These Curious Pleasures Part 2

I got tied up on the phone for a long time and then I had to go into Judy's office and help her with a budget she was preparing.

It was well after four o'clock when I finally got back to my own desk. I started snooping on the fiasco going on in the inner sanctum again.

Happy was still entertaining the three broads. What an artist! He was talking so much that n.o.body had a chance ask any questions. All the attention was directed toward him so that the three women weren't even being b.i.t.c.hy toward each other.

He was sweating plenty, though. You could tell by the way he was drinking. Usually he would put at least a drop or two of water in with the Scotch. His mannerisms were a little stilted, too. Like an actor's, they were close to being natural but a tiny bit stagey. I noticed that every time the telephone rang Happy would look up anxiously. It would have been murder for him if someone had called about the Ferguson pilot. How would he have been able to talk to them?

I guess he didn't realize how much I had learned about the job in the few weeks I had been there. I knew how to handle the situation. Sure, there were calls for him but I put them through to Judy. As Happy's private secretary she could tell them that he was in conference and couldn't be disturbed. Judy and I worked perfectly as a team in keeping Happy's social life as uncomplicated as possible. The business aspects he could manage himself.

The next day we were supposed to start casting the bit parts for the Amy Ferguson pilot. It the series sold, most of the actors and actresses who had small parts in the pilot would be used for the later sequences. It was a good deal for them. Worth taking a chance for. They only got $80 a day for working on the pilot and that's chicken feed for television work, but they considered it an investment for the future.

Somebody goofed somewhere, we never found out who. There was a notice in the trade papers that morning announcing that we were casting. Instead of the dozen or so people we expected to come in response to our calls to the talent agencies, at least two hundred actors showed up.

It was pitiful. Everybody in the office was horribly depressed by it. There was nothing we could do. Steve and Jack auditioned the ones who had been sent by agents and a few of the more promising free-lancers, but they couldn't handle that mob. There just wasn't time enough.

I got the job of turning away the others. I hated to do 't. Some of them looked as if they hadn't eaten in a week. There were men in their sixties wearing threadbare double-breasted suits who were applying for the role of a man of thirty. They told me that when they dyed their hair, or wore a moustache or who knows what, they would look young enough. What could I do? I had to take their phone numbers and tell them that we'd call them if anything came up. Don't call us, we'll call youa"that means no soap in show business and they knew it. Three of the parts were for young girls who were supposed to be beauty queens. Lots of hags were after the job but you should have seen the others! I didn't know there were that many gorgeous women in all of New York, me, you could tell just by looking at them, were strictly no talent kids who thought they could make it on their looks alone. Somebody ought to tell those lovelies that what they had been warned about producers and what they were now preparing to capitalize on just isn't true. You don't get a part by sleeping with the producer. If you've got something to offer it might speed things along to be available after rehearsals, but no producer can afford to subst.i.tute talent in bed for talent on the stage. Besides, a guy like Happy Broadman gets whomever he wants (with some exceptions) without bargaining.

The flood started abating about two o'clock and by three there were no more eager hopefuls in the office. We had told the ones who had come in the morning that the parts had been taken and word must have gotten around. I don't know how. Actors seem to have some sort of sixth sense or underground railroad system of communication when it comes to jobs.

I was exhausted. All the time that I had been getting rid of the actors the regular business of the office had been going on. Between the two jobs there had been no time for lunch and I was starving.

Happy saw how exhausted I was and offered me a drink. That was his solution for just about everything. I didn't really want a drink but I took one anyway. Happy mixed two Scotch and waters that would have put hair on a cue ball.

The phones were taking a coffee break so I sat in Happy's office drinking and having a typical boss-employee conversation. Happy was telling me about his women. He had the most immoral, unscrupulous att.i.tude toward women I'd ever encountered. But there was such a robust Rabelasian quality in his approach to them that I couldn't hate him for it.

At one point he put his hands behind his head, tilted back in his big swivel chair and said, "I love women. All of them. The short ones, the tall ones, the fat ones, the skinny ones."

Me too, I thought, but I didn't say it.

When the elevator door opened and a young woman got off, I didn't get up. It was five o'clock and time for one of Happy's harem to come up for c.o.c.ktails. She didn't look familiar but I hadn't met them all yet.

When she didn't come into his office after a few minutes I realized that she must be waiting out in the reception room. Obviously, she was not there on a social call. I excused myself and went out to see what she wanted.

The carpets were so thick that footsteps were m.u.f.fled. She didn't hear me approaching. She was standing in profile to me, looking at the clients' pictures.

Another beauty queen. About medium height, trim and well-groomed. Her long honey blonde hair fell in a soft page-boy on her shoulders. With her figure she could go far, if she had the talent to go with it. She was round where a dame should be round and a 38-C if I've ever seen one. Her suit jacket was open and I could see her sweater doing its best to keep from bursting at the seams. I made a silent bet with myself that she was as tall lying down as she was standing up.

"May I help you, Miss?" I asked. She turned slowly around. It took me a few seconds to see her face, I was concentrating elsewhere. She had the kind of waist that used to be called waspish. And hips, real ones. I don't go for the flat-hipped Audrey Hepburn little boy look.

Before she spoke I saw the look in her eyes. There's a special look that a woman who goes for women gives another. I call it the long drink. It's difficult to describe, but it's a peculiar combination of interest, sympathy, appraisal, amus.e.m.e.nt and challenge. That was the look that was. .h.i.tting me like the proverbial ton of bricks.

"I'm Allison Millay," she said. "I heard you were casting."

"I'm sorry, we've already cast..." I started to say when that look hit me again. "Uh, on second thought, wait here a minute, will you?"

Jack had gone home but Steve was still there. There was one small part still open. They needed a young girl to play the part of a secretary. Steve was reluctant but I finally persuaded him to give the kid a chance. He agreed to let the girl read the script for ten minutes and then come into his office for an audition.

I prayed that she'd be a quick study. Ten minutes is an awfully short time to give even an experienced actress. In those few minutes she'd have to figure out the basic personality structure of the character and just how to deliver the unfamiliar lines.

I handed a copy of the script to Allison and she sat down on the couch to read it. I read the part over at the same time. By then I should have known it by heart. I had typed the thing through five revisions.

To me the script stank. Later, after I had seen the finished pilot, I understood that that's because I didn't know how things work in television. On paper it looked awful but with a skilled director and good actors it came alive. There are sight gags that aren't written into a script. People who read scripts all the time can visualize them but I was used to reading plays for the theatre. There the humor is more verbal than it is on television.

When the ten minutes were up, I showed Allison into Steve's office. He closed the door so I couldn't hear what they were saying. Nothing daunted, I flipped on the intercom system. After all, they weren't dealing with confidential material.

I was so nervous I barely heard Allison read. But then I heard Steve laugh. For the first time. No one else who had read the part had gotten even a chuckle out of him. And he laughed harder as she read more.

I knew it was in the bag before I heard him discussing terms with her and asking her the usual questions about her background.

Allison had the usual history. Bit parts in summer stock, roles in college productions and a couple of commercials at trade shows. This would be her first chance to break into television.

They arranged that she was to come back the next day to sign her contract and meet the rest of the cast.

Allison came back into the reception room looking like she had just been elected governor. Lord, she was beautiful. She was so radiant with happiness that it hurt me to look at her.

She put on her coat and rang for the elevator. Then, while she was waiting for it, she came over to my desk.

"Thanks," she said. "Guess we'll be seeing each other from now on. Maybe we could have lunch some day?"

"Fine. I'd love it," I said.

The elevator came and Allison got on it. She leaned out the door and said, "Good-bye."

That look again!

CHAPTER 4.

Happy was in the office by ten the next morning. An unheard of thing. He was there at that hour because Amy Ferguson wanted to talk to him about the pilot before the rest of the cast got there. When Amy Ferguson wanted Happy around, he was there. In exchange she brought in at least $1000 in commissions each week. She was a good client in other ways too. Not very temperamental, dependable and considerate. One of the reasons that Judy and I liked her was that she had her own private secretary and didn't bother us with small ch.o.r.es the way some of the other clients did.

I called her secretary to find out if I should- have breakfast ready for Amy when she got to the office. It was a goofy job. Ordering breakfast for someone would be nothing unusual. I was there to accommodate in all kinds of things. I walked dogs, shopped for presents, minded children and modeled hats. You could never tell what a client would ask for next.

Amy's secretary, Chris Salem, said that she and Miss Ferguson had already had breakfast and that Miss Ferguson would be at our office in a few minutes.

I felt like telling her to cut out the Miss Ferguson c.r.a.p, but I didn't. I knew something she didn't know I knew. Something that I don't think anybody else in the office knew.

Most people don't have their secretary live in their home. I'd never been to Amy Ferguson's apartment but I could bet that she and her secretary at least had separate bedrooms. Why was it then that most of the time when I called Chris would be in Amy's room? Often Chris would tell me that Miss Ferguson couldn't come to the phone because she was asleep. Then I'd hear a voice in the background asking who it was and Amy would come on the phone herself.

I wasn't jumping to conclusions or projecting. There were too many obvious things pointing to it. Later when I met Chris at the showing of the pilot, I knew I was right. Chris Salem looked like someone my mother would like me to marry. All she needed was to put on a pair of trousers. She even looked like a man in an evening gown.

I'll bet that without Chris around to take the sting out of her marriage Happy would never be able to talk Amy out of divorcing her husband.

Amy and Happy were locked in his office for an hour. The other six members of the cast a.s.sembled in the reception room waiting for them. Allison was the last one to arrive.

We didn't have any chance to talk. I was too busy with the phones.

Amy and Happy came out and introduced themselves to the cast. Amy could turn down any one of them if she wanted to, of course, but that wasn't likely. They had been carefully picked and were right for their roles. Amy wasn't the sort of person to run into personality conflicts. Everybody who worked for her always ended up wors.h.i.+pping the ground she walked on. The suburban pied-piper could bewitch sophisticated theatrical people as easily as she charmed her audiences. And, as I've said before, it wasn't phony. Amy really liked people and they liked her.

Amy went around the group exchanging pleasantries with each one of them. When she got to Allison I saw a change in her expression. The long drink. She'd never looked at me that way. O.k., so she didn't go for me. I wasn't her type. No crime in that.

They went through the formality of reading for Amy. She okayed them all. Arrangements were made for rehearsals to be held at the Silver Medallion Studios in the Bronx starting the next week. Then everybody left and the production crew came in.

This was the roughest part for me. Budgets had to be drawn up, computed by me, typed by me, rejected by Happy, drawn up again, computed again, typed again.

I was astounded by the costs. A little thing like light bulbs was going to cost them $300. Everything had to be figured out in advance or they'd end up running thousands of dollars over the budget. As it turned out it rained one day when they were supposed to shoot outdoor shots and the delay cost them $7,000.

The office was in even more of an uproar than usual. The production crew manager yelled at his a.s.sistant. Steve and Jack yelled at each other and at the crew manager. The crew manager yelled back. Happy yelled at everybody. No matter what they screamed at each other, everyone called everyone names that were more appropriate in the bedroom. In this business men call each other darling, doll, sweetie and lover all the time.

The crew manager would bellow to me: "Darling, have you got the new schedules typed yet?" Then to Jack: "You'll see, doll, this new budget is a sweetheart."

Jack would yell back: "Lover, it better be. I love you madly, pa.s.sionately and without reservation but we can't spend $5000 for one set."

And Happy would scream from his office: "What did I hear about $5000 for one set? What are you trying to do? Screw me? Take it easy with my dough, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Cut that c.r.a.p about overtime. We're making this thing on schedule or we're not making it at all, right dolls?"

And Steve would thunder back: "Happy, you son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h, we're doing the best we can. Stop bugging us."

And I'd shriek: "Pipe down, will you. I can't hear myself think!" The atmosphere was beginning to get me and I was finding a capacity for vocal volume I never knew I had.

Then the chorus would come in: "You're right, doll." "Sweetheart, you've got a point there." "Baby, we need you around here to keep us in line."

Two minutes later they were all screaming again.

I didn't have a chance to think all morning. I made up for it at lunch time.

I fell into a seat at the delicatessen thinking that I'd never be able to get out of it again. Was I beat! I didn't even have the energy to fight my memories. So I thought about Marilyn. What else?

Why did she have to treat me that way? Was that how she got her kicks? I loved her so much.

Then I realized what I was saying to myself. Loved her? Past tense? Was I finally getting over her?

It wasn't much to go on but it held the possibility of release from the most complete of tyranniesa"the tyranny of memory. I went back to work ready to cope with anything and anybody.

The afternoon was a repet.i.tion of the morning. Work and noise.

By the time I left that evening, I was almost glad to be spending an evening home alone. I was so tired all I wanted to do was go to bed. Alone, for a change.

I had been home less than an hour when the phone rang. It was Allison.

"How the h.e.l.l did you get my number?" I asked. I'm very polite when I'm tired.

"It's in the telephone book."

"Oh," I said.

"I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner with me tonight?" Allison asked.

I was beginning to feel better already.

"What about coming up to my place?" she continued. "I could have dinner ready by the time you got here."

She gave me her address and I said I'd be there in an hour. I was there in an hour and a quarter. I liked to play hard to get.

Allison lived in a three room fiat in the West Eighties.

It was one of those furnished deals that look like somebody had used the furniture in a juggling act.

She told me her room-mate was out of town until tomorrow. She was an airline stewardess. I just raised an eyebrow. She got the message.

"She's straight," Allison said. "We're just good friends."

I'd heard that pitch before.

It was sweet of her to make dinner for me but she should have let me help her. I could have opened the cans. I shouldn't complain. Canned or not it was food and I wasn't looking for a woman who could cook.

After dinner we went to a neighborhood gay bar. The place was almost empty. Those places outside the Village only do real business on weekends.

Most of the time we had talked about show business. Allison was still starry-eyed. I tried to set her straight about some of the hard realities of the theatre but I knew I wasn't reaching her. These kids only learn by experience.

As the drinks began to hit me my mind s.h.i.+fted to far more interesting topics. Allison was wearing a pair of skin tight frontier pants and a sweater that made the first one I had seen her in look like a sack.

"Let's dance," I said.

"But no one else's dancing," she said.

"Be a nonconformist. It's the style this season," I said.

That dreadful moment came when we were out on the dance floor. One advantage to dancing with men... it's never a question who is going to lead.

Allison solved the problem by immediately a.s.suming the follower's position. That told me a lot. Now I knew what would be expected of me in other circ.u.mstances. It was fine with me. I'm a switch-hitter.

She felt good in my arms. You'd think to look at her that she might be a little too thin but I found that there was meat on them there bones.

She broke into my reverie by asking, "Why do you talk the way you do?"

"Huh?" I asked brightly.

"You know what I mean. Like a well-read Mickey Spillane character. Sarcastic and bitter."

"That is because what you see is just a sh.e.l.l of my former self," I said. "I have been buffeted about by the winds and tides of human experience and now I am a broken woman trying vainly to present a brave face to the world. I joke that others may laugh while I cry inside."

"Go to h.e.l.l," she said pleasantly and snuggled closer to me.