
“Fine. Meanwhile you’d better get a good night’s sleep. You look as if you need some rest. We’ve all been worried about your health. I’ll see you tomorrow at the theater, I’m sure!”
The whole visit with Paula had taken only fifteen minutes, and Peggy arrived at Dodo’s Coffeehouse only a minute after the others, who had taken a bus. She sat down and looked in silence at the three expectant faces that confronted her.
“You look like baby birds,” she laughed, “waiting for a worm!”
“How’s Paula?” Amy asked. “Is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s all right,” Peggy replied, “and I think she’ll be all right for the rest of the play, too, if you’ll have her back, Mal. The only thing that troubles me is that she can’t—or won’t—explain what happened to her tonight. She wants to be in the play, but she says that if you want her, you’ll just have to take her back on faith.”
“Is that all?” Mal asked.
“That and her promise that it won’t happen again,” Peggy answered. “I know it sounds pretty unreasonable, but, Mal, I really believe she knows what she’s saying, and that she’ll be okay. I don’t know what’s wrong, but as I told Randy, I’m sure she’s in some kind of trouble, and if she is, we shouldn’t make it worse. I think we ought to try to help her in whatever way we can. Maybe if we trust her, and show her that we do by taking her back, she’ll get to trust us, and tell us what’s wrong. Anyway, I think that we should take the chance.”
“How about you, Amy?” Mal asked.
“I agree with Peggy,” she said.
“Randy?”
“I’m for taking her back. If not on her own word, then on Peggy’s. And besides, I think everybody ought to have a second chance.”
“All right,” Mal said. “I don’t want to hold out against the rest of you. She’s back. Peggy, do you want to be the one to tell her?”
“She’s going to call me in the morning to find out,” Peggy answered.
“Good,” Mal said. “And while you’re at it, tell her she’d better start reading up on the whole play again, with special attention to Act One, Scene Three. That’s what we’re starting on in the next rehearsal tomorrow night.”
That settled, they turned their attention to coffee and cake, and their conversation to the five-thousand-dollar investment and what they would do with it—as if, Peggy thought, it had been the least important part of the busy evening’s events!
It was a good thing, Peggy thought, that she was going to the New York Dramatic Academy and not to a more conventional kind of school. Mr. Macaulay, the director of the Academy, approved of his students’ taking part in off-Broadway plays, and made certain concessions to those who were doing so, such as excusing them from school plays. While this eliminated the necessity of learning the lines of two plays at once, and also gave Peggy more free time than the other students, it did not excuse her from her regular school work.
She attended classes in History of the Theater, Elizabethan Playwrights, Restoration Drama, Acting for the Camera, Ballet and Modern Dance, and Make-up Techniques.
It was a full schedule all by itself.
But, of course, it wasn’t all by itself. Classes filled the day from nine in the morning till three in the afternoon, and rehearsals began at six in the evening at the Penthouse Theater and ran on to midnight. On Saturdays, rehearsals and scene painting and construction filled the day from nine to six. This grueling schedule left Peggy only three hours each day to study for her classes at the Academy and to learn her lines for Come Closer, and practically no time except Sundays for such things as hair washing, personal laundry, letter writing and all the other things that usually seem to take no time at all because they are spread through the week.
Sometimes she wondered how she would ever do it all. But other times she wondered how she could ever again enjoy a life that was less full, less active, less exciting. She was very busy, and very, very happy.
Now it was a few minutes past six on a Saturday evening, and she and Amy were carefully washing the paint from their hands and faces. Peggy leaned across the basin, very close to the mirror, for a minute inspection, found one last little spot of green on the lobe of her ear, and carefully removed it.
“I think I’m all clean,” she said. “How about you?”
“Just a few more spots,” Amy answered. “Then I’ll inspect you and you inspect me.”
“Oh, we don’t need to be that thorough,” Peggy said. “If we hurry, we’ll have plenty of time for baths at home before the boys come to pick us up.”
“I would surely like to know what you call plenty of time,” Amy laughed. “The boys are coming for us in two hours, and we have to face the Saturday night line-up at the bathrooms, which can be worse than waiting for tickets at a World Series game!”
“No, the worst is over by now,” Peggy said. “I happen to know that Irene, the Beautiful Model, has a date picking her up at six-thirty, which means that she’s climbing out of the tub right now. Greta is staying home tonight, which means she’ll let us have the bath first. Dot is out of town, so that just leaves us, Gaby and Maggie to share the two baths. I think we’ll make it!”
“You have it planned like a general!” Amy said. “I salute you.”
“Right down to the camouflage!” Peggy laughed in answer. “Mine is the dark blue cocktail dress. What are you wearing to divert the troops?”
“A print,” Amy said, with an unusual air of decision for a girl who could never make up her mind about what to wear until the last possible minute. “The only thing I haven’t decided yet,” she added, “is whether to wear my print with the three-quarter sleeves, or yours with the cap sleeves, or Maggie’s sleeveless chiffon. What do you think?”
“Why not wear any one of them, and take the other two in a little suitcase?” Peggy teased. “Then you can change during the evening and keep us in a constant state of surprise!”
By this time, they had finished washing, had changed from their stagehands’ coveralls, and were dressed to go. They found Greta waiting for them in the little lobby downstairs, and the three set off for the Gramercy Arms.
“How did your rehearsal go today, Greta?” Peggy asked.
“Fine,” Greta said, but her tone was a little doubtful.
“Is something wrong?” Amy asked.
“No. Not exactly, that is. The scenes we were working on are shaping up very well, but all of us are still a little worried about Paula. Not about her acting,” she added hurriedly. “We think she’s just wonderful. It’s ... well, it’s something else.”
“You’re not still worried about last week, are you?” Peggy asked. “I mean about that scene at Paolo’s? If you are, I’m sure that—”
“No, it’s not that,” Greta said. “We’re all convinced that whatever it was that caused that blowup, it won’t happen again. She’s not at all a temperamental person. No, we’re worried about her health. At least I am.”
“So am I,” Peggy confessed. “Amy and I were talking about it today. She looks so drawn and pale and ... tense. I’ve tried to speak to her about it, but she just refuses to admit that there’s anything wrong.”
“That’s the way she’s been with all of us,” Greta said. “She insists it’s just our imaginations, and that she never felt better. Or she says that it’s a case of character identification, and she’s beginning to look like the part she’s playing. But if that’s true, then she’s the best actress in the history of the theater.”
“Which she may well be,” Peggy said loyally. “But even if she is, I don’t think that’s the cause.”
“Since there doesn’t seem to be anything we can do about it,” Amy commented, “I think the best thing to do is to leave her alone and not bother her by asking about it. If she wants help, she knows we’re her friends.”
“I guess so,” Peggy agreed reluctantly. “Still, I’m worried.”
They continued home in a rather troubled silence.
Peggy’s planned attack on the bathtubs worked out just perfectly, and the two friends had plenty of time to prepare themselves for the evening’s date. The comforting dip in the hot tub and the change to their best party clothes (or, rather, Peggy’s best party clothes, since Amy elected to wear her print dress) served to change their mood as well. By the time that Randy and Mal rang at the door, Peggy and Amy were ready and waiting, in a cheerful mood of anticipation.
This was the first time that they had taken a real night off for over a month, and they were all looking forward to an enjoyable evening, free of the worries of the production. After a few minutes devoted to discussion, they decided to go for a drive into Westchester County for dinner and dancing in the country. All agreed that if they were trying to get their minds off the play, the best thing to do was to get out of the city, with its permanent air of show business.
It was a clear and starry night that had mixed in it the elements of two seasons—the end of winter and the first hint of spring. The stars were as hard and bright as in winter’s clear skies, but the air was almost soft, and the trees silhouetted against the pale sky, though still bare of leaves, were fuller in the bareness than they had been a week before; the buds on the branch tips were swollen, nearly ready to burst into little green flags.
Randy’s car, an old, but still elegant English convertible sedan, purred smoothly through the countryside. Peggy, settled comfortably in the deep leather seat, felt as if she were already a thousand miles away from New York, the theater, and her hard week’s work.
Randy drove with skill and confidence, and in far less time than they had thought possible, they were pulling into the driveway of a low stone restaurant with a slate-shingled roof, screened from the road by evergreens and shrubbery. The restaurant overhung a little lake in whose still surface its lights were reflected.
Inside, in a low room illuminated only by candles, a small orchestra was playing quiet dance music, and a few couples drifted about the floor. A courteous headwaiter, after checking their names on the list of reservations, led them to a small room containing only about a dozen tables. Their table was at the side of the room, by a picture window overlooking the lake, which could be seen, dark and bright, through the reflections of themselves and the swaying flames of the candles on their table.
“A thousand miles away,” Peggy was thinking. “No, a million miles!” as the conversation, as light and pleasant and unimportant as the music, went on. They were talking about the charming restaurant, the countryside, and the pleasures of getting out of the city.
“We’ll have to come here in summer,” Randy was saying. “They have little boats on the lake and you make them go with paddlewheels worked with a kind of hand crank. They have fringed canvas awnings on top, and cushioned seats to lean back in. The lake is bigger than it looks, and has lots of pretty coves and inlets, and even a landscaped island up at the far end. It’s a nice place to drift around.”
With a little twinge of feeling that she did not care to examine too closely, Peggy found herself wondering whom Randy had rowed around the lake, but she quickly put the thought out of her mind. She had no right to think about things like that, she told herself. Her relationship with Randy was ... well, it was what it was.
Peggy had no desire to be serious, except about the theater. And even the theater, she thought, should stay in the background tonight. She and the others had been living nothing but theater lately, and it was good for them to sit in this cozy, candlelit room and talk about things that didn’t matter; things like the coming of spring, rowing on the lake, or what to have for dinner.
But keeping actors from talking about the theater is as hopeless as trying to keep the tide from coming in. No matter what they start to talk about, it always ends up on stage. If the conversation is about books, somebody soon mentions a book that was made into a play, and they’re off again in stage talk. If the conversation is even about something as far removed from the theater as, say, sailboat racing, sooner or later somebody will be reminded of a sailor who wrote a play, or was an actor, and ... on stage.
Tonight was no exception, and by the time they were on their main course of rare, tender steaks with Idaho potatoes, buttered peas and green salad with Roquefort dressing, the talk had quite naturally drifted onto the inevitable subject.
“Are you satisfied with the way the play is developing, Mal?” Randy asked. “Does the cast live up to your hopes?”
“It’s going well,” Mal answered, with his usual English reserve. “My worries about making the development lopsided by working out one scene so thoroughly for the audition have proven to be groundless. If anything, I think it was a good experience for us all. We learned, under the most intense conditions, how to work together. We learned to respect each other, too, and that’s probably the most important thing that can happen to a company.”
“How about Paula?” Peggy asked.
“A wonderful actress,” Mal said with unusual enthusiasm. “I wonder where she learned it all. Even a natural talent like hers isn’t all natural, you know. Somewhere along the line, she had first-rate instruction.”
“She said something to me about coming from California and doing some little-theater things there,” Peggy said, “but she was rather vague about it, and I got the feeling that she wouldn’t welcome any questions.”
“She’s rather vague about everything,” Randy said, “except her acting ability. That’s as clear as can be.”
“I wonder where she played in California,” Mal said. “I have the feeling that I’ve seen her somewhere before, and I may have run across her when I was out in Hollywood. I know she looks familiar, at any rate.”
“She didn’t say,” Peggy replied. “All she told me was California, and I know it’s a big state. I suppose it might have been in the north, around San Francisco, but somehow I have the impression it was Los Angeles. Maybe that’s just because I only think of Los Angeles when I think of the acting business and California.”
“Why are you so anxious to know?” Amy asked Mal.
Taken aback a little, Mal hesitated before answering. “I’m not actually anxious to know about her,” he said at last. “For my purposes as a director I already know all I need to—that she’s a splendid actress. It’s just that such secretiveness as hers always inspires a little corresponding curiosity.”
“Well, frankly, I am curious,” Peggy said. “But I’m not as curious about her past as I am about her present. What worries me is her health. Haven’t you all noticed how pale she looks, and how thin and drawn she’s getting?”
“I have noticed her condition, of course,” Mal said with concern, “and I’ve asked her about it, as you have. She only says that I’m not to worry, and that she’ll be all right for the opening.”
“Well, I hope she knows what she’s doing,” Randy said. “I’d hate to have her get ill now, and have to start training a replacement. Besides, where would we get someone as good as....” He looked at Peggy and reddened.
“Oh, Randy,” she laughed, “you don’t have to be embarrassed about telling the truth. I know I’m not nearly as good as Paula, and you all know it, too. Though it’s very sweet of you to try to pretend that I am. But I didn’t walk away from the part just because I’m a nice girl and wanted to help Paula. I’m too much of an actress to be entirely unselfish when it comes to a good role! No, I just knew it was meant for her, and it was more than I could handle.”
Since, out of honesty, nobody wanted to contradict her, and out of embarrassment, nobody wanted to agree, an awkward little silence fell over the table. It lasted for only a moment, though, until Randy broke it by asking Peggy if she would like to dance. She nodded happily, relieved, and Mal and Amy followed them into the next room where the band was playing.
Randy was a wonderful dancer, having performed professionally as a song-and-dance man for some time, and Peggy felt that she herself never danced as well as when she was with him. Once again, the theater and its worries, Paula Andrews and her mysterious trouble, faded into the background as Peggy and Randy drifted slowly and easily about the polished floor.
Once again, the conversation turned light and pleasant and far removed from their everyday problems, and the candlelit restaurant seemed to Peggy to be a thousand miles removed from everything real.
But when it came time to leave, and when the car was once more purring along the road, the thousand-mile distance shrank to its true proportions of perhaps thirty-five miles. And every mile they drove brought them closer again to the busy, theatrical city, where even Randy’s good-night kiss at the doorstep could not remove from Peggy’s mind a sense of tension and trouble to come.
What the trouble might be, she could not say. What the tension’s cause was, she did not know. But surely at the center of it was the pale and sensitive face of Paula Andrews.
“No, not that way, Greta,” Mal called from his seat in the orchestra. “Don’t sit down as if you knew the chair was there and as if you knew exactly what kind of a chair it was. I want you to give the impression of being unsure of yourself and your surroundings. Before you sit, look behind you quickly—maybe even touch the top of the chair—then sit down.”
“But, Mal,” Greta said, coming to the apron of the stage to talk to him, “I’ve already used this chair earlier in the act, and I should be familiar with it by now. If I do it this way, isn’t it just going to look like an awkward piece of acting?”
“No,” Mal said. “When you used it before, it was when you were in a different personality mood, remember? This little difference will help to establish the change in your personality. It’s a small thing, and the audience may not even be aware of it consciously, but it’ll help to form the impression I want them to get. Try it, anyway, and I’ll see how it looks from out front.”
Greta agreed, and returned to the wings to pick up her entrance cue again. This time, when she entered, it was as if she had not been on stage before at all. She crossed unsurely to stage center to exchange a few lines with Alan Douglas and, when she was asked to sit down, turned a little, as Mal had told her, reached out a tentative hand to touch the back of the chair—but withdrew it before she touched it, and then swiftly sat down.
“Like that?” she asked Mal.
“Just like that,” he answered with satisfaction. “That chair bit is the give-away, and it’s perfect. I like your not quite touching it. Keep it in! Now let’s take it from there, Alan.”
Peggy waited in the wings for her own entrance cue. This time she was to come on aggressively, as the pampered ex-child movie star, to play against Greta’s shy confusion. In their previous exchange, Peggy had been quiet, well-mannered, even subservient in her character of plain-Jane secretary, for Greta had been acting the crisp, assured businesswoman.
Waiting, she watched with fascination how the play was taking shape. This evening was the first time they had been allowed to run through the entire play from beginning to end. The first time they had tried it, everyone could see how much work needed to be done, how shaky the whole structure was. But this time, the second of the evening, Mal had already done much to establish character and to direct movement on stage, and the production was gradually achieving a vitality of its own.
It was late, and everyone was tired, but they had all decided to finish their second run-through of the evening anyway, feeling that they would gain more from doing it all at once. At the rate they were going, it would be after one o’clock before they were through, and two o’clock before most of them were in their beds.
Peggy heard her cue lines coming up, and she got ready. At the right moment, she entered the stage with a kind of athletic bound, swinging an imaginary tennis racket. She tossed the “racket” (she would have one in the play) at the “couch” (a row of three chairs, at present) and perched on the edge of a table.
“My travel agent said that this place was different,” she said contemptuously, “and I guess it is, if different means dead.”
“Don’t take it quite so heavy, Peggy,” Mal called out. “You shouldn’t be so much disgusted with the place as you are, really, with yourself. You know that no matter how good it really might be, it wouldn’t suit you, because nothing ever does. Make the expression more regretful than contemptuous. And for the same reason, tone down your entrance a little.”
Peggy nodded to show her understanding, and went back to the wings again.
The scene, when played, would last only about five minutes, but Mal was hard to please and would let nothing pass. By the time it was over, the rehearsal of it had taken forty minutes and Peggy was glad to make her exit and sit down on a box near the switchboard where she could watch the next scene.
This one would go smoothly, she knew. It was the scene they had worked on for the audition at Sir Brian Alwyne’s, and although they had not worked out their stage movements as yet, the cast already had developed pace and rhythm.
Paula’s entrance, bewildered, awkward and eager to please, was perfect. She was as graceful and appealing as a doe. One by one, the other actors came on, each in turn trying to find some point of contact with her, each trying to please her. And as each failed, he went off, to return again in another mood or personality. The pace quickened. Paula’s confusion grew greater. The tension she projected was communicated to everyone present, those on stage and those in the wings or in the orchestra seats watching, as it would be to the audience. The second act was approaching its emotional crisis, uninterrupted by Mal, who sat as if entranced, on the edge of his seat.
Finally, at precisely the right moment, when it could go on not one moment more without shattering, the tension broke in a flood of emotion. Paula dropped to her knees in tears, then sank in a heap on the floor, sobbing. The scene was over. The actors turned expectantly to Mal, waiting for his comments, his praise.
But Paula did not rise, and she was not sobbing any longer.
Peggy realized in a flash that this was not like some of the previous rehearsals where Paula had been unable to stop the flood of stage tears that she had so skillfully built up to. This was different.
She rushed out on stage to where Paula lay huddled in a pool of light, and knelt by her side to shake her gently, but Paula did not move. Peggy turned her over and motioned the rest of the cast to move back. Paula lay pale and limp beneath the floodlights. She was breathing in quick uneven gasps.
“She’s fainted,” Peggy announced. “Somebody call a doctor!”
But Paula’s eyes flickered open, and she said in a weak voice, “No. Just take me home, please, Peggy. I’m ... I’m sorry. But I’ll be all right. I just want to go home now.” She closed her eyes again.
“What do you think?” Peggy asked Mal, who by this time had reached her side. “Shall I take her home, or call a doctor?”
“I think you can get her home before we could persuade a doctor to come down to this half-deserted neighborhood,” Mal said. “Why don’t you take her home and make her comfortable? We’ll get a cab, and I’ll go with you to carry her in case she faints again. Meanwhile, Randy can call a doctor and have him go directly to Paula’s apartment.”
“No,” Paula protested, “I don’t need a doctor. I’ll be all right once I’m home. There’s nothing really wrong with....” She tried to sit up, and with the effort fainted once more.
“Come on,” Mal said. “Get your coat, Peggy. Alan! Will you go out after a cab, please? Randy, call the doctor right away! Everybody else, go on home. Rehearsals are over for tonight. See you all tomorrow, same time.”
This time Paula did not come out of her faint until they were nearly at her house. She made no attempt to talk, or even to protest when Mal carried her from the taxi. When they had her upstairs, lying on the daybed, Mal turned to leave.
“I don’t think I’d better stay,” he said, “but the doctor ought to be here any minute. You’ll stay with her, won’t you, Peggy, until you find out from him what’s wrong?”
“Of course,” Peggy said. “And if it’s not too late, I’ll call you when I leave. Otherwise, I’ll let you know in the morning. Good night, Mal, and thanks for your help.”
“Yes, thank you, Mal,” Paula said weakly, with a small smile. Then, once again, she closed her eyes.
It had not taken the doctor long to diagnose Paula’s condition. Peggy had gone out to fill the prescription, and was now busy preparing it. It was some chicken soup, toast and tea, to be followed in the morning with a light breakfast, then a good, hearty lunch.
“I can’t understand why you didn’t tell me about it,” Peggy said. “You know I would have loaned you some money. It’s just ridiculous for anyone to go hungry when she has friends! You can’t imagine how shocked I was when the doctor said that you were suffering from malnutrition, and that you didn’t seem to have eaten anything for at least two days! Maybe I’ve led too sheltered a life, but I never even heard of anyone starving—not in this country, anyway.”
“It can happen anywhere, I guess,” Paula said, with a sad smile.
“But why?” Peggy cried. “Why didn’t you let me help you?”
“I would have, Peggy, if it had been just a sudden thing, but it wasn’t. It was a continuing thing. I guess if I had had enough to eat during the last month, I wouldn’t have keeled over from going for two days without anything. I’ve been living on canned beans and bread and other cheap food for over a month now, and to ask for help would have meant asking for regular help—every week. And I didn’t want to take advantage of anyone that way.”
“But, Paula, that’s so silly!” Peggy protested. “How long did you think you would be able to go on without proper food?”
“I was just trying to hold out until tomorrow, when my pay check comes in from Randy and Mal. Then I could have had something to eat.”
“Do you mean to say,” Peggy asked in astonishment, “that you’ve been trying to live on just the rehearsal salary? Why, that’s hardly enough to pay the rent in a place like this, much less to eat!”
“I know,” Paula said. “I’ve been finding that out. But we go into full pay for rehearsal next week, and I thought I could hold out until then. I guess I was wrong, wasn’t I?”
“But what about your job at the department store?” Peggy asked.
“Oh. I—I lied about that, Peggy. I was laid off right after the Christmas season, and I haven’t been working since then. I had some money put aside, but it was almost gone when I got the part in the play. Then I thought I could live on the rehearsal money until we went into full pay. By the time I found I couldn’t, I was too weak to take a full-time job.”
“But you could have moved to some less expensive place, couldn’t you?” Peggy asked. “This little apartment must cost a lot of money.”
“It does,” Paula admitted, “but I like it here, and I didn’t want to give it up. I thought that I could manage. I’m sorry now. I’ve caused everybody so much trouble.”
“That’s the least of our worries,” Peggy said, filling up Paula’s bowl with a second helping of chicken soup. “The question now is how you’re going to get along for the next week until the full pay comes in. And also how you’re going to live here, even on that.”
“Oh, I’ll get by, Peggy. I know I will. Besides, I have such faith in the play. I know it will be a hit, and if it is, our salaries will go up above the minimum. Randy told me how much I could expect to earn as the lead, if we have a success, and it’s plenty for me to live on.”
“But until then,” Peggy said, “you’re going to need more cash. Isn’t there somebody you can go to for help? How about your family?”
“Oh, no!” Paula said. “My family ... I haven’t any family. I mean, I’m an orphan. My parents are dead, and I haven’t anyone else. I’ve been supporting myself for a long time, and I’m used to it.”
“Well, then,” Peggy said firmly, “I’m going to have to be your family, and you’ll have to accept help from me. I would say that you’ll need about fifty dollars a week to add to what you earn—at least until we get to be a hit, if we do. And since you haven’t anybody else, you’ll have to let me get it for you.”
“Oh, no, I can’t let you do that, Peggy!” Paula protested. “I know that you haven’t got that kind of money, and besides, I ... I don’t want any help. I can take care of myself. I want to take care of myself!”
Peggy sat down on the edge of the bed and took Paula’s hand. “I can understand the way you feel,” she said, “but that’s a foolish kind of pride. Everybody wants to think they’re taking care of themselves, but really nobody does. Before your parents died, they took care of you. They fed you and clothed you and taught you to walk and talk. If somebody hadn’t taken care of you then, you wouldn’t have lived to want to take care of yourself. As we grow up, we take care of ourselves more and more, but we’re never completely on our own. Everybody needs someone else. That’s what friends are for. And you’ve got to let me be your friend.”
Paula’s eyes filled with tears. “I suppose you’re right, Peggy. It is just foolish pride, and you’re so good to talk to me this way and to want to help me. But ... what I said before. I know you can’t afford it!”
“Of course I can’t,” Peggy said. “But I’ve got friends—and many of them are your friends, too, and I intend to ask them. I’m going to talk to all the members of the cast who have jobs, and to the girls who live at the Gramercy Arms, and we’ll get up a group to help you out. That way it won’t cost anyone more than three or four dollars a week, which we won’t miss too much.”
“Oh, Peggy, that’s so good of you,” Paula said, “but I feel so ashamed to take your money!”
“Think how ashamed we’d feel,” Peggy said, “if we weren’t able to help you. And besides, we’re not doing it just for you. We’re doing it for the play. We need you in the play. There’s nobody else who can do the Alison part the way you can ... and even if there were, it would be too late now for a cast substitution. No, it’s your part, and it’s our play, and we have to keep you in good condition to do it. It’s a difficult enough role to play even if you’re well-fed, and I just don’t believe you can do it if you’re half-starved. Now I don’t want to hear another word about it except ‘yes.’”
Paula’s smile was stronger now, between spoonfuls of soup. She looked up, her eyes still wet, and softly said, “Yes. Thanks.”
“Good. That’s settled,” Peggy said. “Now, would you like some tea and toast? The doctor said not to give you more than this to eat tonight, no matter how hungry you said you felt. No. No butter. He said dry toast, but I suppose you can dunk it in the tea, if you like.”
While Paula was eating the last scrap of tea and toast, and protesting that she felt a good deal more like eating a steak, Peggy got some pajamas for her from a bureau drawer, and a robe and some slippers from the closet. Then, since Paula was still weak, she helped her change into them, made up the daybed, and tucked her in bed.
“You look a lot better now,” Peggy said. “The best thing for you to do is get a good night’s sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning. You’ll find eggs and butter and coffee and orange juice in the kitchen, so you can make breakfast for yourself, but after eating, go back to bed and rest. That’s doctor’s orders. I’ll come up here at noontime, and we can go out for a good lunch together.”
Cutting Paula’s thanks short with a wave of her hand, Peggy said a quick good night and left. It was past her bedtime, too.
In the comfortable, well-furnished living room of the Gramercy Arms, Peggy prepared to call a meeting to order.
May Berriman, the retired actress who owned the house, sat regally in a high-backed, thronelike chair. Her hands were busy with a tiny silver bobbin and a tatting needle, making delicate lace; but they seemed to be working with an intelligence of their own while their owner, not even looking at them, was busily observing the faces of “her girls.”
Irene Marshall, the house beauty, was gracefully curled up on the couch in the sort of decorative pose hardly ever seen outside the pages of the more expensive fashion magazines. At the other end of the couch, her knees drawn up and her feet tucked under her, sat Gaby (Gabrielle Odette Francine Du-Champs Goulet), looking about her expectantly, her head cocked to one side like a toy French poodle’s.
Maggie Delahanty, the dancer, sat cross-legged on the floor like a Hindu, her back straight and her hands loosely folded, a magazine open on her knees. She could sit for hours like this in apparent perfect comfort, in a position the other girls found almost impossible to get into at all.
In more conventional positions, seated on chairs, were Greta, Amy, and Peggy.
“I guess everybody’s here now,” Peggy said, “so I might as well tell you why I asked you all to meet in here. I need your help, but I didn’t want to explain it several times, because it’s rather a complicated story.”
As briefly as she could, Peggy told them about Paula, as Paula had told her. Then she recounted the events of the night before, ending with the doctor’s visit.
“When he told me that she had fainted from hunger,” Peggy concluded, “I was so shocked I didn’t know what to say. I’m still not sure I understand how it came to happen, but I am sure of one thing. Paula needs help, and I told her that I would see to it that she gets it.”
“She needs some common sense even more than she needs help,” Maggie said tartly. “Unfortunately, I don’t think we have any of that to spare. Why did she let this go on so long without doing something about it?”
“Yes, why?” Irene asked. “I know a lot of people who are out of work, but they don’t let themselves starve. I’ve been out of work myself plenty of times, the way every beginner in show business is, and I’ve always gone straight to the unemployment people. The government check hasn’t been much, but it’s been enough to eat on.”
“I asked her that,” Peggy said, “and she told me that she didn’t qualify for unemployment insurance. Apparently you have to have worked for a certain length of time before you can collect any insurance, and she hadn’t worked that long when the department store laid her off after the Christmas rush.”
“That’s true,” Greta said. “I was in a fix like that myself once, and I had to ask my parents for help until I could get a job. Luckily, I have parents and they have enough to be able to spare some for me.”
“Most of us have someone to turn to,” Peggy said, “but Paula’s an orphan, and hasn’t even got any aunts or uncles or cousins. But she does have friends, and that’s what I want to talk to you about.”
“Oh, we all of us ’ave understand that alreadee,” Gaby said with a toss of her head. “That part of the problem is no more worree. I give a few dollar each week—we all give a few dollar—nobodee give enough for to miss it, an’ presto! Mademoiselle Paula ’as plentee to live on. No?”
“That’s just what I had in mind,” Peggy said, relieved not to have had to actually ask for the money. She had been hoping her friends would offer it as their own idea. “How do the rest of you feel about it?”
Everybody nodded agreement and murmured assurance that they would do as much as they could to help. “How much does she need?” asked Maggie, practical as always.
“I think about fifty dollars a week would do it,” Peggy answered, “but it doesn’t all have to come from us. There are several members of the cast who are working at other jobs and who would be glad to contribute. In fact, I think they’d be insulted if they weren’t approached about it.”
“Won’t Paula object to their knowing all about her troubles?” Amy asked.
“I don’t think so,” Peggy said. “Besides, they all saw her faint last night, and some explanation will have to be given. Not only that, but I don’t think we should try to hide it as if it were some disgraceful thing not to have enough money for food. Paula has been hiding her troubles too long, and she’s going to have to accept the fact that you can’t hide trouble and fight it at the same time.”
“Very wise, Peggy,” May Berriman approved. “I agree, just as I agree with Maggie that your friend needs some common sense more than she needs help. It’s possible that by helping her in this open way, you may also provide her with a little common sense!”
“Speaking of common sense,” Greta put in, “I think it’s about time we got down to dollars and cents in this discussion, instead of just going on vaguely about wanting to help. Does anyone have a suggestion about how much we should all contribute to the Paula Fund?”
After mentioning several figures, and after some discussion about how much should come from the Gramercy Arms and how much from the cast, an agreement was reached.
“So it’s settled,” Peggy said. “Gramercy Arms will give twenty-five dollars a week, and the cast will give the rest. Now, twenty-five dollars divided among the six of us girls....”
“Seven,” May Berriman interrupted. “I may not be a girl any longer, but you’ll grant I am a part of Gramercy Arms.”
“Thanks, May,” Peggy said gratefully. “Well, seven then. That comes to ... let’s see. Three-fifty each a week would add up to twenty-four dollars and fifty cents. That’s close enough, I guess, and we can all surely spare that. It’s only fifty cents a day.”
“I have another suggestion, Peggy,” May Berriman said. “As you all know, Dot is on tour and isn’t due to return for another three months. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if Paula were to use her room. Why don’t you ask her to come in here with us and give up that expensive apartment?”
Peggy reflected for a minute. “No, I don’t think so,” she said at length. “If she had been willing to move out of that apartment, she would have done it before this. I don’t think she’d be at all happy here. She’s so—well, so secretive, and I think that all she wants is to be left alone. I suppose that sounds pretty strange, and pretty self-indulgent, too, but as I told you, I think she’s having some kind of trouble that we don’t even know about, and she obviously doesn’t want us to know. I don’t think it would be helping at all if we tried to get her to come to live with us.”
“Maybe you’re right,” May Berriman said. “One sure way to be of no help at all is to try to change a person’s way of living. At any rate, you can tell her that the room is here for her to use in case she wants to.”
“I will,” Peggy said. “And I’d like nothing better than to have her say yes, but I just know she won’t.”
Maggie stood up, uncoiling from her cross-legged position in a single, fluid movement. “I guess it’s all settled, then,” she said. “The only thing for us to do now is to get up the money.” Digging into the pocket of her blue jeans, she produced a small wallet from which she extracted three crumpled dollar bills and two quarters. “Here’s my first week’s dues in the Help Paula Club,” she said.
The rest of the girls hurried up to their rooms to find money and, five minutes later, after a confused session of change-making, Peggy had twenty-five dollars (May Berriman had insisted on giving an extra fifty cents to make the sum come out even) carefully sealed in an envelope.
Thanking their housemates, Peggy, Amy, and Greta excused themselves. They had barely enough time for a quick dinner before reporting to rehearsal.
“We’ve got good friends,” Peggy said as they seated themselves in a booth in a nearby restaurant where they often went. “It certainly was generous of them to contribute to a girl they don’t even know.”
“That’s one of the nicest things about show business,” Greta said. “I guess it’s because everyone in the business has been out of work and in hard circumstances at one time or another. They’re always willing to help another actor who’s having a hard time. Maybe it’s a kind of insurance policy against the next time they’re in trouble themselves.”
“It ought to be even easier to collect the other half of the money from the cast,” Amy commented. “And once we have that, Paula will be all right.”
“In a sense, she will be,” Peggy said with a worried expression. “At least she’ll be all right financially. But I don’t think we’ve begun to settle her problems, and I don’t know if we should even try.”
“What do you mean?” Amy asked. “What other problems does she have, and why shouldn’t we try to solve them?”
“I don’t know,” Peggy said uneasily.
“What makes you think something else is wrong?” Greta asked.
“I know something else is wrong,” Peggy said firmly. “It’s not just guesswork. The question is whether or not we have a right to poke our noses into Paula’s business.”
“Stop hinting, Peggy,” Amy said with unaccustomed sharpness. “Why don’t you just tell us what your suspicions are, and we can all contribute our thinking.”
“I suppose that’s best,” Peggy said sadly. “I just hate to tell you that I think Paula still hasn’t told us the truth about herself and the reason she had to go hungry. I saw things when I was at her apartment that convinced me of that. But I don’t know why.”
“You think she’s lying?” Greta asked. “Why?”
“To begin with,” Peggy said, determined to have the whole thing out in the open, “she’s lying about ever having worked in a department store, and about being a poor orphan. I know because of the clothes I saw in her closet and her bureau when I was getting her pajamas and robe for her.”
“How can clothes tell you she never worked in a department store?” Amy asked, puzzled.
“Shoes,” Peggy said. “Didn’t you ever notice salesgirls’ shoes? Standing behind a counter all day long is pretty hard on the feet, and your shoes have to be practical and comfortable. Paula had a large collection of shoes in that closet—all of them very smart and fashionable and expensive—but not one pair that a girl could stand in all day long, except for the sport shoes that a department store wouldn’t allow its clerks to wear. You know, moccasins and things like that.”
“It makes sense,” Greta said grudgingly, “in a way. But maybe she had work shoes and they wore out and she threw them away.”
“Maybe,” Peggy said, “but that doesn’t account for the kind of shoes she did have. For instance, there were high riding boots and low jodhpur boots in that closet. Now, I have a horse at home in Wisconsin, and I know something about riding equipment, and those boots were handmade and must have cost a fortune. Where would an orphan salesgirl get boots like that? And why would she want them in the city? Not only that, but there were ski boots and golf shoes, too, and I have the same questions about those. I suppose it all sounds very nosy and suspicious of me, but I couldn’t help thinking about it and what it means.”
“What it means,” Greta said, “is that you’re probably right. From what you say, I’m sure that Paula wasn’t telling the truth about herself. But what can we do about it, and why should we try to do anything? It’s really none of our business, is it?”
“That’s just the problem that’s been worrying me,” Peggy confessed. “I keep asking myself whether it’s any of our business who Paula is and what she’s hiding. I think I’ve finally decided that it is.”
“In what way?” Amy asked. “Just because we’ve agreed to help her with a little money doesn’t mean we own any part of her, does it? I think we ought to leave her alone!”
“Oh, Amy, you can’t think I meant it like that!” Peggy said. “Of course the loan doesn’t give us any right to go poking into her affairs! But the fact that we’re her friends does give us a right. We didn’t get curious about her health, for fear of offending her, and as a result she collapsed from hunger. Now if she’s in some other kind of trouble, and we don’t do something to help, we may regret that just as much.”
“That does make sense,” Amy admitted. “It’s just that I hate to go behind her back....”
“Why go behind her back?” Greta asked. “Why not just come right out and ask her what’s wrong? Even mention the shoes and boots and things, so that she’ll know why we’re suspicious of what she told you.”
“She won’t admit anything’s wrong,” Peggy said. “I tried to ask her at lunch when I went out with her today, but she wouldn’t even talk to me about it. Every time I seemed to be coming close to whatever’s bothering her, she just changed the subject.”
“Well, then, what do you think we-all can do about it?” Amy asked. “If she doesn’t want to tell us her troubles, there’s no way that we can force her to do it. I still think we ought to leave her alone.”
Peggy shook her head in vigorous disagreement. “That’s just what we shouldn’t do,” she said. “It seems to me she’s been left alone too much, and hasn’t been able to do a good job of taking care of herself.”
“But you said that she doesn’t respond to pushing—or direct questions,” Greta commented.
“And we certainly don’t want to—to snoop!” Amy put in.
“I know,” Peggy agreed. “But there is one thing we can do. We can make every effort to show her that we’re her friends, and to show her that she can trust us. If we do it sincerely, without pushing or snooping, I’m sure she’ll confide in us when she wants to.”
“It seems to me that we’ve all made a pretty big effort already,” Greta said tartly. “What more can we do?”
“Well,” Peggy said thoughtfully, “if I were Paula, I might be inclined to think that the effort made so far was more charitable than friendly, if the difference is clear. I mean, we’ve helped her with money and all that ... but that’s not exactly what I mean. I think we ought to do something to show her that we’re glad to know her, and glad that she’s in the show, and ... I don’t know. It’s just that I feel that money alone doesn’t say what needs saying to a girl like Paula. She’s a sensitive person, after all, and she might even resent the financial help, in some subtle way.”
“You may be right, at that,” Amy said softly. “I know that if I were ever in her position ... having to take money from people ... I’d feel pretty uncomfortable about it. Especially if the people were just—well—just casual acquaintances. And after all, that’s what we are to her.”
“That’s just the point,” Peggy said eagerly. “You’ve put it perfectly! We are just casual acquaintances—not close friends. It’s no wonder that she keeps a kind of wall between her and us, even though we are helping her.”
“Rather because we’re helping her,” Greta amended. “Everybody knows it’s a lot harder to take help than to give it.”
“But what can we do to show her that she’s not just a—a charity case to us?” Amy asked.
“That’s what I’ve been asking myself,” Peggy said, “and I think I’ve got one good idea anyhow. It’s not much, but it’s a beginning. Why don’t we give her a little surprise party tonight after rehearsal, to celebrate her coming back to the show and being all right again?”
“I think she’d like that!” Amy exclaimed. “What do you think, Greta?”
“I think it’s fine,” Greta agreed. “Tonight’s rehearsal is bound to be a strain for her anyhow, and it would be nice to give her a chance to relax and cheer up afterward. How do you want to work it, Peggy?”
Peggy thought for a moment before answering. “We might ask her up to the Gramercy Arms after rehearsal,” she suggested. “I’m sure that Gaby and Irene and Maggie would be glad to set up a party for us while we’re gone, and everything could be ready by the time we got back....”
“No,” Amy interrupted. “That won’t do. The minute we invited her up to the Gramercy Arms, she’d know there was something special up, and the surprise would be lost. Besides, she’d have to meet the other girls, and there would be the usual strain of new people....”
“Not only that,” Greta added, “but there’s no guarantee that she would come back with us after rehearsal. She might be too tired and want to go straight home. And she’s shy about new places and people, anyway.”
“How about at the theater?” Amy suggested.
But Peggy and Greta vetoed that suggestion on the ground that it would have to include the whole cast, and that would make too large a party to enable them to accomplish their primary purpose, which was to develop a more intimate relationship with Paula.
“I know!” Peggy exclaimed. “Why don’t we have the party right in her own apartment? That way, we’ll be sure that she’ll be there, and we can control the number of people! In fact, I think we ought to keep it to just the three of us and Paula! Amy and I can miss rehearsal tonight—you can tell her some thing at the Academy kept us late, and you can come home from rehearsal with Paula. While you and Paula are at the theater, Amy and I can shop and set up a real surprise party!”
“Fine!” Greta agreed. “But how are you going to get into Paula’s apartment without a key?”
“The superintendent will let us in, I’m sure,” Peggy replied. “He saw us when Mal and I brought Paula home last night, and he saw me again when I was there to pick her up for lunch this afternoon, so he knows that I’m a friend of hers. If we explain about the surprise party, I know he’ll let us in, and not mention it if he sees you and Paula coming home. He seemed like a very nice man, and he was genuinely concerned about Paula. I know he’ll approve of the idea of a party.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” Greta agreed. “While you’re setting up the party, and while Paula’s busy rehearsing, I’m sure that I can manage to raise the money from the cast. I’ll bring it with me, and we can give it to her along with the Gramercy Arms money at the same time.”
“We can buy a cake and birthday candles too,” Amy suggested, “and as soon as you come, you can tell me how many of the cast members chipped in, and we can put a candle on the cake for every friend Paula has. It will really be something to celebrate!”
“Good,” Greta said, nodding her agreement. “Well, we’d better get going now. We’re on a tight time schedule. I have to report at the theater for rehearsal in fifteen minutes, and you have to start your shopping for the party. Mal will probably take it easy on Paula after last night, so you had better be prepared to have us come in on you early. Be sure that you have all the party things set up by ten o’clock.”
Picking up their check, the three girls rose to go, looking forward with high spirits to the challenge of breaking down Paula’s wall of reserve and of showing her that there is such a thing as real friendship in what must have appeared to her to be a hard, cold world.
“If they expect to be at Paula’s by ten,” Peggy said as she and Amy left the restaurant, “we’d better hurry. We have a lot of shopping to do, and food to prepare. And I’d like to decorate Paula’s apartment in some way, too. It’s a nice enough place, but I couldn’t help noticing how cold and unlived-in it looks. Maybe we can find some way to make it cheerful, even if it’s just for an evening.”
“If we hurry, we can do that part of the shopping before the stores on Twenty-third Street close,” Amy said. “I remember seeing a sort of party shop there that sells things like crepe paper and candles and silly decorations and things. I think they’re open till seven or seven-thirty.”
“I remember the place,” Peggy said. “If we go there first, we can put off the food shopping until later. The bakeries and the delicatessens always stay open till late.”
The girls hurried uptown the few blocks to Twenty-third Street, where they found the proprietor of the little party shop getting ready to close for the night. With a resigned sigh, he agreed to stay open a few minutes more in order to let the two friends buy the few things they needed for their surprise party. Trying to make their decisions in a hurry, so as not to further exasperate the shopkeeper, they quickly settled on some paper napkins with a festive rosebud design, and some sugar rosebud-shaped candle-holders for the cake. Peggy also bought some pink crepe-paper sheets and strips.
“I think I can make these into some nice paper roses—if I remember how they taught us to do it in kindergarten,” she said. “That ought to brighten the place up!”
Amy found some white paper plates with rosebuds to match the napkins, but as the girls started to search for more things to make the party, the owner of the shop began to turn off the lights, throw dust-covers over fixtures, and generally make it clear that his patience was at an end.
“I guess that’s really all we’ll need, Amy,” Peggy said nervously. “I think that we’d better get going.”
Thanking the shopkeeper for staying open for them, they paid for their purchases and left. The owner left with them, turned the lock in the door, and with a curt nod briskly strode down the street.
“Gee, we just made it,” Peggy said with a grin. “If we had taken ten seconds more, I think he would have locked us in the store for the night!”
Farther down the street, a delicatessen store shed a bright glow on the nearly deserted sidewalk. Peggy and Amy made their way to it as if it were a beacon marking the way to a friendly port.
Nothing in the world is more delightfully confusing than an old-fashioned delicatessen in New York. There is a special quality to the very smell of the place; it is a compound of every good thing to eat, and so complex a perfume that it is almost impossible to isolate the elements that make it up. One can detect clearly the briny smell of pickles, and on second sniff, the rich harmonies of imported cheeses, but beyond that, it would take the most sensitive nose in the world to analyze the atmosphere. And as you walk through the store from front to back, the odor changes, becomes alternately richer, lighter, sharper, sweeter, spicier or more pungent.
The store was so narrow, and the man behind the counter so wide, that Peggy had to suppress a little giggle, wondering how on earth he managed to squeeze himself in. With a broad grin and a welcoming gesture that threatened to sweep the counter clean of its load of little jars, boxes, and tins, he said, “Good evening, ladies! What can I do for you?”
“I don’t know.” Peggy smiled. “You’ve got so much here that I scarcely know where to begin.”
“Tell me your problem,” the man said in a confidential, professional manner. “We specialize in catering for all kinds of events. Just tell me what you have in mind, and let me do the selecting.”
“It’s not really an event,” Amy began. “We’re just planning a little surprise party for a friend, and there are only going to be four of us....”
“And you say it’s not an event!” the delicatessen owner said reproachfully. “When you buy here, every meal is an event! Just tell me how much you want to spend, and I’ll make you a menu for a party you’ll never forget!”
His enthusiasm flagged a little when Peggy hesitantly told him that they hadn’t figured on spending more than five dollars, but he made a fast recovery.
“Even for four dollars,” he said, “I could make you a party for the gods!”
Seemingly from nowhere, he produced a beautifully roasted turkey with a few slices already removed. Skillfully, he cut several long, thin slices of white meat. Swiss cheese followed, and after that, moist, lean slices of pink ham. Moving deftly and surely from counter to bin to shelf to refrigerator to cabinet, the owner piled up containers of potato salad, cole slaw, bottles of soft drinks, a sliced loaf of rye bread with caraway seeds and a small jar of mustard.
“There!” he said. “That’s an event!”
“How much is it?” Peggy asked, looking fearfully at what seemed to her to be a mountain of food.
“I was aiming for five dollars,” the owner said, “as specified. However, let me do the addition and see....” He rapidly penciled figures on a brown paper bag and added them in a flash. When he looked up, it was with a crestfallen expression.
“The first time in years I went over the budget,” he said mournfully. “Usually I can pick things out right to the penny. Ah, well....” He sighed. “To err is human. Even for a delicatessen owner.”
“How much is it?” Peggy asked again.
“Five dollars and thirteen cents,” came the sorrowful answer. “But for you, and because we had a bargain, four dollars and ninety-nine cents!”
“Oh, no!” Peggy said. “We’ll be glad to pay it all! It’s such a little——”
“Not in my delicatessen!” the owner said, drawing himself up proudly. “To Schwartz, a contract is a contract! Four ninety-nine, and not a penny more!”
Not knowing if Mr. Schwartz was serious or joking, Peggy decided not to take the chance of hurting his feelings. She gave him a five-dollar bill, and dutifully accepted the penny change.
By the time the girls had picked up their packages, Mr. Schwartz had recovered his normal high spirits. He hastened to the door to open it for them, gave them the full benefit of his smile and said, “Remember—make every meal an event! That’s philosophy! Good night and come again!”
The next stop, a small Viennese bakery a few doors west, proved uneventful except for finding the perfect cake for the occasion. It was a small layer cake covered with snowy white icing and a decorative trim of pink sugar rosebuds around the edge. It made the ideal match for the napkins and the crepe paper they had bought.
Loaded down with their purchases, they took a bus uptown to Paula’s street, and by eight o’clock they found themselves standing before the green lacquered street door of her apartment house.
“I certainly hope that the superintendent’s in tonight,” Peggy said as she pushed the buzzer. “It would be awful to have bought all this good food, and then have him be out!”
“We could always camp here on the doorstep and wait for Paula and Greta to come home,” Amy said. “But, frankly, the idea of a two-hour wait in the night air isn’t exactly guaranteed to put me in a party mood!”
Their fears were groundless, however. The superintendent, a polite old man, answered the door after only a few minutes’ delay. He greeted Peggy with a smile of recognition and apologized for keeping them waiting.
Peggy explained the purpose of their visit, and the old man’s eyes lighted up with pleasure when he heard of the surprise party. “I sure am glad to see Miss Andrews making some friends,” he said. “She’s such a nice young lady, and my wife and I often worry about her, sitting up there all day alone. It doesn’t seem natural for such a fine girl to have to be by herself so much. I think a thing like this’ll do her a world of good!”
Upstairs, the superintendent let them into Paula’s apartment with his master passkey. “If I see them coming in,” he said with a conspiratorial smile, “I won’t let on a thing. I don’t know of anything worse than a surprise party where there’s no surprise to it!”
The girls thanked him, and a moment later found themselves alone in Paula’s little apartment.
It had been straightened up since Peggy’s last visit at lunchtime, and the few clothes and other objects that had been visible had all been put neatly out of sight. This made the room look even more barren and impersonal than Peggy had remembered it—as polite and impersonal as Paula’s manner whenever Peggy had tried to break the wall of mystery that surrounded her new friend.
Amy looked around her with a sigh. “It’s about as homey as a hotel room, isn’t it?” she said. “I hope that we brought enough crepe paper to brighten it up a little!”
“It’s going to take more than crepe paper,” Peggy said sadly. “It’s going to take some real show of friendship. She must be a really lonely girl for even the superintendent and his wife to have noticed it and to be concerned about it. I hope that this little party of ours is some help.”
“It’s bound to be,” Amy said. “It will certainly take the curse off the business of just handing her money. That could be downright awkward, you know, even though she has agreed to accept it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Peggy said. “I’m sure that if there ever was a girl who needed friends to tell things to—and who had things to tell them—it’s Paula Andrews!”
They unloaded their purchases in the little kitchenette, and while Amy was unwrapping the sliced meat and cheese, Peggy busied herself with setting up the gate-leg table that stood folded against the wall. Going back to the kitchenette, she rummaged about in the bag that held the napkins, candles, and crepe paper.
“Oh dear!” she exclaimed. “I knew we forgot something! We didn’t buy a paper tablecloth!”
“Oh, Paula must have a plain white tablecloth here that we can use,” Amy said.
“I’ll take a look,” Peggy said. “I hate to see a bare table, unless there are place mats, and we don’t even have enough napkins to use as mats. Where do you suppose she’d keep her tablecloths?”
Looking around the room, Amy pointed to a low chest with three shallow drawers that stood near the kitchenette door. “If I had any cloths I’d keep them in there,” she said.
Peggy opened the top drawer. “No tablecloths,” she said, “but we’re on the right track. There are bed linens and some towels in here.” She went to the second drawer. There were no linens here, but simply a large, flat, leather box of highly polished calfskin. It took up most of the drawer. Peggy was about to shut the drawer when something caught her attention. She gave a low whistle.
“Amy, come here,” she said.
“Tablecloths?” Amy said.
“Look.” Peggy pointed to a small silver plate fixed to the lower right-hand corner of the leather box. It was engraved: “For Paula’s first part—and her future career. With love from Mother and Dad.”
“I guess you were right, Peggy,” Amy said. “About the shoes, and Paula not being a salesgirl, and not being poor....”
“And not being an orphan, either,” Peggy added.
“Well ... this certainly shows that she wasn’t raised as an orphan,” Amy said, “but this could have been given to her before—before she became an orphan, couldn’t it?”
“No,” Peggy said flatly. “For one thing, this is pretty new. And, besides, even if Paula’s parents did ... die ... after giving her this, the rest of her story couldn’t possibly be true. People who can give gifts like this don’t leave a daughter penniless.”
“I suppose not,” Amy admitted. “But, in that case, what do you think the real story is?”
“It seems pretty clear that Paula has run away from home for some reason of her own,” Peggy answered. “Her parents certainly don’t know where she is, or what kind of circumstances she’s in, or they surely would have done something to help her. They’re obviously not the sort of people to hold back on giving things to their daughter. And this inscription tells us that they didn’t try to keep her from pursuing a career as an actress. In fact, unless I miss my guess, this is a professional make-up kit.”
A quick glance inside confirmed Peggy’s guess. It was a theatrical make-up box, beautifully fitted with tiny jars of creams and colors, each with a silver lid engraved with Paula’s initials. There were special compartments for brushes, pencils, and cotton pads.
“Well, you certainly seem to be right,” Amy admitted, “but now that we know about it, what do you think we should do? Should we do anything? Isn’t it Paula’s business if she chooses to leave home?”
“It’s certainly her business if she chooses to live away from home,” Peggy said firmly, “but running away and hiding is something else again. Her parents are probably worried sick about her! I don’t think we can afford to wait for Paula to warm up to us on the chance that she’ll tell us about it. I think she’s acting thoughtlessly and unreasonably, and much as I like her, that doesn’t change my opinion of what she’s doing. We have to stop it, or at least look into it to find out who Paula’s parents are and why she left home. Unless she has a darn good reason for not letting them know where she is, we’ll have to tell them. It’s the only decent thing to do!”
“If we do,” Amy said, “they might take her out of the play.”
“They might,” Peggy agreed, “but people are more important than plays. And anyway, I don’t think they would. They’re obviously people who are in sympathy with Paula’s wanting to be an actress.”
“That seems like a good guess,” Amy said with a smile, glancing at the extravagant make-up kit. “But how do we find out who they are? And once we find out, do we just call them? Shouldn’t we give Paula a chance first?”
“We certainly should,” Peggy said. “All I want to do is find out who her parents are, and tell her we know. Then we’ll give her the choice of calling them, or having us do it. This is not just a question of sticking my nose into someone else’s business; it’s a question of doing what’s right.”
“You still haven’t told me how you expect to find out who her parents are,” Amy said.
“Maybe if I look around, I’ll find something with an address on it. Maybe a letter or something—”
“But—” Amy objected.
“I know,” Peggy interrupted, “but it has to be done. Why don’t you get the table set up as best you can, and I’ll look around a little.” She glanced at her watch. “We haven’t too much time, you know. They ought to be here in about an hour.”
“What about the crepe-paper roses?” Amy asked. “I don’t know how to make them!”
“I’m in no mood to make roses,” Peggy answered sadly and a little grimly. “Use the crepe paper for a tablecloth. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”
As she started looking through Paula’s bureau, Peggy reflected that it was strange how a person could do something completely against her nature and as unpleasant as searching a friend’s room, when a matter of conscience and principle was involved. It was not always easy to do the right thing.
Conquering her qualms with the assurance that she was acting in the best interests of both Paula and her parents, Peggy went carefully about her search.
It took her nearly twenty minutes to go through the bureau and closet in a thorough manner. She carefully took down each dress and coat, looked at the labels and went through the pockets. She examined the many shoes and boots, as well as the sports equipment neatly stored on the shelves and the luggage on the floor in back. She put each thing back exactly as she had found it. When she closed the door behind her, she knew that she had found something, but not as yet what she had been looking for.
“What did you learn?” asked Amy, who was putting the finishing touches on the table setting.
“I didn’t learn Paula’s home address,” Peggy said, “which is what I was hoping to find, but I did learn a few other things. For one thing, Paula does come from California, as she said. The store labels are all from Los Angeles shops. And for another thing, I learned that her name is really Paula Andrews and her parents do have an awful lot of money.”
“How did the clothes tell you that?” Amy asked, puzzled.
“Well, some of the clothes are custom-made, and they all have labels that read, ‘Designed for Paula Andrews by Helen de Mayne.’”
“Whew!” Amy whistled. “Isn’t Helen de Mayne that famous Hollywood designer who does costumes for the stars?”
“Right,” Peggy said. “And that’s all I’ve learned from the clothing.”
“I wonder if we need to know any more,” Amy said thoughtfully. “If we want to find out anything now, can’t we just check with Helen de Mayne? She could certainly tell us who Paula’s parents are, if she designs Paula’s clothes.”
“I thought of that,” Peggy said, “but I’d rather not unless we have no other way. I don’t want to stir up anything, and if we start asking questions about Paula, we’re going to have to give some answers about why we’re asking. I would want to know what the situation is before I started to do anything like that.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Amy said, “but where are you going to look next for more answers?”
Peggy glanced despairingly about the barren, impersonal room. It didn’t seem possible that it had any more information to yield, and she was already exhausted with the psychological strain of searching. She sat down on the daybed with a sigh of resignation.
“There is no place else to look,” she said. “There isn’t even a rug to hide anything under. Besides, I don’t think that Paula’s actually hiding anything. If she were, she wouldn’t have left that make-up kit around, and all those dresses with the special Helen de Mayne labels.”
“Why don’t we look in a Los Angeles phone book?” Amy suggested.
“Doesn’t make sense,” Peggy replied. “Paula probably didn’t have a phone listed under her own name anyway. And even if she did, we don’t know where she lived. It doesn’t have to be Los Angeles, just because she had her clothes made there. You’d have to get a hundred California phone books and then start to trace every Andrews listed. And even then you might never learn anything, because wealthy people often have phone numbers that aren’t listed in the directory.”
After a few more ideas were considered and rejected, Peggy said, “I’m afraid the only thing we can do now is confront Paula with what we know, and see if we can’t persuade her to tell us the rest, and to call her parents and let them know where she is.”
It was now nine-thirty, and they had done all they could do. It would be at least another half-hour before Greta brought Paula home for her surprise party. Time dragged slowly, with neither Amy nor Peggy able to find even the shadow of an idea of what to say or do.
Amy went back to the table to fuss with the arrangement of turkey, ham and cheese and to nervously try artistic little experiments with the potato salad.
Idly, Peggy looked over the small shelf of books to see if there was something that would help her pass the time until the party—a party that she now no longer looked forward to in the least. She selected a well-worn, leather-bound volume of the Complete Plays of Shakespeare, hoping that the old, familiar comic world of Twelfth Night would take her mind away from Paula’s problems.
She leaned back and opened the book, then sat bolt upright.
“This is it!” she almost shouted. “Amy! Here’s exactly what we’ve been looking for!”
“Shakespeare?” puzzled Amy.
“Paula’s address!” Peggy said. “Now we have something to go on—we have a way to find out who Paula’s parents are!” She thrust the book at Amy. “Here—look inside the front cover.”
In the round, neat, somewhat childish handwriting of a girl of perhaps eleven was written:
Paula Andrews
“Eagletop”
Canyon Road
Beverly Hills
Los Angeles
California
The United States
The Western Hemisphere
Earth
The Solar System
The Universe
“And that’s that,” said Peggy triumphantly.
There was still the party to be gotten through, and Peggy was so bothered by a sense of guilt at having ransacked Paula’s room that she was in no mood at all for the coming festivities.
It was nearly ten o’clock, and Peggy and Amy had barely enough time to put away the copy of Shakespeare, give a few last-minute finishing touches to the table setting, and tune in some music on the little bedside radio, when Paula and Greta arrived. On seeing her friends and the festive spread, Paula almost burst into tears, but instead, she caught hold of herself and started to laugh.
Peggy felt pleased, knowing that their gesture of friendship had touched a responsive chord in Paula’s reserve. At the same time, the pang of guilt quickened; she felt that she had betrayed the very friendship and trust she had been trying to cultivate.
Greta whispered to Peggy that seven members of the cast had contributed to the Paula Fund, exactly matching the amount given by the girls at the Gramercy Arms, and Peggy went swiftly to the kitchenette to place fourteen candles on top of the rosebud cake. While Greta and Amy kept Paula occupied, Peggy lit the candles and brought the cake to the table.
“We’re celebrating the fact that people are nice to people,” she explained, “if you only give them the chance. And that’s all the sermon that I intend to deliver this evening. We’re also celebrating the fact that you’re going to be able to eat this cake, and a lot more things besides beans and spaghetti from now on, Paula.”
But after this speech, which she felt was stuffy and sadly inadequate, Peggy couldn’t think of another thing to say. She was far too concerned with the night’s revelations about Paula, and about what they could possibly mean. Amy did much better in keeping up her end of the conversation, and Greta, of course, knowing nothing of what had happened, acted with perfect ease. In any case, Peggy thought, Paula was too excited and pleased with her party to notice how anyone was acting.
Not being the least bit hungry, Peggy forced herself to eat some of the cold cuts and cake, and to take a glass of milk. She could not help feeling like an awful hypocrite, sitting there and pretending to be a wholehearted friend to Paula, after she had just finished spying on her. Even if it had been—as it had—for her own good and the good of her obviously generous parents.
Fortunately for Peggy, the party did not last too long. Paula was tired from the night’s rehearsal which, even though short, had tried her strength. By eleven o’clock she began to yawn unobtrusively, and seemed relieved when her three friends said their farewells.
“Thank you,” she said warmly and with moist eyes, “for the lovely surprise party and—and everything else. And for being such good friends! I haven’t done anything to deserve such—”
“Nonsense!” Peggy interrupted firmly, cutting off any further thanks, and waving good-by as the elevator door slid shut. The girls rode down in silence, Peggy and Amy depressed, Greta looking at them curiously.
“All right,” Greta said when they reached the cool and empty street. “I could tell from the minute we came in that something was wrong. What is it?”
As they strolled slowly downtown, Peggy told Greta about the night’s events, starting with the discovery of the make-up kit and what it told her about the background and history of their secretive friend. She then told, shamefaced, of her deliberate decision to search Paula’s room to learn more.
“I couldn’t just turn my mind off!” she cried. “When I learned that Paula wasn’t a poor orphan after all, all I could think of was her parents and what they must be going through. I just had to find out how to reach them!”
“Nobody’s blaming you, Peggy,” Greta said. “I would have done the same thing myself. There’s no reason to feel that you did anything bad, and I’m sure that when Paula finds out, even she will feel that you only acted out of concern for others.”
Peggy respected Greta’s judgment, and her approval made things seem a lot better. With more confidence than before, and with no further apologies, she told Greta what she had learned from the labels in Paula’s clothes, and finally, about finding Paula’s home address in the copy of Shakespeare.
“Well,” Greta said, “you certainly learned a lot tonight. But the thing that puzzles me is what you’re going to do next in order to find out who her parents are without arousing all kinds of suspicions and trouble. That is, unless you just want to write or phone to ‘Eagletop’ and tell them about Paula and her whereabouts.”
“I’d rather not,” Peggy said. “I think it would be a lot better for Paula and her parents if she did that herself. But I also think that the only way to do it is to tell her that we know exactly who she is, and let her know that we intend to get in touch with her parents if she doesn’t do it herself.”
“I suppose we could do that with the information we already have,” Amy said thoughtfully.
“We could,” Peggy agreed, “but I would hate to blunder into something when we don’t have all the facts. When we find out just who Paula’s parents are, we may at the same time find some perfectly good reason why she shouldn’t call them. I’d like to give her the full benefit of the doubt until we have all the information we need.”
Greta nodded. “I think that makes sense,” she said.
“The only problem we have left now,” Peggy said with a frown, “is to find a way to get the information we need without stirring things up. If only we knew someone in Los Angeles we could trust, it would be easy. Do either of you have any ideas?”
Amy and Greta furrowed their brows and shook their heads.
Suddenly Greta slapped herself on the forehead and grinned. “Of course! Of course I know somebody—and so do you!”
“Who?” Peggy and Amy asked in chorus.
“Dot!” Greta said triumphantly. “Our housemate, Dot! You know she’s on tour with a show—and I know that her company is either in Los Angeles now, or is due to open there in a few days! We can get in touch with her at her hotel, and ask her to do some sleuthing for us. Besides, she comes from California in the first place, and she knows her way around Los Angeles. It should be easy for her to find out what we want to know!”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Peggy said enthusiastically. “Now all we have to do is go back to the Gramercy Arms and find her touring schedule and get in touch with her in Los Angeles. I can’t wait! Let’s hurry up, and if she’s in town now, we can phone right away!”
Greta looked at her watch. “If she is there, it’s too late to phone now. It’s eleven-thirty here, which makes it eight-thirty in California, and that means that the curtain is just getting ready to go up on the first act of her show. We’ll just have to be patient until tomorrow, and call her at her hotel.”
“If she’s in Los Angeles now,” Amy said.
“There’s only one way to find out,” Peggy commented, “and that’s to get back to the Gramercy Arms before May Berriman goes to bed, and ask to see Dot’s traveling schedule. Otherwise we’ll have to wait until tomorrow even to know where Dot is, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to get any sleep tonight unless I know.”
The girls increased their pace and covered the remaining blocks to Gramercy Park in record time. They hurried up the steep front steps of the Gramercy Arms, happy to see that the sitting-room light was on in May Berriman’s apartment.
As soon as the door was opened, Peggy, breathless with running and excitement, asked if they could see Dot’s itinerary. “And I’m sorry we’re bothering you so late,” she added, “but we saw your light on, and....”
May Berriman dismissed the apology with a small gesture of her expressive hands. “No trouble at all, Peggy,” she said. “When you get to be my age, you’ll find that sleep isn’t quite as attractive or necessary as it used to be. I personally resent having to give up perfectly good hours to what I consider an utter waste of time. Sit down, girls. I’ll have what you need in a minute.”
In less time than that, she was back with a sheet of notepaper, which she handed to Peggy. A moment’s looking, and a quick calculation of dates, brought a sigh of disappointment. Peggy looked at the expectant faces of Greta and Amy, and nodded unhappily.
“She’s still in Salt Lake City, according to this. The show closes there tonight, and they won’t arrive in Los Angeles for two more days.”
“What’s this all about?” May Berriman asked. “That is, if I’m not butting in on something that’s not my business.”
“It’s about Paula,” Peggy explained. “You know, the girl we’re all chipping in to help. We ... we’ve got an idea about something that may help her, only we need some information that’s in California, and we hope Dot can get it for us.”
“Well, Peggy,” May Berriman said with a smile, “when they give out prizes for artful dodging, I’m going to recommend you for a first! If you didn’t want to answer my question, you only had to say so.”
Blushing, Peggy stammered, “I ... I didn’t mean ... I mean, it’s not as if there’s anything to hide ... I just....”
“There’s no reason why we shouldn’t tell May,” Greta said. “Besides, she might have some ideas that could help us.”
“All right,” Peggy said, after a moment’s reflection. “I don’t mind at all telling you about Paula, May. That’s not the point. It’s just that I did something tonight that I’m a little uncomfortable about, and I didn’t like the idea of telling you about that. Still, I did it, and there’s no changing it, so you might as well know the kind of girl I am.”
“The kind of girls we are,” Amy commented. “After all, I did it, too, and I’m no more casual about it than you are.”
May Berriman sat down in her tall, straight-backed chair, folded her hands in her lap and assumed an attentive look. “You can start talking now,” she said a little sternly.
Peggy’s story did not take long, and when she was done, she looked anxiously at the owner of the Gramercy Arms. “Do you think we did the right thing?” she asked.
“Your motives in searching Paula’s room were certainly good ones,” May Berriman said judicially, “and you didn’t actually break in, even if you did enter on slightly false pretenses. All in all, I’d say that you haven’t anything to be ashamed of. I also like your decision to get the rest of the facts and talk to Paula about them before you contact her parents. That’s both wise and considerate.”
Peggy felt a sense of relief, knowing that May, a stern and impartial judge of her girls’ conduct, approved of her night’s undertaking. “It’s been a pretty difficult time, May, as you can well imagine,” she said. “But I suspect the next few days until Dot gets to Los Angeles will be even more difficult. The three of us are simply bursting with impatience.”
“Impatience,” May Berriman said in her most theatrical voice, “is for amateurs waiting in the wings ten minutes before their cue. My best advice to you is to relax—until it’s time to go on. There’s no way to hurry the action.”
Of course, May was right. There was no way to hurry the action. On the other hand, Peggy, Amy, and Greta found that there was also no easy way to relax. The next two days dragged by only as days can drag when you want nothing more than for them to come to an end.
Rehearsals, school, studying, all took up many hours, but for the first time since Come Closer had started casting, Peggy seemed to have extra hours in the day. And each of those extra hours seemed like a day in itself.
As she went through the now-familiar routine of crowded days and nights, she could not rid her mind of the thought of Paula Andrews and of—somewhere—Paula’s parents, wondering where she was. And as Paula began to bloom from her new, nourishing diet, Peggy seemed to fade with her preoccupations.
But nothing lasts forever, and soon the two long days were at an end.
The girls put in their phone call at noon, knowing that it was only nine in Los Angeles and that Dot would surely be asleep at that hour after a late arrival the night before. It seemed a pity to wake her, but it was better than waiting and taking a chance of missing her entirely.
“What? Who? Where?” Dot’s voice, fogged with sleep and confusion, came over the three thousand miles of telephone wire as clearly as if she had been next door.
“It’s me, Dot! Peggy Lane. In New York!”
“Why?” Dot demanded, this time a little less foggy. “It’s wonderful to hear your nice, friendly, wide-awake, noontime New York voice,” she said in her normal peppery manner, “but not when I was in the middle of a dream about landing a movie lead that was going to get me an Oscar!”
“I’m sorry to wake you, Dot,” Peggy said, “but this is important, and I didn’t want to find that you’d gone out. We want you to do a favor for us.”
“What is it?” Dot asked. “It must be darned important to spend all this money to call.”
“Dot, it’s too complicated to explain why I want you to do what I’m going to ask, so don’t ask why. I want you to go to a house called Eagletop, on Canyon Road in Beverly Hills, only don’t go in. I want you to find out, in whatever way you can, who lives there. Also, I’d like you to find out if they have a daughter and where she is.”
“And how am I going to do this without going in?” Dot asked. “And why can’t I go in, anyway? I could just ring the bell and ask—”
“No!” Peggy exclaimed. “That’s just what you can’t do. And I can’t go into the whys, as I said. I’ll write you a letter. Meanwhile, the important thing is to learn what you can, and not to let anyone in the house know that you’re asking questions.”
“Well, if you say it’s important to do it this way,” Dot answered, “I’ll do my best. But how...?”
“You’ll think of a way,” Peggy said cheerfully. “You’re a bright girl!”
“Thanks,” Dot said sourly. “Your compliment puts the whole thing on my shoulders ... which is what you had in mind, I guess.”
“Well, you know the city, and we don’t, and—” Peggy began.
“I know, I know,” Dot cut her off. “Don’t worry about it. I only have to know one thing more. What do you want me to do when I find the answers?”
“Call here,” Peggy said. “If I’m not here, tell Amy or Greta or May, but not one other person. Understand?”
“Okay,” Dot agreed, “and I feel a lot better, knowing May’s in on it.”
“Good. When do you think you can go up there?”
“Right after breakfast,” Dot said. “I’ll phone you by three this afternoon—that’s six in New York. Will you be there?”
“You bet!” Peggy said. “And thanks a million, Dot!”
Peggy replaced the phone and turned to her friends. “We’ll have whatever answers Dot can dig up today. She’ll phone us by six. That is, if she doesn’t go back to sleep again.”
“And if I know our Dot,” Greta commented, “that’s a darned big ‘if.’”
But Dot was as good as her word, and as resourceful as Peggy and her friends had hoped she would be. The call came through on time, the information was complete and accurate. Peggy put down the phone, turned to the expectant faces of Amy, Greta, and May, and slowly sat down as if in a daze.
“Wow!” she said quietly.
“What is it?” the girls asked in chorus.
“We’ve got our story,” Peggy said, “but I still don’t know exactly what to make of it.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake, tell us!” Greta said impatiently.
Peggy gathered her thoughts for a few seconds, drew a deep breath, and began. “Paula Andrews is the daughter of Stacy Blair and—”
“Stacy Blair? The actress?” Amy gasped.
“Yes,” Peggy said. “The one and only Stacy Blair. And her father is Dean Andrews, the producer and director.”
“Wow is the word all right,” Greta said.
“I knew she looked familiar,” Amy commented. “We all felt that we had seen her somewhere before. She looks like her mother. And no wonder she’s such a good actress.”
“This answers a lot of questions,” Peggy said. “But it leaves a lot of questions, too. The big one is, with parents like that, why would Paula pretend to be an orphan? And why would she go so far with the pretense as to actually starve herself?”
“I would say that’s a question only Paula can answer,” put in May Berriman, who had been silent until now. “And I think the best thing to do is to go directly to her, tell her what you know, and ask her to give you her full confidence. After all,” she added, “you have a right to know. She’s taking money and help from you girls on—well, on false pretenses. If you’re going to help her, at least you ought to know why.”
“The money isn’t important, May,” Peggy replied. “But there are important reasons for knowing. For one thing, her parents must be terribly worried about her. And for another thing, she’s the leading lady in our play. I don’t know what kind of publicity—good or bad—would come of having her discovered once we open. I think Mal and Randy should know about this, so as to make their decisions.”
The others agreed, knowing that it would be impossible for Paula to act in the play for long without being recognized.
“I suppose it’s not important,” Amy said, “but I can’t help wondering how Dot found out all this in such a short time.”
“She’s a smart gal,” Peggy answered. “She simply took her camera and bought a cheap autograph book and started walking around the streets in the Canyon Road area, pretending to be a movie-fan tourist. She struck up a conversation with a postman, and asked a lot of questions about who lived in the houses around her. Whenever she asked about a famous person’s house, she took a snapshot. When the postman saw she wasn’t going to actually disturb any of the people on his route, he let her walk with him, and he told her a lot about the people who lived in the area. That’s how she found out about Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, and about Paula. And she found out something else, too. Paula is supposed to be in Europe.”
“In Europe?” Greta asked. “How does she know that?”
“From the letters the postman delivers.”
“You’re not making sense. How can he?” Amy complained.
“That’s the peculiar part,” Peggy said, “and it’s what I meant when I said that there would be even more questions to answer. You see, Dot said that the postman told her he delivered letters from Paula, from different parts of Europe.”
“But Paula has been right here all the time!” Amy cried.
Peggy nodded slowly. “She’s been here for about three months that we know of for sure. And the postman said that she wrote to her parents regularly, at least once a week, until recently. He said that it’s been perhaps a month since they’ve had a letter, and that her parents seem pretty worried. Every so often they wait for the mail to come, and they ask him to look again, to be sure that they don’t have a letter from Paula.”
After a moment’s silence, while they all puzzled about the meaning of this latest development, May Berriman spoke decisively. “It seems to me that every minute we waste discussing the possibilities is a minute of uncertainty and unhappiness for this girl’s parents—and for her, too. Peggy, I think you should go right to her this minute and get to the bottom of the affair immediately.”
“Oh dear,” Peggy said unhappily. “I know you’re right, but I’ve been sort of trying to put it off. I just hate to be the one to tell her that we’ve been spying on her.”
“I know how you feel, Peggy,” May Berriman said, managing to sound gentle and stern at the same time, “but after all, you—”
“I know, May,” Peggy interrupted. “You don’t have to tell me. I started the whole thing, and it’s up to me to finish it. Besides, I’ve formed a closer friendship with Paula than any of the rest of you. You’re right. I’d better do it, and I’d better do it right away.”
As she started from the room, Amy stood up to follow. “Peggy,” she called, “I’m coming, too.”
“No, Amy,” Peggy said. “It’s good of you, but I think I’d better do it alone. It may be harder for me that way, but it will be easier for Paula. I’ll meet you all down at the theater as soon as I can get there.”
With a distracted wave of her hand, she left.
On the way to Paula’s apartment, she rehearsed several possible opening phrases, several tactful approaches to the problem of telling her friend that she knew her identity. Somehow, nothing seemed quite right, and when she finally stepped out of the little elevator and knocked on Paula’s door, her mind was blank. Paula greeted her with a smile.
“Peggy! What a nice surprise! I was just thinking of calling you up. I thought we might be able to have dinner together before going down to the theater tonight.”
“I’m glad I caught you before you went out,” Peggy said. “Paula. Sit down, will you? I—I want to talk to you. You see, this isn’t exactly a—well—a social visit, although it is a friendly one. I’m coming to you as a friend, to ask you to be honest with me.”
“Honest? Why, Peggy, I....” Paula’s voice trailed off, and she became pale and still.
“Yes, you know what I mean,” Peggy said. “It’s time to be honest about yourself—and honest with yourself. You can’t go on pretending to be what you’re not. I’m sorry, Paula, but I know all about you. I know who you are, and who your parents are, and I know that they think you’re in Europe. I’ve ... I’ve been snooping.”
“Have you talked to them?” Paula asked in a quavery voice. “Do they know where I am?”
“Nobody has talked to them,” Peggy assured her. “I think you ought to do that yourself.”
“Thank goodness!” Paula breathed. “But why...?”
“Why did I poke into your affairs?” Peggy supplied. “Because I was sure that you weren’t telling me the truth about yourself, and I was sure that your parents didn’t know where you were and that they were probably worried sick, whoever they were. I wanted to find out, so that I could help you. You must believe that. I didn’t do it out of personal curiosity, Paula, but just to help you.”
“I believe that, Peggy,” Paula said. “But really, it wasn’t necessary. My parents think I’m all right. They believe I’m in Europe, and they get letters from me, and—”
“No, they don’t,” Peggy interrupted. “They haven’t received a letter in almost a month.”
“Oh, no!” Paula gasped. “I was afraid of that! But how do you know, if you haven’t spoken to them?”
“Don’t bother about that now,” Peggy said. “I think the best thing is for you to start at the beginning and tell me the whole story. Then we can put the pieces together.”
Paula nodded in silent agreement, then drew a deep breath and started.
“My parents are wonderful people,” she began. “They’ve given me everything a girl could want, and I love them dearly. They’re both understanding and talented and charming and generous ... oh, all the things you want people to be! When I decided that I wanted to be an actress, they did everything they could to help me. I was sent to the best dramatic coaches and schools, introduced to all the people who would be good to know. They helped me get placed with the best repertory theater group in California, and when I started to get good parts, they saw to it that the leading critics came out to see me. I got wonderful notices, and I got a few movie offers, but—”
“But what?” Peggy asked. “It sounds as if you had everything in the world!”
“I did,” Paula answered. “Everything except self-confidence. I was never sure whether I was getting the good parts and the good reviews because I was me, or because I was my parents’ daughter. My mother is, well, very popular with all the show people in Hollywood, as well as being a famous actress. Nobody would ever do anything to hurt her. I was afraid I was being carried along because everybody wanted to be nice to her. And my father, too. He’s well-liked, and he’s also very—influential.”
“I see,” Peggy said thoughtfully. “And you wanted to try your talent on your own. But why didn’t you explain that to your parents?”
“They thought I was being foolish,” Paula said. “They told me that I should take whatever help I could get on my way to the stage, because once I got there, I would have to stand on my own feet anyway. Maybe they were right.”
“They were,” Peggy said decisively. “And it seems to me that we had this conversation once before, and I told you the same thing. You have to be willing to be helped. I think that you believe it a little more now than you did before.”
“I guess so,” Paula agreed. “But I certainly wasn’t convinced before. When I got the movie offers, I was afraid that I would be a failure. I wanted to be sure first that I could get a part and please an audience on my own merits. So I turned down the offers. I said that I wanted to complete my education first. I asked my parents to let me spend a year in Europe, so that I could learn a little more about people and the world. They agreed, on condition that I went with a friend. My friend Nancy Frome was planning to go abroad for a year anyway. She’s several years older than I, and my parents were satisfied to have me go with her.”
“And you arranged with her that she would mail previously written letters to your parents to convince them that you were in Europe, right?” Peggy put in.
“That’s right,” Paula said. “Nancy agreed to do that, and to mail me the letters my parents sent. That way, I could answer any specific questions and make my letters sound natural. I mailed my letters to my parents over to Nancy, and she posted them from Europe.”
“But what went wrong?” Peggy asked. “How come you ran out of money, if your parents gave you enough for a year in Europe? And how come your friend stopped sending letters home?”
“I don’t know, Peggy,” Paula said earnestly. “I’ve been worried to death about it. I haven’t heard from Nancy for almost a month. You see, that’s why I ran out of money. My parents naturally didn’t want me to carry too much cash with me, so they arranged to send regular monthly checks to me at the cities I was supposed to visit. As soon as the checks came to the hotel, Nancy would send them to me in New York, I would sign them and mail them back, and Nancy would cash them in Europe. That way, the bank markings on the backs of the checks wouldn’t be from New York, but from Paris, or Milan or Rome or wherever Nancy was. Then Nancy would send me a money order. The whole process only took about a week by air mail, and it worked fine for a while.”
“It sounds complicated, but it makes sense,” Peggy said. “That is, as much sense as it could make, once you had decided to do a foolish thing. But what went wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Paula repeated miserably. “All of a sudden the money stopped coming, and I didn’t get any letters from Nancy. At that point, I didn’t know what to do. I’m convinced that Nancy either must have had an accident, or else she’s ill, because I know that I can trust her. She must be unable to send mail. I’m scared! I would have quit the show and gone to Europe to find out, but by then I didn’t have any money left. My father’s London office probably could locate her right away, but I didn’t want to call my parents and tell them, because then no good at all would have come of the whole affair. I just kept hoping each day that I’d hear from Nancy. And meanwhile, opening night was coming closer, and I thought that if I could just hold out until then—and until I saw the notices in the papers—I could tell my parents, and maybe they’d understand.”
“Well, maybe so,” Peggy said, “but, to tell you the truth, Paula, I doubt it. They’ll surely understand your desire to prove yourself, but I can’t imagine that they’ll appreciate the way you chose to do it.”
Paula nodded, looking unhappier every minute.
“What do you think I ought to do, Peggy?”
“I think you ought to call them right now and tell them you’re all right. Then you can explain what you’ve done, and see what they say.”
“No! No, Peggy! I know you’re right, but I also know what they’d do! They would come right to New York, and they’re unable to travel anywhere without being recognized and followed by reporters and photographers. And once the newspapers get hold of a story like this, it’ll be all over the place, and when opening night is over, I’ll still not know whether I was good or not—or if I made a splash because of my name and my publicity.”
“But you can’t keep them worrying any longer!” Peggy exclaimed.
“It’s not much longer, Peggy,” Paula pleaded. “We open in three days—just three more days! Then I’ll tell them!”
“I think you’re doing the wrong thing,” Peggy said, “but I suppose there’s no way I can force you to do otherwise. Of course ... I can always call them myself, but I’d rather you did it.”
“Please, Peggy! Promise me you won’t do that!” Paula begged.
“I ... I’ll think it over,” Peggy said. “I don’t want to make any promises before I think.”
Both girls sat in unhappy silence for what seemed like a long time.
“Paula,” Peggy began after a while, “I hope you’ll forgive me for—”
“Of course,” Paula interrupted. “There’s nothing to forgive. I know you were doing it for my own good. And if it hadn’t been for you—”
Peggy cut her off with an impatient nod. “Please don’t thank me for that,” she said. “As long as you know I was just trying to help. And all I want to know now is that we can keep on being friends.”
“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” Paula said solemnly, “and I don’t know why you even want to have anything to do with someone who’s acted as selfishly and inconsiderately as I have.”
“It’s because I want to meet your famous parents!” Peggy said, laughing.
For a moment Paula was taken aback, then she too burst out laughing. The surface strain of the meeting was broken, and in a much lighter mood, the two girls left the apartment for dinner and the night’s rehearsal.
But Peggy knew that it was only the surface that was smooth. Underneath, she still felt the strain of the last hour—of the last weeks. She had been asked to give her promise to Paula, and she had not done so. The decision was still to be made, and until it was, Peggy knew that she would not have a moment’s peace.
During rehearsal that night, and afterward, Peggy managed to have as little contact with Paula as possible. She felt that they were both talked out on the subject by now, and any further conversation would only serve to confuse the issue, rather than clarify it.
Shortly after midnight, when Mal dismissed the cast, Peggy, Amy, and Greta made a quick and unobtrusive exit and hurried back to the Gramercy Arms to discuss the matter with May Berriman.
May had been expecting a meeting this evening, and was waiting for the girls in the huge and friendly kitchen downstairs. Hot chocolate perfumed the air, and a tray of warm, freshly made cookies was set out on the long sawbuck table.
When the girls were seated, and the chocolate had been poured, Peggy repeated what Paula had told her. She finished by telling of Paula’s request that nobody contact her parents until after opening night.
“And did you agree?” May Berriman asked.
“No,” Peggy said uneasily. “I couldn’t. But I didn’t say that I would call them either. I told her that I would have to think it over.”
“What have you decided?” May asked, in a voice like a conscience.
“... I haven’t really come to a decision yet, May,” Peggy said. “I’ve been thinking about it all evening.”
“Amy? Greta? What do you think?” May Berriman pursued.
The girls shook their heads and looked at each other.
“It seems to me,” the old actress said with slow dignity, “that Peggy made her decision some days ago, even before the whole story was known.”
“What do you mean?” Peggy asked.
“I mean that I remember you saying that people were more important than plays. And that, I presume, goes for careers, too. People, and people’s feelings, are the most important thing in the world. I think that you’ve already decided to call Paula’s parents.”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Peggy answered. “Even though I agree that people and their feelings are the most important thing. You see, I have to consider Paula’s feelings, too, don’t I?”
“No,” May Berriman said firmly. “She’s been considering her own feelings long enough, and all of you have done nothing but help her to continue her foolishness. Maybe it’s because of my age, but I can’t consider her feelings anywhere near as important as the feelings of her parents. They haven’t heard from her for a month. The checks they sent haven’t been cashed. They probably are frightened to death, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they had the police forces in half the countries of Europe searching for Paula. I think it’s time somebody put a stop to it.”
The girls considered what May had said, and silently sipped their chocolate. Nobody cared to say anything, Amy and Greta each having decided individually that the final decision must come from Peggy.
It was a long time until the silence was broken.
“All right, May,” Peggy said. “I can’t argue with you, because I know you’re right. There’s nothing to do but call them, and now’s as good a time as any.”
She glanced at the tall grandfather clock in the corner. “It’s not quite ten o’clock in California now,” she said. “I’ll go upstairs and call.”
“But what if it’s an unlisted phone number?” Amy asked.
“Oh-oh,” said Peggy. “You’re right, of course, Amy. A famous star like Stacy Blair would never have a listed number. She’d be bothered to death.” She sighed impatiently. “Well, I’ll just have to send her a wire.”
“Wait a minute, Peggy,” May Berriman said suddenly. “I know someone who’s a close friend of the Andrews, and she’s right here in New York. Let me call her. She’s bound to know their number.”
May went up the stairs with surprising agility while the three girls waited in excited silence. She soon returned waving a slip of paper and announced dramatically, “I’ve got it!”
Peggy stood up and crossed the room. May handed her the slip on which the number was written. At the foot of the stairs, Peggy paused and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Please wait up for me, will you?”
“You couldn’t get us to bed now at gunpoint!” Greta said.
Peggy went upstairs and put through the call. The Andrews telephone was answered by a woman.
“Andrews residence,” she said crisply.
“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Andrews,” Peggy said.
“Who is calling, please?”
“My name is Peggy Lane. She doesn’t know me, but I’m a friend of her daughter’s, and I have some information about her that I know Mrs. Andrews would want to hear.”
“About Miss Paula? Tell me! Is she all right? Where—?”
“Yes, yes, she’s all right,” Peggy said, somewhat impatiently. “Now, please, won’t you call Mrs. Andrews to the phone?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Lane,” the voice at the other end said, “but Mr. and Mrs. Andrews aren’t here.”
“When do you expect them back?” Peggy asked.
“I don’t know. They’re in New York now, on their way to Europe, if they haven’t left already. I believe they plan to catch a plane tonight.”
“Tonight! But ... what airline? How can I reach them if they haven’t left yet?”
“You might try the hotel in New York,” the maid said. “They had to stop over for plane connections, but I don’t know for how long. They always stay at the Plaza, and you might get them there.”
“Thank you,” Peggy said hurriedly. “I’ll call them right—”
“But wait!” the maid interrupted. “Tell me about Miss Paula! Where is she? Has she had an accident? What—?”
“She’s right here in New York!” Peggy cried. “And I can’t talk more now! I have to stop her parents before they fly off to Europe! Thank you—good-by!”
Peggy hurriedly hung up before the anxious woman could continue her questioning. Swiftly thumbing through the phone book, she picked out the number of the Plaza and dialed.
“I’m sorry,” a smooth clerkish voice answered, “but Mr. and Mrs. Andrews have already checked out.”
“When?” Peggy asked. “What time?”
“About a half hour ago,” the voice said calmly. “I believe they left for the airport.”
“I know,” Peggy said excitedly. “But which airline? Do you know, or is there any way you could find out?”
“One moment, please,” the voice replied. “Perhaps the bell captain knows.”
There was a clatter as the phone was placed on a marble surface, and Peggy waited nervously. In the background, she heard the dim noises of the hotel lobby, the thin sound of a dance tune, occasional small voices. For what seemed an endless stretch of time, she waited. At last, when it seemed that her nerves could stand not one moment more, she heard the phone being picked up.
“The bell captain says they were going to International Airways Terminal, miss,” the helpful voice said. “I’m sorry it took so much time, but I checked the doorman as well, to see if he overheard the taxi directions. Fortunately he did.”
“Thank you,” Peggy said fervently. “Thank you very much!” She rang off and then promptly dialed Randy.
A sleepy voice answered at the seventh ring. “Wha’?” Randy said.
“Randy, it’s Peggy. I’m sorry to wake you, but don’t stop to ask why. Just pull yourself together fast!”
“All right. Okay. I’m awake now,” Randy said. “What’s the trouble, Peggy?”
“I’ll explain later, when there’s time,” she said. “Right now, we haven’t a minute to lose. I want you to get dressed as fast as you can, and come right up here with the car. Make sure you have plenty of gas. I’ll be waiting.”
“But ... all right.” Randy said. “You don’t sound as if you’re kidding. I’ll see you in about ten minutes!” He hung up.
Peggy ran down to the kitchen.
“I’m afraid we’ve talked about things for too long,” she said dismally, “and acted a little too late. If only I had made up my mind an hour sooner!”
“What’s wrong?” Amy asked.
Peggy explained what had happened. “Now they’re on their way to Idlewild,” she concluded, “and I don’t know if we stand a chance of reaching them before they take off. Randy’s on his way here now, and we’re going to try to get there in time, even if it means getting a police escort or the worst speeding tickets they hand out! Mr. and Mrs. Andrews have over half an hour’s head start.”
“I think you have a good chance of making it,” May said calmly, “without exceeding the speed limits. If you are stopped by a policeman, you’ll lose more time than if Randy drives properly. Besides, their head start isn’t as great as you think it is. The airlines always make passengers arrive at least a half-hour before flight time, and most people allow even more time than that, in case of traffic delays. Still ... I admit, you haven’t got too much time to stand around talking.”
“Randy said he’d be here in ten minutes,” Peggy said, “and it’s just about that now. I’d better go. Keep your fingers crossed.” She darted up the stairs.
The two girls and May Berriman looked at each other.
“I suggest,” May Berriman said with an air of finality, “that we switch from cocoa to coffee. I think it’s going to be a long night, and I, for one, have no intention of trying to sleep until it’s all over.”
Peggy struggled into her coat and stepped out onto the front stoop of the Gramercy Arms just in time to see Randy’s sleek old English automobile turn the corner and pull up with a squeal of brakes in front of the steps.
She ran down the steps, wrenched open the door and slid in next to Randy.
“Idlewild Airport,” she gasped. “As fast as you can without getting stopped!”
“But—”
“No but’s,” she interrupted. “Let’s go!”
Randy put the big car smoothly into motion, turned east and headed for the Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive.
“We’re going to the International Airways Building,” Peggy said. “Do you know where it is?”
“Yes,” Randy answered. “And now that you’re settled down and have your breath back, do you mind telling me what’s happening?”
“It’s Paula,” Peggy said. “Paula’s mother is Stacy Blair, the movie star, and she’s going to Europe to hunt for Paula because she doesn’t know she’s right here in New York and we have to stop them before the plane leaves, and—”
“Wait a minute,” Randy interrupted. “Who thinks who’s in Europe and whom do we have to stop? You mean that Paula’s going to Europe to find her mother, or Paula’s mother is going to Europe to find Paula?”
“That’s right,” Peggy said. “I mean, the last thing you said is right. Paula’s mother and father are on their way to Idlewild now to catch a plane for Europe. They think Paula’s there. It’s simple.”
“It’s the most complicated piece of simplicity I’ve ever heard,” Randy commented. “Now why don’t you start from the beginning and tell it slowly and clearly? It’s not going to affect the time it takes to get to Idlewild, so you might as well relax.”
Of course it wasn’t simple, as Peggy realized once she tried to explain the whole affair. It was necessary to tell Randy how she found out about Paula, and what Paula had been trying to accomplish, and how she had found out that Paula’s parents were on their way. By the time she had finished telling it, they had left Manhattan behind them, and were speeding along the express highways of Long Island.
Every so often, coming to the top of one of the low rolling hills that make up the gigantic sandbar that is Long Island, Peggy could see the lights and towers of Manhattan, seeming never to drop much farther behind. She had, for a moment, the nightmare sensation of running, running, running with every possible effort, and getting nowhere at all.
Fortunately, the highways were nearly deserted at this late hour, and Randy was able to make good time. The powerful engine under the long hood of the big English car purred with a low, well-tuned sound as they raced through the night, past the darkened windows of houses and garden apartments. The speedometer needle quivered at the sixty mark, and Peggy kept glancing nervously behind her, expecting at any moment to see the flashing red light and hear the warning siren of a pursuing police patrol car, but none came.
Once they passed a lurking police car, waiting with darkened lights to catch a speeder, but Randy’s driving, though fast, was steady and unobtrusive. The patrol car stayed parked in the field alongside the road.
Finally, Peggy made out the searchlights of the airport, far ahead of them, and then the general glow in the sky that marked the landing strips, public buildings, lounges, and airline ticket offices.
As they approached the airport, Randy broke the silence. “I’ll drive straight to the International Airways Building,” he said, “and I’ll put the car in the employees’ parking lot. The regular parking lot takes a little more time, especially if we have to wait for a ticket. We can go right in from the employees’ lot, and worry about getting a ticket later.”
“How do we go about finding Mr. and Mrs. Andrews when we get there?” Peggy asked. “We don’t even know what plane they’re taking.”
“We shouldn’t have any trouble finding out about that,” Randy said. “I’m sure that even International Airways doesn’t have more than one plane bound for Europe at this time of night. We’ll look at the flight schedule board, and then head for the gate. At least there’s no problem about recognizing Paula’s mother when we do find her. She has one of the most famous faces in the world, I guess.”
By now they were on the approach road to Idlewild Airport, which looked like something out of a science-fiction movie. The highways curved in symmetrical patterns, crossing over and under each other, and arched over with slim, modern lamps. The airline terminal buildings, brightly lighted, were each different from the other, and different, too, from any buildings that Peggy had ever seen. One looked like a giant glass-and-steel mushroom; others, in the most modern shapes, defied simple description. The International Airways Building, one of the largest, was a long, square, crystal box, with soaring bridges and terraces connecting it to other buildings.
Randy drove under one of these bridges past the front entrance of the building, swung sharply to the right, and pulled the car into the parking lot reserved for pilots. Before anyone could come to question them, he and Peggy were out of the car, running for the entrance.
Inside, in sharp contrast to the deserted highways and sleeping landscape that they had just roared through, the terminal was alive with hurrying people. Loud-speakers were crackling with announcements, porters carried baggage in all directions, people stood in knots waiting for planes to leave or for planes to arrive. Peggy’s head swam with the excitement.
“This way!” Randy said, and grabbed her by the hand. He led her through a maze of people to a counter at the far side of the room. Behind the counter was a smartly uniformed young woman posting information on a large blackboard.
“Miss,” Randy called, “could you please tell me if there’s a plane leaving for Europe—or scheduled to leave for Europe—in the next few minutes?”
The girl smiled, stepped away from the blackboard which she had been obscuring, and pointed. “Take a look,” she said. “One left for Ireland about five minutes ago. Another takes off for Lisbon in ten minutes. Rome, fifteen minutes. Paris ... let’s see ... not for another half-hour. That enough for you?”
“Oh dear!” Peggy said. “We’ll never find them this way! Miss, we’re looking for some people who are probably scheduled to leave on one of those planes, but we don’t know which. Perhaps you can help us?”
“The General Agent has all the passenger lists,” the girl said. “You’ll find his office on the third floor, and I’m sure that you can get the information you want there.”
“But....” Peggy began.
“It’s quite simple,” the girl said efficiently. “Take the elevator to your left, and the General Agent will have your friends paged on the public address system....”
“Paged!” Peggy gasped.
“Oh, boy, are we stupid!” Randy said. “We should have done that in the first place, instead of taking this mad dash out here! Or we should have done that, too, or had the girls do it....”
“But there’s no time for that now!” Peggy said. “They might be boarding a plane this very minute!” She turned again to the now puzzled girl. “Maybe you’ve seen them,” she began. “We’re looking for—”
“I’m sorry,” the girl said primly, “but I’m not allowed to give any information about passengers, even if I do know their names. Which I never do.”
“We’re looking for Mr. and Mrs. Dean Andrews,” Peggy went on, ignoring the girl’s disclaimer. “She’s Stacy Blair, the famous movie—”
“Stacy Blair!” the girl exclaimed. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Of course I’ve seen her! How could anyone miss? Why, I never—”
“Has she left yet?” Randy interrupted.
“Not yet,” the girl said, annoyed at being cut off. “She’s scheduled to take the Lisbon plane that leaves in eight minutes. But if you’re looking for an autograph, you don’t have a chance. I tried myself, and she didn’t even look at me. She’s in some sort of a bad mood, and won’t talk to people. A lot of the girls and passengers tried, but—”
“Lisbon! Gate fifteen!” Peggy read from the notice board. “Thanks!” she called back to the uniformed girl as she and Randy hurried for the exit that led to the passenger loading gates.
They dashed past the gate attendant with a hurried explanation that they just had to see somebody off. Before he could stop them, they were racing down the long corridor past the numbered passenger gates. Through the broad windows, they could see a large jet plane, its door opened and a boarding ramp being wheeled up to its side. Through the trap below the plane, they saw luggage being loaded.
“That must be it!” Randy panted.
“Attention, please!” rasped the loud-speaker. “Your attention, please! Flight number two-oh-seven for Lisbon now taking on passengers at gate fifteen! Gate fifteen! Will all passengers for Lisbon please go to gate fifteen....”
“Good!” Peggy gasped. “We’re ahead of them! All we have to do is wait at the gate and we’re sure to see them!”
They slackened their pace somewhat, as they saw that nobody was at the loading gate but a uniformed airline official who was waiting to inspect the passengers’ tickets before letting them board. As they pulled up breathlessly at the railing, the man smiled.
“You didn’t have to rush,” he said. “We’re just boarding now, and we won’t be taking off for another ten minutes or so.”
“Oh, we’re not flying,” Peggy explained. “We just wanted to be here first so that we wouldn’t miss some people we want to see.”
“Oh, seeing off some friends,” the uniformed man said. “You must really be fond of them to come out at a late hour like this just for the fun of waving good-by!”
“Well, you might say that,” Randy said, reluctant to give away the real purpose of their visit.
“If you wait right here, you can’t miss them,” the man smiled. “In fact, here come the first ones now.”
Looking down the long corridor, Peggy and Randy saw a knot of passengers approaching at a leisurely pace. None of them seemed, even at this distance, to be Stacy Blair. Peggy cast a puzzled look at Randy.
“They’ll probably be along in a minute or two,” he said reassuringly. “I guess it’s only the new travelers who hurry to be the first on board.”
They stood quietly by as the passengers checked in, one by one, offering their tickets for inspection to the uniformed official. As each passenger passed through the gate, the inspector checked off his or her name against a master list on his little standing desk.
Peggy watched with mounting alarm as name after name was checked off, and still Paula’s parents did not appear. Catching her expression, the airline official paused in his paperwork.
“Say,” he said, “you’re not waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Blackstone, are you? Because if you are, I got word that they had canceled, and your trip out here would be for nothing.”
“No,” Peggy said, “not Blackstone. Why?”
“Because everybody else is on board already!” he replied. “Sure you have the right flight number?”
“I certainly hope so!” Peggy said. “Please, may I see your passenger list?”
“Sure. Help yourself.” He moved aside from the desk to let her look.
At the top of the list stood the names of Mr. and Mrs. Dean Andrews.
“This is the right flight, all right,” Peggy said. “We’re waiting to see Mr. and Mrs. Andrews—and they surely didn’t come on board!”
“Not when you were looking,” the man said with a grin. “Sorry, kids, but you’ll have to collect your autographs some other time. Mr. and Mrs. Andrews were allowed to board before the other passengers, just so they could avoid being noticed. It seems that everybody wants Stacy Blair’s autograph, and she had a headache or something. Tough luck!”
“We’re not autograph hunters,” Peggy said, “but we have to see Mr. and Mrs. Andrews! Can we please go on board? It’s very important!”
The man shook his head. “Sorry. It’s strictly against the rules.”
“But—”
“You sure are a persistent girl,” he interrupted, “but it’s not going to do you any good. Now why don’t you just run along and chase some other movie star? Mrs. Andrews asked to be left alone, and we’re going to do everything we can to see that her wishes are—Hey!”
Realizing that further discussion would be useless, Peggy decided that the time had come for direct action. She simply ran through the gate and out on to the field. Before the uniformed man could get around the railing and start in pursuit, she had already covered half the distance to the waiting jet.
“Stop!” She heard a shout behind her. Still running, she turned her head in time to see Randy grab the man by the sleeve to hold him back. Hoping that Randy wouldn’t get into a fight or in any serious trouble, she ran straight on and up the steps of the boarding ramp where a stewardess with a startled expression stood waiting for her.
Knowing what the answer would be to any explanations she might make, Peggy simply dashed past her, muttering, “Excuse me!” before the surprised girl could stop her.
In the softly lighted cabin, all that Peggy could see were the backs of heads. She knew that she must find Mr. and Mrs. Andrews in a hurry, or she would be put off the plane before she ever got a chance to speak to them. There was no time to go quietly from seat to seat looking for the familiar features of Paula’s mother. Peggy drew a deep breath, looked once around her, and shouted:
“Mr. Andrews! Mr. Andrews! Telegram!”
There was a sudden silence in the plane, then a murmur as heads swiveled around and saw a young girl standing in the aisle, nervously biting her lip. Among the heads was the beautiful but worn and strained face of Stacy Blair. Peggy ran down the aisle, the stewardess close behind her.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Mr. Andrews began angrily. “Who are you, and what do you—”
“Please!” Peggy interrupted, almost whispering. “It’s about Paula!”
The airline stewardess reached them, grabbed Peggy’s arm, and said, “I couldn’t stop her, Mr. Andrews! I’m sorry, but—”
“Wait, please!” Paula’s mother said, as the stewardess started to force Peggy away. The girl relaxed her grip. The famous actress looked at Peggy and said, “What about Paula?”
“She’s right here in New York,” Peggy whispered, conscious of the surrounding passengers, whose attention was riveted on the strange, dramatic scene. “I’m her friend, and I came to stop you from going to Europe. I’m sorry I caused such a fuss ... but they didn’t want to let me on the plane, and—”
“Wait, please,” Mr. Andrews interrupted in a quiet voice. “This is no place to talk.” He turned to his wife. “Stacy, we’re not taking this plane. Don’t say a word now. We’ll talk where it’s more private.”
Paula’s father instructed the baffled stewardess to see to it that their luggage was removed, then shepherded his wife and Peggy out of the plane, leaving behind a cabin full of puzzled, buzzing passengers.
“Are ... are you sure about this?” Paula’s mother said to her husband.
“No,” he said calmly, “but we can’t leave here until we are sure, one way or the other.”
At the passenger gate, they found Randy—uncomfortably under the guard of two airport policemen. The official who had tried to stop Peggy was sitting on a stool with an angry expression and what looked like the beginning of a classic black eye.
“This is my friend, Randy Brewster,” Peggy said. “He drove me out here, and it looks as if he had to do some fighting to see to it that I got on the plane.”
Randy grinned sheepishly. “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Andrews.”
Mr. Andrews smiled at Randy. To the policemen he said, “Let him come along with us, please.”
“I dunno, Mr. Andrews,” one of the policemen said. “I think Mr. Watkins here wants to hold him on an assault charge.”
“I was just trying to protect you, Mrs. Andrews,” the official said, “but if he is a friend of yours, as he says he is, I suppose I ought to apologize instead of pressing charges.”
“Yes, he’s a friend,” Mrs. Andrews said, adding under her breath, “at least I think he is!”
“Well ... no charge, then,” the uncomfortable Mr. Watkins said.
Randy was released and fell into step alongside Peggy and Paula’s parents as they walked down the corridor.
“This had better be on the up-and-up,” Mr. Andrews said darkly, “or I’ll see to it that both of you face a good deal more than a simple assault charge as a result of it!”
He cut off Peggy’s protestations, saying that he didn’t want to say one more word until they were seated in privacy in the airport restaurant. The next minutes until they reached their destination were spent in uncomfortable silence.
Once seated, after introductions and assurances that Paula was safe and well, Peggy recited the story that had by now become as familiar to her as her lines in the play. Carefully, omitting nothing, she explained what Paula had tried to do, and how things had gone wrong. She explained her own part in Paula’s life, and how she had decided, on May Berriman’s advice, to disregard her friend’s wishes and call her parents. Then she told of her fast detective work in tracing them to the hotel and the airport, and of the final dash for the plane.
“So there was nothing I could do but stand there and yell,” she concluded. “I’m sorry it caused such a fuss, but I didn’t know how else to find you before they put me off the plane. Anyway, that brings us to here.”
“It’s quite a story,” Mr. Andrews said. “Both of us are very grateful to you, Peggy, for the care you’ve taken of Paula and for your concern about us. And we’re grateful to you too, Randy,” he added.
“We are,” Paula’s mother echoed, a smile lighting her face. “Now, my dear, will you please take us to Paula?”
“I ... I was afraid you’d ask that,” Peggy said. “I will, of course, if you really insist on it, but I wish you’d think about it awhile first. Paula has gone through so much—and put both of you through so much, too—just to prove something to herself. If you go to her now, her whole effort will have been wasted. I think you ought to let her stay in obscurity for just a few days longer until we open the show, and give her the chance she wanted.”
“I understand your point of view, Peggy,” Paula’s mother said, “but can’t you understand mine? All I want is to see my daughter and be sure that she’s safe and well!”
“Can’t you take my word for that, please?” Peggy begged. “You’ve waited so long, what does it matter if you wait another three days until opening night? If you do that, then Paula will get the chance she wants, and I won’t feel so miserable about having called you when she asked me not to. I just want everybody—you two and Paula—to be happy. Won’t you please wait and give her a chance to prove to herself that she’s as good as we all know she is?”
“Is she good?” her mother asked fervently.
“She’s wonderful!” Peggy and Randy said in chorus.
“I knew it! I knew it!” The famous actress beamed. “I knew all those good reviews weren’t just because of us....”
“Then you had your doubts too, didn’t you, Mrs. Andrews?” Randy put in quickly.
“Why ... why, not really,” Paula’s mother answered, taken aback. “But, still....”
“But still, even though you were sure Paula is a good actress, you never knew for a fact that the critics sincerely thought so too!” Randy said.
“In a way, I suppose you’re right,” Mrs. Andrews said.
“Then you can understand Paula’s view?” Peggy asked.
“Yes. I can understand.”
“Peggy,” Mr. Andrews said, “I’m willing to wait a few days to see her, if you really think it’s best—and if my wife agrees. But what harm would it do for us to call her on the phone?”
“It would be the same thing,” Peggy said. “She’d know that you’re in town, and she’d start to suspect that you were doing things for her again. Besides, it might throw her into such a state of excitement that she wouldn’t do her best on opening night.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Paula’s mother said thoughtfully. “Nerves do get on edge close to opening, and from what you tell me, I can’t imagine that Paula’s are in the best of shape now.”
“Then you’ll wait?” Peggy asked.
“Yes, Peggy, I’ll wait. If only as a favor to you. Heaven knows, we owe you a favor for all you’ve done. Do you agree, dear?”
Mr. Andrews looked thoughtful. “All right,” he said at length. “But we’re going to be at the opening! We’ll sit in the back of the house so she won’t see us. My wife will have to wear a veil or a false mustache or something, but you can bet we’re going to be there!”
“We’ll put you in the projection booth!” Randy said. “You’ll have a perfect view, and nobody will see you at all!”
“Fine,” Mr. Andrews agreed. “And what do you want us to do until opening night? Shall we just hang around New York, or shall we lie low somewhere?”
“It does sound like a conspiracy, doesn’t it?” Peggy laughed.
“It is,” Paula’s mother said. “And Mr. Andrews has a point. We two are considered to be—well—newsworthy, you know. And while it’s not much of a story just to leave for Europe, it would be considered a story if the papers found out about our sudden cancellation of the trip. If that gets into the papers, and Paula sees it, she’ll know we’re in town, and she’ll probably be more nervous than ever. Shouldn’t we go somewhere?”
“We should,” Mr. Andrews said, getting up from the table. “And before we waste any more time, I’d better get hold of those policemen and that Mr. Watkins and see that they don’t start talking to any reporters about tonight.”
He returned somewhat later, looking pleased with himself.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ve taken care of them, and I’ve rented a car. We’re going to do something we’ve both wanted to do for years, and haven’t had time for. We’re taking a nice, leisurely sight-seeing trip by car. We won’t come back till opening night, and then we’ll go straight to the theater!”
Final plans were hurriedly made for the trip, and for the timing of their arrival on opening night, as Peggy and Randy walked Mr. and Mrs. Andrews to their waiting car. Good nights and thanks were exchanged once more.
By the time that Randy delivered Peggy to the doorstep of the Gramercy Arms, the first light of dawn was showing in the east. It was nearly five in the morning. Through the kitchen windows at street level, Peggy could see May Berriman, Amy, and Greta, surrounded by coffee cups, doggedly waiting up for her. It would still be awhile, she knew, before she would get to bed.
First Night!
A magic phrase and a magic moment to everyone in show business! The glitter, the jitters, the excitement of a first night are the same everywhere—for the big new Broadway show, with its stars, its lavish sets and costumes, its important audience in formal dress, as well as for the smallest theater in the smallest town in America. In high school and college auditoriums, in summer tents and barns, in tiny converted carriage-house theaters in the back streets of Greenwich Village, the glamour comes as always, and with it, the feverish excitement.
Last-minute problems suddenly arise, as suddenly are solved. Something is wrong with the second row of baby spots; they’re out of focus. Did someone move the lighting bar? Fix it! An important door, vital to certain entrances and exits, gets stuck. When you try to pull it, the canvas wall in which it is set trembles. Brace the canvas! Plane down the door jamb! Oil the hinges and the door latch! Better? Fine!
“Where’s the ladder? How can I fix those spots....”
“Who has some blue thread? This darned blouse....”
“I’ll never make that costume change in time! We’ll have to open the back and put in snaps, but there has to be a dresser to help me or....”
“Who took the tennis racket from this prop table? Come on! This is no time to fool around!”
“Where’s the ladder?”
“Mal, did you change the position of that sofa in Act Three, or am I just imagining it? If you did....”
“Yes, I restaged it in last night’s rehearsal. I thought it would....”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me? Now I have to relight the whole scene! You directors think that all you have to do is tell the actors! There are other people who are important too....”
“Sorry. Really, I am. Must have slipped my mind.”
“Slipped your mind? Well!”
“Please! This is no time for a quarrel. Here, let me show you....”
“Where’s that ladder? I have to have that ladder!”
“Who wanted blue thread? I found the sewing kit on top of the switchboard!”
“What time is it?”
“One ladder, coming up!”
“I wanted blue thread—but this is the wrong color blue. Do you think it will show from out front?”
“It’s seven o’clock!”
“Hold still, Peggy! I’m cutting the back open now, and I don’t want to hurt you. Do you turn your back to the audience at any time, or can I fake this hem, do you think?”
“Do I turn? Let me think ... No. You can fake it. But it has to look all right in a profile, because I cross a lot. Will I have a dresser right here?”
“I’ll be here, and we have a screen right by the switchboard ... or we should have one. Joe! What about that dressing screen off right?”
“As soon as you finish with that ladder, may I please....”
“All right, Peggy. Take it off now, and I’ll sew it up. Plenty of time!”
Peggy stepped behind the switchboard and slipped off the blouse, which now came off like a smock. The snaps in back would keep her from having to unbutton the whole front and then having to button it up again—a saving of at least a minute. And a minute is a long time. She put on a lightweight bathrobe, handed the blouse to the wardrobe mistress, and stepped out into the confusion of the stage, to see what was going on now.
On top of the tall extension ladder, Sam Marcus, the electrician, was fixing the position of the three end baby spots in order to light the sofa properly in its new position. Below him, Joe Banks, chief stagehand, was waiting impatiently to carry off the ladder as soon as it was free. Amy, on her hands and knees in front of the troublesome door, was tacking down a hump that had suddenly appeared in the canvas groundcloth, and which threatened to stop the door from opening. As Peggy approached her, she looked up and managed a grin, despite the fact that her mouth was full of long carpet tacks.
“Why, Grandma, what big teeth you have!” Peggy said, looking down at her friend.
“Mmph!” Amy said. She pounded in two more tacks, took the remaining few from between her lips, and surveyed her handiwork. “Think that’ll do?” she asked.
“It looks good to me,” Peggy replied. “Now let’s see what’s going to go wrong next!”
“There isn’t much left to go wrong that hasn’t already done so and been fixed at least twice.” Amy laughed. “Now, if everything will just be kind enough to hold together through tonight, I’ll be most grateful to Fate.”
Randy suddenly appeared through the door, which worked smoothly this time.
“I’m not worried about the costumes and sets holding together,” he said, “as much as I am about the play holding together. I suppose it’s just first-night jitters, but I have the terrible feeling that the whole play ought to be rewritten from beginning to end. But Mal won’t let me change so much as one single word now.”
“Randy! The play is beautiful,” Peggy said, “and I don’t think there’s a word in it that should be changed. Besides, you shouldn’t say things like that out loud, even if you feel them. Some of the cast might hear you, and they’re already nervous enough, without having to worry about the quality of the play.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Randy said moodily. “And anyway, it’s too late. How are the actors holding up? Are they really nervous? You look as cool as an orchid on ice.”
“I’m not,” Peggy said, “but if I’m going to fool the audience into thinking so, I have to start by fooling myself. The rest of the gang seem all right, too, except that their good-humored kidding around sounds suspiciously on the edge of hysteria!”
“How’s our leading lady?” Randy asked cautiously. “She looked a little strange when I saw her last, about an hour ago.”
“I don’t know,” Peggy said slowly. “She seemed ... strange ... to me, too. She wasn’t nervous, and she wasn’t kidding around with the rest of the cast, and at the same time, she didn’t seem cool and calm. She just looked sort of distant and detached. I think she’s collecting her strength, in a way—preparing herself to be Alison, rather than just to play her.”
“That’s the way it seemed to me,” Randy said. “It’s as if she has written a sort of pre-play ... you know, the action that takes place before the play begins. She’s figured out what Alison’s frame of mind must have been before she arrived at the resort, and that’s the part she’s playing now.”
“That’s just what it is,” Amy said. “I know, because I talked to her about it last night, and she told me that the hardest part of acting for her was what she had to imagine for herself before ever coming on stage. I’ll bet by now she’s completely forgotten that she’s Paula Andrews and an actress, and that nothing is real for her but the character of Alison. That’s what makes her so good.”
“She is good,” Randy agreed, “and she certainly is Alison. I only hope she doesn’t completely convince herself that she’s living this rather than playing it, or she might start making up her own lines! And, at that,” he added gloomily, “they’d probably be a lot better than the ones I wrote.”
With a theatrical gesture of mock despair, he backed through the doorway and gently shut the door.
“Here, Peggy! Try this on now!” It was the wardrobe mistress, back with the blouse.
“Amy! You’d better get changed and start to get the ushers ready!”
“Where’s that ladder now! Why can’t I ever find....”
“What time is it?”
“Try number four dimmer down and number three up at the same time, and with your other hand....”
“Who has the ladder?”
“It’s seven-forty!”
“I only have two hands, you know!”
“Did somebody call for the ladder? Who wanted that ladder?”
“No, no! Number four down and number three up, not number three down and number four up!”
“What time did you say?”
“Did anybody see the first-aid kit? I cut my finger on this gel frame.”
“Give me a hand with the ladder, will you? Just set it right here, under....”
“Look out! Don’t bleed all over the sofa!”
“It’s seven-forty-five.”
“Ouch!”
With all the past weeks of preparation, Peggy thought, you’d suppose that nothing at all would have to be left till the last moment, but somehow, no matter how well you planned, there was always something left undone. Or something that had to be redone. Less than an hour before curtain time, it seemed as if Come Closer had not the least chance of opening that night. But she knew that it would open, and she was sure that it would go smoothly and well. At least she hoped that she was sure.
Peggy went down the circular iron stairway to the dressing room she shared with Greta. It was time to start putting her make-up on. Greta was already applying the base, and the tiny room, no bigger than a closet, was perfumed with the peculiar odor of grease paint. Every inch of wall space except for the mirrors was covered with clothing—their own and their costumes—hanging from nails and hooks. A few garments were even suspended from some of the pipes that crisscrossed the low ceiling. The room was so narrow that when Peggy sat at the dressing table, the back of her chair was touching the wall behind her. The dressing table itself, a rough board counter covered with plastic shelving paper, was littered with bottles, jars, tubes, powder boxes, puffs, make-up brushes, eyebrow pencils, eye-liners, grease crayons, hairbrushes, combs, sprays, hairpins and other odds and ends.
Looking at the cramped, messy little room, Peggy suddenly thought of a movie she had seen, where several scenes took place in a star’s dressing room. It was an enormous room, she remembered, with a carved Victorian sofa and chairs grouped around a little marble tea table. At one side of the room had been an elaborate make-up table surmounted by a gold-framed mirror. On it were a very few bottles and jars. A pleated silk screen stood nearby, concealing an immense closet which held row upon row of costumes. Overhead was a crystal chandelier.
Peggy laughed out loud when she thought of the chandelier.
“What’s funny?” Greta asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Peggy said. “I was just thinking that the best thing about being an actress is the glamorous backstage life!”
“Five minutes!” called Dick Murphy, the stage manager. “Everybody ready in there?”
“All ready!” Peggy and Greta sang out.
“Five minutes!” they heard him call at the next door.
“Let’s go up,” Peggy said. “I’m dying to see what kind of house we have!”
“Murphy doesn’t want us up until he calls for places,” Greta said doubtfully.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Peggy said. “We’re both on within five minutes of curtain, and our places in the wings aren’t in anybody’s way.”
“All right,” Greta agreed, knowing that she was as eager as Peggy.
At the stage level, a few stagehands were making last-minute adjustments. Mal stood to one side, seemingly watching nothing at all. There was hardly a sound, except for the chatter of the audience, muted by the curtain that separated them from the stage. The hundreds of voices of the audience merged into a single sound, as the splashes of thousands of wavelets in a single wave combine to become the murmur of the sea. Peggy put her eye to the tiny peephole in the curtain. Almost every seat was already filled, and the ushers were leading a few last-minute arrivals down the aisles.
As she watched, the house lights began to dim, and the floods came up brightly. An expectant hush came over the audience. She felt a hand on her arm, and turned to see Dick Murphy, looking comically stern. He silently gestured with a nod of his head, to indicate that it was time for her to leave the stage. She took her place in the wings with the other waiting actors. They were silent and outwardly calm, but she could feel the tension in all of them.
A little behind them, seated on a suitcase that she would carry in with her, was Paula, wearing an expression that gave away nothing.
“Okay,” she heard Dick Murphy say. “Places!”
Alan Douglas and Betsy Crane stepped out onto the empty stage and sat in two widely separated lounge chairs. Alan spread his newspaper to read, and Betsy began to knit.
“Curtain!” Murphy said.
And the play was on.
“I was awful! I just know I was awful!” Peggy moaned. “I never felt so stiff and scared in my life! I think I must have walked like a mechanical doll! Oh, Greta!”
“You were fine,” Greta said. “I mean it. You know I’m too good a friend to lie to you. You were as natural as....”
“And I muffed two lines!” Peggy went on, as if she hadn’t even heard Greta.
“What lines?”
“Didn’t you notice? Two of my lines came out all wrong, and if Alan and Paula hadn’t picked them up and gone on as if nothing had happened, I don’t know what I would have done!”
“I never noticed,” Greta said. “And I guess that means the audience didn’t either. And they seemed to like it. That was one of the best first-act curtain receptions I ever heard. If they like the rest of the play as well, we’ve got a hit on our—”
“Don’t say it!” Peggy said. “It’s bad luck! Oh dear ... I don’t know how I’ll ever get through it!”
“You’ll get through it beautifully,” Greta said, “the same way you got through the first act.”
Reassured by Greta’s calm, businesslike manner, Peggy pulled herself together with an almost visible effort. “How much longer before we go on?” she asked. “Amy said she’d come back between acts with a report from out front. She should be here by now.”
“She is here,” Amy said from the doorway. “And the report from out front is great. You were both wonderful, and the play is perfect, and everybody in the whole cast is grand!”
“Amy, I’m afraid that as a reporter, you’re a good friend,” Greta said. “I’m glad you think it’s so good, but what I want to know is how is the audience reacting? What’s the intermission talk like?”
“I’ve just come back from the lounge,” Amy said, “and I couldn’t ask for better talk! Everybody is intrigued with the play, and they all seem to think the production is a sure hit. And they’re wild about Paula! I’ve never heard such talk in my life! Even the man from the Times and the man from the Post were smiling and talking about Paula!”
“I knew that Paula would make a hit,” Peggy said warmly. “Isn’t she good?”
“She couldn’t be better,” Amy agreed. “I just hope that she comes out of this between-the-acts trance of hers when the play is over.”
“She’s still doing that?” Peggy asked, concerned.
“Good!” Greta said. “As long as she keeps it up, I have a feeling that the play will go. Don’t worry about it. It’s just an especially strong case of character identification. She’ll be herself again when she reads the reviews in the morning.”
The lights flickered on and off.
“Oh-oh!” Amy said. “I’d better get back out front. See you between the acts again!” With a wave of her hand she was gone.
“Let’s go, Greta,” Peggy said. “We’re on.”
Peggy felt calmer, somehow, in Act Two than she had before. The first feelings of stage fright had left her, and she fell into her lines with a practiced ease. No longer worrying about the words or about the stage directions, both of which had been so drilled into her as to become second nature, she became aware of the audience in a new and pleasant way.
The faceless crowd out front was suddenly transformed for her into a large group of friendly people. They were not hostile. They were warm and eager to be pleased, interested in the play and the players. For the first time, she felt a communication between herself and them, and as she felt it, she realized that she was acting better, playing the part as she had never done in rehearsals. Her confidence grew, and with it, her pleasure in her craft. Peggy was learning how it really feels to be an actress.
The second act went smoothly and well. The cast was sharp and alert; no cues were missed; no lines were muffed. The timing was sharp and professional, and remained so as the pace increased to build to the shattering second-act curtain.
Watching it from the wings, Peggy was entranced with Paula and all the supporting cast. If she had thought that this scene was already worked to perfection in rehearsals, she had been mistaken. Now, in the presence of the audience, a new life and vigor suffused Paula, and a new note of urgency was felt. At the climax of the scene, when Paula collapsed in tears and the actors standing round her seemed almost to flicker from one personality to the other, the silence in the theater was electric.
The curtain descended and, a moment later, the audience burst into thunderous applause. Peggy, limp with excitement, watched in almost shocked surprise as Paula rose from the stage. She had half expected her to remain sobbing on the floor as she had done in rehearsals, but now, when Paula stood up, Peggy saw that her face was suffused with a smile of pure girlish delight. She was good! The audience knew she was good ... the cast knew she was good ... and—most important—she now knew it herself. Radiantly, she came to Peggy and said, in a quiet and controlled voice, “I think we’re doing well, don’t you?”
Then both of them laughed aloud, knowing beyond all shadow of a doubt that this was the understatement of the evening.
A few minutes before the third act, Randy knocked at the dressing-room door.
“Come in,” Peggy said. “We’re decent.”
“You’re more than decent,” Randy said with a grin, “you’re marvelous! Both of you,” he added, with a nod to Greta.
“Thank you,” Greta said. “And now, if I know anythink about anything, I think I’d better leave you two alone!”
“Greta!” Peggy said in confusion. “I don’t know what you mean by....”
“You tell her, Randy,” Greta said, edging past him. “But don’t take too long. We’re on in a few minutes.”
“She’s ... she’s just being silly,” Peggy said, blushing.
“Is she?” Randy asked innocently. “I thought she was making perfect sense!”
Peggy began carefully to inspect her make-up and touch up her eyebrows.
“Don’t get so shy all of a sudden,” Randy said. “Besides, I didn’t come here to ... well, I mean, I had no intention....” He paused awkwardly. “Anyway,” he finished, “at least not now, I didn’t. I really came to tell you that I’ve been to see Paula’s parents in the projection booth, and I’ve never seen two happier people in my life. If they glowed any more than they’re doing now, they’d throw the whole lighting plan out of kilter!”
“Then they don’t mind having waited to see Paula?” Peggy asked.
“Not at all. They feel sure now that you were right. Mrs. Andrews said that she wouldn’t have done anything that could have hurt Paula’s performance. And what a performance!”
The lights flicked off and on, warning them that curtain time was near.
“I’d better go,” Randy said. “I just wanted to tell you I’d seen them, and also to tell you that we’re all invited to a party they’re giving after the show. They want to wait up for the first editions of the papers to see what kind of reviews we get.”
“Will we get reviews in the first editions?” Peggy asked. “I thought only the first-string critics did that, for important show openings.”
“That’s right,” Randy said, helping Peggy up the circular stair. “And we’ve got the first-string critics! That’s the one piece of ‘interference’ that Mr. Andrews indulged in. He called the newspaper reviewers and told them that he had heard of the show, and that it would be worth their while to cover it themselves, instead of sending assistants the way they do with so many off-Broadway openings. Apparently a word from him is all it takes, because they’re all out there ... and a lot of other important people, too!”
“Oh dear!” said Peggy. “I wish you hadn’t told me! It’s going to make the whole thing difficult all over again!”
“Places!” Murphy called.
“So long!” Randy said, and left, but not before he had quickly placed a kiss on the back of Peggy’s neck, where it wouldn’t spoil her make-up.
Peggy was writing a letter to Jean Wilson, her friend back home in Rockport, Wisconsin. She was already on the third page.
... so Paula’s parents agreed to stay out of sight until after opening night. As you can see from the clippings I’ve enclosed, the play went off wonderfully. Every paper loved us—and the whole audience, too. At the final curtain, they wouldn’t let us off! We got curtain after curtain, and I thought the applause would never stop for Paula. She got seven solo curtain calls! (I shouldn’t brag, but I got two myself.)
When Paula was handed an enormous bouquet of roses somewhere along about the third or fourth curtain call, and when she saw that the card on them was from her mother and father, I thought she was going to fly around the stage like Peter Pan! She managed to keep her head, though, and they kept out of sight in the projection booth until all the critics and everybody else had left the theater. They didn’t want Paula to think that their presence had any effect on whatever it was the critics were going to write.
I don’t think it would have mattered, anyway. When I saw Paula right after the final curtain, she said that she had lost all her silly fears, and that she didn’t even care about the reviews, because she knew for herself what she was worth. I’m glad she finally figured it out!
After it was all over, Mr. and Mrs. Andrews gave a party for the cast—and you’ll never guess where! It was at Sir Brian Alwyne’s house! It seems that they’re old friends of Sir Brian—as I told you, he’s really interested in the theater—and that explains why Paula wouldn’t go there for the audition. Sir Brian has known her since she was a child, and he knew that she was supposed to be in Europe. When she heard that the audition was to be at his home, Paula just panicked. She didn’t know what to do, so she ran.
Sir Brian was very charming to me at the party. He said that although he was pleased that Paula had played the lead, and although she had done a magnificent job, he had been looking forward to seeing me in the part. I thought it was very sweet of him.
It was a wonderful party. We stayed up almost all night, until the early editions of the papers came out, and then we sat around reading the best phrases out of each of the reviews, and repeating them to each other endlessly.
We owe a lot to Paula’s parents for getting the top critics down to see us. And we also owe them a lot for getting other people to come too. The play has been running for a week now and we’ve actually had to put up the S.R.O. sign (“standing room only,” you know). Let me tell you about a few of the good things that have happened.
First, Paula. After the opening, she got two major movie studio contract offers again, and right now she’s in the process of deciding which one to take. She has all the confidence in the world—as well as all the talent—and she has definitely decided to go into the movies. But she has told both the studios that she won’t be available until the play is over, because she wants to play out the entire run at the Penthouse Theater. It’s darned nice of her, because we have no run-of-play contract with anybody in the cast. Still, looking at it honestly, and in as practical a light as I can, I guess she does owe us something. But not as much as we owe her for being as good as she was! (And is.)
Next, Randy. One of the biggest Broadway producers (I’m not allowed to say who) has bought an option on Randy’s next play. That means that, if he likes it, he’ll produce it in a Broadway theater! Not only that, but he wants Mal to direct it, because he says that Mal is a wonderful director, and has an obvious sympathy and understanding for Randy’s work. Just think, Jean, my friends may be the new celebrities of the theater world!
Then there’s Greta. She’s been offered a leading role in the national company of Moonbeam, which is the biggest hit on Broadway today. They start on tour in two months, so we’re going to have to find a replacement for her. I’ll miss her, but it’s a wonderful break, and she’d be wrong to turn it down.
Some of the other cast members have done well, too, but I don’t want to bore you with a lot of details about people you don’t know, and don’t really care about. It’s enough to say that we all feel that we’ve hit a jackpot.
Finally, there’s me. I don’t have any real offers yet, or anything like that, but I did get some really good notices—you’ll see when you read them—and two producers have sent me nice notes asking me to come to see them when I have time. But I did get one very important thing out of it already. I have an agent!
That may not sound like much, but the good agents won’t even talk to a beginning actress. I have been signed by N.A.R. (National Artists’ Representatives) and they’re nearly the biggest in the business! Randy says that being signed by them is almost a guarantee of steady work, so I guess I can really start to call myself an actress now! It’s a good thing, too, because school is coming to an end, and unless I want to go back to Rockport and college, I’m going to have to keep acting and making a living at it.
Don’t misunderstand me, Jean. I have nothing against college. In fact, I really miss it sometimes, the same way I miss you and a few of my other good friends. But it just isn’t acting, and for me, nothing will ever be as good as being on stage!
I wish you could come to New York next week with Mother and Dad when they come to see the play, but I know how busy you are with school. If we’re still running by summer, will you make the trip?
But of course we’ll still be running by summer!
We’ve got a hit! And we know it! and there’s nothing better than that!
More next time, from Peggy
In the second book of a thrilling new series for girls, Peggy Lane, aspiring young actress, takes her first important step up the ladder of success. She lands a small part in Randy Brewster’s experimental play Come Closer—a part she secretly suspects Randy wrote especially for her.
Unknowns all, the cast is headed by lovely Paula Andrews, an inspiration on stage but something of a problem otherwise. Hits don’t just happen for an experimental group. They are created out of hardships and disappointments. The show’s production is threatened with financial difficulties, and everyone’s hopes now depend on the special presentation they are to give for a prospective backer. When Paula, at the last minute, backs out, Mal Seton, the director, blows up. Peggy, he says, can have the part.
Peggy, knowing she is not yet ready for a leading role, proposes a radical solution. Then, trying to help Paula, who appears tense and troubled, Peggy inadvertently discovers a mystery that cannot be unraveled until Peggy herself resolves a dilemma!
Peggy Finds the Theater
Peggy Plays Off-Broadway
Peggy Goes Straw Hat
Peggy on the Road