We're Running a Little Late

Breakfast had been ordered to be served promptly at noon and all orders which come out of The Rainbow Suite receive special attention. Whoever occupies it is important.

Antonio, the breakfast waiter, stood before its main doors. He checked the table; checked his busboy, Benny; checked himself; then pressed the door buzzer, firmly. As his finger came away he shivered slightly and his face became damp, because there, hanging on the door knob, was a sign reading Do not disturb, in print, and I Mean it! in lipstick. Antonio turned to Benny, aghast, and began to tiptoe backward, beckoning Benny to do likewise. The door was flung open. A statuesque blonde stood there, her hair tousled, herself beautiful beyond compare even without make-up, and wearing a chiffon finger-tip-length nightgown with the morning sunlight streaming through behind it. Antonio and Benny, who had never before seen this creature in person, stood rooted. Antonio tried to say "Good morning," but nothing came out. Benny nodded once or twice, stupidly.

She spoke. A single word. The word was "Whatthehellsthematterwithyouyoustupidgoddamjerkcantyoureadthegoddamsign?" She vanished in a door slam that knocked the vase full of princess roses into the imported Bar-le-Duc.

"Movie stars," muttered Antonio. "I like to see every movie star dead in the grave."

"Her?" said Benny, incredulously.

They began backing up again but stopped and turned as a booming voice exploded behind them.

"Good morning!" it said, emphasizing the first word.

Antonio and Benny joined in a single horrified "SSSHHH!!"

The voice was surrounded by a grayflecked crew cut, a sun-tanned face, a tight tab collar, a slim-slim tie, an Italian suit and English shoes.

"Relax," it said. Its owner located a key to The Rainbow Suite on his chain, unlocked the door, and beckoned the breakfast bearers in.

"You sure all this is all right?" asked Antonio.

"I'm Tink Tremaine," said Tink Tremaine, with casual importance, and started for the bedroom.

"Oh," said Antonio, impressed. He had never heard the name before.

The table was wheeled out onto the terrace and swiftly arranged.

In the roomy bedroom of The Rainbow Suite, Tink stood beside the bed, talking to a lump under the covers.

"But it's 12 o'clock, sugar. After."

"Be gn doo an kr bl!" said the lump.

"We've got a fat pad today. Split-second timing or we're cooked. Come on, champ, on your feet."

"Dr ol gzv."

"Watch your language!" he said, sharply. "Somebody might be out there."

"Hrr?"

"--maybe the first appointment a little early. A million-and-a-half-buck cigarette campaign tie-up if we play our cards right."

In a swift and graceful metamorphosis, the lump became a hunched-up (continued on page 74)A Little Late(continued from page 71) bundle of beauty.

"I'm sleepy!" she wailed.

"You can sleep next week."

"Next week I'll be dead!" she said with passionate conviction, becoming a lump again.

He grasped one corner of the bed covering and, using both hands, pulled it to the floor. The exposed lump quivered, rolled off of the bed, and marched toward the bathroom with what remained of dignity.

"Your slip is showing," he said.

She turned at the bathroom door and stuck out a singularly long tongue.

Ten minutes later, on the terrace, she was saying, "Oh, do have a cup. It's a special brew they do for me in Lahore."

"How long were you there?" asked her bearded caller.

"Eleven weeks," she replied. "We were four over schedule."

"Weather foul-up," explained Tink. "Nothing to do with the nova here. It was just the rainy season. Leave it to our glandular location department to mismate time and place."

"I was right on the ball all the time," she said, getting the idea. "Wasn't I?"

"Right on," nodded Tink. "We're working on an angle now to get you the Nobel Prize for Being On Ball, in fact."

She did not laugh until after the men did.

"What's nova?" she asked. "By the way."

"Means New Star," replied Tink, turning his back on her.

"Oh."

"Seriously, though," he continued, "this kid's a trouper. No one like her since Lombard in that department. This India thing? Within two, three weeks she was going around wearing nothing but these shahries."

"Sorry," she corrected.

"What?"

"Sorry. That's how you say it if you want to say sari. You say sorry."

"What I said."

"No."

"I said you ran around wearing sorries all the time."

She looked at the visitor. "At the studio we've got a saying: 'Never argue with PR'"

"Say!" shouted the bearded man, suddenly on his feet. "I've got one hell of a flash!"

"Like what?" asked Tink, innocently.

"A layout. Her in one of those things. Maybe a green one. You got a green one? And I can get these emeralds on loan from Glaenzer like you've never seen."

"I appreciate emeralds," she said simply.

"Some kind of a nothing background," he continued as he paced the terrace, creating, "and just a full figure stand-up."

"If you want," she added helpfully, "I could paint one of those little red dinguses right here on my forehead, like they do."

"I don't think so," said Tink, cautiously.

"Good with emeralds," she insisted. "Red and green."

"We'll skip the dingus," said Tink.

"But what do you think?" enthused the guest. "Wouldn't that make one hell of an eye-catcher for the broadside? Plus which, you've got one hell of an incongruity factor going for you. I mean, it's almost as thought you had, say, a nun smoking -- which of course you can't use on account of the bad taste factor. But her in a -- how did you say it? -- shorry -- with a cigarette. Man!"

"Yes," replied Tink, judiciously, "it might be very decorative and, of course, from our point of view it's plus because it ties right in with the picture."

"That's what I say."

"Would you like to see one?" offered The New Star, brightly.

"No," said Tink, "that won't be necessary."

"But I'd like to show him." she protested. "How I know how to wrap it around and everything. There's six different ways and I can do them all. I used to practice with Sama -- she was my maid? my Indian maid? -- half the night sometimes." She shrugged. "What else did we have to do?" She started out of the room.

"Not now," said Tink, firmly.

"I'd like it," said the bearded man, even more firmly.

The New Star stood in the doorway for a moment considering the tension, then said, "I'll be right back."

Tink looked at his watch. "Hurry up," he shouted after her. "We're running a little late!"

There are things which cannot be done both well and hurriedly. Sari-winding is one of these. By the time the six ways were wound and unwound, poses discussed and photographic appointments made, Tink was keyed up to a behind-schedule pitch from which he was not to recover for the rest of the day.

• • •

In the air-conditioned limousine taking them from the hotel to their luncheon engagement at the Chambord, Tink attempted to be patient.

"... and your eye on me! That doesn't mean you have to look at me all the time, but when a question comes up, then look at me and either I'll give you the office to go ahead or I'll jump in for you."

"OK," she murmured, studying her reflection.

"And don't be apathetic. That's the worst thing you can do."

She looked at him. "Apawhat?"

"Bored. To be bored."

"That's not the worst thing I can do," she said evenly.

"Now look, sugar. We'll save a lot of wear and tear if we get a few things straight. You've got a job and I've got a job. You're not doing me any favors and I'm not doing you any favors."

"Who said?"

"And don't give me a hard time because I can play rough, too."

"You look it."

"See, all this is new to you but I've been uping and downing this roller coaster since before sound and I can steer you pretty. That is, if you're interested."

"Sure."

"But in what? In getting to be somebody, or last year's blonde?"

"Is all this ----"

"Don't talk so much," he interrupted. "The less you say, the smarter they'll think you are. Just look that faraway look of yours." She responded at once. "That's right, mysterious." He consulted his notebook and went on. "Now. The deal coming up is about arrangements for Sunday night. The Sullivan show. Ed Sullivan."

"Will he be here?" she asked.

"Maybe. The guy who will for sure is Mario Lewis. He's the producer. Say it."

"Marlo Lewis."

"Him you call Marlo. Say it."

"Marlo."

"The other guy'll be the writer, Al Rudin. Say it."

"Al Rudin."

"Him you call Mr. Rudin."

"Mr. Rudin."

"OK, let's check that. The producer -- that's the tall, good-looking guy."

"Marlo," she said.

"Good."

"Mr. Rudin," she chirped.

"That's it. Nothing but cooperative today. Whatever they suggest is OK with you. If there's something we don't want to do or say, we straighten it out later, but today everything is hooray."

"Yes."

"Good."

"Except anything undignified," she offered.

He shut his eyes, tightly, and said, "Your dignity is absolutely safe in my hands, sugar."

"I hope so."

"You just play the game and I won't say anything to anybody about those location fits you threw and put the picture four and a half weeks over schedule."

They looked at one another.

(continued on page 92)A Little Late(continued from page 74)

"What're you," she asked, her prettiness disappearing, "the cleverest kid in the class?"

"In the school."

The car drew up in front of the Chambord.

"Just don't get too ----" she said, pulling on her gloves.

"Let's go," he said, getting out of the car. "We're running a little late."

• • •

Everything at the Chambord is cooked to order and. in an effort to impress the distinguished party, even more time than usual had been consumed. Except for having run overtime, however, the meeting had been a success. The New Star had been laconic and charming, the television people most understanding. As Tink skillfully led the discussion, he simultaneously tried to rearrange the over-crowded schedule. He saw now that at least one whole appointment would have to be canceled.

At the curb, the farewells were suddenly abrupt. "Thanks a lot, fellows, we've got to step." said Tink.

"See you soon," she was saying, as he swung her into the car. They drove off.

"On the double, huh, Charlie?" he said to the chauffeur.

"Where to? Be nice to know."

Tink consulted his notebook again. "UN Building," he said and closed the glass partition which separated them from the driver.

"What's there?" she frowned.

"No problems -- a little handshaking and some pictures with the Indian delegation."

"Stills?" she asked.

"Maybe a little newsreel stuff, too."

"No newsreels," she said.

"Why not?"

"You come out looking like a hungover freak, that's why not."

Tink took off His hat, put it back on, and rolled his tongue over his gums.

"Baby," he said, "remember what I was telling you a while ago?"

"When?"

"About let me handle it?"

She breathed three or four deep breaths.

"Well, if they're going to shoot film," she said, "I'll have to put my caps on."

"On your teeth?"

"Wha'd'y' think? On your teeth?" She began to search her handbag. "For stills it's all right, but on film you have to open your chops once in a while." She found a small gold box and from it took her dentures one by one, snapping them onto her front teeth, expertly. For some hidden reason, the act unnerved Tink.

"Why didn't you do that before?" he snapped, turning away.

She shouted at the back of his neck, using the same high note for each word. "Because last week I did and they came off in my lunch! Satisfied?"

The United Nations Building came into view.

• • •

While she was being photographed with the Indian delegates, Tink went to a telephone and postponed her appointment with William Peper of the World-Telegram to the following day. As a result of this, the following day began to take on its own nightmare quality. At 3:30 (running only half an hour late) she recorded an interview with Tex and Jinx.

At 4:15 (45 minutes late) she turned up at a meeting of the studio's sales department and was rushed out before the complete staff was aware that she had arrived.

On the way back to the hotel she had her say. "Better not to go at all, rather than an in and out like that."

"Quiet."

"You had to drag me out like some stunt dummy just when I'm talking to the people who have to sell me? The one thing I don't want to get is the reputation for stuck-up."

"Everybody loves you."

"But if the sales department ----"

"Listen! This next is the big one. Here's where we go for the biggest score in the business."

"I know, but ----"

"The way they work it is they put these people on and they'll do a lot of stuff -- research, writing, pictures -- but they don't know yet if it's going to be a shot or a page or a spread or a cover or a whoknowswhat. It could turn out anything. Depending."

"On what?"

"On how the whole setup strikes them as they go along -- and the whole personality."

"Don't worry about my personality."

"Will you for the love of----?" He pinched his eyes, then continued, in control.

"You give them the right kind of jazz, you're liable to wind up on the front, but if all they get is a lot of wet lips and cheesecake, it could turn out a big nothing. Remember that Marlon Brando spread eating corn flakes out of a box and playing a flute? Stuff like that."

"Playing a flute?"

"An example. It's got to have color and----"

"For color I have to change my make-up."

"No, I don't mean -- no, when I say color -- I don't mean color, I mean ----" He took off his hat and stretched his facial muscles. "Oh, brother!" he murmured.

"You mean like taking a shower?"

"Been done."

"Well, let them think of something."

"They will."

"How long is this session anyway?"

He glanced at his notebook. "Hour and a half."

"And a half!" she exploded.

He bounced, nervously. "Don't do that, will you?"

"And a half!" she repeated, with less volume but more intensity.

"This is the biggest break in show business, you cluck," he yelled. "And I assure you it's worth two hours, three, four, seven of your valuable uranium time! Now pipe down and stop bugging me before I hang one on you!"

They drove along in silence. The driver turned around to study them, briefly. After a time, she spoke:

"Where'd you get that temper?" she asked. "It's a beaut." He studied his notebook without replying. "That's what happened to my uncle," she added.

He looked up. "What?"

"The one who brought me up," she explained. "And my aunt."

He looked at her. "Start from the beginning," he said quietly.

"That's how he died. He gave one yipe like that and keeled over."

"Who was he yipeing at?"

"Me."

He nodded. "What I thought."

They reached the hotel. Upstairs they found Miss Richter, Tink's secretary, going over some background files with Helen Ort, the researcher.

"Sorry, Helen," he said. "We're running a little late."

The New Star came forward, both hands outstretched. "Hello," she said. Miss Ort took one of the hands.

"Miss Ort. Miss Apoplexy," he said, introducing.

She started for the bedroom.

"There's a man in there," warned Miss Richter.

"One of ours," explained Miss Ort.

In the bedroom a tall, rangy young man stood on a chair, shoeless, affixing a small spotlight to the wall. He turned as she came in.

She approached the chair and offered up her hand. He took it for a moment. She went to the dressing table and took off her hat. She looked back in his direction and found him still standing on the chair, watching her. She spoke slowly and somewhat tremulously. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

"Put on your glasses, why don't you?" he suggested.

"How come you know so much about me and glasses?" she asked.

He stepped off of the chair and came to her. When he was close enough, he leaned down and brought his face close to hers.

"Holy God, Steve," she whispered.

"Got it on the first guess," he said.

Tink came in, asking, "Well, how goes?"

"Fine," said Steve. "All set."

"Any special angle?"

"Well, no -- but I thought we might start with a little bedroom gonk."

"Day-in-the-life-of routine?"

"No, just some easy action."

"How about one of me washing my stockings?" she suggested, brightly.

"No," said Tink.

Steve spoke. "What do you have in the way of lounging pajamas? Anything?"

"Well, wardrobe gave me a whole trunk of junk here." She flung it open, expertly. "Help yourself."

Steve began to examine the selection. Behind him, a violent pantomimic exchange took place, during which neither of the participants understood the other.

Steve turned into the room. "Junk is right," he pronounced.

"Ha!" she said, with a triumphant look at Tink.

"Nothing there at all?" asked Tink, politely.

"For the fashion guys, maybe -- but I was looking for something a little on the realer side."

"Why don't I use my regular nightie and robe? My own."

"Let's see."

"On me or in the hand?"

"On, I guess."

"Five minutes."

Tink looked troubled. He touched Steve's elbow as he said, "Come on, I'll give you a drink."

The men started out as she began unzippering her skirt. Steve turned to look back. Tink moved him out into the sitting room just in time, and closed the door.

"Child of nature, eh?" said Steve, smiling.

"What can I get you?"

"A double anything."

Miss Richter began mixing drinks.

"I suppose you must be sick of hearing about it," said Tink, "but I thought your bullfight spread was the damndest, most marvelous thing I ever saw in my whole life."

"Ditto," said Miss Richter.

"Not sick at all," said Steve.

Miss Richter handed him a drink.

"Thanks." He held the glass aloft and studied it. "Say, this is a mighty brown one, isn't it?"

"What the hell," said Tink.

"True enough."

They drank.

"I had no idea they were going to put you on this," said Tink.

"Tell you the truth," said Miss Ort, "neither did I."

Tink hesitated, then spoke with cautious humor. "What I'm trying to figure is are we promoted or you demoted?"

All four laughed, carefully.

"No, I take it I'm still up there," said Steve. "Your little lady is a large story."

"Yes, but what I meant -- out of your line."

"I take pictures of people, that's all," said Steve.

"Sounds simple."

"That bullfight thing you just mentioned. How many bulls did you count?"

"I don't know. A lot."

"Four."

"Really?"

"That's all. The rest were people watching and behaving the way they do in that time and place. That's the angle I see here. What happens to Cinderella after happily ever after?"

"You asking me?"

"No. but it's an angle. Let's delve it, Helen."

"Could be," said Helen, "with enough candids."

Steve continued, "What's a lot of shiny pictures of a shiny female? They do that at the studio -- better. I'd like to catch the girl. Unposed."

"That'll be the day," said Miss Richter.

"Why?"

"Unposed?"

The bedroom door opened and The New Star framed herself in the doorway, languorously.

"All ready," she said.

The four onlookers laughed.

She broke out of her pose abruptly, put her hands on her hips and used another voice to ask, "What's so funny?"

Steve finished his drink in a gulp and started for the bedroom.

"Any help?" asked Miss Ort.

"No, thanks," said Steve. "Let me just pot around here for a while and see what I get. Then tomorrow we'll see how it sets up with what you've got so far."

He went into the bedroom.

"OK," said Miss Ort, and she prepared to leave. "Can I drop you?" she asked Miss Richter.

"Let's drop each other," replied Miss Richter, "at the nearest Slenderella!"

They left swiftly, as though glad to.

The New Star approached Tink. "OK?" she asked, confidentially.

"You asking me? I thought you knew it all."

She turned from him, angrily, and marched into the bedroom saying, "OK OK OK OK OK!" Steve, preparing his cameras, looked up.

"OK what?" he asked.

"Where do you want me?"

"Get over there by the window and just be looking out." She moved across the room. "No, the French window ... That's it."

"Like this?"

"No. Just look out. The way you do."

"I never look out."

"Well, do it now ... That's better." He focused. "What're you thinking about?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Try something."

"For instance?"

He moved to her and held a light meter under her chin. "About the old days, maybe," he said softly.

"I never do."

"Why not? Were they so bad?"

"So good."

He moved away from her and adjusted his camera again. "This way a little ... That's enough ... Now would you try ----?"

Tink stepped into the room. "I've got to bang on the phone a little," he explained. "Mind if I close this door?"

"Not me," said Steve.

"What's next?" she asked Tink.

Steve made a picture, and moved to change his angle.

"We're having a drink with some of the dailies. Important with three verys. Unbumsteering them. Where they pick up some of this stuff?" replied Tink. "That's as soon as you're through here. I'll meet them downstairs and you can join us."

"All right."

He turned to Steve. "Any idea when that'll be?"

"No," said Steve, intent on his work. "Don't rush me."

"Just asking. We're running a little late."

"Well, I'm no photomat machine," said Steve, testily.

"Sure," said Tink, retreating.

"And then what?" she asked.

"That dinner thing with Panama and Frank. They want to tell you this other idea. Then we hook up with The Brass right at the theatre, then I suppose "21" for about an hour or so, but no more because I've got the fan mag bunch set up in about six different clubs -- about 15 minutes each joint ought to do it."

"Wow!" said Steve, softly.

"Excuse me," said Tink. He left, closing the door.

"Sit down here a minute," said Steve, changing cameras.

"You hear that?"

"That schedule?"

"Yes."

Steve laughed. "I bet you're about the only girl I know has any idea what it must be like to be Queen of England."

"Oh sure," she said bitterly. "I'm some queen!" She began to cry.

Steve put aside his camera and came to her.

"Go ahead," she wept. "Keep on snapping. Natural stuff!"

She got up, violently, and flung herself across the room to the dressing table. She pulled three pieces of Kleenex out of the satin-covered container, blew her nose, and brought herself sharply into control. "Don't mind me," she said. "Let's go."

"No, I want to talk a minute."

"You a talker? I thought a photographer."

"One of each."

She sat down and looked at him. He sat down opposite her.

"This was no accident," he said.

"What no accident?"

"This assignment. It didn't just happen. I asked for it. And I'm a power over there right now, see? So I swung some weight."

"Why didn't you just call up? I mean any time in the last -- what is it? Six, seven years?"

"Five, honey, five! We're aging fast enough, don't age us any faster."

"Hard to believe," she murmured. "Five years go by and bang! we're a couple of powers. So why didn't you?"

"Well, for a year there I was hurt, then for a year I was sore, another year I forgot about you, then a year somebody else -- and this last year I've been thinking practically about nobody but myself. Maybe that's how I got to be a power. How did you?"

"I'm no power. I just said that."

"Then the other day, there was your picture upside down on a desk. And I thought I'd like to see you. Right side up."

"I'm glad."

"Why?"

She shrugged and said, "It's friendly -- not much of that around."

"Used to be."

"No more."

"Sure more. Only not for us. We're powers. We've got work to do."

"So let's do it," she said, abruptly. She swung around to face the mirror on her dressing table and began brushing her hair. Steve picked up two cameras and, alternating, began shooting.

"I'm not quite----" she began.

"Forget I'm here."

A silent game developed. She, attempting to take advantageous positions and assume attractive expressions; he, attempting to avoid committing these to film and, instead, choosing the moments in between.

"You given up hoofing?" she asked. "I mean completely?"

"Just about. Elbow up a little. Oh, once in a while I do a time step just to see if I fall down or what."

"You were pretty good."

"That's about it. Pretty good. Too much. Down."

"Here?"

"But weren't you always more interested in this? In cameras?"

"Good. What about you and dancing? Wet your lips."

"You kidding? I danced in my two last pictures."

"Didn't see."

She laughed. "Told my fan club about you they'd chop you in little pieces."

"That's enough brushing. For me, I mean."

She put down the brush and began to adjust her make-up with care and skill. Steve knelt, bent, lay on the floor, shot into the mirror, over the mirror, from near and far. They continued to talk.

"Did you know that show was going to be a bomb when we started in?" she asked.

"No, I thought it was great stuff. Take a breath."

"It was, too. At least our part of it. The dancing."

"What I meant."

"Boy, that first day. Was I scared!"

"I know. I was watching you."

"Right from bang?"

"I told you about it. At the time. Eyes wider."

"I thought that was just part of the line."

"I wasn't using a line in those days. I had my youth. Closer to the mirror."

"Hard to believe."

"When'd you first glom me?" he asked.

"I don't remember."

"Sure you do. The third day. Smile. I bought you a Coke in the morning break. And you carried on like it was a magnum of champagne."

"No, before that. When he first started working on the lifts and he told everybody stop and watch you -- how you were doing it."

"Yeah ----?"

"That's when I first saw you."

"Well, damn me. Spine straight. I could've saved myself the dime for the Coke, huh?"

"Sure."

"Well, gone now," he said, changing the direction of his key light. "Forget it."

"You didn't."

"Curiosity."

"That's all?"

"And a few questions."

"Go ahead."

There was a pause.

"No," he said. "Now I'm here, it doesn't seem to matter."

"Go ahead."

"Well, usually when I miss -- and miss bad -- I got some idea of where I went wrong. Don't slouch. Like once, if it hadn't been for one stupid joke I made at a crucial moment -- I would now be the loving husband of the fourth richest babe in Brazil. Think of it."

"You poor kid."

"Sit over here. That's it. Relax. Looking back -- I've made all the manly mistakes. I've been too dumb and too smart and too fast and slow and tough and tender -- the works. I've done all the wrong things along with most of the right ones. So when I miss -- so I miss -- but I make a note."

"OK to laugh?"

"And I've been brushed and dropped and fired and locked out -- and once, I admit it -- picked right up off my feet and thrown out -- she was an Olympic swimmer, not bigger than me, just stronger! But I was never -- what the hell was it like? -- disintegrated -- the way I was with you."

"Wait a second. Cramp."

"We were going so mellow, you and me. Head back. Whoa! Standard opening. King's gambit, the look, the smile, the Coke, the cab, the midnight movie, the long walk home, the sit on the steps, the kiss on the cheek, the hand squeeze, the Sunday date -- the not going too fast -- the Biiig Talk. And all of a sudden -- we're in Boston and it's like we'd never even met. I was thinking of getting somebody to introduce us all over again."

"I know. I was there."

"The silent treatment. Not sore, just not there. Can you give me more chest, sort of? That's it. And pretty soon after -- you're right up there with The Boss, so I figured oh well. Then I hear that's off, if it was ever on, and if the show hadn't closed I'd've gone nuts trying to figure you out, babe. You're no tease, that much I'm sure of. So what is with you? Or was, at least?"

"If you'll shut up a second and give somebody else a chance to get an edgewise."

"You're on."

"The thing you don't realize is -- I got stuck on you and I didn't want to be ----"

"Why not? Get on the floor."

"Wrong time. So I got stuck off."

"Just like that."

"No, it was tough."

"But you made it!" he said. "Cross your legs."

"I'm trying some truth; you want to be sarcastic, go ahead."

"No, not like that. Cross-legged. Like this. You were stuck on me till The Boss gave you a nod. You must've been stuck on with spit!"

"The Boss thing was way before----"

"Before what?"

"Before you."

"What?"

"How do you think I got in the show -- on my talent?"

"Well, damn me. Lean back!"

"So after you started in on me I had this problem. Here was The Boss -- and here was just a hoofer in the chorus -- getting me so I couldn't see straight. But a peculiar. Not even big talent you could hope something would happen maybe someday. Just a hoofer -- all the time taking snapshots on the side."

"Look away. Higher. Don't pose."

"I got so I used to forget to sleep."

"Why?"

"Because I could feel myself slipping -- and any minute it was going to be the hell with it and then where? Where my two sisters are and practically every one of my girlfriends from home. After all, I didn't have to come to New York and go through the kind of mill I went through to wind up in a kitchenette dreaming about maybe an electric dishwasher for Christmas."

"Turn away a little. Enough. Now stretch. Try to touch the wall. That's good. Once more? OK. Sit up again."

"Could we stop a minute?"

"Rather not. I get a kind of rhythm going and ----"

"One cigarette."

"Go ahead. Don't mind me."

"No pictures smoking, though."

"Why not?"

"The studio'll kill 'em."

"They won't even see them! What do you think this is?"

"Well, if I asked you to please not of me smoking would you?"

"That's different."

He brought her a cigarette and lit it.

"You don't wear them at all anymore, huh? The eyeglasses."

"Listen. What goes on in front of me most the time, I'd just as soon see fuzzy."

"Don't I remember something about you and trying contact lenses?"

"What a memory! Yuh, I did, but it turned out too much of a sweat."

"Getting them in?"

"In was nothing. Out was the murderer. Especially that one night -- half an hour I knocked myself out with those little suction cups and I couldn't get them out. You know why? Because they weren't in!"

He winced, then laughed. "Maybe you should've stuck with the lenses and cut out getting that looped."

"I don't do so much of that," she said, seriously. "Just every so often when it gets to be what-the-hell."

She squirmed into a patch of sunlight on the floor and smoked, thoughtfully.

"What're you thinking?" he asked.

"About timing. Everything in life is timing."

"Get back to the kitchenette."

"Huh?"

"And you worrying about becoming a human being."

"What're you twisting what I say for?"

"Go ahead."

"I was ready -- practically ready -- to go the distance with you and see where we wound up -- and all of a sudden -- timing."

"Like what?"

"Right after the opening in New Haven? The Boss takes me over to his money man's house. In Greenwich. For dinner."

Steve laughed. "A mistake, huh?"

"Not for me."

"But for The Boss."

"He didn't seem to break his heart any."

"And the money man?"

"One of the finest gentlemen it was ever my pleasure. Is."

"It's still on?"

"God, no. I mean is not was because he's not dead, after all. In fact, I saw him last night a minute. Morocco."

"You lucky girl."

"See that again? Sarcastic."

"So he was the end of me. That it?"

"What could I do?"

The room darkened as they sat silently. She finished her cigarette, rose from the floor, slowly, crossed the room to an ashtray and tamped out the butt.

"Should we go ahead?" she asked.

"Why not?" he replied, in a voice not his own. "That's what we're here for."

"What're you sore? Because I told the truth?"

"I'm not sore."

"You sounded."

"Not at you."

"What at, then?"

"Nothing. Everything."

"Should I of passed it up? My chance?"

"No."

"It was one of those once in a lifetimes."

"I'll say."

"All of a sudden from nothing, sometimes less than nothing, it was anything I wanted. Everything and then some. All I had to was name it."

"Well, you wouldn't've with me, that's a cinch," he said. "Against the wall, now."

"I know. Other things, maybe even better things, but what I'm trying to explain is how it was at the time. At the time, that's what I wanted."

"-- thought you wanted."

"No, what I really. I'm not saying -- you're getting it wrong -- I don't want to give the idea I think I made a mistake or ---- I mean after all ..." She paused.

"After all what?"

"Look at where I got to."

"Where? Arms out."

"And it was all him. Like this? All I had to do was think of something, practically, and that was it. No matter what. Finally, my hit."

"He gave you that, too?"

"Of course."

"Come on!" he said, impatiently.

"He did. I heard about the spot but what chance did I have to make it? So I mentioned it. Next thing you know I'm in. Then, instead of the one number, there's the three and the big one spotted. And special arrangements what's more and a lighting expert and two coaches, so how could I miss?"

"You could've missed all right."

"Did you see me in it?"

"No, but I heard -- right into the lens now -- you were great."

"Thanks. So from that they started talking about pictures but I didn't know what to say on account of -- you know -- he's based around here, more or less -- and I didn't know how he'd feel about it or if to mention it to him but before I could, he mentioned it to me. Well, the one thing I never did with him was lie, so I didn't then. So boom he arranges the whole thing. Even though he had to stay and I had to go, but I mean that's why I say -- a gentleman."

"Not so much eyes, f'the love of ----"

"But that's when he told me, 'Now you're on your own, missy. Pay attention and do your work because I can't help you any out there.' He took me out as far as Sun Valley and we had a wonderful month and that was it. He came back here and I went there. Scared, believe me."

"What about?"

"On my own again and a new business and always somebody yakking in your left ear while somebody else in your right, and not knowing the score or who was who or what to do and not."

"But you figured it out all right."

"Took time. Five months I sat by the beach near Malibu with nothing happening. Then for a whole nother month, the tests. Black and white and color and every kind of hair-do and then I sat again. In that house up on Tower Road. In two months I don't think I used up one gallon of gas."

"Look up. But you used to have company once in a while, didn't you? Higher."

"That kind of remark you can save."

"OK, queen."

"There's another one."

"What do you want me, say nothing?"

They worked for a time without speaking. Presently, she blurted, "What do you think the world is? There're people you have to handle, if you want to or not, if you're trying to get someplace without too much on the ball after all."

"Arms back of your head."

"So I had a few friends, sure, why not? But most of the time I just sat there sweating out my break. But the funny thing about a break is you don't always know it when you see it, because you never know which one thing is going to lead to which other thing and that's what I did and kept doing, until honestly, I began to feel like punchy and all of a sudden I wake up one morning and I'm it."

"You've left a little out. Let's see just one arm."

"I left a lot out. But I'm trying to give you the general idea."

"I've got it."

"If you ask me was it worth it ----"

"Who asked you?"

"I'm just saying if. Well, it's hard to say. Sometimes I enjoy it and sometimes I don't. There're days when it feels like I'm dreaming and sometimes I wish I could wake up."

"Chin down. More."

"When I'm shooting you know what time I have to get up every morning?"

"How many guesses have I got?"

There was a firm knock at the door.

"Yes?" she called.

Tink opened the door and stepped into the room. He looked somewhat flushed. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. He lit it before speaking. "How we doing?" he asked.

"Warming up nicely," said Steve. "I think we're getting a good stack."

"I'm afraid if you haven't got what you want by now," said Tink, slowly, "we'll have to fix up another date."

"No, thanks," said Steve.

She took a step toward Tink. "I just as soon finish up now."

"Well, you don't happen to be in charge!" said Tink sharply.

"Hey, hey! Let's not get too nasty, huh?" said Steve.

"I've got a great idea," said Tink.

"That so?"

"Yeah. You do your job and I'll do mine."

"Look, Tink ----" she began.

"No," he interrupted, "you look! I've been bouncing you on the knee for four days straight now and I've had it. Had it. The people downstairs, they've been very nice and patient, too, but they know I've been stalling them, and I don't want to do it much longer, so get dressed and be down there in five minutes, six at the most. At the most." He turned to go.

She exploded. "I can't be two places at once, goddammit!"

He looked at her. "You can't even be one place at once."

"What?" she fumed.

"You know where I'm going?" he continued, quietly. "Home. And put my feet up and tune in WQXR and fix myself about a quart of fresh orange juice and stretch out on my 10-foot sofa and put a stack of stuff on the floor where I can reach it. And just sit there sipping and reading for several months. I happen to be a bug on the Civil War. That surprise you?" He moved toward her. "And as far as you're concerned, ladybug, you can ----"

"Don't say it, pal," said Steve, cutting in.

"Ah. the censor," said Tink. "Well, you can join her if you like."

He left, closing the door behind him carefully and quietly.

"Boy!" said Steve.

"Boy is right," she said.

"You want to keep going or rest a minute?"

"Cigarette."

They lit cigarettes. Steve sat while she paced the room, nervously. She stopped and looked through the closed door.

"The crazy thing is," she said, "he's a nice fellow."

"Doubtless."

"But it happens. Like an end of the rope."

"I've got a theory," he said. "You know what a shock treatment is?"

"Sort of, yes."

"Well, you blow your stack it's like a small shock treatment. Shakes up your marbles. I don't trust these eventempered bastards. They scare me."

"You think he'll lose his job?"

"More likely you'll lose yours. Good public relations men are hard to find."

"Needling me again?"

"Why not? We both enjoy it."

"Speak for yourself," she said, putting out her cigarette.

He looked around the room, searching for an idea.

"Say, were you kidding?" he asked. "About that stocking-washing bash?"

"No, what makes you think?"

"I think that might be worth a few shots, at that."

She responded at once, in the manner of a well-trained model. She went to one of the bureau drawers and opened it. "I'll have to use a clean pair," she said. "OK?"

"Who'll ever know?" said Steve, conspiratorially.

She started into the bathroom, saying, "I'll holler when."

"Right," said Steve. "I'll reload."

A few minutes later she called, "Any time!" and Steve walked into the bathroom. He had no sooner crossed the threshold when he instinctively took a backward step, for there at the basin stood The New Star, washing her stockings, but wearing only panties and a brassiere. "This in color?" she asked.

Steve gulped. "Well, I don't know if it's going to be in anything," he said. "After all, this is more or less a family magazine."

"OK," she said, accepting the rejection cheerfully. "What else?"

"No, no," said Steve. "Let's grab a few just for the hell of it." They grabbed a few.

Afterwards, they shot a long and slow dressing routine. This was followed by an undressing routine. When they had finished, they went out into the sitting room and had a drink. Looking at her, Steve laughed.

"What?" she asked.

"I was just going to say," said Steve, "that sitting there in the robe and nightgown, that ribbon in your hair, those pompoms on your toes, you look like a little girl just before she gets into bed. Then I see that slug of scotch in one hand and the cigarette in the other."

"Some little girl," she laughed.

They looked at one another for a time.

"So how is it, ol' pal?" he asked. "Everything in order?"

She looked away and said, "Why should I complain?"

"Because that's how people make things better, by complaining."

"What's your trouble?" she asked.

"Me? My trouble is I don't seem to have enough fun. I worry about it all the time and even sometimes when I am I worry it's going to be over too fast. I'm a mess if you want the truth."

"Not such a."

"You don't know. You haven't seen me in five, six hundred years."

"I've seen you," she said softly. "In my head."

He finished his drink in one long slow draft. He set down his glass and looked at her until she blushed.

"Don't get any wrong ideas," she added. "What I was saying before -- some of it didn't come out the way I meant. I was telling it too fast or only certain parts, so maybe I sounded tarty. But it wasn't all like that."

"Sure sure," he mumbled, impatiently. "What's the difference?"

"A lot. I don't care so much what people think -- except some people I do."

"You don't have to ----"

She cut him off sharply. "Listen! I'm going to tell you something and you can believe it or not if you don't want to." Her face flushed, as she continued. "It's been over a year that -- well, just nothing. And that's the truth. For one thing, four pictures and that's no joke considering everything that goes with it. And, anyway, it was back then over a year ago I just decided the hell with it. I'd had my share."

"You don't have to ----"

She went on as though she had not heard him. "So they wanted to say in the columns it's serious with this one or that one? At least it kept the pack off."

It was his turn to blush. "Did I ask you?"

"No, that's why I told you. If you'd asked me, I wouldn't've."

He rose. "Well, things sure can get some funny twisters on 'em," he said.

The phone rang.

"You don't believe me," she said.

"Sure."

The phone rang.

"No, you don't. I can tell."

The phone rang.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" he asked.

"I'll show you my diary!"

The phone rang.

"I keep a diary," she said, "and I'll show it to you!"

The phone rang.

"You want me to answer that?" he asked. "I'll say you're out. Anything."

"I'm telling you something."

The phone rang.

"I don't want to read your goddam diary!" he shouted.

The phone was still.

"Why?!" she yelled back.

There was a long silence.

"Because I believe you, zero-head."

"You want another drink?" she asked.

"No, I don't, but I'll have one."

She went to, the bar, picking up his empty glass on the way.

"And then, I better move," he added, "it must be half-past Thursday."

"You should worry," she said, preparing his drink. "You've got some great pictures, haven't you?"

"I think so, yes."

She brought him his drink. "Thanks," he said, and kissed her cheek. He started into the bedroom, saying, "I'll get right out of your way. Sorry about the mess but I never learned how to do it neat."

In the bedroom, he began to unhook his lights and pack his gear, moving about the room swiftly. She came in.

"Don't rush around like that," she laughed. "You're wearing me out." She flopped backward onto the bed, heaved a tremendous sigh of fatigue and lay absolutely motionless.

From the floor Steve looked up at her. "You all right?" he asked.

"Mm-hmm." Another sigh.

"What're you doing?" he asked.

"Recharging my batteries," she said hoarsely.

"Don't move," said Steve. He rose, Rolleiflex in hand, and began photographing the inert beauty. She opened one eye.

"Holy smoke," she said without moving, "not here we go again!"

He kicked off his shoes and jumped up onto the bed. Standing over her, he continued to photograph. "Roll over," he said. She started. "Not yet," he said, adjusting his shutter speed. "OK, now." She rolled over, her head following her body in complete relaxation. The hair ribbon came loose and her hair fell over her face. "Hold it." said Steve.

He made an adjustment on his camera, knelt beside her and photographed a closer angle. Another, closer still. Finally, leaning close beside her, he composed a shot from throat to forehead.

"What's all this?" she asked, watching him.

"Choker," he said, professionally.

"Oh."

He made the shot, and stood up on the bed, surveying it for possible additional angles. She looked up at him. "Anything else?" she asked.

"Wait a second. Listen, would it be too much trouble to get under the covers?"

"Why not?" she said. "I do it every night, believe it or not."

"Thanks."

She slid from the bed, took off her robe, let it fall to the floor and slipped in under the covers.

"That's great," said Steve. "Now what do you do with your arms?"

"Whatever you tell me."

"I mean usually."

"Different things. Sometimes like this -- or like this -- or this."

"Let me have one of each."

She moved gracefully from position to position while he moved about to capture the ideal angle each time.

"That does it," he said finally and hopped off of the bed. She remained under the covers breathing steadily. "You sleeping?" he whispered.

"Wish I was," she whispered back.

He went to her dressing table and picked up his drink. He took a swallow and said. "Good day's work."

"If I could just stay here," she said from her pillow, "I'd give anything. Almost anything."

The phone rang.

"I don't know what time it is," she said, "but whatever. I'll never catch up now, anyway. And for all I know he canceled everything."

The phone rang.

"So why shouldn't I?" she asked.

The phone rang.

"Answer it, for God's sake! We did the nerve-testing bit before."

The phone rang.

"What if we weren't here?" she asked.

"If we weren't here it wouldn't be ringing."

"Don't be so sure," she said sagely.

The phone rang for the last time.

"Next thing you know," he said "they'll be pounding up here to see if I've murdered you."

"Who?"

"I don't know. The management. Somebody."

"The management," she said, "couldn't care less."

"But if they know you haven't gone out and they keep ringing ..."

She sat up, slowly. "I think the thing is to lock the door," she said.

"You do?"

"From the inside."

"It's a thought," he said, and started out.

"And the Do Not Disturb," she called softly to his back.

When he returned a minute later, he found the lights in the bedroom readjusted.

"How'd you make out?" she asked.

He sat beside her, on the edge of the bed.

"Well, it was a fascinating experience. I went out there and I opened the door and I hung that sign on the knob and I closed the door and I locked it and I came back."

"That's the most fascinating experience I ever heard of," she said.

"I'm thinking of writing a book about it."

"With pictures?"

"No, no, I've stopped taking pictures."

"You're so right!"

He stood up and unfastened his left cuff link.

"You're not worried now, are you?" she asked.

"What about?"

"About somebody thinking you've murdered me."

"They wouldn't think that. They wouldn't dare," he said, unfastening his right cuff link.

The phone rang.

She reached for it and answered. "Hello."

"Now she answers it," said Steve to the dressing table.

"Quiet," she said, and put her attention on the telephone. "Yes? ... Yes, this is she ... I'm terribly sorry, but it was unavoidable." To Steve: "Open the window a little, will you? Get some air in here?" To the phone: "I'd love to, but it's just a question of working it in. I'm leaving on Friday." To Steve: "Other side, dopey, and close this door first." To the phone: "I'll do my best, but I can't promise. You'll have to call Mr. Tremaine on that." To Steve: "Hello! Wait a second." To the phone: "No, I doubt it." With the phone dangling and gurgling between them, she and Steve exchanged a long, remembered, familiar and equitable kiss, after which she spoke into the phone once again. "I have to go now," she said. "We're running a little late."