Peggy knew that this was the fierce competition of the theater. It was part of the price you had to pay if you wanted to come to New York. Tilting her chin defiantly, Peggy closed the door and went over to a peroxide blonde who sat listlessly behind a desk. The blonde reached out a hand for a sheet of paper.
“Name?” she inquired in a bored voice. “Mr. Stalkey’s interviewing by appointment only.”
“Lane,” Peggy replied in a clear voice. “Peggy Lane.”
The blonde ran a bright red fingernail down a list of names and stopped about halfway. “Who sentcha?” she drawled with quick suspicion.
Peggy frowned. “I don’t ... what do you mean?” she stammered.
The blonde pursed her mouth in disapproval. “What I’m trying to find out, dearie,” she said in a voice edged with the patient annoyance of someone talking to a retarded child, “is how come you’re here. Who made the appointment for you?”
Light dawned. “Oh! Mr. Grey. Mr. Peter Grey.”
The answer seemed to satisfy. “Okay.” The receptionist dismissed Peggy with a wave. “Find a seat.” She returned to the magazine she had been reading.
Still feeling ill at ease, Peggy backed away from the desk and looked around for a place to sit down. The chairs along one wall were all filled. Opposite them there was a bench with just enough room if one of the girls would move over. Nobody budged an inch. The silence was oppressive.
Suddenly making up her mind she was not going to stand around awkwardly, Peggy moved over to the bench and planted herself in front of the small space.