"Why don't you call me when you get through? I'll probably be home. If I'm not, leave a number."
"I will." Her voice was wistful. "Don't be too gay with those concubines."
Simon went back to his table. He felt even emptier inside. It had been such a beautiful dream. He didn't know whether to feel foolish, or cynical, or just careless. But he didn't want to feel any of those things. It was a persistent irritation, like a piece of gravel in a shoe.
"What are you doing this evening?" Gibbs asked him.
"Having another drink."
"I've got to get some dinner before I go to that opening. Why don't you join me?"
"I'd like to." Simon drained his glass. He said casually: "Avalon Dexter sent you her love."
"Oh, do you know her? She's a grand gal. A swell person. One of the few honest-to-God people in that racket."
There was no doubt about the spontaneous warmth of Wolcott's voice. And measured against his professional exposure to all the chatter and gossip of the show world, it wasn't a comment that could be easily dismissed. The back of Simon's brain went on puzzling.