“Hollywood?” Amy asked blankly, whirling around to stare at the commanding figure before her.
May Berriman closed the door and advanced into the room. Years ago, May had been a successful character actress on Broadway, but when she had left the stage she had taken over the management of the Gramercy Arms. The girls who stayed at the Gramercy Arms were, for the most part, struggling young actresses like Peggy and Amy. With her wide knowledge of the theater and her vast common sense, May was more than just a landlady to “her girls.” She was almost a second mother to them, presiding over their hopes and fears, their triumphs and failures, their good times and their squabbles with an even-handed justice that combined equal doses of a sharp tongue and a soft heart.
May picked her way through the clutter of the girls’ room and sat down on Peggy’s bed. Peggy never tired of watching May’s movements. They were so unconsciously graceful, so sure and poised. They were, Peggy knew, the result of years of training and hard, disciplined work.
“Of course,” May was saying to Amy, “from the hall you two sounded like the cheering section at a football game. I couldn’t imagine what had happened. I was sure it was a Hollywood screen test at the very least.”
“Not yet.” Peggy smiled. “That’s a long way off.”
Amy looked out the window dreamily. “You never can tell,” she said hopefully. “Why, the phone could ring any minute!” She turned to May for support. “Isn’t that true?” she demanded. “A big producer can see you one day and the next day you’re out in Hollywood. It happens all the time.”
“Only in your imagination, dear,” May said dryly. “I’d advise you not to hold your breath until that phone call comes. Oh, by the way,” she added, turning to Peggy, “somebody tried to get you about an hour ago.”
Peggy straightened up. “Was there a message?” she asked.
May shook her head. “No message, but she left a name.”
“Oh. A she?”