Chapter 4
"Seventeenth floor," announced the operator, once more examining her.
Haughtily, she emerged from the elevator, her eyes averted.
A sign to her left read Keith McClure Party Rehearsals. Studio C. Personnel only.
The "personnel only" part stimulated her, bringing her out of her glum introspection. She wasn't among the personnel yet, she knew, but she was on her way to the special sanctum, and it gave her a tentative identity.
The "C" door was closed. She paused there, deliberating. Oh, hell, she scolded herself finally, when am I going to learn that doors usually can be opened just by turning the knob?
The corny philosophy stirred her, made her laugh at her own pomposity. The laughter felt good.
Margo was at the far end, waving and beckoning to her.
Sophia closed the door soundlessly. The studio was a huge room, compartmentalized, with cables and cameras and "personnel." In the control room, up ahead, she spotted Larry Barker. He appeared to have noted her entrance, but he did not greet her in any way.
Margo was seated in a folding chair, next to a man Sophia recognized immediately as Keith McClure. There were others, in a semi-circle, all with scripts in their hands, but Sophia had eyes only for McClure. He was in television's top-ten rating, having starred on his own comedy show for the past several seasons. He looked a bit older here than he did on the screen. He seemed shorter, a trifle less ruddy, somewhat less pixieish, maybe because of the glasses he wore now, or his unattended gray temples. But he was a celebrity Sophia admired, and the knowledge that she was about to meet him was exciting.
"Hello, baby," Margo enthused, lifting her hand for Sophia to take. "Right on time."
"I broke a few speed records, at that."
"Keith, this is Sophia. The girl I've been beating my gums about to you."
Keith McClure half rose, took her other hand. "Hello, baby," he nodded noncommittally.
"How do you do, Mr. McClure."
"Keith," he amended. Looking around, he added, "Where's Eddie? Hey, Eddie!"
A pudgy little man, wearing a sweatshirt and carrying a prompter's whistle, stood a few feet away, directing a line of five leggy, bosomy girls. He called back, "Lemme alone, Keith. I'm busy."
"Come here. Want you to meet my grandmother." Returning his attention to Sophia, he confided, "Marg told me about you, but she didn't give with all the details. You're quite a looker."
"Thank you, I-"
"Can you dance?"
"Yes."
"Keith," Margo said cautiously. "You'd better lay off. Larry'll he sore if you take over."
He chuckled. "Let me make the jokes, Marg. I know a vision when I see one and that's what you baby sister is." When Eddie appeared, Keith McClure said, "Edward, frere, this is Sophia."
"Hello," he nodded in irritation. "I'm busy, Keith."
"Busy, busy!" Keith rumbled. "Take Sophia over with the others, Ed. If she can put one foot in front of the other without tripping, hire her."
"Look, Keith, I don't want to be told how-"
The star raised his eyebrows.
"Am I taking over, Ed? Just making useful suggestions, that's all. This young lady is a natural for my show. Why all the ritual, the red tape? Larry said to hire her."
"Larry said?"
"Sure. Would I lie to you? Take her."
Eddie shrugged. Peering at the silent Sophia, he finally nodded and indicated the line of girls.
"Right over there, Miss-"
She was about to tell him, but Keith, angered now, snorted, "McCloskey! What's it matter who she is?"
The pudgy man, guiding her, said under his breath, "One of these days I'm going to belt that over aged ham."
Sophia said nothing.
A stoop-shouldered man was at the piano, running his fingers up and down the keyboard in a flippant glissando. The five girls looked at her as she approached, as though she were a Jenny-come-lately, uninvited by them and therefore threatening. She observed that three of the girls (uniformly blonde and well-developed) wore tights and long mesh stockings.
"Girls," Eddie stated tiredly. "Meet Miss McCloskey." Glancing up at her, he said, "We're just about to practice the opening walk." He raced through a ten-steps-forward-then-to-your-right-on-the-beat direction.
Sophia followed his instructions. As the minutes passed, and she gradually got the feel of the dance, she no longer wanted to run away. Margo was glancing over from her own rehearsals, from time to time, encouragingly. Mr. McClure seemed to be on her side, too. There was no way to judge Larry Barker's attitude; when she noticed him, still in the control booth, she could see him taking sly, fleeting glimpses at her trying to keep up with the dancing girls. Maybe he was going to wait till he came out of the booth and then tell her to go home. Maybe he'd keep her, but only because of Margo.
But her fears disappeared when, along with Margo's and Mr. McClure's pleased nods of encouragement, Eddie, too, took a second out to nod his approval.
An hour later, Sophia was almost convinced she had the job. With the other girls, she sat on the floor and waited as Larry Barker walked to the center of the studio. He was in shirt sleeves. He was frowning and seemed harried, but no one appeared to be terrorized.
"Our season begins exactly two weeks from today," he announced to the cast, not directing his attention to anyone in particular. "This season's going to be tougher than last because we're in the time slot opposite NBC's top show. That means we don't coast, we work and work hard. If we can cut into the NBC rating with any success, you're all due for a bonus. If we drag along, then we're in trouble. I'll say now what I said at the start of last season's run: Nobody kidnapped you into television. You came of your own free will. Only you know why. It's a hundred times harder, more hectic than any other form of show business-or any other profession, for that matter. For the next thirty-six weeks you're all going to work, eat and sleep the Keith McClure show. If it's going to be too tough a proposition, then run away now. Otherwise, stay and get ready to work your head off. Okay? Let's rehearse."
Sophia listened carefully. Was he giving a pre-season pep talk or was he talking to her, conveying something special to her? It was fully possible now, as it hadn't been entirely possible this morning when they'd first met, to understand Margo's attraction to him. He carried with him a definitive sense of authority. His every gesture, while irascible, informed everyone that he was in charge. Not alone because he was the show's director or because he was naturally dictatorial, but because authority seemed to be the perfect role for him.
Margo, she knew, was headstrong and self-willed, which implied that any man of hers would have to be more than up to handling a hellcat.
Larry Barker looked as though he could handle her. And Sophia was deeply impressed.
It took another hour for her to formally learn if she'd gotten the job or if she was merely a small-town relative who wasn't going to make the grade. She observed Larry Barker, Mr. McClure and Margo in a huddle. She knew they were discussing her, for each, in turn, glanced her way.
When Larry Barker walked away, back to the control booth, Mr. McClure caught her eye. Grinning affectionately, he raised his hand and touched his forefinger to his thumb.
She was in.
The director appeared to be making a point of ignoring her. But he'd given his okay and she was in.
At a few minutes past six, Sophia was waiting for the elevator when she heard, "Going my way?"
She turned to see Keith McClure.
"Let's have a sandwich," he suggested. Before she could reply, the elevator door opened and he gently hustled her in.
The rehearsal, she'd gathered, was Over for the day for the dancers and a few members of the cast. The principals were to be back at half-past seven for a conference with Larry Barker and two of the writers.
On the way down, McClure didn't take his eyes away from her. In the studio he'd only occasionally noted her. But now some of his screen personality showed through and he was buoyant. Sophia was conscious of his nearness. What was he doing with her, an insecure newcomer?
He said nothing on the way down, nor did he seem to want her to talk. Only in the rear booth of the building's T.V. Grille did he intimate that he was ready to give of himself. A few passersby nudged each other and she could hear someone whisper heavily, "Ooh, look! Keith McClure!" But the star was oblivious to this and fastened his eyes on Sophia.
"Marg said you came to town just this morning," he said. "How does it feel to get a job the first time out?"
"I'm still breathless. And the chance to have dinner with Mr. Keith McClure."
Chuckling, he ordered sandwiches; when the waiter darted off, he joshed, "A dinner consisting of tuna fish. How exotic can we get?" He lit her cigarette and settled back. "You've got a terrific rooter in Margo, you know. She's the most generous kid we know in this heartless town."
"She's always been generous."
"Don't overlook friend Keith, though. It was my few well-chosen words to Barker that clinched the deal of hiring you."
"Then I'm very grateful, Mr. McKeith."
Soberly, he nodded. "That sounds awfully good, hearing someone say thanks."
"You make it seem as if it's rare."
"It is. I've had my Hooper rating for quite a while now, and each year the salary bulges just a little more. But each year the friends, the true friends, that is, become fewer and fewer."
What's he trying to pull, she wondered. She'd heard legends about him, but she'd never been told he liked to play hearts and flowers.
"Oh?"
"McClure the loner," he volunteered. He paused, staring at the table studiously. "Oh, well, so what? This is just one of those days, I guess. McClure gets depressions, just like everyone else."
"What about Mrs. McClure? You're married, aren't you?"
"Uh. Jacqueline Lawson. Miss Hollywood of 1946. Yeah, I'm married. But I haven't seen her for over a year."
"Separated?"
"No, not legally. She just likes to travel. Likes to leave Papa home alone." He grinned sheepishly. "Now I've exposed enough of my innards. My whole trouble is that when I get depressed I have to tell my life story, starting with the year one."
Through the door came Margo and Larry Barker. Keith McClure was deep within himself by now and didn't see them. Sophia did and impulsively wanted to call to them. But she restrained herself. Margo detected her, though, and waved. Sophia waved back. The older sister and the director continued on, to a booth at the opposite end of the grille.
"There they go," McClure sighed, looking up. "Beauty and the beast. What she sees in that marshmallow-head, I'll never know."
"Mr. Barker? Now you're being cruel."
"Yeah," he nodded. "Don't ever whisper a syllable against Mr. Barker; that's the overriding cry. Mr. Barker is television's top director. Mr. Barker is a man among men. Next season I'm going to switch sponsors and be in full charge of my own show. Then we'll see how indispensable prima donna directors are."
The sandwiches arrived.
"How should I take all these words of bitterness?" she asked. "Are you just depressed for now or are you really against the world?"
He laughed cheerfully and bit into his sandwich. "I do sound like Scrooge, don't I? I'm not a backstabber by instinct, Sophia, honest. I'm going to learn to keep my mouth shut. After I've finished my sandwich, that is."
"Good. If I thought for one minute that you were going to destroy my illusion of Keith McClure, the hero of television, I'd never speak to you again."
Once more he laughed. "You know, you're a lot of fun. What are you going to be up to tonight about eleven?"
"I plan to be up to my ears in sleep. This has not been a normal day, by any standards."
"I'm having a few people up to my place for a late supper. Come on over."
"Well, thanks, but-"
"What do you mean, sleep, at eleven o'clock?" he said disparagingly. "What are you, seventy years old? When you reach my age, then you can afford to let the arteries go downhill a little. But you're a baby. You should be able to dance around the clock. Especially if you intend to invade show business."
"Do show people have stronger arteries?"
"They've got to. It's always an uphill fight in this racket-first getting to the top, then staying there. You'll meet some people tonight who'll do you some good. You're nowhere in this game without contacts."
"You're right...." she wavered.
He gave her his East Fifties address. "I'll be rambling in around eleven. Just throw on an old T-shirt and tennis shoes; nothing fancy."
"You talked me into it."
Keith McClure lifted his glass of water in a toast.
"To Sophia Holland. I like you. And if I have anything to say about it, you're going to be one of the top personalities in show business."
His words were hopeful, his voice was impersonal.
His eyes were trained in the direction of her bodice.
Later, that last look in his eyes would haunt her. She would picture the eyelashes of those eyes fluttering over the nipples of her breasts, picture his soft lips working their way down over her navel, lower to the dampened pubic hair, nuzzling there, licking a bit there. Perhaps two determined fingers stroking at her vaginal lips, opening them before his tongue did its lovely work. She pictured her own body twisting and raising on some satin-sheeted bed, raising to meet his devil-tongue, which, in her dream's eye was by now buried deep into her, swirling, sucking, wetly delving. And then a strained, tight moment when her body would become as rigid as a tree bark, before it sprang loose with orgasm. Perhaps her legs going up around his neck at that instant, drawing him in tight. And then ... and then....
Oh, but why, how had the sensuous and delightfully evil thoughts entered her mind, somehow subconsciously, by the way he nibbled at the sandwich, so gently, so delicately? Or was it the confident manner in which he raised his glass in toast?
In any event, she found that the minute of daydreaming of how it might be had left her panties a bit more than slightly damp.