“I know,” Peggy said excitedly. “But which airline?”

PEGGY LANE THEATER STORIES

Peggy Plays Off-Broadway

By VIRGINIA HUGHES

Illustrated by Sergio Leone

GROSSET & DUNLAP Publishers
NEW YORK

©GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC., 1962
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

1 [Cast Call] 1 2 [The Hopefuls] 12 3 [First Reading] 21 4 [A Shy Angel] 30 5 [An Unexpected Scene] 39 6 [Two Acts of Faith] 50 7 [An Intermission] 58 8 [Curtain Fall] 69 9 [One for the Money] 80 10 [Two for the Show] 93 11 [Three to Make Ready] 108 12 [Which Way to Go?] 119 13 [A Decision] 130 14 [Race Against Time] 137 15 [Act One] 152 16 [Act Two] 161 17 [S. R. O.] 167

PEGGY PLAYS OFF-BROADWAY

I
Cast Call

“First casting calls are so difficult,” Peggy Lane said, looking ruefully at the fifty or more actresses and actors who milled about nervously, chatting with one another, or sat on the few folding chairs trying to read.

“With only nine roles to be filled,” she continued, “it doesn’t matter how good these people are; most of them just haven’t got a chance. I can’t help feeling sorry for them—for all of us, I mean. After all, I’m trying for a part, too.”

Peggy’s friend and housemate, Amy Preston, smiled in agreement and said, “It’s not an easy business, honey, is it? But the ones I feel sorriest for right now are Mal and Randy. After all, they have the unpleasant job of choosing and refusing, and a lot of these folks are their friends. I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes.”

Peggy nodded thoughtfully, and reflected that it must, indeed, be more wearing on the boys. Mallory Seton, director of the new play, had been an upper-class student at the Academy when Peggy had started there, and he was a good friend of hers. She had worked with him before, as a general assistant, when they had discovered a theater. It would not be easy for him to consider Peggy for an acting role, and to do so completely without bias. It would not be a question of playing favorites, Peggy knew, but quite the reverse. Mal’s sense of fair play would make him bend over backward to keep from giving favors to his friends. If she was to get a role in this new production, she would really have to work for it.

And if it was difficult for Mal, she thought, it was more so for Randy Brewster, the author of the play, for her friendship with him was of a different sort than with Mal. Mal was just a friend—a good one, to be sure—but with Randy Brewster, somehow, things were different. There was nothing “serious,” she assured herself, but they had gone on dates together with a regularity that was a little more than casual and, whatever his feelings were for her, she was sure that they were more complicated than Mal’s.

“Do you think they’ll ever get through all these people?” Amy asked, interrupting her thoughts. “How can they hope to hear so many actors read for them in just one afternoon?”

“Oh, they won’t be doing readings today,” Peggy replied, glad to turn her attention from what was becoming a difficult subject for thought. “This is just a first cast call. All they want to do today is pick people for type. They’ll select all the possible ones, send the impossible ones away, and then go into elimination readings later.”

“But what if the people they pick for looks can’t act?” Amy asked. “And what if some of the rejects are wonderful actors?”

“They won’t go back to the rejects,” Peggy explained, “because they both have a pretty good idea of what the characters in the play should look like. And if the people they pick aren’t good enough actors, then they hold another cast call and try again. Mal says that sometimes certain parts are so hard to cast that they have to go through a dozen calls just to find one actor.”

“It seems kind of unfair, doesn’t it, to be eliminated just because you’re not the right physical type,” Amy said, “but I can understand it. They have to start somewhere, and I guess that’s as good a place as any.” Then she smiled and added, “I guess I’m just feeling sorry for myself, because Mal told me there was no sense in my trying out at all, because I didn’t look or sound right for any part in the play. If I don’t get rid of this Southern accent of mine, I may never get a part at all, except in a Tennessee Williams play!”

Peggy nodded sympathetically. “But it wasn’t just your accent, Amy,” she said. “It’s your looks, too. At least for this play. Mal and Randy told you that you’re just too pretty for any of the parts that fit your age, and that’s nothing to feel bad about. If anybody ought to feel insulted, it’s me, because they asked me to try out!”

“Oh, they were just sweet-talking me,” Amy replied. “And as for you, you know you don’t have to worry about your looks. You have a wonderful face! You can look beautiful, or comic, or pathetic, or cute or anything. I’m stuck with just being a South’n Belle, blond and helpless, po’ li’l ol’ me, lookin’ sad and sweet through those ol’ magnolia blossoms!” She broadened her slight, soft accent until it sounded like something you could spread on hot cornbread, and both girls broke into laughter that sounded odd in the strained atmosphere of the bare rehearsal studio.

It was at this point that Mal and Randy came in, with pleasant, if somewhat brisk, nods to the assembled actors and actresses, and a special smile for Amy and Peggy. In a businesslike manner, they settled themselves at a table near the windows, spread out scripts and pads and pencils, and prepared for the chore that faced them. Amy, who was there to help the boys by acting as secretary for the occasion, wished Peggy good luck, and joined the boys at the table. Her job was to take names and addresses, and to jot down any facts about each actor that Randy and Mal wanted to be sure to remember.

Mal started the proceedings by introducing himself and Randy. Then, estimating the crowd, he said, “Since there are fewer men here, and also fewer male roles to cast, we’re going to do them first. I hope that you ladies won’t mind. We won’t keep you waiting long, but if we worked with you first, we’d have these gentlemen waiting most of the day. Shall we get started?” After a brief glance at his notes, he called out, “First, I’d like to see businessman types, young forties. How many have we?”

Four men separated themselves from the crowd and approached the table. Peggy watched with interest as Mal and Randy looked them over, murmured to Amy to take notes, and asked questions. After a few minutes, the men left, two of them looking happy, two resigned. Then Mal stood and called for leading man types, late twenties or early thirties, tall and athletic. As six tall, athletic, handsome young men came forward, Peggy felt that she just couldn’t stand watching the casting interviews any longer. It reminded her too much of the livestock shows she had attended as a youngster in her home town of Rockport, Wisconsin. Necessary though it was, she felt it was hardly a way to have to deal with human beings.

Slipping back through the crowd of waiting actors, she joined the actresses in the rear of the room, and found an empty seat next to a young girl.

“Hi,” she said. “What’s the matter, can’t you watch it either?”

The girl smiled in understanding. “It always upsets me,” she replied, “but it’s something we simply have to learn to live with. At least until we get well-known, or get agents to do this sort of thing for us.”

“It sounds as if you’ve been in a few of these before,” Peggy said.

“I have. But not here in the East,” the girl replied. “I’m from California, and I’ve been in a few little-theater things there, but nobody seems to pay much attention to them. I heard that off-Broadway theater in New York attracts a lot of critics, and I thought that I’d do better here. Have you had any luck?”

“Oh, I’m just beginning,” Peggy said. “I’m still studying at the New York Dramatic Academy. I hope I can get some kind of supporting role in this play, but I don’t think I’m ready for anything big yet. By the way, my name is Peggy Lane. What’s yours?”

“I’m Paula Andrews,” the girl answered, “and maybe I’m shooting too high, but I’m trying out for the female lead. I hope I have a chance for it.”

Peggy looked carefully at her new friend, at the somewhat uncertain smile that played about her well-formed, generous mouth and the intelligence that shone from her large, widely placed green eyes. Her rather long face was saved from severity by a soft halo of red-brown hair, the whole effect being an appealing combination of strength and feminine softness.

“I think you do have a chance,” Peggy said. “In fact, if you can act, I bet you’ll get the part. I’ve read the play, and I know the author and director, and unless I’m way off, you look just the way the lead should look. In fact, it’s almost uncanny. You look as if you just walked out of the script!”

“Oh, I hope you’re right!” Paula said with animation. “And I hope you get a part, too. I have a feeling that you’re going to bring me good luck!”

“The one who needs luck is me, I’m afraid,” Peggy said. “Being friendly with Randy and Mal isn’t going to help me in the least, and I’m going to have to be awfully good to get the part. And it’s really important to me, too, because I’m getting near the end of my trial year.”

“Trial year?” Paula asked curiously.

“Uh-huh. My parents agreed to let me come to New York to study acting and try for parts for a year, and I agreed that if I didn’t show signs of success before the year was up, I’d come home and go back to college. I’ve been here for eight months now, and I haven’t got anything to show my parents yet. The part I’m trying for now isn’t a big one, but it’s a good supporting role, and what’s more, we get paid. If I can show my mother and father that I can earn some money by acting, I’m sure that they’ll let me go on trying.”

“But do you expect to make enough to live on right away?” Paula asked.

“Oh, no! I’m not that naïve! But when my year is over at the Academy, I can always take a job as a typist or a secretary somewhere, while I look for parts. If you can type and take shorthand, you never have to worry about making a living.”

“I wish that I could do those things,” Paula said wistfully. “The only way I’ve been able to make ends meet is by working in department stores as a salesgirl, and that doesn’t pay much. Besides, the work is so unsteady.”

“My parents are very practical people,” Peggy said with a smile, “and they made sure that I learned routine office skills before they would let me think about other and more glamorous kinds of careers. Daddy owns the newspaper in our small town in Wisconsin, and I’ve worked with him as a typist and a reporter of sorts and as a proofreader, too. I’ll always be grateful that he made me learn all those things. I don’t think he has much faith in the acting business, but he’s been wonderful about giving me a chance. What do your parents think of your wanting to be an actress?”

Instead of answering, Paula suddenly stood up. “Let’s go see how they’re coming with the actors,” she said. “I think they’re almost finished.”

Not wanting to press Paula further, and feeling that perhaps she had asked too personal a question on such short acquaintance, Peggy reluctantly stood too, and joined Paula to watch the last of what she now could only think of as the livestock show.

As she drew closer to the table, she heard Mal saying, “I’m really sorry, Mr. Lang, but you’re just not the right type for the role. Perhaps some other....” and his voice trailed off in embarrassment.

Lang, a short, thin, unhappy young man, answered almost tearfully, “But, Mr. Seton, looks aren’t everything. I’m really a funny comedian. Honestly! If you would only give me a chance to read for you, I know that I could make you change your mind about the way this character should look!”

“I don’t doubt that you could,” Mal said gently, “but if you did, the play would suffer. I’m afraid the comedian we need for this must be a large, rather bluff-looking person, like these three gentlemen whom I have chosen to hear. The part calls for it. I’m sorry.”

Mr. Lang nodded sadly, mumbled, “I understand,” and walked off, his head hanging and his hands thrust deep in his pockets, looking less like a comedian than any man in the world. Peggy watched him go, not knowing whether to feel sorrier for him or for Mal.

“All right, gentlemen,” Mal called out. “That takes care of the male roles. All of you who are left will be given copies of the play to study, marked at the passages I want to hear. Be sure to read the whole play carefully, so that you understand the workings of the characters you have been selected to read. You have three days to look it over. We’ll meet at ten o’clock on Saturday morning at the Penthouse Theater to hear you. Thank you. And now for the ladies.”

The men left, after being given their scripts, and though they chatted amiably with one another, Peggy was sure that each was casting rather hostile looks toward others who were trying for the same parts. Keeping friendships in the theater was not an easy thing, she thought, particularly for people of similar physical types!

Mal’s first concern in reviewing the actresses was, of course, for the leading role. And, of course, it was for this role that he had the most applicants. More than twenty girls came forward when the announcement was made, and Peggy thought that she had never seen so many striking and beautiful faces and figures. It was not going to be easy for Mal to make a choice. As Paula, her new friend, went forward to join the others, Peggy whispered a word of encouragement, then stood to one side to watch.

Mal went down the line, regretfully dismissing one after the other of the girls, and occasionally asking one to step aside to try for another role. His tough-looking expression hardly varied as he spoke to each one, but Peggy thought she saw the ghost of a smile cross his face when he spoke to Paula Andrews. Another review of the remaining girls eliminated a few more. Finally, there were only four left, Paula among them. Mal thanked them, distributed scripts, and asked them to be at the Penthouse Theater on Saturday at noon.

Paula returned to Peggy with eyes shining. “Oh, Peggy! I think you were right! I just know I’m going to get the part! I know it!”

“Don’t count too much on it,” Peggy cautioned, “or you may be too bitterly disappointed if you don’t get it. But,” she added, enthusiastically violating her own rule of caution, “I’m sure, too! I’ll see you Saturday. Even if I don’t get a script, I’ll be there just to hear you read!”

Then, with a smile of farewell, Peggy turned her attention to the “career woman, early thirties” classification that Mal had called for next. Once that was out of the way, she knew it would be her turn.

This time, there were not so many applicants and Peggy remembered Randy telling her that this would be one of their most difficult roles to cast. Only four actresses came forward, and Mal, with difficulty, reviewed them all. Unable to eliminate by type, he gave them all scripts and asked them to come to the theater. Then he called for “character ingénues” and Peggy joined seven other girls in the “livestock show.”

Mal reviewed them carefully, managing to look at Peggy with complete lack of recognition. He gently eliminated three of them on the basis of hair coloring, height or general type. Another, curiously enough, was eliminated, like Amy, for a Southern accent, and a fifth, also like Amy, was too beautiful. “The part calls for a pretty girl,” Mal said with a rare smile, “but not for a girl so pretty that she’ll dominate the stage! It was a pleasure to look at you, but I’m afraid you’re not quite right for the part.”

When he was done, Peggy and two others were given scripts and told to come to the theater on Saturday. Feeling lightheaded and giddy, Peggy settled herself on one of the folding chairs that lined the back wall, and waited for Mal, Randy, and Amy to finish so she could join them for coffee.

Scarcely noticing the rest of the proceedings, she thought only about the coming readings. She was so familiar with the play that she knew she had an advantage, perhaps unfairly, over the other two girls. She had watched the script grow from its first rough draft to the finished text now in her hands, and had discussed it with Randy through each revision. She knew she could play the part; in fact, she suspected secretly that Randy had written it for her, and the thought made her blush. Still, it would not be easy, she knew. Mal’s sense of fairness and his absolute devotion to the play above everything else would keep him from making up his mind in advance.

But despite this knowledge, she could not help looking ahead—all the way ahead—to the restless stir of the opening-night audience out front, the last-minute preparations backstage, the bright, hot lights and the smell of make-up and scenery paint as she waited to go on in Act One, Scene One of Come Closer, Randy Brewster’s brilliant new play in which Peggy Lane would be discovered!

II
The Hopefuls

The audience consisted of a handful of actors and actresses, and Randy Brewster and Mallory Seton. The stage lighting was a cold splash produced by two floodlights without color gels to soften them. The scenery was the brick back wall of the stage, two ladders, a table and two straight-backed chairs. Only the front row of house lights was on, and the back of the theater was dark, empty and gloomy, a shadowy wasteland of empty rows of seats like tombstones.

On the stage, a “businessman type” was reading his lines. Peggy knew, after the first few words, that he would not do. He had somehow completely missed the character of the man he was portraying, and was heavily overplaying. Mal, being perhaps more patient than Peggy, listened and watched with great care. Amy, who was acting as Mal’s assistant for the production, sat in a chair by the proscenium, reading her script by the light of a small lamp and feeding the actor cue lines. Mal followed the whole sequence with no visible sign of impatience and, when the actor was through, said, “Thank you. We’ll let you know our decision in a day or two.”

The next “businessman type” was better, but still not quite on target, Peggy thought. He seemed to be playing the part for laughs, and although there were some comic values to be extracted from the role, it was really far more a straight dramatic character. Still, he was clearly a better actor than the first, and with direction might do well.

Following his reading, Mal again repeated his polite, invariable formula, “Thank you. We’ll let you know our decision in a day or two,” and called for the next reading.

Peggy watched the remaining actors try for the role, and made mental notes of which ones were possible, which probable, and which stood no chance at all.

The same process was then followed for the leading men, and the same wide range of talent and understanding of the part was displayed. Some seemed to have no idea at all about the play or its meaning, and Peggy was sure that these men had read only the parts marked for them. Others had a clear understanding of the kind of character they were playing, and tried to create him in the brief time they had on stage. Others still were actors who had one rather inflexible way of playing, and used it for all kinds of parts. Their performances were uniform imitations of each other, and all were imitations of the early acting style of Marlon Brando. They seemed to forget, Peggy thought, that Brando’s style developed from the roles he had to play, and that as he got other roles, he showed other facets of a rounded talent. It made her angry that some actors thought they could get ahead in a creative field by being imitative.

Each actor, no matter how good or how bad, was treated with impersonal courtesy by Mal, and each left looking sure that the part was his. Peggy was glad that she would not have to see their faces when they learned that they had not been selected.

“The pity of it,” she whispered to Randy, “isn’t that there are so many bad ones, but that there are so many good ones, and that only one can be selected for each role. I wish there were some way of telling the good ones you can’t take that they were really good, but that you just couldn’t take everyone!”

“You can’t let yourself worry about that,” Randy replied. “The good ones know they’re good, and they’re not going to be discouraged by the loss of a role. And the bad ones think they’re good, too, and most of them have tremendous egos to protect them from ever finding out—or even thinking—otherwise!”

The door at the back of the theater opened quietly, and Peggy, turning around in her seat, saw a few of the actresses entering. They quietly found seats in the rear and settled down to await their turn.

“I think I’ll go back there with the girls,” Peggy whispered. “I’m looking for a girl I met at the casting call, and I’d like to chat with her for a few minutes when she comes. Do you mind if I don’t look at all this?”

Randy grinned. “Go ahead. I’d get out of here, too, if I could without getting Mal mad at me. This kind of thing always breaks my heart, too!”

As she went up the aisle as unobtrusively as possible, Peggy glanced at the actresses who had just come in. She recognized a few of their faces from the casting call of three days ago, but did not see her new friend among them. She decided to go out to the lobby to wait for her there. A new group of girls entered the theater as Peggy was leaving and, as she passed, one reached out and grabbed her arm.

Peggy turned in surprise to find herself greeted with a broad grin and a quick companionable kiss.

“Greta!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”

“Come on out to the lobby, and I’ll tell you,” Greta Larsen said, with a toss of her head that made her thick blond braid spin around and settle over her shoulder.

“But I thought you were in New Haven, getting ready to open Over the Hill,” Peggy said, when they had reached the lobby. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I’m afraid you don’t read your Variety very carefully,” Greta said. “Over the Hill opened in New Haven to such bad notices that the producer decided to close out of town. At first we thought he’d call in a play doctor to try to fix things up, but he finally decided, and very sensibly, that it would be easier to just throw the whole thing out. I’m afraid he lost a lot of money, and he didn’t have any more left.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Peggy said. “And it was a real chance for you, wasn’t it?”

“Not really,” Greta said. “The part wasn’t too good, and I’d just as soon not be in a disaster. Anyway, it gave me a chance to work for a few weeks, and an agent saw me and said he thought I was good, so maybe I’m not any the worse for the experience.”

At that moment, Peggy saw Paula Andrews enter the lobby, and she motioned to her to join them. “Greta, this is Paula Andrews. She’s reading for the lead today, and I hope she gets it. Paula, I want you to meet Greta Larsen, one of my housemates.”

“Housemates?” Paula questioned, a little puzzled.

“Yes. There are about a dozen of us, more or less. We live in a place called the Gramercy Arms—a wonderful place—and we live like one big noisy family. The Arms is run just for young actresses, so we all have a lot in common. I haven’t seen Greta for weeks—she’s been out of town with a play—and I’m just getting over being stunned at seeing her now.”

“Peggy tactfully neglected to mention that the play flopped,” Greta laughed, “and now I’m back in town without a job. In fact, that’s why I’m here.”

“You mean you’re going to read for Mal?” Peggy asked excitedly.

“Uh-huh. I met him on the street an hour or so ago, and he told me he had a part he thought I should try out for, and that he was thinking of me for it all along, but assumed that I wouldn’t be available. Well, you can’t be more available than I am, so here I am!”

“Have you read the play?” Paula asked.

“I’m lucky there,” Greta replied. “I’ve seen it in three different drafts since it started. Peggy’s friendly with Randy Brewster, the boy who wrote it, and each time she brought a draft home, I got to read it. So I’m not at a disadvantage.”

“What do you think of Come Closer, Paula?” asked Peggy.

“I think it’s wonderful! I hope more than ever that I get the part! Do you really think I have a chance?”

Greta nodded decisively. “If you can act, you’re made for it,” she said.

“That’s just what Peggy said!”

Peggy stole a glance through the doors to the theater. “I think we’re about ready to find out whether or not you can act,” she said. “They seem to be about through with the actors, and that means you’re on next!”

Wishing each other good luck, they entered the darkened part of the house and prepared for what Peggy could only think of as their ordeal.

Afterward, as Peggy, Amy, Paula, and Greta sat at a table in a nearby coffeehouse waiting for Mal and Randy to join them, each was sure that she had been terrible.

“Oh, no!” Peggy said. “You two were just marvelous! But I couldn’t have been worse. I know I read the part wrong. I thought I had the character clear in my mind, but I’m sure that the way it came out was a mile off!”

“You have a lot more talent than judgment,” Greta said mournfully. “You were perfect. And so was Paula. As for me....” Her voice trailed off in despair.

“I don’t know how you can say that, Greta,” Paula put in. “I know you were the best in your part, and nobody even came close to Peggy. But I’ve never felt so off in my life as I did reading that part. It’s a wonder any of you even want to be seen with me!”

Only when Amy started to laugh did the three others realize how much alike they had sounded. Then they joined in the laughter and couldn’t seem to stop. When they seemed at the point of dissolving helplessly into a permanent attack of the giggles, Randy and Mal joined them.

“If you’re laughing at the play,” Randy said gloomily, “I can hardly blame you. You never know just how badly you’ve written until someone gets up and starts to read your lines.”

All at the same time, the girls started to reassure him and tell him how good the play was, and how badly the actors, including themselves, had handled the lines, but this was so much like their last exchange of conversation that once more they broke up in helpless laughter.

When they got their breath back, and when coffee and pastry had been ordered, they tried to explain the cause of their hilarity to the boys.

“... so, you see,” Peggy concluded, “we were each explaining how good the others were and how bad we were, and when Randy started telling us how bad he had been as a writer, we just couldn’t stand it!”

It was Mal who got them back to sane ground. With his tough face, like a movie gangster’s or private detective’s, and his gentle, cultured English voice and assured manner, he calmly gave his opinion of the afternoon’s auditions.

“First of all, I think the dialogue plays remarkably well, Randy. It’s a good play, and I don’t think there’ll be too many changes to worry about. Secondly, you’re all right and you’re all wrong. I might as well tell you now that you each have the part you tried out for. I’m very pleased with you, and proud to have you in the cast.”

Peggy and Greta excitedly embraced each other, and when they turned to do the same to Paula, were dismayed to see that she was crying. “What’s wrong?” Peggy asked. “Is anything the matter?”

“Oh, no,” Paula wailed, trying to smile through her tears. “It’s just that I wanted this so much, and I’m so happy, and I started to laugh and it came out tears....” She rummaged for her pack of tissues, dabbed her eyes, and emerged with a radiant smile.

“There, that’s better,” Randy said.

“The tears were all right too,” Mal said. “I feel like doing the same thing when I’m really happy, but it wouldn’t go with my face. It looks great on yours!”

By the time the coffee and pastry arrived, Paula’s emotional storm had so far been put behind her that she fell on the cakes with the appetite of a lumberjack.

“A little restraint, please, madam,” Mal said, “or you’ll lose your part. We want a nice, slim leading lady, not a butterball! You’re in training now!”

“Let me take them,” Greta said. “I have a fat, round face to begin with, and you wouldn’t have picked me if you wanted a sylph for the part. You’ll never notice a few ounces more!”

“I’m sorry to tell you that we not only would notice it, but we’d mind it very much,” Mal said, “but nobody minds a fat director. So....” He reached for the cause of the debate.

“What I can’t understand,” Greta said, “is how you picked me for the part. Why did you want me to try for a thirtyish career girl role? I’m not really the physical type, and those other girls were. Will you tell me?”

“Just a hunch,” Mal said. “You’ll be the type with your hair out of that braid and put up, and with a little make-up to age you a few years. I felt that you had the kind of crisp delivery we wanted, and it looks as though I was right. As for Peggy, it’s as if the part were written for her.” This last he said with a sly side look at Randy, who reddened slightly. “And as for Paula, well....” He broke off and looked at her intently.

“I don’t know what it is, but the minute I saw you in cast call, I knew you were our girl. And when I heard you read, I knew that I hadn’t made a mistake. There’s something about you ... some quality that I seem to recognize ... I suppose it’s talent. But that’s enough of compliments. If we don’t get out of here, we’ll soon be writing long epic poems to each other’s genius.”

So, finishing their coffee with a toast to the success of Come Closer, they said their good nights and parted outside the coffeehouse.

“Don’t forget,” Mal called after them, “rehearsal Monday night. See you then!” He walked off with Paula, and Randy escorted Peggy, Amy, and Greta back to the Gramercy Arms.

III
First Reading

Peggy was at stage center, under a bright bank of floodlights. Amy entered from stage right, crossed down center and turned her back to the house to look upstage. She paused a moment before speaking.

Her position, back to the audience, would have been unforgivable if there had been an audience, and her lines, when she spoke them, were scarcely dramatic.

“You have paint on the side of your nose,” she said, “and there’s a rip in the seat of your jeans. Now where I come from, no lady....”

“The same to you,” Peggy grinned, looking around from the flat she was painting. “At least, the same to you as regards the paint on your nose. I can’t see the seat of your jeans from here!”

Amy put down the bucket of paint that she had brought with her and stepped back to the apron of the stage to get a better look at Peggy’s handiwork. It was a small wing flat that was to represent the corner of a frame house. A window frame had already been installed in it, and later the suggestion of a back porch would be added. Peggy was busy with the somewhat tedious work of painting clapboards on the flat canvas. Each was made with two lines of gray paint drawn across the white-painted surface; first a dark line, then a somewhat broader light-gray line. From working distance, it looked like nothing but striped canvas, but from a few feet away, the dimensional effect was surprisingly real. Peggy joined Amy at the edge of the stage to get a look at what she had been doing.

“It looks pretty good, doesn’t it?” she asked.

Amy nodded. “Keep it up, honey child, and you may find a real niche for yourself in the theater!”

Laughing, the two friends worked together on the flat, each using one of the shades of gray. The work went much faster now, which pleased Peggy, because she didn’t want to leave the flat half-finished when it was time for her to stop and go to her section of the readings.

In the early part of working on a play, the stage is seldom used. First readings usually take place in small groups gathered in any convenient spot, and it is not until the actors are fairly familiar with their lines and with the way the director wants them read that the play begins to take form on the stage. Come Closer was in the earliest days of rehearsal, and Mal was still in the first stages of familiarizing himself with his cast and them with the play.

The Penthouse Theater was ideally suited for the work they were doing. It was actually a very old theater which Peggy and Amy had discovered, under exciting and mysterious circumstances, when they had first come to New York and met Randy and Mal. The theater itself occupied the top floor of an old loft building, and when Randy and Mal had leased it, they had rented the whole building. Both the theater and the other floors below it had seen much alteration since, and it was now a unique actors’ workshop from top to bottom.

The boys had converted part of the loft space into compact apartments for themselves, and other rooms into living quarters for young actors whose rent, although low by city standards, was still enough to pay most of the costs of operating the building. The ground floor had been turned into a series of rehearsal studios, which, when not being used by Randy and Mal for a current play of their own, were rented to other groups. In its short time of operation, the Penthouse Theater had already become an off-Broadway institution.

For Randy and Mal it had proved to be the best thing that had ever happened to them. It not only gave them a theater in which they could stage their productions, but it gave them enough income so that they no longer had to work at other jobs while trying to pursue their careers in the theater world.

Before, Randy had worked in small night clubs as a song-and-dance man—a way of life for which he had the deepest contempt. Mal had been an actor in movies and television where, because of his tough face, he had been type-cast as a gangster. He not only didn’t like gangster roles, he found it hard to get them because of the cultured English accent that issued so surprisingly from that face. For both boys, the Penthouse Theater meant a new life and new opportunity, doing Randy’s plays, directed by Mal.

Peggy and Amy put the last touches on the clapboard wall, stepped back to review the work, and smiled with satisfaction.

“It looks perfect,” Peggy said. “Now I just hope that we stretched the canvas tight enough on the frame in the first place, so that it doesn’t flutter if somebody bumps into it. If anything looks terrible, it’s a clapboard wall that flutters!”

“I think it’s tight enough,” Amy said, “and besides, if it isn’t, it’s too late to think about it now.”

“You’re right,” Peggy agreed. “Not only that, but I think it’s too late to think about anything right now but my part. I’ve got to clean up and be downstairs for a reading in five minutes. Do you want to keep working here, or will you come down to hear us?”

“I’ve got to come to hear you,” Amy said, “whether I like it or not. Mal asked me to work out the first go-round with you and make notes on the script as we go. He’ll be in to hear you and the others in about an hour.”

“Like it or not!” Peggy said in mock indignation. “What makes you think there’s even a chance you won’t like it? I propose to be brilliant!”

Of course she knew better. Brilliance is not in the picture in these early readings. A half hour later, in Studio 3, having gone once through Act Two, Scene Two, she realized wryly just how far from brilliance they were!

The play, which Randy described as a fantasy, or a “modern morality play,” was not an easy one for the actors. The parts could, with too broad a reading, descend into farce or, with not just the right quality of the fantastic, slide off into dullness. The setting was a resort which was, in actuality, a sort of rest home for wealthy people who needed to get away from themselves for a while—or to find themselves. The point of the play, which gradually emerged, was that each of the characters had somehow led at least two distinct kinds of lives and had found both of them unsatisfactory. All the people in the play were trying, in whatever ways they could, to find some third or fourth kind of life that might be more pleasant and satisfying than the last; all of them were getting more confused every day they tried.

Peggy’s part, then, was not easy. She was playing the role of a young girl of twenty-one who had been a very successful child movie star, but who had not made a picture since she was twelve. Realizing that she was through with show business, she had tried to pretend that she was just an ordinary person who could live an ordinary life. She had gone through college and started work as a secretary, keeping secret the fact that she had been a movie star. But shortly before the play opens, she has suddenly come into the fortune which she had earned as a child, but which had been held in trust for her. The money confuses her, and the publicity she gets when the story of the money comes out makes it impossible for her to continue as a secretary.

The difficulty for Peggy was in making this character seem true and alive. This meant that the personalities of an ex-child movie star, a quiet, precise secretary, and a bewildered new heiress must all be combined in one believable whole.

Each of the other actors had a similar problem of dual personality, and they all had great difficulty not only in interpreting each role, but in deciding how any two or more characters were to speak to each other. Part of the point of the play, cleverly conceived and written by Randy, was that each character brought out one special aspect of each other character, so that Peggy had to act quite differently, almost minute by minute, depending on whom she was speaking to.

Their first efforts in this reading were often so wrong as to be hilarious. The scene included Peggy, Greta, the “businessman type” who was an affable, charming man named Alan Douglas, and the comedian, a roly-poly actor named Gil Mulligan. Their attempts at finding a suitable kind of relationship for this scene were not very successful, and they were so intent on establishing character that they often paid very little attention to their lines, and garbled the words. To make matters worse, Mulligan had a knack of taking each “fluff,” which is what actors call a mistake, and carrying it on one step farther toward madness. When Mal finally arrived to see how the group was doing, they were all doubled up in helpless laughter.

When they had caught their breath, Amy tried to explain to Mal. “The characters are so shifting,” she said, “that everybody’s confused about how they’re supposed to act to whom. Or am I confusing it more? Anyway, they’ve all been fluffing lines like mad.”

“Of course,” Mal said matter-of-factly. “Wrong approach, and all of you should have known it. It’s far too early in the game to try to define your characters. You have more than enough work to do in just getting your lines down cold. What I want you to do for a while is just to go over the lines and learn your cues. Read your parts straight. After you’re easy in what you’re doing, we’ll work at establishing character and shifting viewpoint and response. Besides—and pardon me if I sound like a tyrannical director—I’d rather you wouldn’t play around with character development when I’m not here. Now, have you read the scene through yet?”

“Nearly,” Peggy answered, “if you can call what we’ve been doing a reading. I don’t think any of us benefited much by it, though.”

“All right,” Mal answered. “Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you start it again from the top? I think we have time to go through it at least one time, just to get the feel of it. Then you can all go off by yourselves to learn your own sides.”

This time, with no worrying about character, the scene went smoothly. Almost mechanically, Peggy thought. At first she could not understand the point of having them all just sit around and read the words of the scene to each other without any attempt at acting, but gradually she began to appreciate the value of the method. As each one read in turn, she discovered that every actor had his own personal style or rhythm of reading, a rhythm which, by the end of the scene, she was beginning to catch and anticipate. By the time they were done, she thought that she could tell fairly accurately in advance how each would read his next line. Now that they weren’t trying to make themselves fit the parts, they fell easily into their own natural patterns of speech.

Things went much more quickly in this fashion, and they were able to run through the scene twice before it was time to call a halt. The second time around was much smoother, Peggy noticed, and as they worked, the pattern of the scene and the interplay of the characters began to emerge. When it was done, all the actors agreed that they now had a much clearer idea of what they were doing, and would be better able to go home and study their lines.

As they were on their way out, Peggy fell into step alongside Mal. “I noticed that you didn’t say a word about how we should read,” she said, “and I also noticed that the individual reading styles of the people were pretty clear this time. Is that what you were after?”

“Exactly,” Mal said. “You’re catching on to the tricks pretty quickly, Peggy. You see, a director has to work with actors, as well as with a play. I can’t force anyone to fit precisely into my own preconceived notions of a character, because if I tried, the performance would be stiff and unnatural. What I have to do first is get to understand the actors as they are, and then start building from there. That’s why a Broadway play has a much better chance than an off-Broadway venture. When you’re working with stars, you have known quantities—and qualities—and you cast people who already correspond to your own vision of the part. But when you have to work with unknown actors, you must remember that they’re unknown to the director as well as to the audience. Because of this, my first job is to get to know them as they are, and to get the feel of each one’s natural way of reading a line. Then I can build on that.”

“My, there sure are a lot of hidden problems in directing a play,” Amy said. “I used to think of a director as a kind of wild-animal tamer, standing in the middle of a ring of snarling actors with a whip and a chair, and making them jump through hoops, but it’s more complicated than that, isn’t it?”

Mal laughed. “The wild-animal trainer’s life isn’t so simple, either,” he said with a mischievous grin. “After all, they have to understand the psychology of lions and tigers, and that must be nearly as difficult as understanding actors!”

IV
A Shy Angel

Rehearsals had been going on for over a week now, and Peggy was feeling strangely depressed.

The actors were learning their lines, all right, and cues were not being missed too often, but somehow, the play showed no sign of coming together as a whole. What seemed worse to her, the first attempts at characterization were bad—shockingly bad—and did not correspond in the least to her ideas about the play.

Unfortunately, neither Mal nor Randy, nor any of the cast did a thing to cheer her up or make her feel that she might be wrong. Now it was nearly midnight, and Peggy’s depression was deepened by a sheer physical tiredness that was the result of working all day at the New York Dramatic Academy and all night in the rehearsal studios at the Penthouse Theater.

Peggy, Amy, and Greta, in mutual silent gloom, put on their coats and prepared to go home to the Gramercy Arms. In the hallway, they saw Randy and Mal, equally silent and equally gloomy, looking at each other through a cloud of pipe smoke.

“Is it that bad?” Peggy said.

“It’s not good,” Randy said hollowly.

“I’m sure you’re overstating,” Greta said, in an attempt to cheer them up. “I’ve seen rehearsals go a lot worse than this for a long time, then suddenly pull into brilliant shape overnight. After all, it’s less than two weeks, and it’s not as if this were a simple drawing-room comedy. It’s a good play, and a complicated one, and it’s not the easiest thing in the world to do....”

“It may be impossible to do,” Randy said. “But cheer up, girls. We weren’t concerned about your acting. We’ve got other problems.”

“Not problems. Just problem,” Mal put in.

“What’s wrong?” Peggy asked. “Can you tell us, and is there anything we can do?”

“You’re going to have to know sooner or later,” Randy answered, “so we might as well tell you now. Come on in for a cup of coffee and we’ll tell you all about it.”

Nothing more was said until the three girls were seated in Mal’s comfortable living room upstairs. Then, while Mal was in the kitchen getting the coffee ready, Randy told Peggy and the other girls what was on his mind.

“It’s the age-old theater problem,” he sighed. “To put it in one word, it’s money. I’m afraid we badly misjudged our budget for Come Closer, and unless we can find a way to raise some more cash in a hurry, we may have to close up shop.”

“But how can that be?” Amy said. “You were so sure that you had enough, and it’s not as if this were a high-cost production with a lot of costumes and expensive sets and all that—”

“No, that’s not it,” Randy said. “We figured the scenery and costumes and lighting right down to the nickel. What threw us is the salary expense, and a bad guess about the amount of rehearsal time we would need.”

“My fault,” Mal said, as he came in from the kitchen, bearing a tray of cups and saucers, sugar, cream, cookies and an enormous pot of coffee.

“Why do you say it’s your fault, Mal?” Peggy asked.

“I figured the rehearsal time into the budget, and I figured wrong. I didn’t take into account just how difficult the play is to do, and I should have known that we would need to go into extra weeks. Actually, I think we’ll need at least three and maybe four more weeks of rehearsal than I had first called for, and that’s a big hunk of salary money that wasn’t figured in.”

“We have twelve actors, all working for minimum scale wages,” Randy explained. “During the contracted rehearsal period, as you know, they get paid half of scale. We put aside enough money to pay for that, plus full scale for two weeks after opening. Unfortunately, when we go into extra rehearsal weeks, we have to pay full scale for those, just as if the play were open. What it means is that we’ll be short by about a month’s full salary money, and although it doesn’t seem as if you’re getting paid much, when you add it all up, it comes out to be quite a sum.”

“Three thousand, seven hundred dollars, to be exact,” Mal said.

A moment of silence followed, while the girls took in this disturbing new fact. They covered their distress by the routine of pouring coffee and passing cream, sugar, and cookies.

“What about the original group of backers?” Peggy asked. “They already have a good-sized investment to protect. Won’t they put up the extra money just to keep from losing what they’ve already put in before the play even opens?”

“I’ve already approached them,” Randy said, “and they all agree that it makes sense to put up more money. Unfortunately, none of them has any more to put in. I’m afraid that the only thing left to do is to find more money from other people.”

“I should think it would be easier now than it was before,” Greta observed. “After all, when you started, all you had was a script to show. Now you have a cast and some scenery and—”

“And that’s all,” Mal interrupted.

“I don’t understand,” Amy said. “Why doesn’t that make it easier?”

“Because at this stage,” Mal explained, “a prospective backer would want an audition—at least a home reading of the play, if not a stage performance of a couple of scenes. And we’re not ready for that. You know yourselves how the readings sound. That’s why we need more rehearsal time and therefore more money. A backer’s audition at this stage of the game would be a pure disaster.”

“Couldn’t we change the rehearsal schedule?” Peggy asked. “I mean, if we all started working just on one particular scene, couldn’t we get it in good enough shape to be heard in about a week’s time?”

“We probably could,” Mal answered, “but there are a few problems in working that way. For one thing, we take a chance on throwing the whole development of the play out of balance by perfecting one scene before we’ve worked on the rest. My own method is to work slowly on all parts at once, bringing them into focus at roughly the same time. The second problem, a smaller one, is that by doing this at all, we let the cast know that we’re in financial trouble. I’d rather avoid that, if we could.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” Peggy said. “I’ve gotten to know them pretty well in this last week or so, and I don’t think there’s one of them who would panic about money or refuse to go into the extra rehearsal time and the auditioning. They’re a good group. Don’t you think so?” She appealed to Greta and Amy.

“Absolutely,” Greta said firmly.

“I’m sure of it,” Amy agreed.

“Well, then! That ought to settle it!” Peggy said. “Now all you have to do is find someone to audition for, and give us a week to get ready for him!”

“I’ve got him,” Randy said quietly.

“You’ve what?” Peggy gasped.

“I’ve got him. I’ve got the man to audition for.”

“But ... but,” she sputtered. “How? And why were you so gloomy if you have a good prospective backer?”

“I was gloomy because I hate to have to raise more money, not because I didn’t think we could do it,” Randy explained. “And as for the backer—if he turns out to be a backer and not just a prospect—I’ve had him from the beginning. He’s a wealthy and important man, and although he’s crazy enough to like to invest in plays, he’s cautious enough never to put up a nickel unless he’s seen an audition he likes. I showed him the play quite a few months ago and he said he liked it and was very interested, but he wouldn’t put up any cash until I could show him a cast and have them read. In a way, I guess he’s right. He claims that in off-Broadway shows even more than on Broadway, the actors make the play. You can have the best play in the world but a bad group of amateurs can ruin it, and there’s always a chance of getting a group of amateurs when you put on a play downtown. At any rate, he’s half-sold already, so I guess we have a good chance of selling him all the way,” Randy finished.

“Who is he?” Peggy asked.

Randy hesitated. “He’s ... well, he’s a rich man who’s interested in the theater,” he said awkwardly.

“We know that much,” Peggy replied, “but which rich man? What’s his name?”

“Well—” Randy said, “it may sound peculiar, but I’d rather not say just yet. You see, I can tell you this much about him, he’s a very important sort of a man—a public figure, you might say—and I know how he hates publicity of any sort. I spoke to him earlier this evening to see if he’d be willing to come down for an audition, and he agreed, providing we told nobody about it. It’s not that he’d mind having it known that he’s invested in a play, after he decides to do it. But if it were to get out that he was coming down here for a private audition, the Penthouse Theater would be crawling with newspaper reporters and photographers. Not only would he be bothered, but the publicity would almost force him to invest, whether he wanted to or not.”

“Boy!” Peggy said in wonder. “He must be really important!”

“He is,” Randy said. “I wouldn’t be this secretive if he weren’t. You’ll just have to go along with the game until next week. Then you’ll find out who he is when he shows up.”

“You can trust us,” Amy said. “We wouldn’t breathe a word of it. And besides, we don’t know any reporters!”

“I do,” Greta said. “And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t want to know any secret. If it ever got out, I wouldn’t want to be among the suspected leaks.”

“That’s just why I’m not telling anybody,” Randy agreed. “That way, if anybody finds out he’s coming down here, it will have to be from one of his associates, not from one of us.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Amy agreed ruefully. “But I can hardly wait to find out what this is all about!”

“What scene are we going to do, Mal?” Peggy asked.

“I think the best one,” he replied, “would be Act Two, Scene Three. The second-act curtain is really powerful, and besides, it’s Paula Andrews’ best scene. Not only that, but it brings most of the main characters together at a time of crisis, when they can be understood without having seen the rest of the play.”

“Most of the characters except me,” Peggy said. “Couldn’t you have chosen something where I’m on stage?”

“Sorry, Peggy,” Mal said, “but this one really makes the most sense.”

“I suppose it does,” she agreed, “but I just hate to be so useless at an important time like this.”

“Maybe you’ll be useless,” Mal answered, “but I’m going to see to it that you won’t be idle. Since we don’t want anything to slip up, and since Paula hasn’t been looking well lately, I want you to understudy her part for this audition. Amy will understudy you, Greta. Some of the other actors who aren’t on in that scene will back up other parts. Nobody’s going to be left out of the preparation, even if everyone isn’t actually used. In that way, the whole cast can get a chance to see how I go about developing a complete scene, and maybe that will keep us from throwing the development of the play off balance, which is what I’m worried about.”

“It might even help,” Randy said hopefully.

“It might,” Mal said, looking completely unconvinced.

“Before you sink into that swamp of gloom again,” Peggy said with a laugh, “I think that we’d better get going. Do you realize that it’s almost one in the morning, and tomorrow I have a nine-o’clock class in TV acting techniques? If I don’t get some sleep I’m going to be the only out-of-focus actress in the picture!”

Quickly finishing their coffee, the girls put on their coats once more and said good night to Randy and Mal. Mal, always thoughtful, insisted on coming downstairs and seeing them into a taxi, so they wouldn’t have to make their way home alone at that late hour.

“There’s only one thing now that worries me,” Peggy said to Amy and Greta as they were being driven to the Gramercy Arms.

“What’s that?” Amy asked.

“The rest of the cast,” she answered. “We promised a lot of cooperation from them, and the fact is that we hardly know them at all. I just hope we were right!”

V
An Unexpected Scene

Peggy had not been wrong. Far from grumbling about the extra weeks of rehearsal, most of the actors were happy about being assured of the additional pay. Of course there was the inevitable disappointment that comes from the postponement of an opening night, but this did not seem really to upset anyone. Most of the actors agreed that the extended rehearsal time was needed, and everyone felt a relaxation of some of the pressure under which they had been working.

Of course, the main question in the air was the identity of the secret investor, but Randy maintained a stubborn silence on this score.

Peggy attended all of Paula’s rehearsals as well as separate readings of Paula’s role for Mal. She wrapped herself so thoroughly in Paula’s part that she nearly forgot her own, which was not difficult, since rehearsals of all other scenes had been stopped.

Even her lunch hours at the Academy were spent studying Paula’s lines.

It was not an easy part at all. If the other characters had seemed difficult because of their double or triple points of view, the leading role was almost impossible. It had no point of view at all, and every point of view imaginable!

Paula was to play the part of the daughter of a pair of embittered millionaire eccentrics who had withdrawn from society and had never allowed their only child any contact with the world. She had been educated by her mother and father and had grown to the age of twenty-three without ever leaving their enormous estate. She had never seen any adults except her parents and a few servants. Before the action of the play, both of her parents have died within a few months of each other, and the girl is suddenly left alone to cope with the problems of existence in a world for which she is completely unprepared. Dazed both by the loss of her parents and the new business of having to deal with people, she decides to come to the rest home which is the scene of the play, to slowly get used to her new position.

The principal difficulty of the role, Peggy saw, was quite the reverse of the difficulty of the other parts. Instead of having been two or three different people, this girl has never actually been anybody. As a result, she reacts to each of the actors according to their characters at the moment. And since each of them assumes many different roles, depending on whom he is talking to, the girl is in complete confusion.

Listening to Paula read, Peggy was filled with admiration. Somehow, in the short time in which the rest of them had been trying to grasp their roles, Paula seemed to have mastered hers. Each time she slipped into a new manner of speech and action, she gave the impression of doing so with a mixture of eagerness and fear. As the pace quickened and the characters and manners changed more rapidly, the balance between eagerness and fear changed until, as the scene rose to its climax, eagerness was replaced by hysteria, fear by terror. At the curtain, Paula sobbed wildly as the characters around her shifted as swiftly as the pieces in a kaleidoscope.

The whole group, including the usually taciturn Mal, broke into applause for Paula, who managed to smile through the play-tears that she seemed unable to control.

“We’ll have a fifteen-minute break,” Mal called. “Then, if Paula can stand it, we’ll run through it again!”

As the actors stood up and stretched before drifting off to different parts of the room to talk in groups of twos and threes, Peggy went to Paula Andrews, still sitting in her straight chair.

“You were wonderful!” she said. “I feel like a fool understudying you!”

“Don’t be silly, Peggy,” Paula replied. “It’s not me. It’s the play. Randy has written a marvelous role in Alison; it almost plays itself. If you have to do it, I know you’ll do every bit as well.”

“I certainly won’t,” Peggy said, “but what worries me is that I may have to try if you don’t take care of yourself. Paula,” she said in a softer tone, “is there anything the matter? You haven’t been looking at all well lately, and I’m worried about you. Is something wrong that I might be able to help you with? If there is, I wish you’d tell me. You know that I want to be your friend.”

Smiling wanly, Paula took Peggy’s hand. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong. I guess I’ve just been working too hard—at—at the department store, you know—and then at night with these rehearsals. And the part is so demanding, and I’m so wrapped up in it—” She stopped abruptly, as if on the verge of tears, but not acting tears this time. Then she once more managed to smile. “Thank you, Peggy, but you don’t have to worry. I’ll be perfectly all right.”

Peggy said nothing more. She had done all she could by offering to help, and if Paula wouldn’t admit anything was wrong, there was nothing further she could say. But Paula’s manner had convinced her that something was very wrong indeed, something far more than a simple case of overwork.

However, when Mal called the cast together again for a second reading of the scene, all of Paula’s tiredness seemed suddenly to vanish. She drew strength from some inner reserves and played with the same conviction and brilliance as before. Even more, perhaps, Peggy thought.

Caught in the pace and rhythm of her reading, the rest of the cast took hold and played up to her, shifting in and out of character with all the timed precision of a complex machine. Once again the action built to the climax, the tears, the curtain, and the applause. And once again Paula, unable to stop the crying, went as limp and washed-out as a rag doll.

“That’s all for tonight,” Mal called. “But before you go, Randy has a bit of a surprise for you.”

“As you know,” Randy began when the actors had formed a circle about him, “tomorrow night is the audition performance. Our possible backer is grateful for all the work you’ve done on this scene for him, and to show his gratitude, he’s buying us all a good dinner first. So instead of coming here, come to Paolo’s Restaurant on East 48th Street, to the private dining room upstairs. See you there about six o’clock.”

Delighted with this gesture, the cast gathered their coats and hats and prepared to leave. Peggy hesitated, looking at Paula, who was no longer crying, but who still sat exhausted where she had finished the scene.

“Peggy,” Randy said, “will you take Paula home, please? She looks really exhausted, and I don’t want her walking, so take a cab, and I’ll pay for it.”

“That’s a good idea,” Peggy agreed. “I’ve been worried about her, too. Maybe I can get her to tell me if something’s bothering her. I tried once, but she didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe in the taxi, though....”

Paula gladly accepted the lift but, though still friendly and warm, was no more inclined to talk about her troubles, if any, than before. The address she gave proved to be in a fine block of remodeled town houses on East 36th Street, just a half block off Park Avenue—not at all the sort of place where Peggy expected a department-store salesgirl to live.

Without inviting Peggy in, she thanked her for the ride, waved good-by, and let herself in through a green-lacquered door with polished brass fittings.

Puzzled and worried, Peggy leaned back in the taxi seat and gave the driver the address of the Gramercy Arms.

Peggy had been in the crowded, brightly lighted, vaulted cellars of Paolo’s before, on dates with Randy, but this was the first time she had ever been in the private dining room. In fact, until now, she had not even suspected that such a room existed. She could not have been more astonished, then, to find that the restaurant occupied the entire four-story building instead of just the basement.

A tiny automatic elevator, that had barely room enough for four passengers squeezed together, carried Peggy and Amy to the top floor. Although they were scarcely five minutes late, the rest of the cast had already preceded them and were wandering about talking gaily and eating appetizers from the long, beautifully decorated table that filled one end of the room. Peggy spotted Paula, eating hungrily and, between bites, talking with animation to Greta and Alan Douglas. She looked much better than she had the night before, and Peggy felt a sense of relief. Maybe she had been making too much of just a normal case of tiredness.

Randy and Mal came hurrying over to take the girls’ coats and to lead them into the room, which they showed off as if they owned it.

“This is just the lounge,” Randy said, waving his hand to indicate the laden table, the fine paneling, the handsome chandeliers. “Wait till you see the dining room!”

Leading Amy and Peggy to the other side of the little entry hall that separated the two rooms, Randy opened the door of the dining room to let them get an advance look. The room was dominated by the biggest circular table that any of them had ever seen—with ample room for place settings for fourteen. The center of the huge table was filled with a low floral centerpiece, punctuated by dozens of tall, thin candles.

The heavily beamed ceiling sloped sharply upward from a row of six dormer windows facing a courtyard. On the high wall opposite was an enormous fireplace whose blaze was reflected in the bright crystal and silver on the table.

Dazzled by the setting, the girls allowed themselves to be led back to the lounge to help themselves to appetizers. Giant cheeses of all shapes alternated with towering bowls of apples and oranges in the center of the table, while at the foot of these mountains were platters of smoked fish, caviar, sliced cheeses, spiced Italian ham sliced so thin as to be almost transparent, orderly rows of crackers, baskets of sliced bread and rolls, bunches of grapes, bowls of black and green olives, slivers of smoked turkey and brilliant platters of sliced tomatoes. And surrounding it all were the actors, airing their manners like the traditional strolling players invited to a baronial feast, behaving grandly as if they ate this way every day in the week!

Laughing at the sight, Peggy happily helped herself to some of the more exotic foods, wisely conserving her appetite. After all, if these were just the appetizers, whatever would dinner be like?

An hour and a half later, contentedly sighing as the waiter poured a second cup of coffee, Peggy was glad that she had saved a little appetite. Otherwise she might never even have tasted it all! Dinner, from the delicate clear soup, to the lobster Newburg, the tiny green peas with pearl onions, the crackling thin julienne potatoes, the crisp, herb-tinged salad, and the sweet-sour key lime pie, had been a sheer delight.

Now, while everyone was resting over coffee and quiet conversation, Randy stood up to speak. He tapped gently on his glass with a spoon, and the crystal rang like a clear, thin bell. The cast members turned their attention to him.

“I think that you would like to know now whom to thank for this wonderful dinner,” he said. “I’m allowed to tell you all at this point, because we’re going straight from here to his house for the reading. It seems that the gentleman has several other appointments, and can’t allow himself time to come down to the theater, but he does want to hear the reading, so we’re bringing the theater to him, from eight to nine-thirty. Now, not to keep you in suspense any longer, I’ll tell you his name: Sir Brian Alwyne, Special British Representative to the United Nations!”

A murmur of surprise went up around the table as the actors turned to each other to comment on this distinguished man’s interest in their play, and to speculate on the experience of acting in his home. But, looking from face to face, Peggy noted, with surprise, Paula’s peculiar expression. She had gone pale and white as the table linen, and her face was drawn. One hand, held to her mouth, was trembling. Suddenly she stood up, bunching the tablecloth in a tight grip.

“No!” she cried. “No! I won’t! I won’t act in his house!”

A shocked silence gripped the room as everyone turned to stare at her.

“But, Paula, I don’t understand....” Mal began. “What does it matter if it’s in his house instead of in the theater? I think you’re being—”

“No!” she said again tensely. “You don’t understand. Of course you don’t. But”—she paused and looked about her in bewilderment—“I’m sorry,” she said abruptly, then turned and ran from the room.

Before Mal and Randy could recover their senses sufficiently to run after her, she had grabbed her coat from the startled cloakroom attendant and run down the stairs. They could hear her heels clattering more than a floor below.

Randy started after her, but Mal restrained him.

“No use, old chap,” he said. “I don’t know what’s got into her, but whatever it is, she’s not going to act tonight. And as far as I’m concerned,” he added grimly, “I don’t care if she never acts again. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s temperament. Forget it. Peggy will do the role, and she’ll do it well.”

VI
Two Acts of Faith

Jittery though they all were after this startling experience, the audition went off with surprising smoothness. Sir Brian, a handsome gentleman with beautiful manners, received them cordially, allowed them to rearrange his drawing room, and made them feel thoroughly at home.

Peggy, though feeling too dazed at Paula’s behavior to be really aware of what she was doing, somehow turned in a fine performance. But even as she was acting to the climax of the scene she was aware that she was not so much playing the character of Alison as she was playing Paula’s version of Alison.

At the scene’s end, Sir Brian and Lady Alwyne applauded enthusiastically, complimented Peggy especially, and thanked the company for their trouble in preparing the scene and coming uptown to act it.

“It was most good of you,” Sir Brian exclaimed to Randy. “And I must compliment you on having found a company that does justice to your splendid play. And by the way,” he added in a quieter voice, “my check for five thousand dollars will be in the mail tomorrow.”

“Five thousand?” Randy asked, startled. “But that’s really more than we need, sir.”

“Nonsense,” Sir Brian said firmly. “There’s no such thing as too much money. You can use the extra for a little more advertising than you had planned, or for an extra bit of scenery or something. Now, I don’t like to hurry you along, but you really must excuse me if....”

Thanking him profusely, Randy rounded up the cast, let them know the good news, and hurried them out. Only the cold bite of the night wind off the East River convinced him that the whole evening had not been some sort of fantastic dream, engendered by an overheated imagination.

“The whole evening!” he said to Peggy, who was walking arm-in-arm with him a few paces behind Mal and Amy. “Everything about it seems completely unlikely!”

“I know,” she agreed. “That fantastic spread at Paolo’s ... the peculiar business with Paula ... Sir Brian and Lady Alwyne, looking like a movie Lord and Lady sent in from Central Casting ... and then a check for five thousand dollars! It’s almost too much to believe!”

“What do you think about Paula?” Randy asked. “Have you any idea what could have been behind that outburst of temperament?”

“I don’t know,” Peggy said, “but I don’t think that temperament is the word to describe it. You know yourself that she’s not a prima donna type. She’s always cooperative, works hard at rehearsals, takes every direction that Mal gives her.... No. I know she’s not a temperamental person. This is something else; something we haven’t any idea about. But whatever it is, I think she’s in some kind of trouble, and I want to help her if I can.”

“Mal says he doesn’t want to have her in the show any more,” Randy said. “He told me he thinks you can do a good job in the part. If you just forget about Paula, you can have the role.”

“Randy!” Peggy said in a shocked voice. “Paula’s my friend, and I want to help her, not steal parts from her! And besides, I couldn’t possibly do Alison as well as she does. You saw for yourself tonight that I wasn’t creating a role. I was imitating a role. Paula’s a far better and more finished actress than I’ll be for many years, if ever, and I think that we owe it to your play to get her back, if she’ll come.”

“And if Mal will have her,” Randy added.

“And if she’s all right,” Peggy mused. “Randy, I’m really worried about her. Let me go talk to her right now for a half hour or so, and I’ll join you three for coffee after. When I’ve spoken to her, I’ll have a better idea, I know, about whether or not we can count on her. Leave it to me, will you, Randy?”

Randy walked along in silence for a moment before replying. “All right,” he said. “I’m perfectly willing to trust your judgment, and I know that Mal will give every consideration to what you say. I guess it is a good idea for someone to go see her now. Whatever’s wrong with her, she’s gone through a bad evening and can use a friend.”

After catching up with Amy and Mal and explaining what Peggy wanted to do, they arranged to meet at Dodo’s Coffeehouse downtown. Randy hailed a cab and helped Peggy in. “I think you’re right about Paula,” he said before closing the door. “And I’m glad you want to help her. Good luck!”

At 36th Street, Peggy dismissed the cab, sure that she would find Paula at home. She pushed the button marked “ANDREWS” and waited a moment until the little speaker crackled and Paula’s voice, sounding tired and far away, answered, “Who is it?”

“It’s Peggy Lane. May I come up to see you?”

A moment’s hesitation, and then, “All right. Third floor rear.” A buzzer sounded in the green door, and Peggy let herself in.

Going up in the little elevator, Peggy wondered again how Paula could afford to live in such an elegant place. She had some idea of the rents in these well-maintained remodeled buildings, and also some idea of what a salesgirl in a department store earned. “Well, it’s none of my business,” she told herself. “Maybe someone left her an income or something. Or maybe her parents pay the rent for her. But that’s not what I’m here to find out.”

Paula, looking more pale, drawn, and tired than Peggy had ever seen her before, opened the door and motioned Peggy in. The apartment, obviously rented furnished, was comfortable enough, but almost without personality, like a hotel room. It consisted of one bedroom-sitting room, a compact kitchenette and a bath. The only sign that anyone lived in it was a small collection of books, no more than a dozen, on a shelf.

“Sit down, Peggy,” Paula said formally. Then, as if she were asking about some event that didn’t concern her at all, but asking only out of politeness, she said, “And how did the audition go? Were you good? And did Sir Brian invest in the play?”

“It went very well,” Peggy said gloomily, “considering that it was me and not you. Sir Brian is putting five thousand dollars into the production.”

“Then I guess I’m fired,” Paula said, in the same lifeless tone.

“You don’t have to be,” Peggy said. “If you can only explain—or just convince Mal and Randy in some way that it won’t happen again—I know they want you back!”

“That’s nice of you, Peggy,” Paula said, “but I can’t explain. And there’s no point in my trying to. No, the part is yours.”

“But I don’t want it!” Peggy said earnestly. “I’d never have been able to play that scene if I hadn’t seen you do it so often! All I was doing was a fair imitation. You’ve got to come back and do the part!”

“Peggy,” Paula said with sudden intensity, “it’s not a question of my wanting to come back and do the part or not. It’s a question of being accepted back. Of course I want to do it! But Mal and Randy have to make the decision that they’re willing to let me come back after the terrible way I acted this evening.”

“If you could just tell them why—” Peggy began.

“I can’t. Honestly, I can’t,” Paula interrupted. “I would if I could, but if they’re going to take me back, it can’t depend on an explanation. They’ll just have to do it on faith—and on my promise that nothing like this will happen again. That’s the only assurance I can give them.”