“Mrs. Long on the phone, ma’am,” said the maid.
“I’ll take it in here, Irene.”
“Yes ma’am,” said the maid.
“Hello, Maudie. I’ll bet I know what you’re calling about.”
“Oh, Terry, have you taken a look outside? I just don’t think it’s fair to ask George and Marian to go out in weather like this. I could send my car for them, but that’d mean O’Brien wouldn’t get home till after midnight. And he’s been so good lately.”
“So you’ve called off the party. Don’t fret about it, Maudie,” said Theresa Livingston.
“You sure you don’t mind? I mean, if you’d like to come to me for dinner, just the two of us. We could play canasta. Or gin.”
“Maudie, wouldn’t you just rather have a nice warm bath and dinner on a tray? That’s what I plan to do, unless you’re dying for company.”
“Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind,” said Maude Long.
“Not one single bit. This is the kind of day that makes me appreciate a nice warm apartment. Oh, the times I’d wake up on days like this and wish I could stay indoors. But would have to get up and play a matinee at the Nixon. That’s in Pittsburgh, or was.”
“Yes, it’s nice to just putter, isn’t it?” said Maude Long. “What are you going to wear?”
“Today?”
“Yes: I always like to know what you’re wearing. What do you wear when you’re just staying home doing nothing?”
“Well, today I’ll be wearing my black net. That sounds dressy, but I’m having a guest for lunch. A young girl that I’ve never met, but her father was an old beau of mine and she’s coming to see me.”
“That could be amusing. Could be a bore, too.”
“I can get rid of her, and don’t think I won’t if she turns out to be a bore.”
“Trust you, Terry, well, let’s one of us call the other in a day or so, and I’m sorry about dinner.”
Having committed herself to her black net, Terry Livingston reconsidered. In fairness to John Blackwell she could not give his daughter the impression that his actress girl friend had turned into a frump. Not that the black net was frumpish, but it was black net, and something brighter would be more considerate of John, and especially on a day like this. “I’m not going to keep this on, Irene. What have I got that’s brighter?”
“Your blue silk knit, ma’am. With that you can start breaking in those blue pumps.”
“I wonder what jewelry. This young lady that’s coming for lunch, I’ve never seen her, but her father was one of my biggest admirers, back in the Spanish-American War days.”
“Aw, now ma’am.”
“Well, it wasn’t World War Two. I can tell you,” said Theresa Livingston. “And not too long after World War One.”
“Try her with one good piece,” said Irene. “I always like your diamond pin with the squiggly gold around it.”
“With the blue silk knit, do you think?”
“If you wear it over to the one side, casual.”
“All right. You’ve solved the problem. And I suppose I ought to start breaking in those pumps.”
“They’ve been just sitting there ever since you bought them, and the old ones are pretty scuffed,” said Irene. “Will you be offering her a cocktail, the young lady?”
“Oh, she’s old enough for that. Yes. Let’s put out some gin and vodka. They drink a lot of vodka, the young people.”
“And I’ll send down for a waiter at one o’clock.”
“A little earlier. Have him here to take our order at one sharp.”
“I won’t promise he’ll be here. That’s their busiest time, but I’ll try. In case you may want to get rid of her, what?”
“The usual signal,” said Theresa Livingston. “At two fifteen I’ll ask you if you’ve seen my cigarette holder. You pretend to look for it. You find it and bring it in and remind me that I have to change for my appointment.”
“Where is the appointment supposed to be?”
“Three o’clock, downtown in my lawyer’s office.”
“Just so I make sure,” said Irene. “I made a botch of it the last time Mrs. Long was here.”
“Oh, well, with Mrs. Long it didn’t matter. I wonder if I ought to have some little present for Miss Blackwell. Her father was very generous to me. Some little spur-of-the-moment gift that I won’t miss.”
“You have any number of cigarette lighters that you don’t hardly ever use.”
“Have I got any silver ones? A gold one would be a little too much, but a silver one might be nice.”
“You’ve one or two silver, and a couple in snakeskin.”
“The snakeskin. Fill one of the snakeskin and put a flint in it if it needs it. I’ll have it in my hand. A spontaneous gesture that I’m sure she’ll appreciate, just before she’s leaving. ‘I want you to take this. A little memento of our first meeting.’”
“I’ll pick out a nice one. Snakeskin or lizard, either one.”
“And you’ll see about the drinks? Tomato juice, in case she asks for a Bloody Mary. Now what else? We’ll have the table in the center of the room. I’ll take the chair with my back to the light. At this hour of the day it doesn’t make a great deal of difference, but she’s young and she might as well get the glare. You listen to what I order and be sure the waiter puts my melon or whatever on that side of the table.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“When she gets here I’ll be in my bedroom. They’ll announce her from downstairs and I’ll wait in my bedroom. You let her in. She’ll naturally turn right, I imagine, and you tell her I’ll be right with her. I don’t like that picture of President Eisenhower where it is. Let’s take it off the piano and put it more where she can see it. I don’t suppose she’d recognize Moss Hart, so we’ll leave that there. Dwight Wiman? No, she wouldn’t know who he was. She might recognize Noel Coward’s picture, so we won’t disturb that. That’s a wonderful picture of Gary Cooper and I. I must remember to have that enlarged. Gary. Dolores Del Rio. A writer, his name I forget. Fay Wray. That’s Cedric Gibbons. He was married to Dolores Del Rio. Frances Goldwyn. Mrs. Samuel. Dear Bill Powell and Carole Lombard. There we all are, my first year in Hollywood. My second, actually, but I have no pictures of the first time. That was a Sunday luncheon party at Malibu. Look at Gary, isn’t he darling? He wasn’t a bit interested in me, actually. That was when he and the little Mexican girl, Lupe Velez, they were quite a thing at that time. You know, I haven’t really looked at that picture in ages. Certainly dates me, doesn’t it? And this one. Do you know who that is? I must have told you.”
“I never remember his name.”
“That’s H. G. Wells. One of our great writers. Not one of ours in the American sense. But British. I think he was out there visiting Charley Chaplin or somebody. They all went to Hollywood sometime or other. Never mind. I made a lot of money in pictures, and people heard of me that never would have if I’d confined myself to the theater. Well, this isn’t getting into my blue knit.”
“You have over a half an hour,” said the maid.
They went to the bedroom. Irene laid out the blue dress, and produced three cigarette lighters. “You don’t want to give her the one with the watch in it,” said Irene. “I took notice, the watch is from Cartier’s.”
“No, I’ll take this little thing. I think it must be lizard. Quite gay, don’t you think? And doesn’t go at all badly with my dress. I haven’t the faintest idea who gave me this one.”
“Just so it wasn’t the young lady’s father.”
“Oh, no. Not John Blackwell. Downstairs, in the safe, that’s where I keep his presents. Or at least I’ve had most of them reset, but he never gave me any cigarette lighters. He’s president of the United States Casualty and Indemnity Company, and his father was, before him. One of those firms that you don’t hear muc
h about, but I wish I had their money. Baltimore. Did you ever hear of a horse called One No Trump? A famous horse. I’m not sure he didn’t win the Kentucky Derby. This girl’s father owned him. I’ll tell you another little secret to add to your collection. For when you write your memoirs. Mr. Blackwell, John, always wanted to name a horse after me, but of course he was married and I was too, at the time, and we were both being very discreet. I just wonder how much this girl today knows about me. Anyway, John knew he couldn’t actually call a horse by my name, but he had a very promising filly that he thought would win the Kentucky Derby. Only one filly ever won the Derby, you know. A horse with the unfortunate name of Regret. So John wanted to name this filly after me, but instead of giving it my name, he gave it my initials. He called it Till Later. T.L. That was our secret. One of them, I might add. Oh, dear, I think of all the little lies we told to protect other people. Including this girl that’s coming today. There. How do I look?”
“Let me just smooth the skirt down over the hips,” said Irene.
“It has a tendency to crawl up. I wonder if I ought to put on another slip?”
“You’ll be sitting down most of the time. It’s not very noticeable. Here’s your pin,” said Irene.
“Right about here, do you think?”
“Yes. Maybe about an inch lower.”
“Here?” said Theresa Livingston.
“Just right.”
“There. Now we’re ready for Miss Evelyn Blackwell.”
“She ought to be here in another five minutes.”
“I hope she’s prompt.”
“She will be, if she knows what’s good for her,” said Irene.
“Well, if she’s anything like her father. He had the best manners of any man I ever knew.” Theresa Livingston lit a cigarette, had a couple of looks at herself in the full-length triplicate mirrors. She was alone now; Irene was in the kitchen. Being alone was not bad. Ever since she had rated her own dressing-room—and that was a good many years—Theresa had always insisted upon being alone for the last five minutes before going on for a performance. It gave her time to compose herself, to gather her strength, to be sick if she had to be, to slosh her mouth out with a sip of champagne which she did not swallow, to get ready for the stage manager’s summons, to go out there and kill the sons of bitches with her charm and beauty and talent. Perceptive of Irene to have realized that this was just such a time, if only for an audience of one young girl. Too perceptive. All that prattle had deceived Theresa herself without for one minute deceiving Irene.
She wanted to remain standing so as not to give the blue silk knit a chance to crawl up, but after ten minutes she was weary. The buzzer sounded, and Theresa heard Irene going to the hall door. It was the waiter with the menus. Loyally Irene was annoyed by the young girl’s lateness. “Why don’t you just order for the both of you?” said Irene. “Or do you want me to?”
“I’m not terribly hungry,” said Theresa. “You order, Irene.”
“Yes. Well, the eggs Florentine. Start with the melon. The eggs Florentine. You won’t want a salad, so we won’t give her one. And finish up with the lemon sherbet. Light, but enough. And you’ll want your Sanka. Coffee for her. How does that sound to you?”
“Perfect. And it’ll take a half an hour before it gets here. She certainly ought to be here by then.”
“If she isn’t, I’m not going to let her come up.”
“Oh, well, traffic. She’ll have some good reason.”
“What’s wrong with the telephone? She could of let us know,” said Irene. “I’ll give him the order and you’re gonna have a glass of champagne.”
“All right,” said Theresa.
“We’ll give her till ha’ past one on the dot,” said Irene.
It was ten minutes short of one-thirty when the girl arrived. “She’s here,” said Irene. “But you’ll have to judge for yourself the condition she’s in.”
“You mean she’s tight?” said Theresa.
“She’s something, I don’t know what.”
“What is she like? Is she attractive?”
“Well, you don’t see much of the face. You know, the hair hides the most of it.”
“What makes you think she’s tight?”
“‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Hi. Is Miss Livingston at home? I’m expected. Expec-ted.’ I said yes, she was expected. Didn’t they call up from downstairs? ‘Oh, that’s right,’ she said. ‘Oh, there’s Ike,’ she said. ‘Isn’t he cute?’ Ike. Cute.”
“Oh, dear. Well, let’s get it over with,” said Theresa. “Tell her I’ll be right out.”
“I’ll tell her you’re on the long distance,” said Irene.
“It might be a good idea to stay with her. Keep an eye on her so she doesn’t start helping herself to the vodka. Is she that type?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her,” said Irene. “I wouldn’t put anything past this one. And remember, you’re supposed to be going downtown and see your lawyer.”
“Yes, we won’t need the cigarette holder bit.”
Theresa Livingston allowed a few minutes to pass, then made her brisk entrance, and saw immediately that Irene had not exaggerated. The girl stood up and behind her lazy grin was all manner of trouble. Theresa Livingston gave her the society dowager bit. “How do you do, my dear. Have you told Irene what you’d like to drink?”
“She didn’t ask me, but I’ll have a vodka martini. I might as well stick with it.”
“Irene, will you, please?” said Theresa Livingston. “Nothing for me. I’ve ordered lunch for both of us. Save time that way, you know. The food is good here, but the service can be a little slow.”
“I know.”
“Oh, you’ve stopped here?”
“No, we always stay at the Vanderbilt, but I was with some friends in the What-You-Call-It-Room, downstairs.”
“I see,” said Theresa.
“I guess I was a little late, but I got here as soon as I could.”
“Well, let’s not talk about that,” said Theresa. “Why don’t you sit there and I’ll sit here. I was so pleased to hear from your father. I hadn’t realized he had a daughter your age. Did you come out, and all the rest of those things?”
“Oh, two years ago. The whole bit.”
“And from your father’s note I gather you’ve given up school. Are you serious about wanting to be an actress?”
Irene served the cocktail, and the girl drank some of it. “I don’t know. I guess I am. I want to do something, and as soon as I mentioned the theater, Daddy said he knew you. I guess if you were a friend of Daddy’s you know how he operates. If I said I wanted to be in the Peace Corps he’d fix it with President Johnson, or at least try.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but your father was a very good friend of mine when we were younger. Not that I’ve seen him in—oh, dear, before you were born.”
“Oh, I know that. It’s been Mrs. Castleton ever since I can remember.”
“What’s been Mrs. Castleton?”
“Daddy’s girl friend.”
“But your father and mother are still married, aren’t they?”
“Of course. Mummy’s not giving up all that loot, and why should she? Could I have another one of these? I’ll get it, don’t you bother.”
“Well, yes. You may have to finish it at the table.”
“Do you want to bet?” The girl took her glass to the portable bar. “First Mummy said they’d stay married till after I came out, although why that’s important even in Baltimore. But then I came out, and nothing more was heard about a divorce. If Aunt Dorothy wanted him to get a divorce he’d get it, but being Dorothy Castleton is still a little bit better socially than being Dorothy Blackwell. And they’re all old.”
“Yes, we are.”
“I didn’t mean that personally, Miss Livingston.”
“I don’t know how else you could mean it, considering that I’m the same age as your father and mother. I don’t know about Mrs. Castleton, of course.”
“Same age. All in their late fifties or early sixties, I guess. Anyway, not exactly the jeunesse dorée.”
“No. Well, Baltimore doesn’t seem to be very different from any place else, does it? And meanwhile, your father asked me to have a talk with you about the theater. Which I’m very glad to do. But you. You don’t seem to have any burning, overwhelming desire to become an actress.”
“I couldn’t care less, frankly. It’s Daddy that as soon as I mentioned the theater—”
“How did you happen to mention it, though?”
“How did I happen to mention it? Well, I guess I said I wanted to do something, but when it came down to what I could do, we exhausted all the possibilities except riding in horse shows and modeling.”
“So naturally you thought of going on the stage.”
“No, I didn’t. That was Daddy’s idea. This whole thing was his idea. I think he just wanted to name-drop that he knew you. I have no delusions about being an actress, for Christ’s sake.”
Irene went to the door to admit the waiter with the rolling table.
“You would have lost your bet,” said the girl. “I won’t have to finish my drink at the table.”
“Well, then, it isn’t a question of my using my influence to get you into the American Academy or anything like that,” said Theresa. “I must say I’m relieved. I certainly wouldn’t want to deprive a girl of a chance that really cared about the theater.”