“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 forCome 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.
Preparing for an evening’s date
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—thensit 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!
“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 evenheardof 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.”