Anyone seeing Pam perched behind the massive desk would have thought she was the most important person in the room. Actually, she was Oscar Stalkey’s secretary, using his desk because the veteran producer seldom sat in a chair if he could avoid it. All his business was conducted on the run, in a restless course of constant pacing that was a little hard to get accustomed to. The only reason he tolerated the desk at all was because his wife had given it to him as a surprise years ago, and he could never bring himself to get rid of it. But at the time, Peggy didn’t know this. She advanced into the room and looked around uncertainly.
The untidy man in the corner unwound his long legs from one side of his lounge chair, and stared at Peggy with undisguised interest. The young man by the window straightened up and greeted her with a pleasant smile.
“Well, sit down, sit down,” came the gravelly voice of Stalkey. “What’s your name?”
“Peggy Lane.” Peggy sat down on the edge of a chair near the desk.
“Had much experience?” Stalkey was prowling along a row of bookcases that lined the far wall of his office.
There was a pause. Finally Peggy decided to be straightforward. “No, Mr. Stalkey,” she replied with a smile. “I’m afraid not much. A year of dramatic school, a season of summer stock, a good off-Broadway role, and a few walk-on parts.”
“That’s all?”
Peggy nodded. The rumpled man in the corner looked at her with surprise. Stalkey merely grunted. “How’d you get on our list for an appointment?”
Peggy glanced over at Pam. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I got a phone call last night from a Mr. Grey.”
The young man at the window nodded. “I’m Peter Grey,” he announced. “I got in touch with her, Oscar.”