6
“No,” she said. “No more cocktails. I’ve still got to look as if I wanted to keep a job.”
The Front Office offered a choice of steaks, chops, or hamburger. They had steaks. She sniffed hers ecstatically.
“Mmm! This was a good idea. I’d almost forgotten what a real lunch could taste like.”
“I heard of a studio once where they had good food in the commissary,” said the Saint. “So everybody felt fine and happy every afternoon. Agents came in and sold them everything they had at enormous prices, actors broke down and begged for salary cuts, assistant directors went about their work with a smile, and writers told producers their ideas stank and they ought to go back to peddling trusses.”
“What happened?”
“The other producers ganged up on them and charged them with unfair trade practices. The Government ordered them to go back to serving the same old dead food as all the other studios, and very soon they were quite normal and in receivership again.”
“You’ve learnt a lot in a little while.”
Simon finished his drink and picked up his knife and fork.
“How long have you been in this racket?” he asked.