enovel The Whispered Love Dallas Mayo [Future Story Codes]

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The Whispered Love ....(75k)    by Dallas Mayo

CHAPTER ONE

"Uh ... let's see now. About halfway, Charlie. I'm somewhere in the middle of the second act."

"That's far enough. Any opinion? "

"Are you kidding? Damn right I've got an opinion. I was just sitting here and wondering why in heaven's name you even bothered to send it to me. "

"Portia ... honey...." Charlie's voice sounded a mildly aggrieved note. "You "you don't like it? "

"I'm an actress, not a critic. But I just don't think this artistic brainstorm stands a chance on Broadway. Why don't you stick to the light cornedy stuff you handle so well? "

"Light cornedy "hah! My last one was so light it practically floated. And you know where it floated " right down the drain. Besides, I haven't run across even a passably decent new cornedy script in centuries. So what's wrong with my taking a crack at a serious play for a change? "

"Okay, do a serious play if you must. But this one, Charlie? A poetic drama by an unknown author? It'll be murder. Unless you're planning an off-Broadway production, perhaps. "

"No. I was figuring on giving it the full treatment. But if you're not interested, well ... "

"Charlie, wait a minute. I didn't say I wasn't interested. But first tell me "why was it so important that you had to telephone today? Come on, boy, level with me. What's up? "

"Ah sweetie, you're just too smart for poor old Charlie. You're right "there is something cooking. You see, well, to start with, this play was written with you in mind. "

"Me? " Portia flipped the stapled script back to its opening page. "It's by somebody named Brock Henderson. I never even heard of the guy. So how could it-"

"Honey, take my word for it. Henderson is a nice young fellow who's been a fan of yours for years and personally I think he's a budding genius "you know what I mean? Sure, the play needs rewriting "plenty of it. But it's good and you'll be great in it. Now before I say anything more, are you interested? "

"Well, I ... "

"Sweetie, it's been a long time between drinks. "

"Uh-huh. Don't rub it in. I know how long it's been since my last show. I know better than anybody, dammit. All right, Charlie, let's say I'm interested. Have you got backing? "

"Frankly, no. Not even a shoestring. All I've got is one loaded angel "ripe and ready to pluck. Provided I get some help from you. "

"Huh? Hey now, you know I don't-"

"Slow down, lovey "it's not what it sounds like. This isn't one of those casting-couch routines, believe me. My angel happens to be a woman. Do you know Robin Kessler? "

"Robin Kessler? Oh. No, I don't know her. What's more, Charlie, I don't think I care to. Isn't she the screwy dame who chases celebrities and gets into the gossip columns? "

"That's the one. And as for knowing her "Portia, sweetie, what's the harm in it? Sure, she's a celebrity hunter, but that makes it all the easier, doesn't it? One little charming smile from you and she'll fall right into line. "

"I doubt it. I'm not that famous. "

"No? Wanna bet? Listen, honey, if you get over to her place this afternoon I guarantee that-"

"This afternoon? Today? Charlie darling, I'm beginning to smell a mouse "and I don't mean Mickey. So that's what was so important, eh? "

"Natch. You know I wouldn't try to con you. But I had to find out if you want to do the play, didn't I? Anyway, Robin Kessler is tossing a big bash "one of those penthouse terrace barbecue-type scenes. Strictly informal. So why not go over and get friendly? All you can lose is a Sunday afternoon. "

"Oh ... all right. I guess it won't kill me. How soon will you come by for me? "

"Me? Sweetie, I can't. It's better if I don't go. If the Kessler woman hooks us up together, she might become suspicious. You'll have to launch an attack strictly on your own. "

"I see. First it was a smile, then it was get friendly " and now it's an attack. Charlie, Charlie, what am I going to do with you? " Portia sniffed. "Don't I even need an invitation? "

"That shouldn't be a problem. Half of Manhattan is invited and the other half will probably crash. Make a few phone calls. You're bound to latch on to someone who's going. It's practically an open-house thing, anyway. "

"Okay. Now let's have it. The truth, Charlie. Do you honestly think the play is any good? "

There was a long pause. Then, softly, "I do, Portia, so help me, I do. It's poetic drama, but it's great enough to go over in a commercial way. Why else would I be asking you to-"

"All right. I get the message. I'll go and be charming to Robin Kessler. Ring me later and I'll let you know how I make out. "

"Fine, fine, sweetie. Good luck. "

Portia hung up, vaguely disturbed by the knowledge that she had given in to Charlie all too easily. Her reputation in the theatre was established; she was certainly noingA(c)nue who had to be nice to the prospective backers. And yet the guy was right "it sure as hell had been a long time between drinks. Much too long. She needed a good part in a good show again.

And in matters of theatrical judgment, well, she just couldn't sell Charlie Walsh short. Every producer makes errors and Charlie was no exception. But over the years his batting average in hits and flops was very high indeed. If he figured this play was worth doing, then as far as she was concerned it was certainly worth looking into. Perhaps the ticket-buying public was ready for some of this intellectual stuff "with a push from the critics, of course. And the critics themselves were always a bit partial in that direction. The so-called "betterment of the American theatre " was ever dear to their usually callous hearts.

Anyway, as Charlie had said, what could she lose but a Sunday afternoon? It wouldn't kill her to go over to the Kessler woman's place and put out a tentative feeler "just in case. In fact, it seemed like an interesting idea. Sometimes it could be fun to take part in the intrigue and chicanery that so often preceded a Broadway production.

Out of her lethargy now, Portia swung her legs over the side of the bed and went to work. It didn't take long. Two phone calls were wasted, but the third struck pay dirt. Yes, he was invited to the Kessler party, Malcolm Laird told her and of course he'd be happy to take her with him.

Malcolm Laird was a faggot who had played bits in some of her past shows. But he was a queen of the "closet " variety rather than the "flaming " type and he was tall and handsome. An ideal escort for a gathering such as this one "once there, he would drift off to tend to his own knitting. And she would be free to finagle around and get close to Robin Kessler.

An hour later, in casual slacks and sandals, Portia made her entry on Malcolm's arm. The affair was well under way and the lavish penthouse apartment was packed wall-to-wall with incipient alcoholics. Threading through them was no simple task; it required unusual agility to dodge the lit cigarettes and martini-olive toothpicks that stabbed the air to emphasize some conversational point.

On the broad terrace, the hostess was supervising the cookery already in progress. Manfully, Malcolm Laird performed the introduction and "as expected " faded away into the crowd to embark upon other, less manful pursuits. And Portia got her initial first-hand taste of what Robin Kessler was really like.

"Portia Stratford. Oh my. I'm honored. "

"Honored? Oh, come now ... "

"Yes. Very much. I've seen you on the stage. And now you're actually here in my house. "

For a tense moment Portia wondered if she was being kidded. But after a short spate of small talk, it became apparent that Robin Kessler wasn't trying to be sarcastic. Far from it. The woman seemed bent upon giving her the full red-carpet treatment.

It was pleasant. But it was also a trifle embarrassing to be the target of such effusiveness. Until, when a group of new arrivals interrupted their tete-a-tete, Portia was finally able to beat a discreet retreat to the sidelines. Fortified by a cool cocktail from a passing servant's tray, she found a shady spot and sat down to take stock.

Robin Kessler was a celebrity chaser, all right "the woman really lived up to her gossip-column reputation. Widespread as it was, the reputation scarcely did her justice. In the flesh, Robin Kessler was well-nigh unbelievable.

In the flesh. Portia chuckled. Robin wasn't exactly fat, but there was plenty of flesh on her small-boned frame and a goodly portion of it was superfluous. In her tight shorts-and-halter outfit, the woman's curves were juttingly prominent. Overly so. In front and in back "flaunted by the snug fit of the brief costume " her charms seemed to be enlarged without being enhanced.

But in her own slightly zaftig way, Robin was quite pretty. True, there was a certain mousy quality in her appearance. Her plain brown hair and rather vapid eyes made her look like an undistinguished sparrow among these birds of brighter plumage. And yet, despite her plumpness, she was kind of cute. Somewhere in her mid-thirties, Portia guessed and it was evident that the young people who surrounded her did not find her unattractive. Boys, girls "and some doubtful in-betweens "paid court wherever she went. And Robin literally basked in the warmth of their adulation.

Still, without feeling catty, Portia was aware that the woman's major attribute was money. A fat bank account was more than adequate compensation for a fat behind. No one minded a well-larded backside when it was accompanied by an equally well-larded wallet. No one in this circle of would-be's and has-been's, at any rate. And that included just about everybody in the place.

Everybody? Even me?

It was a chastening thought. But accurate, nonetheless and she might as well face it. In the fast pace of show business it didn't take long for a non-working actress to become a has-been. Especially an aging non-working actress. Already two people "hardly more than acquaintances, really "had stopped to tell her how young she looked. And when that happened, it was time to take notice.

Uh-huh. When they begin to tell you how young you look, it only means they think you're growing old.

Shrugging off the depressing notion, Portia left her niche and started circulating among the mob. If her hostess thought she was a celebrity, well, it behooved her to act like one. Because now "at last "her mind was made up. Charlie Walsh had a play on tap. Good play or bad play "it no longer mattered. That particular aspect was Charlie's business, not hers. The important thing was that the play had been written for Portia Stratford to star in. Could she afford to turn down such a timely break? She sure as hell couldn't.

Okay, so digging up the financial backing was the producer's business, too. But it wasn't going to be easy. Poetic drama dated back to Shakespeare and yet it was considered radically experimental by the average investor. Except as a tax loss, maybe, the businessmen would shy away from it. They didn't know their farce from their billboard about the theatre, but they did know facts and figures. Poor Charlie was going to have his troubles.

Unless "and this was the big issue "unless he was right about Robin Kessler. One loaded angel "ripe and ready to pluck. Who else would back a shaky producer and a fading actress in an offbeat work by a tyro playwright?

Aware now of the extent of her involvement, Portia deliberately took on the role of the perfect guest. She made the rounds, joining conversations, spouting witticisms, offering herself graciously to the free-loading hoi polloi. Sooner or later, she was sure, the word would get back to Robin Kessler about how nice and friendly and sociable Portia Stratford was. And it was the kind of word that a hostess would appreciate.

An hour later, on her second loop of the place, Portia veered back toward Robin Kessler. And she recognized immediately that the word had indeed gotten around.

"Portia...." The woman seemed radiant with joy. "Everybody's been telling me how wonderful you are. You're practically the life of the party. "

"Am I? How sweet of you to say so. But it's only because it's such a marvelous party, darling. "

"Oh, do you think so? " Robin simpered and actually blushed. "I had no idea I was going to wind up with such a huge crowd. It's almost impossible to say anything serious without being interrupted. Such a mob scene. "

"Serious? Who wants to be serious? I don't mind the crowd at all and I'm having a lovely time. Please invite me to your next affair, won't you? "

"Of course. Mmm, my next affair ... Robin smirked. "Funny the way that sounds, isn't it? "

"Is it? Oh. " Portia tensed. What was the woman driving at? Was this an overture of some sort? "Come now, you mustn't twist my words like that. Someone might misunderstand. "

"You didn't. "

"Huh? "

"You didn't misunderstand me, Portia. "

"Oh? But I "

"

"In fact, I'd say you understood me very well. "

Portia blinked, caught off balance and trying to regain her poise. The woman was neither smirking nor simpering. And those brown eyes appeared less vapid, somehow. An odd hint of shrewdness lurked in their depths. The abrupt change was startling. And disconcerting, to say the least.

"Oh, don't look so shocked, " Robin murmured blithely. "I was only teasing, really. And you certainly will be invited to my next party. I'll even give it in your honor, if you'd like. "

"Good grief, how often do you throw one of these clambakes? "

"Depends. As often as once a month, sometimes. Then again, this one might be the last for a long while. It depends on how bored I get. And on what else I can find to do to alleviate that boredom. It might even depend on you. "

"On me? "

"Uh-huh. You know ... "

"But I don't, Robin. I don't know what you're-"

"Hush. Let's not talk about it now. Too many people around. Have dinner with me one night this week and I'll explain. That is, if you decide you need an explanation. "

"Dinner? Well, I ... "

"Think about it. Might be fun. "

All around them, the noise and laughter of the merrymakers was rising to a deafening pitch. Gallant gentlemen groped indiscriminately and skittish pseudo-maidens squealed in spurious indignation. Food was being served, but it did not slow down the drinking. Talk dried throats. Throats thirsted for booze. And booze started the talk again "to perpetuate the cycle.

Meanwhile Portia stood there "her slender body towering over Robin Kessler's plump one "and wondered what the hell was going on. The party hadn't changed. The people were the same. But her composure had fled and she felt awkward and ungainly and completely unable to cope with the situation.

Unable to cope? Dammit, she was so mixed up now that she didn't even know what the situation was....

Robin smiled cryptically. "By the way, I had a nice chat with your friend Malcolm. He told me the two of you played in a number of shows together. "

"A few. "

"Charlie Walsh's shows? "

Portia felt her muscles tighten. "Well ... uh, yes. Do "do you know Charlie? "

"Oh, everybody knows Charlie. Even poor little me. I might even back his next production. "

"Oh ... "

"Portia? "

"Hmm? "

"About dinner. You will come, won't you? "

"Uh ... yes. I'll come. "

"Good. I thought you would. Oh dear, I'd better check on the food again. This gang is hungry. Portia darling, why don't you go and amuse my guests some more. Go and be the life of the party again, hmm? Please? "

Portia nodded. And with those brown eyes boring into hers so audaciously, she dropped her gaze and moved off into the swirling crowd. But she didn't feel like being the life of the party any more. Not now. Because she knew only too well what had prompted the sudden change in Robin Kessler. Unwittingly but nevertheless effectively, big-mouthed Malcolm had spilled the cat. Or let the beans out of the bag. Or whatever the hell it was.

And now there were Charlie's words to plague her. No casting-couch routine. The angel happens to be a woman. Hah! A woman. As if that made any difference in this latter-day Sodom and Gomorrah. Especially since everybody in and around show business knew that Portia Stratford "the Portia Stratford " was a switch hitter when it came to sex. Why, it was practically a legend.

Dammit, the whole thing was ridiculous. She should have known better than to league herself with Charlie Walsh's conniving. Maybe she ought to call the old guy and tell him to do his own dirty work. Maybe it would be smart to give up the idea and just forget the entire stupid mess. That would certainly change the smug expression on Robin Kessler's fat face. Let the blowsy bitch seek her celebrities in some other pasture.

Portia snorted. Oh, it wasn't that she minded being considered a celebrity. Definitely not. Nor did she mind being known for what she was among the sophisticated show people. After all, it was great publicity " in more ways than one. What really bothered her was the gruesome fact that Robin Kessler was trying to buy her. All of her. As an actress and as a celebrity and in bed. Did the woman think she was some kind of a whore?

Whore. She muttered the word aloud. Portia Stratford "whore! Well, was she or wasn't she? Wasn't everyone? And anyway, wasn't it too late for quibbling now that she had already committed herself?

Yes, committed herself. Irrevocably. Because there were too many reasons why she couldn't back out now. Too many damn good reasons why she couldn't afford to back out.

CHAPTER TWO

BROCK HENDERSON sat there and chain-smoked cigarette after cigarette. His mouth felt like the inside of an incinerator. But he had to go on puffing and inhaling and exhaling "purely for his own protection. The thick and heavy smoke-screen was a barrier behind which he was safe. Without it he would have been vulnerable to that thing fuming noxiously from the other side of the desk'. And it was practically a lethal weapon.

Charlie Walsh's cigar.

And yet Brock knew that the cigar was right and proper and fitting. It reeked to high heaven, but it was much a part of Charlie's personality as his bald head and wrinkled, gravy-spotted suit.

Not that Charlie Walsh was dirty or unwashed, actually "he was just careless. Unkempt. Sloppy. The kind of man who paid no attention to such trivia as soup-spatterings and cigar ashes. The only thing neat about him was his shining, hairless dome.

That "and his steel-trap mind....

Oh yes, Charlie Walsh had a brain that clicked like a high-speed computer and Brock was sure of it.

This was only his second visit to Charlie's office and he hardly knew the guy. But he recognized a sharp mind when he ran across one. The slovenly old boy was a thinker "even though he preferred loathsome cigar to sanitary cigarettes with a thinking man's filter.

Besides, a man just about had to have a certain cerebral shrewdness to get where Charlie Walsh was No one got to be an accepted Broadway producer without it.

Nevertheless, the cigar stench was vile. And Brock prayed fervently that their meeting would come to an end before total asphyxiation set in. For more than an hour now Charlie had been yacking away about the play. About the rewrite. About the production angle. About the actress who was going to star in it. About the sure-fire box-office success that Charlie Walsh "personally "was going to make out of it.

Still, it was nice talk to hear "cigar or no cigar. Fine tonic for a young unproduced playwright beset by self-doubt. According to Charlie Walsh's glowing: prognostication, Witch was going to become a standing-room-only smash. Maybe it would even win a Pulitzer or some such award. Witch at the Wedding " by Brock Henderson. Hell, yes, it was exhilarating talk for an unseasoned playwright to listen to. That kind of talk "plus the option check in his pocket "almost made up for the cigar.

Almost but not quite.

Because his throat was smoke-weary and his eyes were smoke-bleary and he was impatient to get out and go home. Home to Shirley. The option was signed and he wanted to share the glad tidings. If anybody needed cheering up more than a young playwright, well, it was a young playwright's wife. And sweet Shirley hadn't had much to keep her spirits perking lately.

But Charlie Walsh was still hashing and rehashing the details and there was no way of stopping him. "I'll tell you, Brock buddy, we've really got something here. But the next big job is up to you, of course and it won't be a snap. I'm no writer, but I'm mighty critical about writing. "

"Uh-huh. Well, I'll do my best. "

"Nope. You'll do better than your best. Rip that second act apart and rebuild it from scratch. "

"Okay. Can do. "

"Good boy. That's what I like to hear. Shows confidence. You'll go right to work on it, huh? "

"I sure will. "

"Fine, fine. Soon as you've got something on paper for me, bring it right in. And don't get upset if I start tearing into it all over again. Between the two of us, we're going to make something good out of this little epic of yours. "

Brock's nerves quivered. The cigar smoke was suffocating. He was dying to get home to Shirley. And the man's patronizing attitude was just too much to bear.

"Listen, Mr. Walsh, if you think-"

"Charlie. Just call me Charlie. "

"Uh-huh. Charlie, for the last hour you've been telling me how good my play is. You've even got me believing it. So don't you figure I'm capable of handling the rewrite in my own way? "

"Sure, sure. Don't get me wrong, boy. I'm not putting you down. I'm just trying to steer you a little, that's all. You write and I'll criticize. Write some more and I'll criticize again. And I don't want your feelings to be hurt because of it. Your play is good, sure, but ]it's going to wind up a hell of a lot better. Write and rewrite. Pick it apart and put it back together again. Over and over. That's the way we make great shows out of good ones. "

"All right. I guess I see what you're driving at. "

"As a matter-of-fact, Brock, the writing of a play is never finished. Not until opening night, anyway. You'll be sitting in on most of the rehearsals just to look for flaws. There'll be lines to change right up until the last possible minute. "

"Oh. I didn't know. "

"That's the way it is, young fellow. And I won't be your only critic, either. Portia Stratford is no tempera mental prima donna, but she's going to want some changes, too. Every good actor or actress does. Sometimes a line that looks okay in the script comes over like a lead balloon when it's read from the stage. So you and Portia will be working together, too. "

"Really? " Brock grinned. "Well, I sure won't object to that. I think Portia Stratford is terrific. I used to play hookey from high school just to go and see her. Hell, I guess I even had a crush on her in those days. "

"She'll be glad to hear it. Portia is a fine gal. " The cigar went out and Charlie immediately reached for another.

Brock grimaced inwardly. It was now or never. "Uh "I ought to be running along now. Unless you've got something else on your mind. " He rose to his feet. "I really ought to get back home and tell my wife the good news. The poor kid is probably on a diet of fingernails and coffee by now. "

"Oh? Sure, boy, run along. I think we've covered just about everything. " Charlie stood up and they shook hands. "I guess we understand each other, huh? Write me a solid second act. We'll do great things together "you and me and Portia. Great things, I'm telling you. You'll see "this is only the beginning. "

"Okay. I'll give you the best I can. "

"Fine, fine. Now go tell your wife. Keep her happy. Nice young fellow like you needs a contented wife. Keeps his mind clear so he can write good plays. "

Brock swung around, anxious to get away before another burst of homespun philosophy came his way. Even as he ducked out the door, a match flared and the fresh cigar started spewing cumulus clouds as thick and malodorous as the just-finished stale one. The. office was like a gas chamber.

But out on the street the air was clean and wholesome "or comparatively so, at least "and he felt revived again. All in all, it had been a good day. A wonderful day. Even the evil-smelling cigar hadn't spoiled it. He had sold his first play.

The option check wasn't a very big one, of course, but it was enough. Certainly enough to get by on until the rewriting task was finished. More important, though, was what the check represented. The play " his work "was going to be staged. And on Broadway, too and not in some dingy East Village hole-in-the-wall. The same play "poetic drama, pure and uncompromising "that all his friends had insisted would never be produced commercially.

Well, perhaps it was time to make some new friends. Brock and Shirley Henderson were coming up in the world. It wouldn't be long before they'd be moving out of that cruddy neighborhood and into some place with a little more class. A successful playwright had to live like one, didn't he?

Easy, boy, don't get a swelled head....

Oh, the hell with it. He was tired of such friends, anyway. Painters who never painted. Writers who never wrote. Bearded beatniks whose only talent was for mooching a meal or bumming a cigarette. Who needed them? For all their aesthetic pretensions, they were about as artistic as a defective bathroom drain.

No, the only person in the world that he owed any loyalty to was his wife. Sweet little Shirley with the golden hair and big blue eyes that made her look like an innocent schoolgirl. She had never stopped believing in him. And wouldn't she jump with joy when he waved the check under her pretty little nose!

She jumped, all right.

Shirley literally bubbled over. "Brock, it's wonderful. Tell me all about it. Tell me about Walsh and-"

"Hey, simmer down, baby. It's a long story. I'll tell you about it at dinner. "

"Dinner? "

"Damn right. We're going to celebrate. No home cooking tonight, not for Mr. and Mrs. Henderson. It isn't every day a guy gets to sell his first play. We're going out and I'm going to wine you and dine you. "

"Brock, can we afford to-"

"Who cares? " He held up the option check triumphantly. "It may not be much, but there's more where it came from. The economic recession is over for us, kiddo. "

"But we shouldn't. We shouldn't start splurging until we're sure it's okay. "

"You're right, honey, absolutely and positively right "and I love you for it. But we're still going to celebrate tonight and I won't take no for an answer. So go wash your face and get your best dress on " pronto! "

"I give up. Oh well, that's what I get for marrying a genius. It's feast one day and famine the next. But you've still got to give me time to take a bath. "

"The famine is ended "from now on it's going to be all feasting. Go take your bath, but make it a quick one. It's not respectful to keep a famous playwright waiting. " Playfully he spun her around and whacked her bottom. "Now scoot! "

"Ouch! You beast. " She glanced back over her shoulder and there was surprised adoration in her wide eyes. "Oooh, I haven't seen you like this for a long time. You're so ... so stimulated ... "

"Stimulated? You ain't seen nothin' yet. "

But she was right "he was stimulated. More so than he had realized. And in more ways. Although the point didn't strike home fully until a few moments later when Shirley pranced out of the bathroom naked but for the furry scuffs on her feet. She looked like a fragile figurine of Dresden china.

"Quick enough for you? " she murmured.

"Uh-huh. " He pulled her close.

"Hey. I thought we were in a hurry. "

"Uh-huh. In a hurry. Mmm, you smell nice. "

"Do I? " Her bath-warmed body wriggled against him. "It's the same cut-rate perfume I always use. "

"Baby, if the play is a hit I'll buy you gallons of perfume. The best from Paris. " He bent his head and let his lips browse in the hollows of her neck and shoulders.

"Oooh...." She shivered daintily. "Promise me anything but give me Arpege. "

"Uh-huh. Anything your little heart desires. "

"Anything? "

"That's what I said, honey. "

"Care to make a down payment right now? " Again her nude body writhed in sinuous suggestion.

"Down payment? "

"Just as a token of good faith. "

"Such as? "

Her fingers clutched. "This...." Excitement surged through him. The little minx! She had her own idea of how they should celebrate their good fortune. And it was certainly an idea worth delving into.

He fell back upon the bed, tugging her down with him. Not that it required much effort. Her busy hands were already yanking at his clothing in frantic haste.

"Shirley ... baby ... "

"Mmm ... you are stimulated. "

"Yeah. Oh well, that's what I get for marrying such a shameless hussy. " He chuckled weakly.

But it wasn't funny or clever any more, it was just good. He rolled over to take command, glorying in the bonelessly soft body that arched to welcome him.

Good, hell, it was great. Yes, this notion of how to celebrate was definitely worth delving into. He didn't mind delaying the wining and dining bit for a while. Maybe for a long, long while. The longer the better, in fact.

Besides, wasn't he supposed to make his wife happy and contented so he could keep his mind clear to write more and better plays? Uh-huh. Words of wisdom from Charlie Walsh. Good old Charlie, the guy who was going to make the dream come true. Witch at the Wedding "by Brock Henderson. Starring Portia Stratford.

Portia Stratford? Now why should he be thinking about her at a time like this? With his own sweet Shirley sobbing and moaning and consuming him like a demon out of the fires of Hell.

"Darling ... Brock ... ah...." Oh, it would be a great show. And Portia Stratford would be great to work with. But right now it wasn't important. Hell no. Right now nothing was more important than this....

CHAPTER THREE

THE atmosphere of the place was discreet. It smacked of wealth and gentility and good taste and it catered to a clientele which ranked a notch higher than even the free-spending expense-account and credit-card set.

Self-effacing waiters glided around smoothly, serving the patrons with all but silent efficiency. Heavy draperies and soundproofed walls deadened what little noise there was, the small clatter of dishes and knives and forks. At the various tables conversation went on in a low hum.

Robin Kessler smiled in satisfaction as Portia Stratford's gaze swept the room. The actress was obviously pleased; their arrival had created a tiny flutter among the other diners. It was hardly more than a ripple, but it was enough. In the hushed elegance of the Lotus Blanc, even a famous personage rated scarcely more than a whisper of recognition. That, in itself, was practically unimpeachable evidence of one's standing in society.

"You're being noticed, " Robin said.

Portia shrugged. "Gossip-mongers. Anyway, it's probably you they're noticing, not me. "

"I doubt it. "

It was an intriguing notion, though and Robin wished it were true. Someday, perhaps, people would take notice of her instead of whomever she was with. But for now, well, she was content to bask in someone else's limelight. Especially in a restaurant so restrained and snooty as this one. The management made great efforts to exclude newspaper columnists and press agents. This just wasn't one of her usual haunts.

Still, dinner at the Lotus Blanc was always an impressive production and she was glad that she had decided to bring Portia here rather than a more garish place. Besides, the word was bound to leak out in one way or another "Robin Kessler was seen dining with Portia Stratford "and some columnist would grab hold of it.

And yet even that wasn't very important, Robin realized. Not this time. Oh sure, it would be nice to see their names linked together in print. But the possibility "or probability "of it wasn't what was making her pulses pound and her thighs quiver. It was the flesh-and-blood creature herself.

Portia Stratford....

The actress was magnificent. Her jet-black eyes and lustrous dark hair were striking, onstage and off. And in contrast to the pallor of her smooth skin, her full-lipped red mouth stood out like a wellspring of damp sensuality. True, she was on the shady side of 35, Robin guessed, but the tall slenderness of her firm-bosomed body didn't show it. Despite her years and despite her grateful femininity, Portia Stratford looked like a handsome boy.

Or "more aptly "a fascinating lesbian.

Robin tingled. Ah yes, it would be delightful to put that marvelous mouth to work. Even if she had to buy it. Even if she had to wheedle it into willingness. It would still be wonderful to " lie back and feel those lips and curse the memory of long-since-dead Sam Kessler and bless the money he had left her. The money which made her powerful enough to demand "if necessary "the kisses and caresses of that mouth upon her own unbeautiful flesh.

And the blunt fact that her own body was unbeautiful would be no deterrent to her joy. Sometimes it even served to heighten the pleasure of such a conquest.

Only Portia Stratford would be no ordinary conquest and Robin was painfully conscious of it. The gift of a few baubles and bangles wasn't going to entice this glorious creature into bed. Nor was she even sure that any display of generosity on her part was going to turn the trick. But she meant to find out.

Communication, though "that was the problem. How to bring the subject up and thrash it out. Or the subjects, rather, the seemingly separate issues of Portia in bed and Portia in a Broadway play "without causing any loss of face. Wily old Charlie Walsh had outsmarted himself by his behind-the-scenes stratagem. Everybody involved knew the score, but no one could come right out and say so. And at this point it was extremely dubious if anything could be accomplished by subtle hints.

No, the impasse was too formidable now. It was like a huge log jam damming up the river, the kind that took a heavy charge of dynamite before the current could flow unimpeded again. Only in this case "with people, not logs "there was always the hazard that dynamiting might do more harm than good. And as yet Robin wasn't quite ready to take that chance.

"Look, " Portia said. She made a hesitant half-pointing gesture toward the opposite end of the room. "Someone else is being noticed. Recognize her? "

A movie star had just entered, trailed by a cortege of three handsome young males. Somewhat of a fading beauty, the woman was still playing the Hollywood glamor-girl in every way. In the Lotus Blanc she appeared very much out of place.

Robin nodded. "I've seen her on the screen. "

"Old bag. Must be close to fifty. I just hope she doesn't start waving at us. "

"Oh, do you know her? "

"Yes "much to my regret. "

"Portia, why do you say that? I think she's quite pretty. And she certainly doesn't look that old. "

"No? Well, perhaps not. It's amazing what a little makeup can do. You should see her when she gets up in the morning. "

"Huh? "

"Oh. I goofed, didn't I? " Portia smiled wryly. "One more of these "

"she touched her cocktail glass "

"and I'll be letting you in on all my deep dark secrets. "

"Have a dozen. I'd love to hear your secrets. That one, for instance "did you really ... uh ... "

"Guilty. Of course, I was younger in those days. And so was she, I suppose. But she still turned out to be a dull dish. And she looked like a wreck in the morning. "

"Oh...." Robin felt her cheeks grow warm.

"Hey, you're actually blushing. Yes, you are. Don't tell me I've shocked you. "

And then "with abrupt awareness "Robin realized that Portia too was trying to ease the tension between them. Her casual confession had been no mere slip of the tongue. In a way it had been a fragment of exploding dynamite. Because it was evident now that the log jam was beginning to break up.

"No, Portia, you haven't shocked me. I blush at just about everything. But your, ah, your friend over there "I wouldn't have believed it. Is she really ... uh ... "

"Well, I hate to repeat gossip, but what else can you do with it? She is. Believe me, she is. Don't let that flock of eager boys fool you. They're just camouflage. "

"Oh. I wondered. "

"Why? " Portia's eyes probed. "Interested? " Robin dropped her gaze. "N-no ... not in her. "

"Too bad. "

Then, quite deliberately, Robin raised her eyes and set off her share of the dynamite. "But I am interested. In you-know-who. "

"Hmm? Oh...." This time it was Portia's turn to get flustered and look away.

Robin pressed her advantage. "Of course I am. You knew that on Sunday, didn't you? "

"I "I guess so. "

A team of white-coated waiters pounced upon their table. By the time they delivered their savory burdens and moved off again, it was too late to pick up the threads of the delicate topic. But it seemed like a propitious moment to mention the other troublesome detail that needed straightening out.

"That play, " Robin said. "The one Charlie Walsh is working on. Witch at the Wedding, I think it's called. Has he talked to you about it, too? "

"Uh ... yes, he has. "

"Have you read it? "

"Uh-huh. "

"Well? Is it any good? "

Portia shrugged. "I imagine so. But I just can't trust my own judgment on things like that. "

"Oh? Somehow I thought "well, I got the idea that you had already decided to do it. "

"I "I guess I have. If it's good enough for Charlie, it's good enough for me. So if he puts it on I'll be in it. "

"If he puts it on? "

"Oh, you know how it is, Robin. Show business, I mean. Things change from one day to the next. Right now it's really only in the talking stage. "

"I see. Hmm, in that case I suppose I ought to read the darn thing myself. "

"You mean you haven't? "

"No. I don't even have a copy, Portia. Charlie tried to give me one, but I wasn't much interested at the time. "

"Oh. Well, I have one. Why don't we stop off at my place after dinner and I'll give it to you. "

"Now that's a nice thought. But I've got an even better idea. Wouldn't you like to read it to me? You know "read it and act it out and explain it, all at the same time. "

"Tonight? "

"Of course. Unless you have some other-"

"No, I'm free. All right, Robin, let's do it. It's the least I can do to show my appreciation for this lovely dinner. "

Robin chuckled inwardly. If this was the least, then what would be the most? And suddenly "brought on by the boldness of the notion " a warm wave of impatience overwhelmed her. "As for this dinner, well, I'm getting just a bit tired of it. Let's finish up and get out of here, hmm? "

Her dining partner obviously agreed. And with a minimum of further conversation, they zipped through the remaining courses and left. A short cab-ride later, still comparatively silent, they entered Portia's apartment. V "The script, " Portia said. "Let me think now " where did I leave it? Oh, yes, in the bedroom. Why don't you pour yourself a drink while I get it. "

But Robin didn't want a drink. Nor did she want to be away from this exciting woman even for a moment. The log jam was on its last legs now. One more charge of explosive would do it. And a bedroom seemed a more likely place for such a blast. Emotional upheavals always went better in bedrooms.

And if by some chance she was wrong "if she had completely misjudged this bizarre game they were playing "well, she could always crawl under the bed to avoid the fallout.

She followed Portia. "Oh, this is a nice room. So comfortable. Can't we stay right here? "

"If you like. No drink? "

"Not now. I'm still feeling the martinis. Besides, I've got to concentrate on your reading, don't I? "

"My, you are serious about this play. "

"Portia, what did you think? Of course I'm serious. But it's only because you're going to be in it. "

"Oh ... "

"You know that, don't you? "

"Well, I ... "

"You should, Portia. By this time you should know that I don't give a damn about Charlie Walsh or his production. But if you want me to back it, all you have to do is-" The telephone leaped into life, cutting her off in mid-sentence. She frowned, annoyed at the untimely interruption. But she couldn't argue with its noisy howl for attention.

"Sorry, " Portia said. She picked up the receiver and muttered a peevish hello. And immediately the expression on her face became apprehensive. Apparently the voice at the other end was one she had no desire to hear. Or so it seemed from the brusque way in which she attempted to stop it. "No. Shut up, will you? Listen, I can't talk to you now. I'm busy. "

Robin understood. "Portia, don't hang up. "

"Hmm? "

"Charlie Walsh? "

Portia shrugged. Stark embarrassment was written all over her features as she nodded sadly.

"Let me talk to him. " Without waiting for permission, Robin seized the phone. "Charlie? "

"Yeah. Who's this? "

"Robin Kessler. "

"Huh? " It was a gasp of incredulity. "Oh, it's you. Say, I'm sorry if I interrupted any-"

"It's okay, Charlie. You aren't interrupting. Portia and I were just discussing the play. "

"You were? Fine, fine. Great play, huh? "

"I wouldn't know. "

"No? Sure, it is. Why, it's one of the best-"

"Charlie, listen. Maybe you'd better understand how I feel about it. " Slowly, Robin sank to the bed and leaned back against the headboard cushions. "I'm not very clever about this sort of thing. I couldn't tell a great play from a lousy one. "

"A smart woman like you? Of course you can. All you have to do is read it. Let me send you a copy of the script, huh? "

"Charlie, wait. Never mind the script. " Impetuously, she kicked her shoes off and let them tumble to the floor. "It's really not that important. " Patting the bed alongside her, she raised her eyes in a glance that was half-beseeching and half-demanding.

"Not important? What do you mean? "

"Well, I'll tell you...." And then, as Portia sat down on the edge of the bed gingerly, Robin knew that the log jam was at its end. She continued to talk into the phone, but her words were no longer meant for the man at the other end of the wire. "If I want a copy, I'm sure Portia will lend me hers. "

"Of course. Fine, fine. But I'd like to send-"

"No, don't bother. " She took the script from Portia's nervous fingers and tossed it to the floor. The stapled sheaf of papers fell in a jumbled heap, partially covering one of her discarded shoes. "You see, reading it won't help, Charlie. I don't know enough about the theatre to make any kind of judgment. So I'll just have to take Portia's word for it. If she thinks it's the right show for her, well, that's all I care about. "

"Oh, it's the right show for her, I'm positive of it. Just ask her. She all for it, isn't she? "

"I ... uh ... I don't know...." Robin's hand reached out and stroked Portia's flushed face. "Maybe she likes it, but she hasn't made any attempt to convince me yet. "

"She hasn't? That's funny. "

"Funny? What's funny about it? Portia knows what she's doing. Or at least I think she does. She just hasn't made up her mind yet, that's all. " Robin's fingers twined in the black hair gently, but with a certain firmness of purpose. "And until she does, I guess I can't make up mine, either. "

"Let me talk to her, will you? "

"Uh ... no. She's ... uh ... busy. " And with no further qualms, Robin pulled Portia's head down to her breasts. Unresistant, it stayed there.

"Busy? But-"

"Busy. As a matter-of-fact, so am I. Good-bye, Charlie. I have to hang up now. "

Ah yes, busy. Because she needed both hands now. Both hands to help bare her body to those demonstrative lips. Both hands and both legs and every other bit of her yearning flesh as that marvelously persuasive mouth "eloquent and yet soundless "sought to make up her mind for her.

"Portia ... oh ... sweet ... "

"Mmm...." That full-lipped red mouth. So effective. So convincing. No golden-throated political orator had ever argued a case with a more adept tongue.

And then, quite unexpectedly, something exploded inside the walls of her skull. A split-second later another detonation seemed to shatter her writhing body. Detonation?

But how strange! The log jam was already broken. So who needed more explosives? One thing was certain, though "if Portia in a play was anything like Portia in bed, the show would be a roaring success. Because Portia in bed was dynamite!

CHAPTER FOUR

OUT of breath after climbing the three flights of stairs, Shirley Henderson set her bag of groceries down and collapsed upon the couch. It was going to take all of ten minutes, she was sure, before she could function again. It always did.

Someday, though, she would never have to go through the ordeal again. In Brock's fanciful dreams of the future, success would bring many things. A car. A boat. A mink coat. A trip to Europe. Charge accounts in every shop on Fifth Avenue. Luxury "that was what her capricious genius of a husband was hoping for. And she couldn't find it in her heart to blame him.

But at the moment, she would have settled quite willingly for nothing more luxurious than an apartment in a building with an elevator. A lovely elevator with lovely rows of buttons to push. A magic carpet that she could step into and whoosh! "home again. Just like that. No more mountains to climb. No more trudging onward and upward and reaching the summit too tuckered out and too breathless to even cry "excelsior. " Ah yes "an elevator.

Some day....

And the day was coming. How soon, she couldn't tell. Show business was such an intricate mass of complexities that she couldn't figure it out. Everything seemed to hinge upon something else "which in turn had another "something else " to hinge upon. Success might be just around the comer and then again it could lie so far in the future that her prayed-for elevator might be no more feasible than a rocket ship to the moon.

Such a problem. But it might not be so perplexing soon. Even now Brock was at Charlie Walsh's office with the newly rewritten version of Witch at the Wedding. Or at least the new second act. Any minute now he would be bursting through the door with the joyous tidings plastered all over his face. Or slinking in with the sad expression of a professional mourner at a funeral.

Oh well. Either way, her period of grace was up. She'd better get moving again and stow the groceries away before the heat wilted the iceberg lettuce. Thank heaven she was young and healthy enough to recuperate quickly after the arduous climb. The strength was seeping back into her limbs.

Sighing, she rose and went to work. And when Brock came in a short while later, the household task was just about finished. Although she still felt more wilted than the lettuce.

Brock's demeanor was an enigma. He wasn't bubbling over with glee, but neither was he slouching like a pallbearer under an overweight coffin. And Shirley guessed immediately that the quandary had not changed in one direction or the other. Something, apparently, was still hinging upon something else.

"That's show biz, " she mumbled.

"Huh? What did you-"

"Nothing, dear. " She giggled. "I was just waiting here wondering what you'd look like when you walked in. "

"What I'd look like? "

"Uh-huh. Sad. Happy. On top of the world. Or ready to crawl into a hole and die. "

"Oh. It's neither, I guess. "

"I know. I could read it in your face. A little good news and a little bad "right? "

"Okay, lady, your crystal ball still works. You won't have to trade it in for this year's model. "

"Brock, stop teasing me. What happened with Walsh? Did he like the rewrite? "

"Yeah, he liked it. Most of it, anyway. "

"Then why aren't you chortling with pure joy? Isn't that about what you figured on? "

"Just about. Only now it seems I've got another critic to contend with. Portia Stratford has to okay the script, too. And from what Charlie tells me, she's probably going to be even more pernickety about it than he is. If this goes on, I may be writing and rewriting the damn thing until doomsday. "

"Portia Stratford. Well, you pretty much expected something like that, didn't you, Brock? After all, she's the star. She's got a right to be choosy, doesn't she? "

"I know, I know. But I was just hoping she'd wait until we actually started rehearsing. When that happens I won't mind changing a line here and there for her. This way, though, I might have to do the whole play over again. And my fingers are already aching from pounding that typewriter. "

"Never mind, dear. When our ship comes in, we'll get you a brand-new electric machine. The kind that operates if you barely breathe on the keys. "

"Oh sure. An electric typewriter for me. " He grinned. "And a mink coat for you? "

"Nope. "

"Sable? Ermine? "

"Nope. Just an elevator. "

"Huh? "

"You heard me, husband of mine. The first thing I want is an apartment with an elevator. No more stairs to climb. Then I'll be ready for the second thing. A baby. "

"A what? "

"Don't get panicky "I'm not pregnant yet. But I'm going to be "with a little assistance from you, of course "just as soon as we're able to move out of this dump. "

"Oh. Shirley, honey, that loud whistling noise you just heard was what is commonly known as a sigh of relief. Please "no babies yet. Not until we get in the chips, huh? Until that time, well, just keep your fingers crossed, will you? "

"My fingers? "

"Okay, smartie. Anyway, don't get careless about it. I won't feel safe until I get this latest obstacle out of the way. The Portia Stratford thing, I mean. "

"Of course, dear. I was only kidding. "

"Yeah. That's what I was afraid of. Kidding is okay, but don't start having 'em yet, huh? "

"Now who's the smartie? Brock, when will you know about Portia Stratford? Did Charlie Walsh say? "

"No, he didn't. He couldn't, really. He had no more idea of her reaction than I have. But we might find out something tonight. At least a small inkling. "

"Tonight? " Shirley pouted. "Do you have to go out again? I've got pork chops and I was planning a leisurely-"

"Pork chops, hell. They'll keep. It just so happens that we're going out for dinner. "

"Brock, no. Don't you think that's overdoing-"

"Quiet, woman. We're freeloading tonight. Italian style. Lasagna cacciatore pastafazool spumoni "with a dash of garlic and a jug of good red vino. All on Charlie Walsh. We're supposed to meet him at Mama Patrizia's restaurant around seven o'clock. On Bleecker Street. You know the place? "

"Vaguely. But why me? If the two of you are still battling over the play, what do you need me for? "

"Moral support, honey. I always like to have a pretty girl in my comer "and you're the prettiest I know. " He leaned down and kissed her. "Besides, we're not going to discuss business. The evening will be strictly social. "

"Oh, that's different. "

"You bet. Just wait till you hear how different. Hold on to your hat, honey. The great lady herself is going to be there. "

"The great "

"Shirley gasped. "Portia Stratford? "

"In person. And also the woman who's backing the show. Woman named Robin Kessler. "

"Oh. I've heard of her. Portia Stratford and Robin Kessler "and you mean I'm invited, too? "

"Darn right. Charlie insisted upon it. Every playwright ought to have a happy wife, he says. So you're going to meet the producer and the star and the backer all in one fell swoop. Now is that better than pork chops or isn't it? "

"Pork chops! Brock Henderson, are you crazy? Why didn't you tell me the moment you came in? How will I ever get ready in time? What'll I wear? Oh, sometimes you make me so mad I could-"

"Hey, relax, kitten. Slow down. We've got more than an hour yet. And if we're a little late, so what? Nobody ever gets anywhere on time, anyway. "

"Don't talk like that. We'll be on time. I'm certainly not going to keep someone like Portia Stratford waiting. So just stay out of my way, young man. I've got a million things to do. Oh dear, I hope I've got a decent pair of stockings. "

"Stockings, slimockings "with your legs, you won't need them. I'll bet you'll outshine everybody in the...." But Shirley was no longer listening. There was so much to do. Bathing, dressing, makeup. She couldn't meet the famous Portia Stratford looking like a slob, could she?

And as for Brock "well, wasn't that just like a man! Didn't he realize how important these things were to a girl? Maybe he expected her to wear blue jeans and a sweatshirt. Dammit, she'd never be ready by seven o'clock.

But she was....

And as they started for the restaurant, she was pleased by the glint of approval in her husband's eyes. Perhaps her clothes were Fourteenth Street instead of Fifth Avenue, but she was proudly aware that she filled them out quite nicely. Maybe she had to do her own manicure and her own hair, but it was doubtful if the best of beauty salons could have done a better job. No, the playwright's wife would not let the playwright down tonight.

But if only she weren't so damn nervous! Imagine meeting Portia Stratford and Charlie Walsh and that rich, notorious Robin Kessler all at the same time. It made her feel like an anxious prisoner on the way to the parole board. Or a teen-age kid sent to the principal's office for discipline.

The atmosphere of the restaurant helped, though. Mama Patrizia's had an easygoing old-world charm. At least it wasn't one of those East Side swanky nightspots that catered to names rather than people. Charlie Walsh "a wise old bird, from what she had heard of him "had probably selected the place just to keep the evening on a relaxed and carefree plane.

A cocktail helped, too. They were the first to arrive, much to Brock's annoyance, but the head waiter was quick to lead them to the reserved table. And equally quick to suggest a drink while they waited for the rest of "Meestair Walsh's party. "

Consequently, when the big moment finally came, Shirley was no longer jittery. Or a little less so, at any rate.

"Ah, so you're here, " Charlie Walsh said. "Fine, fine. And this is the little lady, eh, Brock? " Using first names in casual Broadway style, he performed the introductions. "And you're already a drink ahead of us, huh? Good, good. Don't worry, we'll soon catch up with you. And then "look out! "

"Sit down, Charlie. " Portia Stratford was nonchalantly gracious. "Sit down and rustle up some booze for us. " She turned to Shirley. "Been waiting long, you two? "

"Not very. "

"We rushed, " Brock said. "My wife insisted on it. Punctuality is the vice of virtuous women, you know. "

Robin Kessler giggled. "Don't complain. That's the kind of wife every man should have. "

"What kind? " Shirley murmured. "Punctual or virtuous? "

"Oh, I meant "

"Robin blushed.

The others laughed. And Shirley knew suddenly that she had nothing to fear from these women. Not in the way of rejection, anyway. Or of competition, either. She was younger and far more beautiful than both of them. The actress was tall and slim "almost gaunt, really. And the wealthy Robin Kessler was quite the opposite "too much so.

True, they were expensively clothed and coiffured. But they were so old. Old enough to be her mother, practically. And this one on her right "the plump one "that frock must have cost a fortune and yet she looked almost dowdy in it.

Drinks came and conversation waxed. And although business was not officially on the scheduled agenda, it soon cropped up. Brock and Portia got their heads together over the progress of the play and became engrossed in the discussion. With Charlie Walsh acting as an impartial umpire. Which, of course, left Shirley and Robin with only each other to talk to.

Shirley didn't mind. She was getting mildly stinko and she was having fun. And Robin Kessler didn't seem to mind, either. Quite the contrary. Once or twice Shirley got the comforting impression that the woman's attention was focused on her by deliberate intent rather than by mere circumstance.

It was a nice feeling. Exhilarating, somehow. Here in the midst of these sophisticates, she was still somebody. And not just because she was Brock's wife. Oh no. Why the woman hardly even looked at Brock. Nor did she pay much heed at all to what went on across the table.

As conversation went, they didn't say much. Small talk, mainly. Until, abruptly, right in the middle of some unimportant topic, Robin switched to a new tack.

"Shirley, forgive me staring, will you? "

"Staring? "

"It's rude of me, I know. But I couldn't help it. You're the most beautiful thing I've seen in all my life. I thought so the minute I laid eyes on you. "

"Oh ... "

"Don't blush now or you'll have me doing it. I blush at the slightest provocation. But I just had to say it, honey "you look like a beautiful angel. I'll bet you'd be wonderful on the stage. "

"Me? Oh, no. I can't act worth a damn. In fact, I'm the most untalented person in the world. "

"Perhaps. " Robin's gaze was a warm tribute. "But with what you've got, who needs talent? "

Shirley squirmed in delight. Such a compliment. And then "as if her rapturous squirming had brought on a compensating disaster "she felt something give way underneath her skirt. Pop. The garter-strap, of course "frayed by too many washings, it had pulled loose from the metal clasp that held the stocking. And now the poor nylon was already wrinkling and twisting.

"Shirley, what's the matter? " Robin's face was a picture of concerned puzzlement. "Did I say something wrong? "

"Of course not. " She leaned close and spoke in a whisper. "I've just busted a garter, that's all. And I'd better get to the ladies' room before I lose the stocking too. "

"Oh...." Robin smiled in relief. "Is that all? Come on, I'll help you. I've got some pins in my purse. "

"You needn't bother. I can-"

"Hush, honey. I doubt if a place this small has an attendant on duty. So you'd better not refuse my offer of help. Let's go. " Robin stood up. "Excuse us, you lovely people. We're off to the powder room, Shirley and I. "

Shirley shrugged. It would have been simpler to do it alone. But she couldn't leave the woman out here with no one to talk to, could she? Besides, in this woozy state maybe a helping hand would be a good thing.

The ladies' room was empty. And so tiny that they had to brush against each other to squeeze into it. Shirley placed one foot on the rim of the waste basket and lifted her skirt to inspect the damage. The strap was broken, all right. But not irreparably so, thank heaven.

"The pin. " Robin dug into her handbag.

"Uh-huh...." Standing on one leg, Shirley teetered precariously and nearly lost her balance. "Oops! "

"Honey, you're stoned. You'll stick yourself and draw blood. Better let me do it. "

"No, I can-"

"Shhh. Stand still now. " Robin bent and tucked the loose ends of the strap together. "Damn! That won't hold. " She bent lower and finally worked the point of the safety pin into the right spot. "Steady now, Don't wiggle. "

Shirley's head reeled. This was so silly. So odd. The scented muskiness of the little room was making her dizzy. She could actually feel the woman's hot breath on her thigh. And the soft touch of the back of her hand as it held the ends together.

"There. " With her face all flushed, Robin straightened up. "All done. " But her hand remained where it was, testing the strength of the repair. "That ought to do it, I think. "

"Thanks. " Shirley got her foot back upon the solid floor. The skirt fell into place.

"You're welcome, honey. Say, I did that rather well, didn't I? I've missed my calling. I should have been a ladies' rest-room attendant, huh? "

And in fits of giggles they walked out and weaved their way back toward the table. Eyes found them. Curious eyes. But Shirley didn't care. Mrs. Brock Henderson was coming up in the world. Imagine. Robin Kessler "the Robin Kessler "was her friend. And not just because she was a playwright's wife. Hadn't Robin told her that she looked like a beautiful angel? And didn't Robin's eye light up almost in the same way that Brock's had earlier in the evening? Oh yes, Robin was her friend.

But it was funny, though, the way Robin's face had gotten so flushed back there in the rest room. So red that it seemed almost feverish. Of course, Robin blushed a lot "she had mentioned it awhile ago. But it couldn't have been just a blush. After all, what was there to blush about?

Sure, they had been a bit cramped in that small room. And in fixing the strap Robin's hands had touched her thigh. The place had smelled kind of perfumed and musky. Maybe a couple of Village lesbians might have thought it exciting. But that nice plump little Robin Kessler couldn't be a lezzie. So what was there to blush about?

Just the same, though, Robin's face had sure been red. Her skin was still tinged with pink even now.

And then "with a tiny tingle of astonishment " Shirley realized that her own cheeks felt unaccountably warm, too.

CHAPTER FIVE

WITH the rewritten version of the second act lying on the bed beside her, Portia Stratford smoked a cigarette with one hand and held the telephone to her ear with the other. In a nonstop monologue Charlie Walsh was telling her what he thought of the new script.

Eventually, of course, he would get around to asking her opinion "the reason for his phone call, obviously. Meanwhile, though, he ran on and on with words of praise for the young writing genius. According to Charlie, the play verged on greatness. Brock Henderson was the hope of the American theatre.

Wearily, Portia listened. And at last "most likely because his cigar had gone out "he came to a halt. When Charlie Walsh went into a sales pitch, nothing else ever slowed him down.

"Okay, " she said, jumping in on the first moment of quiet. "But you don't have to spread it on so thick. I agree with you. I think the boy is good. "

"Huh? You like the changes he's made? "

"I like them, Charlie. But there are still a few spots that bother me. Some of the lines "my lines "well, they seem just a bit pretentious. Don't you think so? "

"Pretentious? "

"Oh, you know what I mean. I don't mean the play as a whole, of course "I've already told you I'm no judge. But some of the lines here and there "Charlie, I just can't see myself spouting them. The poetry interferes with the meaning. "

"Oh. Sure, I understand. You've always had a good feeling for that kind of thing. But if it's only a line here and there, can't we fix it up when we go into rehearsal? "

"Maybe. But I doubt it. This sort of writing doesn't come off the top of anyone's head. I'm sure the boy has to sit and sweat over every word. "

"Um, well, you've got a point there, sweetie. "

"Charlie, you're the producer. If you want to plunge right into rehearsal, it's all right with me. But it could lead to trouble. You know what usually happens once the opening date is set and everybody begins to feel the pressure. "

"You're right, honey. Absolutely right. Ulcers I don't need. The script should be perfect before we start. Even then we'll have to make changes later on. Listen "about those lousy lines "how about if you and I get together and-"

"Hold it, Charlie. I didn't say the lines were lousy. If you talk like that, you're liable to start a war between young Henderson and me. And I think he's a damn good writer. "

"Sure, sure, let's not have any wars. Only do me a favor, will you, sweetie? Don't tell anybody else how good you think he is. I wouldn't want it to get back to him. First thing you know, he'll be getting a swelled head. And then he'll be impossible to work with. Get what I'm driving at? "

"Of course. Okay, mum's the word. "

"Good, good. Now about those lines you don't like "can you come over now and talk about it? You point them out to me and I'll mark the script for the boy-"

"Now? Oh, I couldn't. "

"No? Busy? Something important? "

"Well, it's ... uh...." Portia groped for words. "Oh, hell, Charlie, you might as well know. I promised to spend the afternoon with Robin Kessler. I couldn't very well turn her down, could I? "

"Oh...." Portia shuddered, only too aware of what was going on in Charlie's mind. He knew the score, of course, he just about had to. In her own possessive way Robin had made it clear enough. Yes, Charlie knew "but he was too shrewd an operator to say so. "Anyway, Charlie, I want to go over the second act once more before I see you. "

"Okay, sweetie. Ring me tomorrow, huh? "

"I will. Bye now. "

Frowning, she hung up. Robin "or rather Robin's money "was still in control and there was nothing to be done about it. Nothing but what she had already been doing for the past few weeks. And now, especially, now that she had seen the rewritten script "well, she just had to go on dancing to Robin's tune. Because the play was good. She was sure of it. Witch at the Wedding was going to make Portia Stratford a big star all over again.

A big star in a smash hit. Actors and actresses sold their souls for something like that. And if the only way to achieve it was to keep Robin purring in contentment, well "so be it. Hers was a pretty tarnished soul, anyway. But it was time to get over there. Robin was probably getting impatient. Time to go and make the fat kitten purr before frustration turned it into a snarling cat.

Scurrying around, Portia slipped into some clothes and started out. Surprisingly enough, though, when she got there Robin showed no signs of impatience. In fact, after a fashion, the woman was already purring. And squealing now and then. But certainly not snarling or spitting or scratching.

Naked, lying face down on the massage table in her huge bedroom, Robin was being stroked and pounded and pummeled. Standing over her in a white uniform with rolled-up sleeves was a veritable giantess of a Valkyrie.

"Portia...." Robin turned her head slightly. "Hello. I didn't even hear the doorbell ring. "

"The maid let me in. "

"Uh-huh. Sit down, honey. I'm almost finished. Oh, by the way, this is Hulda. Fresh from Sweden. Doesn't talk much English, but she gives a great massage. Care to give her a try? "

"No, thanks. "

"Sure? Oh well, it's only us fat girls who have to worry about things like that. Ouch! Hulda, take it easy, will you? "

Impassively, the big masseuse continued her task. Apparently she was not interested in complaints or conversation or anything else that went on. She had a job to do and she was doing it. The muscles in her arms stood out like a wrestler's.

"Well, what's new in the theatrical world? " Robin said. "Everything going smoothly? "

"Not bad. Same as usual. "

"What did you think of the playwright? "

"The playwright? Oh, he's pretty good. He's still got a bit more rewriting to-"

"No, I mean personally. You know ... "

"Oh. " Portia shrugged. "Seems like a nice kid. "

"I thought so. Clean-cut-looking boy. But did you get a good look at his wife? "

"Of course. Quite a beauty. "

"Oh? " Robin wriggled as the meaty hands of the masseuse came down on her chubby buttocks. "Is that all you have to say about her? I thought she was positively delicious. "

"She's cute, all right. "

"An angel. All that lovely blonde hair. A beautiful angel. As a matter-of-fact, I told her so. "

"You what? "

"I told her-" Robin broke off abruptly and looked up over her shoulder. "Hulda, enough. That's enough. " She made a gesture of dismissal with one! hand.

The masseuse shrugged, nodded and then "evidently somewhat mystified by the sudden curtailment of her performance "started to help her client down from the padded table.

"No, " Robin said. "Hulda, you go now. I won't need you any more today. Understand? You go now. "

"Oh ... yah ... I go...." The giant creature rolled her sleeves down. Grinning broadly, she threw a saucy glance at Portia and then back toward Robin again before she lumbered out.

"Well! " Portia muttered.

"Hmm? "

"That one. Your masseuse. She may not understand English, but damn little escapes her. "

"Oh? You think so? "

"I'll say. Did you see that look she threw me? "

"Portia, you're just sensitive. "

"Perhaps. But she can't be that stupid. And I certainly know a dike when I see one. Come on, Robin, 'fess up. Haven't you fooled around a little bit with her? "

"With Hulda? " Robin appeared genuinely shocked. "Of course I haven't. Why, I've never even given it a thought. Honey, I pay her to massage me. She's paid help "don't you understand that? I don't go to bed with masseuses or beauticians or servants. What kind of kick would that be? "

"Okay, okay, I believe you. Just the same, though, if you ever do get in the mood, I'll wager she'll know how to take care of you. In Swedish or English "or in nice quiet Braille. "

Robin giggled. "Braille, huh? Oh, you...." The giggle became a minor convulsion and the table trembled until it passed. "Anyway, I'm just not interested. "

"Uh-huh. Well, it was only a suggestion. "

"Thanks a lot. But I've got something else on my mind now. Portia, I think I'm falling in love. "

"You're "you're kidding. "

"No. Oh, you needn't look so upset. It's not with you. We're beyond that stage, you and I. "

"Then who? " Portia's eyes widened. "Oh. No, you can't mean it. The little blonde? Shirley Henderson? "

Robin blushed. To Portia, the transformation was amazing. As well as she knew the woman, it was well-nigh impossible to keep up with her mercurial changes of mood. One minute Robin was an autocratic empress used to giving commands and seeing them obeyed. And a moment later she was acting like an adolescent schoolgirl. Blushing and simpering and talking about falling in love.

"Such an angel. " Robin's blush deepened. "I get all quivery inside just thinking about her. "

Portia took a deep breath. "Don't be a fool. At the risk of sounding nasty, I have to say it to you. You're looking for trouble. The girl is married. Put her out of your mind. She's happily married to a nice boy. "

"I know. But she's such a beautiful-"

"Robin, you can't have her. "

"No? Oh, I suppose not. You're probably right. But that doesn't stop me from wanting her. Maybe it's what makes me want her all the more. It's kind of a challenge. "

"That's ... uh ... well, it's pretty much of a juvenile attitude, isn't it? Wanting something only because you know you can't have it? That's the way children think, not adults. "

"Perhaps...." Robin seemed cool and composed again. "But I can't just make over my own personality, can I? When I want something, I go after it. That's the way I am and that's the way I've always been. So don't try to change me. "

Portia threw up her hands. "I give up. You're too complex a character for me. "

"That's silly. I'm really a very simple person. I just happen to have peculiar tastes "and enough money to indulge them with. So let's not have any more of this armchair analysis, please. Or massage table analysis, you might call it. "

"Okay, no more Freud. But what's money got to do with it? You're not figuring on buying the girl, are are you? "

"No. I'm sure she's not for sale, if that's what you mean. She's just too damn innocent. And I do mean innocent. Why, she didn't even know I was making a pass at her. "

"You ... you've already started? "

"Oh, just a little pass, Portia. No harm done. No, I'm afraid there's only one way I can get chummy with her. And darling, you're going to have to help. "

"Me? "

"Uh-huh. You rather liked Brock, didn't you? You seemed to get along very nicely with him. "

"Well ... yes. He's got talent. "

"Never mind the talent. How about as a person? As a man. Or as a "well, let's say a bed partner. "

"Robin! "

"Honey, you should see your face right now. Come on, it isn't that bad, is it? You go for men, don't you? Of course you do. I remember reading about you last year when-"

"All right, let's not rake up my past. Yes, I like men. I'll admit it. So what? "

"So you can help me, that's all. Make a little play for Brock Henderson and let's see what happens. "

"Robin, why? What for? "

"Don't be dense. Isn't it obvious? Honey, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Just have a good time with the guy, that's all you have to do. "

"And then you and Shirley...." Portia shook her head. "Robin, that's pretty goddam bitchy. "

"No doubt. But you'll do it, huh? "

"No. "

"For me, Portia? Please? "

"No. "

"All right. Forget it. And I'll do my best to forget the girl. I won't try to see her again. But I don't want to see her husband either. I don't care to have anything more to do with him. I'll just have to call Charlie Walsh and tell him-"

"Charlie? What's he got to do with it? "

"Well, I haven't signed the final papers yet. All I've given him is one little check so far and I won't mind losing that. But it's only fair that I let him know I'm not-"

"Robin, what are you saying? You're not going to back the show? Just because I won't-"

"Honey, don't make it tough on me. I'm not trying to pressure you, really I'm not. But that little blonde doll is under my skin. So if I can't have her I've just got to get out of the whole mess. Maybe I'll take a trip to Europe or something like that. I certainly don't want to hang around here and eat my heart out every time I set eyes on her. "

Portia sat there, tense and miserable. Robin's explanation sounded so matter-of-fact. So logical. But it wasn't, of course. It was completely false. And they both knew it.

And now the pressure was really on. Once again, Portia realized, the woman had the whip hand and was making no bones about it. Last time it hadn't been so difficult. Going to bed with Robin wasn't the world's greatest thrill, but neither was it a tragedy. But this was something else again. Something mean and dirty. It might even break up what seemed to be a happy marriage.

But something else had changed since then, too. Brock Henderson's play. She hadn't believed in it then, not really. But she did now. It was the chance she had been waiting for. And it was going to be a hit "if it ever got put on.

If ... But if she didn't do it, if she refused to do what Robin asked her to, what then? Wouldn't that be a catastrophe to Brock and Shirley, too? And to Charlie Walsh?

No. That was only rationalizing. The burden was hers to carry. The decision was hers to make. The crime was hers to commit and the reward was hers to reap. Big crime "big reward. Did Portia Stratford want her name in lights again? ] "Robin ... "

"Hmm? "

"You win. "

"Uh-huh. " Robin rolled to the edge of the massage table. "Honey, give me a hand, will you? I can never manage to get off this damn contraption by myself. "

"Didn't you hear me? I said you win. "

"I heard you, I heard you. But let's not talk about it now, huh? Help me down, please. "

Portia moved to aid her. And a moment later Robin lay sprawled on the bed, her soft limbs flung apart in loose abandon. As if she was waiting for something to happen. As if the plotting and planning and scheming had never taken place. She looked almost beautiful. Standing beside the bed, Portia realized that Robin's moment of triumph seemed to have added something to her appearance. A kind of warm glow. Only she didn't really look triumphant now. Why, she was actually blushing again!

Robin raised her arms.

Slowly, yet with a certain eagerness, Portia sank to the bed. And as she buried herself in the soft flesh, a spark of excitement leaped into flame within her. The woman was wicked. Truly a monster. Yet, somehow, even in that very wickedness there was a strange and terrible bewitchment. "Darling. Ah yes ... just like that. "

Portia complied avidly. Breathlessly. Knowingly. If you look upon the face of evil long enough, it no longer appears ugly.

Yes, evil. Could there be any other name for it? Any other way to describe this thing that was dragging her down into the deepest vortex of degradation?

Evil.

But mountains crumble and thrones topple and some day the evil would be avenged. Someday a star in the ascendancy would look down and take aim and sear this corrupt creature with its hot blaze.

A star. Portia Stratford "the star.

Some day. Revenge.

Robin moaned. Her hands grasped. White thighs flailed wildly. Sought. Found. Tensed and locked. And with those frenzied fingers clutching her hair, Portia gave up all thoughts of evil and revenge and what she would do to this woman when the time came. Trapped in the stupefying poignancy of the immediate moment, her distraught mind even cast out the gnawing awareness that she too was "paid help " just as much as that muscle-bound masseuse.

CHAPTER SIX

DEATH in the afternoon. Brock Henderson shuddered and punched the elevator button grimly. Mulling over the phrase, he felt the cage-like cubicle whir into action as it began to lift him toward his doom. Death in the afternoon. His lips twitched and broke into a wan semblance of a smile. Okay, young Hemingway, what the hell are you going to do about it?

Nothing, dammit.

Yeah. Because if poor Shirley was ever to get her precious elevator he would just have to pull in his ears and take what was coming. Unproduced playwrights couldn't afford to get into fights with big stars.

Still, maybe there would be no need to fight. Maybe he was just letting his feeling of impending disaster run away with him. After all, in that Italian restaurant the other night Portia Stratford had certainly been amiable enough. But that, of course, was before she had examined the rewrite.

And now, well, everything was different. He had been summoned away from his typewriter. Away from Shirley. Away from the shabby but comfortably familiar surroundings of his own working-space in his own home.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't exactly a summons. But what else could you call it? Sure, Charlie Walsh had hemmed and hawed and tried to be polite and sympathetic. But in the end it boiled down to the same thing "

"Portia wants to go' over the script with you personally. Go on over and spend a couple of hours with her, will ya? "

And Charlie himself hadn't been able to come up with a single, solitary reason for this sudden new development. Except, obviously, the one that was the be-all and end-all of the entire mess "Portia Stratford wanted it that way. No, she didn't want to mark the unacceptable lines in the script and let him rework them at home. She insisted on a head-to-head conference.

So if that wasn't a summons, what was it?

Well, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Perhaps the changes she had in mind were only minor ones and he wouldn't object to a few small compromises. She was the star. She had certain rights, too. He had practically put together the original version of the play with her image imprinted upon his brain. Or her stage image, rather "the one he had known since his high-school days. He was mighty lucky to have such a fine actress projecting his words and thoughts and poetic flights of fancy across the footlights.

But the stage image and the personal one were mares of a different stripe. Offstage, Portia Stratford was only a woman and it was apparent now that she was going to act like one. A self-centered female who had to have everything her own way. Since there was no rank or billing to argue about "the usual dispute among upper echelon thespians "she was going to pick on the play itself. And it was probably for no other reason than to point out the fact that she was the main cog in this mechanism.

So if the changes she desired turned out to be major ones, what would he do about it? What could he do? Walk out? Tell her to go jump in the Central Park lake? If so, it was highly possible that his cherished Witch might never get to the Wedding. Sweet Shirley would never have her coveted elevator or the offspring that would follow it in due course. And worst of all, Brock Henderson would never get to charm the critics and wow the audience and make the opening-night curtain speech that was practically memorized by now. All because of these next few hours.

Death in the afternoon.

In a lacy peekaboo blouse and snug, low-slung pants, Portia Stratford greeted him at her apartment door. "Hello, Brock, " she murmured softly. "Thank you for coming. "

Eyes popping, he entered and trailed her into the living room. He had never seen her looking like this. Even at the dinner in Mama Patrizia's place, wearing a pretty dress, there had been a hint of masculinity about her. Despite makeup and a bit of jewelry she had still appeared somewhat mannish to his eye. With those angular gestures of hers, given the proper costume she could easily have gotten away with playing Hamlet. And that particular image was the one he had always known. It was the same image he had poured into pages of the playscript.

But now, somehow, she was like another person. Almost a willowy young girl. She looked softer and more feminine. The curve of her swaying buttocks in those tight pants dispeled any illusion of angularity. Her stilt-heeled barefoot-type thong sandals gave her graceful carriage a pelvic tilt that was delicately seductive rather than solidly statuesque.

Yet she was wearing no jewelry. And no makeup other than heavily accentuated eyelids and lashes that stood out in marked contrast to the near-waxy pallor of her complexion. So it couldn't have been merely her get-up, he realized "it had to be the woman herself. And she was certainly all woman.

"Hey, " he said, finally finding words now that the initial shock was over, "that's quite an outfit you've got on. "

"Like it? "

"I'll say. It's terrific. "

"I'm glad you think so. This is the first time I've worn it. " She lifted her arms in a mannequin's pose and then revolved in a languidly fluid pirouette. "But it's missing something, don't you think? These new low-hanging pants leave an awful lot of bare midriff. Perhaps I ought to paste a rhinestone in my navel. "

"A rhinestone? " He grinned.

"Sure. Like the olden days. Wasn't it Salome who wore a jewel in her belly button? "

"Could be. That sounds like the Hollywood version, I'd say. "

"Hollywood "pooh! What do they know? The only part of the female anatomy they ever heard of is the bosom. Anything that can't be judged with a tape measure is taboo. " She cupped her breasts with spurious ruefulness. "And poor underprivileged me. I just got left out in that particular department. "

"It's not noticeable. "

"No? Nice of you to say so, anyway. " She brightened considerably. "A drink, Brock? Before we start to work? "

"I ... uh "I'd better keep a clear head. "

"A clear head? What for? Say, you're not afraid of me, are you? If so, you probably need a drink. I insist. A long tall vodka thing, huh? Just one? "

"Okay. Just one. "

"Good. Oh, I've got some of that new bitter lemon everybody is raving about. Sit down and relax while I fix it. "

He watched her gliding around the room, pouring the liquor and plucking cubes from the ice bucket daintily. And he still couldn't get over this strange metamorphosis. No, this womanly woman could never play Hamlet. She sure as hell was no melancholy Dane. Cleopatra might be more like it. Especially with that high-priced perfume of hers suffusing the air and turning the afternoon atmosphere into a moonlit night on the Nile.

Dammit, the creature was positively sexy.

She brought a pair of drinks back and sat down beside him on the sofa. "Taste. You'll like it. "

He took a sip and nodded. "Great. Thanks. But let's get to work, huh? " Resolutely he took out his copy of the script and opened it on the coffee table. "Charlie tells me-"

"Oh, forget Charlie. And stop worrying about the play so much. It won't run away. "

"But I thought you wanted-"

"Relax, Brock. Drink your drink. I know what you thought. But that isn't why I asked you here today. "

"You don't want to work on the script? You don't want me to make changes in your lines? "

"Of course I do. A few, anyway. And as far as Charlie Walsh is concerned, that's the reason you're here. But I have to admit it isn't the real reason. "

"Okay, I give up. " He eyed the playscript, shrugged and with drink in hand, leaned back against the cushions. "Perhaps you'd better tell me what it's all about. I'm only a playwright, not a mind reader. And not much of a playwright at that, I guess. "

"Hah! Little do you know. Brock, you're a great playwright. Aren't you aware of that fact? This is the best play Charlie and I have come across in ages. "

"Huh? Oh, come on now. "

"I mean it. Although you mustn't tell Charlie I ever said so. He's afraid you might get a swelled head. "

"Oh. And aren't you? Portia, aren't you afraid I'll get too puffed-up to make the changes you want? " He bit his lip thoughtfully. "Look, I just don't get the picture. Why should you tell me how good you think I am? Either you're kidding me or else you've got something on your mind that's just outside my comprehension. Now I like this drink and I like you and I like your air-conditioned apartment. But I'm still kind of hazy about the whole thing. "

"And I don't blame you. Bear with me, won't you? Please? After all, I'm an actress. So I can't just come to the point like other people. I have to make a big production out of everything I do. Even if it's just a friendly chat. "

"A friendly chat "is that what we're having? "

"Of course. No, Brock, I wasn't kidding. You are a great writer. You'll believe me once we start working together. I hardly dare ask you to change any lines for me "that's how good I think you are. I want to be friends with you. Don't you understand? "

"Sure, we're friends. The success of the show is all that really matters. And we're both on the same team, aren't we? "

"I hope so. I certainly hope so. You see, I just found out that Charlie is trying to get Raoul Tharp as director. "

"Raoul Tharp. Say, he's supposed to be pretty good. Tops in the field, isn't he? "

"Oh, he's good, all right. I've already agreed with Charlie on that. " Portia pouted prettily. "But Raoul can be such a beast at times. I've worked with him before. We fought like cat and dog at every rehearsal and we'll probably do it again. So that's why I want you for my friend. "

"Me? Oh. " Brock frowned. "But I can't do much for you. I'm just not that important. You and Raoul Tharp are experienced professionals in the theatre. You're both respected by everybody. And this is only my first play. "

"Don't talk like that. You are important. Every line I speak and every scene Raoul directs had to come out of your head first. It's your brainchild that started the whole business. "

Brock chuckled. "The play's the thing, eh? "

"Don't go Shakespearian on me, please. But it happens to be true, Raoul and I will fight over lines and costumes and staging and lighting and everything there is to fight over. I just know we will. And Charlie never takes sides on issues like that. So your opinion is going to be quite valuable. Now do you understand why I asked you to come today? "

"I guess so. "

"There. I'm glad we got that cleared up. Do you, feel like doing a little work now? "

"Uh-huh. I'm just a bit dazed at the moment. And I don't know if it's your flattery or the booze that's doing it. Anyway, I'm sure getting a swelled head, Portia. "

"Oooh, we're almost empty. Hang on while I whip us up one more of these icebreakers, okay? "

"Hey now, I've had too-" But she was already up and moving sinuously toward the liquor supply. And he couldn't protest. In fact, at the moment, he couldn't deny this wonderful woman anything, he realized. And it wasn't because of the vodka that his brain was spinning.

No. Never in his life had he heard such a compliment. And from such an important person, too. Brock Henderson was a great playwright. And a great actress had told him so. An actress he had worshiped from afar for many years. No wonder he was bursting with pride. No wonder he felt like this. Why, it was almost the same as the time when he brought home the option check from Charlie's office. Stimulated " that was what Shirley had called it.

Sweet Shirley. Oh yes, she would get her elevator now. All his fears had been foolish. Portia Stratford was no waspish prima donna. In a way, she was as scared as he had been. And he felt grateful to her. Because he wasn't scared any more. Not of anything or anybody. And that included Raoul Tharp, too.

Only now there was but one image of Portia Stratford, not two. The stage image and the personal image had merged into the same woman. The same understanding, beautiful woman.

And when she returned with the refilled glasses and they set to work on the script, he recognized even more how truly remarkable she was. Her criticisms were few, but they were accurate. And at no time did she suggest any change that actually conflicted with his own original ideas. They worked for an hour. The drinks went down and were immediately replaced by fresh ones. And then, suddenly, right in the middle of a scene, Portia stood up and stretched.

"The hell with it, " she said. "We've done enough for today. Oooh, my back is breaking. I'd better get the kinks out of my muscles. You don't mind, do you? "

"Mind? No, go to it. "

"I'm going to dance them out, that's what I'll do. It must be this outfit I'm wearing. It makes me feel slinky. Don't you think I'm slinky, Brock? "

"The slinkiest. " He grinned vapidly. The booze was sure getting to him. "Absolutely the slinkiest. "

"So you don't believe me, eh? Okay, I'll show you. I'll show you I'm slinkier than any slinky, sultry Hollywood vamp who ever slunk around a Technicolor studio set. I'll be Salome. "

"Salome? "

"Right. And you'd better watch. Maybe you'll get an idea for your next play. One of those Biblical epics with-"

"Slow down, Salome. I haven't finished this one yet, How can I start on the next? "

"You will. Don't worry, you will. " She went to the record player and made some adjustments with the knobs and buttons. "You'll write dozens of shows, Brock. All great ones. "

The music came on and she turned up the volume. He didn't recognize the theme, but it was full of flowing violins and tinged with strange dissonances every so often. It didn't sound either Biblical or Salome-like, but Portia didn't seem fazed.

"Wait, " she said. "My costume isn't exactly right, I'll be back in a jiffy. " She dashed away and then re-turned a few minutes later. "Can't do it. I tried, but I couldn't do it myself. So you're elected, my friend. Come and help. " She stood in the middle of the floor, "Sure, if I can. What'll you have? "

"This, of course. See? "

"See what? " Tipsily, he rose and went toward her.

"This. My rhinestone, silly. See? You put some of this sticky stuff on it and then you "oh, come on, you'll figure it out. I can't be Salome without a jeweled belly-button, can I? "

Somehow, it all seemed quite logical. Every Salome needed such an adornment. Only it should have been a diamond or an emerald. This Salome just wasn't the rhinestone type. Still, it was better than nothing. He put some of the paste on the bright stone and knelt to press it into place. The skin of her midriff gleamed pale and almost translucent. It was beautiful. Her scent was intoxicating. And behind her the weird music was foaming up in some ecstatic strain.

Her hands touched his hair. The fingers slid slowly, lingeringly, to the back of his head. And then, with a sharp gasp of pure passion, she pulled him close and exaggerated that odd pelvic tilt which he had found so alluring earlier.

Together, they sank to the floor. The rhinestone was forgotten. And so was the dance. He never knew when it was that she lost her clothing. Nor when he lost his. But soon the music was swirling around their naked bodies like some kind of warm fragrant bath.

For one tiny, tense moment he remembered Shirley. But the sobbing sound from Portia's parted lips and the savage thrust of her flesh blurred all memory. And without another qualm of conscience he surrendered unconditionally to the agonizing hunger that could never end until it found fulfillment.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SURE, it was a bitchy thing to do and Robin knew it. But when a woman is fat and not very pretty, why fret and stew over a little bit of bitchiness?

Yes, Portia had done her job well. Brock Henderson was hooked. Firmly. The poor fish might flounder around somewhat, but he'd never escape. Not until the well-planted barb was taken out of his mouth would he ever get free of the line. And it was sunk too deep now to give him anything more than wriggling leeway.

Oh, that Portia. What a devious mind! Imagine coming up with such a remarkable chunk of bait. For the life of her, Robin couldn't figure out how Portia had thought of it. Not the flattery, of course "that was easy to understand. To a young playwright on his first major venture, flattery was a heady wine. Obviously.

But the thing about Raoul Tharp. Well! What better excuse could there have been to entice Brock into her net? Portia must have really laid it on hot and heavy. At this point it looked as if the affair between the writer and the actress might develop into a run-of-the-play marathon.

Which, as expected, left the writer's wife on the loose. And that, of course, was as it should be. Poor Shirley was sitting at home and languishing while Brock and Portia worked on the script together. Although the script hadn't changed much since their first session.

Lovely little Shirley. The darling angel. Wouldn't she be pleased to have someone assuage her loneliness? Wouldn't it make her happy to gain some attention herself?

Of course it would.

But Robin was too shrewd to settle for that. Merely being nice to Shirley wasn't the answer. The kid was just too damn innocent to sneak in a little extramarital activity herself. Especially the kind Robin had in mind. Until she found out the truth about Brock and Portia, golden-haired Shirley was going to remain the same innocent angel that she was in appearance.

Well, the truth would be out soon. Tonight, to be exact. Tonight the lovely little doll would be blasted out of her dream-like world of so-called connubial bliss.

Tonight....

It would take some doing, of course. The timing had to be just right. The organization had to be perfect. But for such a worthwhile cause, well, who minded a little work? And was there ever a more worthwhile cause?

The beautiful angel. On the way downtown to the Henderson place, Robin felt the blood stirring and roiling in her veins. Tonight, after so many days of waiting, that gorgeous pink-and-gold doll would be hers. Hers to hug and kiss and caress to her heart's content. Hers to smother with love and affection.

Provided all went well, naturally. But everything would go off smoothly. It just about had to. Portia had been told what to do and when to do it. And with her greed for theatrical stardom, Portia had a barbed hook in her mouth, too. She wouldn't dare let anything go wrong at her end, not after so much plotting and planning. The actress was in too deep to back out now.

No, it couldn't miss. How could it?

Out of the taxi and into the house, Robin started trudging up the stairs. The hallway was dusty and dingy and lit only by feebly burning naked bulbs that dangled from their cords at each landing. The whole place reeked of stale spaghetti.

Oh yes, after the bitter moment of truth came and its effects wore off, Shirley would be delighted to wallow in the luxury that she so richly deserved. The luxury that only real wealth could give her. That soft creamy body of hers would never have to suffer in this dismal dung-heap again. Nor would it ever again have to be clothed in cheap garments frayed and stretched out of shape by too many launderings. After tonight there would be no more worries about broken garter-straps for that sweet child.

Robin shivered. The garter-strap. That thrilling few minutes in the ladies' rest room of the restaurant. It was as close as she had come to actually caressing that delectable flesh. Since then they had seen each other a few times, but it had always been quite casual and with no more physical contact than a mere peck on the cheek as a greeting.

A "hands off " policy "that was the way the game had been played. It would have been ridiculous to take the risk of frightening the little angel away too soon. The entire scheme might very well have collapsed like a house of cards.

But patience had paid off. Or at least it was about to. And soon there would be more wonderful memories to cling to than that one stolen moment in the ladies' room. Although that particular recollection itself would never die. Someday, just for kicks, they might go back to the restaurant and repeat the scene. Like an old married couple returning to Niagara Falls on a second honeymoon. Hmm, it was an intriguing thought.

But she was up the stairs at last, flushed and out of breath and there was the door in front of her. The ugly door which would soon lead to permanent paradise. Yes, permanent. Because she was positive now that her whole past had been aimed in this direction. Everything she had gone through was for this only. The misery of living with Sam Kessler. The shock of finding out that she was a lesbian. The dozens of passing affairs that had taught her so much and had yet been meaningless. The awful urge to be somebody in the eyes of the world and the frustration of learning that she had neither the beauty nor the talent to achieve that status. Even the celebrity chasing that she did to compensate for her failure, even that had carried her closer to this one final goal. For if she hadn't chased after Portia Stratford, she might never have met Shirley.

Not that she had really chased after Portia, of course. It had been more of a fifty-fifty thing, really. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. Well, there was still some more scratching to be done. And it was time to get to it.

Shirley answered her knock. "Robin! I didn't know you were coming around tonight. " She opened the door wide and put her cheek up for a fleeting kiss.

Robin's lips touched the soft smoothness. "Honey, neither did I. It was just an impulse. "

"But I was just getting ready to-"

"Never mind it, whatever it was. How long will it take you to slip some glad rags on? "

"Why ... uh ... "

"Go do it. Right now, kitten. He who hesitates is a dead duck. I've got plans and you're in them. "

"Plans? "

"Precisely. Your husband and that actress buddy of mine have been working too damn hard lately. We're going to drag them out to a nightclub, that's what we're going to do. There. How does that sound to you? "

"Ooh, wonderful. But won't they be angry? That darn play is so important to both of them. "

"Angry? I doubt it. They'll probably jump at the chance. And I'm the only one who can make them do it, anyway. After all, money gives me some privileges. "

"Uh-huh. I think it's a nice idea, Robin. But I'd hate to interrupt them. Shouldn't we phone first? "

"Oh, no. They'd only find some excuse to turn us down. You know how those dedicated theatrical people are. You should "you're married to one. "

"True. But I was beginning to wonder. I've seen so little of Brock lately. Arid he's always so tired. "

"All the more reason to drag them out, honey. You need to see your husband cheered up. And both of them need a rest. So hurry up and slip into something pretty. Come on. What do I have to do "twist your wrist? "

Shirley giggled. "You've twisted it. Sit down. It won't take me more than a few minutes. "

"Then go, girl. "

Shirley went while Robin sat and waited with mounting restlessness. Not because of the time "oh no "the schedule was working out to perfection. But back there in the bedroom that beautiful body was being bared and she couldn't even see it. All that lovely young flesh was probably naked right this minute and she had to sit here and fight down the wild desires rising within her.

Ah, if she could only have gone back there on the pretext of helping the sweet thing dress. But the hazard was too great, of course. She couldn't afford to take the chance of offending the little angel. Or of getting so wrapped up in her own emotions that she might lose track of the time. She couldn't do it "not with so much hanging in the balance.

Patience, Robin.

"All set. " Radiantly lovely, Shirley popped out of the bedroom doorway. "Did I take too long? "

"Uh-huh. Much. But it was worth it. My, you look beautiful in that frock. When your husband gets a peek at you he won't want to go carousing. He'll probably want to carry you right back here and throw you into bed. "

"Fat chance. " Shirley smiled. "More likely he'll go right back to work on that playscript. But thanks for the compliment, Robin. I don't get many these days. "

"Let's go. Maybe we'll take them to someplace big and bright, with a floor show. The Latin Quarter or something like that. And you'll read compliments in every eye that looks at you. "

They started down the stairs. "You're good for my morale, " Shirley said. "You're always so nice to me. "

"The pleasure is all mine, dear. I'm an old lonely widow who never had any children. So I guess I just think of you as my beautiful daughter. "

"You "old? How can you say that? You're so full of life. I think you're the nicest person in the whole world. Except for Brock, of course. "

Robin shuddered. In the dim light her shoe struck a torn piece of the carpeting. She teetered and swayed.

Shirley caught her arm. "Watch it. These steps are murder. Go slowly, will you? I wouldn't care to lose such a good friend. "

"Thanks. " Robin's flesh tingled at the girl's touch. For more of the same she would gladly have fallen all the way down. "I should have been more careful. "

"It wasn't your fault. It's this place we live in. Sometimes I get the feeling it might cave in any minute. But I guess we'll be moving out soon "thanks to you. "

"To me? Oh. Because of the play, you mean. "

"Of course. I know how much you've done. All of Brock's work would have gone for nothing if it hadn't been for you. "

"Oh, I doubt it, honey. If I hadn't put up the capital, someone else would have, I'm sure. "

"Perhaps. But I'd hate to be waiting for that to happen. It isn't the kind of play that backers rush to invest in, even Brock knows that. All the time he was writing it, that was his biggest worry. He was afraid nobody would believe in his work. And you did, Robin. You believed in it. "

"Well, yes, I suppose that's so. But so did Portia. And what about Charlie Walsh? "

"They're different. They're in show business. It's the way they make their living. But it's your money that's making the whole dream come true. And I'm very grateful. "

Satisfaction flooded Robin's being. Other people had been grateful to her in the past. But their gratitude had been false. It had always been offered only in secret hope of greater favors. And this sweet young thing was sincere. Almostingenuously so.

They descended the rest of the way in silence. Outside, there were no cabs in sight. Robin berated herself inwardly for not having hung on to the one she had come downtown in. But then a yellow roof-light rounded the comer and with a huge sigh of relief she hailed the driver.

The night traffic was heavy. Hunched over his wheel, the hack-jockey muttered unintelligible curses as he did battle with trucks and buses and traffic lights. He drove like a man contending with an Indianapolis Speedway full of racing cars.

Robin sympathized. She knew exactly how he felt every time a light snapped from green to red in front of him. Anticipation was burgeoning within her. It wouldn't be long now. She could hardly wait for the big moment.

But at last the taxi reached the right side-street, swung in and came to a stop at the curb. Deliberately "with Shirley's big blue eyes upon her "Robin over-tipped the driver. It was her way of showing off and it felt good to see the awed approval in the girl's gaze. If she could keep the same expression on that sweet young face forever, she would be a happy woman.

"Is this where they are? " Shirley said.

"Uh-huh. They're working in Portia's apartment. Oh, you've never been here, have you? Come to think of it, you've never been to my place either. Well, you're hereby invited. "

Nodding brusquely to the obsequious doorman, Robin hustled the girl into the elevator. "Honey, we won't even ring any bells. Portia gave me one of her keys some time ago. Let's just barge right in, huh? I'm dying to see real genius at work. "

The elevator halted. At Portia's door, Robin fitted the key into the lock. The door swung open. The living room was empty, but from somewhere in the apartment they could hear voices. Voices that sounded familiar "and yet very, very strange.

Shirley froze.

With sudden authority, Robin gripped her arm. Relentlessly she led the hesitant girl across the living room carpet. The bedroom door was partly open. The voices were clearly audible.

Shirley gasped. A wail broke from her lips.

They were on the bed, the two of them "Brock and Portia. Naked. Naked and locked in a furious embrace. Portia's long black hair was sprayed out in rippling waves above her head. Brock's straining back glistened with sweat as the woman's wild words incited him to further frenzy.

Shirley's wail rose to a shriek.

The couple on the bed heard her. Brock turned his head and groaned. Portia stared and then laughed hysterically. But the vise-like clamp of her legs did not slacken and she kept right on heaving and grinding and thrusting as if she couldn't stop. Or as if the presence of an audience was making her even more delirious.

What an actress! Robin could feel only admiration for the woman. Even her half-demented laughter struck exactly the right note. Portia was the kind of actress who would take a bow at her own funeral. And throw kisses, perhaps.

But poor Shirley was swaying drunkenly and biting her clenched fist to stem the piteous noises from her throat. And it was time to call a halt. The cornedy was finished. Quite calmly, Robin swung the stunned girl around and steered her back across the living room and out the door. The soft body yielded to her firm guidance, leaning against her as if it were thankful for the protection of her encircling arm.

CHAPTER EIGHT

SHIRLEY couldn't remember how she had gotten here. Not the details of it, anyway. There was a doorman and a taxi and then another doorman, but it was all a kind of jumbled blur "something like an out-of-focus movie film. Yet, throughout the whole journey, she hadn't cried. Not a tear. No, not until they landed here in Robin's apartment had the teardrops finally welled up and overflowed. And then, once started, she had wept an ocean.

Even now she was still whimpering. Not much. But a little bit "every time the ugly spectacle reared up in her brain. That awful sight. Brock and Portia. Her husband and that actress. She would recall it until her dying day.

No. She would forget it. She would drive it out of her mind and never think of it again. There were laws that would help her. Laws and lawyers and judges and divorce courts. She would never see her cheating husband again. Never see Brock?

A fresh spasm of damp sobs wracked her body. Again her head sank into her arms and she crumpled into a shaking heap in the comer of the sofa.

"Shirley, honey...." But even the soothing, sympathetic voice couldn't staunch the flow. Although Robin, in her experience and wisdom, wasn't really trying to make her stop crying.

"Cry it out, darling. It hurts, I know it does. Cry it all out and then you'll get over it. "

The tears slackened. Robin's fingers, soft and gentle, were stroking her shoulders with a light, comforting touch. Robin was so good to her. She could never have been able to move away from that disgusting exhibition in the bedroom, had it not been for Robin's help. She might still be standing there, frozen in horror, unable to turn away and flee. Thank heaven for Robin.

But it was time to snap out of it, she told herself. She couldn't go on crying for the rest of her life. She was still alive. It wasn't the end of the world. Funny. It should have been "but it wasn't. Because the tears were drying up and the misery was oozing out of her system and in its place was rising a new and remarkably potent emotion. Anger.

Not a hot blaze. Not a quick burst of rage, the kind that bordered on madness momentarily and then tapered off. Oh no. This was cold, bitter anger and it would stay with her forever. Or at least until she could sever the tie that bound her to Brock.

"Feel better, Shirley? "

"Uh-huh. Thanks. Thanks for everything. I don't know what I would have done without you. "

"I was glad to help. Anyway, I'm glad your crying jag is over. I was beginning to think the tears would never stop. "

"All over. I promise. Robin, you've been so good to me and I hate to be so much trouble to you. But I've got to ask one more favor. Can you put me up for the night? I can't go back home. Brock might be there. "

"Don't even ask, angel. Of course you're going to stay here for the night. And tomorrow night and as many nights as you want to. I did invite you. Remember? "

Shirley managed a weak smile. "Uh-huh. But I'll bet you didn't think I'd take you up on that invitation so soon. "

"Well, no. But I'm glad to have you. Even in these, uh, rather unfortunate circumstances I'm glad you're here. I'll help you in any way I can. "

"No, you've done enough. I'll stay just for tonight and then I won't be bothering you with my problems any more. Oh, except for one thing. Sooner or later I'm going to need a lawyer, I guess. Will you help, me find one? "

"A lawyer? "

"A divorce lawyer, Robin. "

"Oh. "

"Only I won't be able to afford a high-priced one. But I'm sure there must be-"

"Shirley, I'm your friend. If a divorce is what you want, I'll get a lawyer for you. And please stop worrying about money. I've got plenty. "

"Oh, no, I can't let you do that. "

"But I'm going to, child. You need someone to take care of you ... at least until you get yourself straightened out. So why shouldn't it be me? "

"But it's not fair. "

"Fair? Oh, you sweet little angel. Of course it's fair. Because I want to be good to you. I get pleasure from it. I told you I never had a daughter of my own. Well, now I've got one, for a little while, anyway. "

"Look out, you're liable to spoil me. "

"I'm going to try, honey. As a matter-of-fact, I'm going to start spoiling you right this very minute. What you need first is a stiff shot of good cognac to relax you. And after that a nice long soak in a tub full of bubbles. How does that sound? "

"Well, I don't know ... "

"But I do. Believe me, I know what's good for you. I've been through the same thing myself. "

"You have? "

"Oh, not exactly the same, dear. But something like it. I was married and the guy turned out to be a slob. So I know how a girl can get tensed up in those rough moments. And I've learned how to relax those tensions. "

"Men...." Shirley shook her head in exasperation. "Are they all like that? "

"Who knows? Maybe you and I just got bad ones. But I'll admit I'm in no hurry to try again. Once bit, twice shy "you know what I mean? Don't you agree? "

"I do. Definitely. Robin, the more I think about it, the madder I get. All those times when Brock came home tired. I was so frustrated I couldn't sleep, but I didn't really mind. He was working, I figured, so it was all for the best. Well, I know better now. "

"Poor kid. You're probably still frustrated. All the more reason why you need that relaxing brandy and bath. Sit tight, honey. Let me see if I can't find a bottle. "

Gratefully, Shirley nodded. It was pleasant to be treated so solicitously. Nice to have someone take such an interest in her welfare. A drink and a lulling bath "well, why not?

Robin returned with a bottle and two small glasses. "Mission accomplished. Oh, by the way, I told the maid to answer the phone if it rings. Nobody home, that sort of thing. Is that all right with you, darling? "

"Of course. Oh. I see what you mean. Do you think Brock might call? Is that it? "

"Brock or Portia. Frankly, I'm not interested in talking to either one. Are you? "

"No. I don't ever want to talk to Brock again. "

"Okay then. Now into the bedroom with you. I can cut off the phone extension completely in there. And while you're having your drink I can start the tub running. "

The bedroom was the biggest Shirley had ever seen. And for the first time, her mind was clear enough to pay some attention to her surroundings. The apartment was sheer luxury. Yes, it would be nice to stay here and live like this. And Robin seemed so genuinely pleased to have her. Although it was rather difficult to visualize their relationship the way she had described it. They were friends, but they certainly weren't like a mother and daughter.

Robin cut off the telephone, flicking the little knurled knob on the underside of the base. "There now, we won't be disturbed. " She poured two drinks from the bottle. "Just sip it, honey. Sip it and sniff it at the same time. "

"Uh-huh. Thanks. "

"And I'll go run your tub. " Robin set her glass down and moved off toward the bathroom.

Moments later, Shirley heard the sound of the gushing water. The cognac was delightful. It had a tart, fiery taste that burned a little, but it wasn't unpleasant. The pit of her stomach felt a glowing warmth and soon she stopped sipping and began taking deep swallows. Just as Robin had said "it was relaxing. And of course, the bath would be, too.

Robin came back. "Hey, your drink. Don't gulp it, sip it. You'll get plastered. "

"It's good. I'm feeling better already. And tonight "well, I think I've got the right to get drunk. That's what deceived wives always do in books and movies. "

"Okay. I won't object. But I won't make any attempt to keep up with you, either. Here, let me give you a refill. " Robin tilted the bottle again. "Your tub will be ready soon, honey. Want me to help you undress? "

"Huh? No, I can do it. "

"Embarrassed? "

Shirley hung her head mutely.

A chuckle sounded from Robin's lips. "Oh, you sweet innocent child. I'll turn down the lights for you, all right? " She touched a switch and the room went dim. "Now if that isn't private enough, there's a dressing room. Right over there. "

A dressing room. Luxury indeed. But with Robin grinning at her like that, she couldn't go in there. It would have stressed the shyness she felt and blown it up all out of proportion. As if it were some kind of sign of immaturity. Besides, with only the lamp in the far comer still on, there wasn't much visibility.

She took another swallow of the brandy. "Robin, I do wish you'd stop calling me an innocent child. "

"Oh? Sorry. I guess it's that beautiful blonde hair of yours. It's practically a halo. Makes you look like an angel. Or a naive little cherub. "

"Please. What's cherubic about a deceived wife? That shock I got a while ago made me grow up fast. "

"Well, don't rush it, honey. I like you just as you are. Hey, I'd better turn off the water before we get flooded. " Robin sped off to the bathroom again.

Bravely, Shirley started to undress. "Robin? "

The gurgling noise stopped. "Yes? Did you call me, dear? "

"Uh-huh. My stockings and things. You know, panties and bra. Don't you think I ought to give them a quick rinse? I'll need something to wear in the morning.

"Forget it. " Robin returned and sat down on the bed. "Just toss everything on the floor. My maid will take care of it. That's what servants are for. "

"Oh. But how will she know I-"

"She's well-trained. Tell you what, though "so we won't be awakened I'll put your things outside the door. They'll be ready by the time we get up. Only it won't be in the morning. "

"No? "

"Definitely not. You're going to sleep tomorrow. Sleep and sleep, as late as you like. You need it. And after that we'll go out and do some shopping. "

"Shopping? What for? "

"For clothes, angel. For you. You can't live in the same outfit every day, can you? "

"No, but I thought I'd go back and pick up-"

"Silly. Come now, Shirley, do you really want to go back there? Do you want to face Brock? " Robin snorted disdainfully. "Let's do it my way, huh? I'll take you shopping and we'll get whatever you need, plus a few little extras. It'll be fun. And for tonight, well, I'll dig out a nightgown if you want one. I've already broken out a new toothbrush for you. "

"You think of everything. " Shirley was down to her panties and bra now, still a bit hesitant about peeling off her last vestiges of covering.

"Honey, you are gorgeous. I'm green with envy. Mmm, what wouldn't I do to have a figure like that. "

Shirley felt her cheeks grow warm. But it was only a polite compliment "just a simple gesture of friendliness between women. So why should she feel so jittery? But she couldn't help it. Hastily, in a self-conscious movement, she stripped away the final garments and started scampering across the thick carpet toward the bathroom.

"Hey! Hold it! "

The voice brought her to a standstill. But she didn't dare turn around. "Hmm? " It was an over-the-shoulder murmur.

"Your drink. Don't you want to take it with you? Nothing like a little booze while you're in the tub. "

"I won't be in that long. "

"Oh, yes, you will. You'd better. A nice long relaxing soak "that's what you need. Don't worry about me out here alone. I'll just smoke a cigarette while I'm waiting. And I guess I'd better get busy and turn down the bedspread, too. So take your drink. "

It certainly seemed like a sensible suggestion. And she felt foolish standing here like this just because she was too bashful to turn around and face her friend naked. After all, she was no timid young maiden. Certainly not after what she had gone through earlier tonight. There was such a thing as being too modest, wasn't there?

Steeling herself, Shirley walked back to the night table and picked up her glass. Her eyes were slightly averted. But Robin's weren't. She could almost feel the heat of admiration in the gaze that abraded her exposed flesh.

She turned and glided away again, moving slowly this time, now quite aware that those brown eyes were watching her swaying hips. Somehow, she no longer cared. It was nice, really, to be appreciated. Something Brock hadn't done for a long time.

The tub was huge. And sunken, of all things. She was almost disappointed to find that the fixtures weren't gold-plated. Yes, this was the way to live, all right. Luxury. Even a maid to do her soiled hosiery and underwear.

A delicious shiver coursed through her body as she sank into the lapping intimacy of the scented bubbles. Such a pleasant sensation. But not relaxing, actually. All her senses were aroused. The cognac was making her head swim and yet her mind felt sharp and clear and oddly devoid of emotion.

No, not all emotion. There was still that buried bit of cold bitterness she felt for Brock. But at this very moment, even stronger than that was her feeling of gratitude toward Robin. Why, the woman was even going to take her shopping. And a few minutes ago "the way those eyes had looked at her. With appreciation. Admiration. With fondness and affection and tenderness and love and Love?

Shirley quivered. Was that it? Was it the real reason for Robin's generosity? That kind of love? It was possible. Definitely possible. True, the woman didn't look like a lesbian. But it would certainly account for that strange fervor in her eyes. Her open-handed hospitality. Her willingness to help in every way.

But it seemed almost disloyal to be thinking like this. Robin was so kind. Everything she had done had been so sincere. And if she did turn out to have an ulterior motive, well, it was hard to criticize such a sweet person. So until that time came, there wasn't much sense in stewing about it. Bridges were crossed when you came to them, not before. Better to reserve decisions till then.

"Honey, how are you doing in there? "

"Oh, fine. But I've had enough, I guess. I'm just about ready to get out. "

Dripping wet and with lacy bits of froth clinging to her rosy skin, Shirley climbed out of the tub. And there, almost as if by magic, was Robin with an enormous bath towel. "Here, angel, let me. If I can lend a hand in a ladies' room, then I can certainly do it here. "

"Well...." But the big towel was already enfolding her body, protecting it against the air-conditioned coolness of the place. And Robin was drying her shoulders and her arms and her breasts and her legs. Not rubbing hard. Just patting gently.

It felt nice. But it was no more relaxing than the bath had been. Oh no. The fleecy towel tickled. The touch of it was doing something to the points of her breasts. And although her thighs had been dried off, they still felt moist, somehow. Damp and sticky.

Then, purely by accident, the towel slipped and Robin's hand brushed her skin. But was it an accident? The hand was still there. No, it was moving. But without the towel now. And Robin's face was getting so red. Just like that time in "Shirley ... angel? "

Decisions. Bridges to cross. Well? And then, with startling clarity, she came to the blunt conclusion that the bridge had already been crossed. Her flesh was tingling. Frustrated from so many nights of neglect, her body was responding. The knowledge of it was both wonderful and frightening at the same time.

The straying hand was still busy. Both hands now. Oh! Robin was sinking to her knees. Her lips felt like liquid flame. They seemed to be tracing crazy little circles of fire. It wasn't so frightening now. Only wonderful. The best thing for an unloved wife deceived by a cheating husband. Robin was as lavish with her caresses as she was with her money. So who needed a husband? Who even needed a man?

"Robin? "

"Hmm? "

"If we're going to do it, let's do it right. " Shirley broke the clutching hold on her thighs. She hauled the woman to her feet and started toward the bed.

Robin staggered weakly. And as they padded across the floor, she seemed to be thankful for the support of Shirley's arm. Just like in Portia's apartment. But in reverse, of course.

CHAPTER NINE

IN the center of the stage Portia Stratford spoke her final line of the scene and then stepped out of the way as the remaining members of the cast carried on. Wearily she fell into a chair and hoped the act would not have to be repeated.

Out in front, Raoul Tharp sat in his usual third-row seat. He looked and talked like a pudgy version of a ballet dancer "male, female or indeterminate. His limp wrists flipped archly and his voice sounded like a lilting flute. But he was one of the best directors in New York and he knew it.

Moreover, to Portia's never-ending annoyance, he was quite capable of cracking the whip over any performer who had the temerity to disagree with him. Good as he was, there were times when he acted like a louse. And in such moments she wished she had a spray can of strong insecticide around to eradicate him.

Some ten rows farther back was Brock Henderson. Rehearsals were well under way now and he had quickly learned not to question the theatrical judgment of the waspish director. Nor did he even try very hard, really. It was apparent that Brock was actually pleased with the way Tharp was handling his play.

Not that it mattered, as far as Portia was concerned. She had only used Raoul's Simon Legree reputation to gain Brock's sympathy in the first place. And with the purpose of the ruse accomplished so successfully, there was no need for further feuding. Or for further pretenses of feuding, rather.

Oh, she had deliberately aroused the director's ire a few times in the early rehearsals, of course "just to prove to Brock that she hadn't been lying. She had to prolong their affair to the greatest possible degree-Robin Kessler wanted it that way. True, Robin had signed the legal papers and written the check and was no longer in the position to back out on the deal. But she was still a pretty powerful woman and Portia didn't dare cross her. At least not until the show opened and her own position was secure.

No, she had to hang on to Brock. For herself, if not for Robin. The progress of the production depended upon it. There were still lines to be rewritten and scenes to be reworked. The cooperation of the writer would be needed right up until opening night, judging from the way things were going now.

But she hated it. Hated what she had done to him. The poor guy was moody and miserable most of the time. It was obvious that he was pining away for his lost wife. Even in bed his actions had been little more than sporadic lately.

But bed wasn't important. Nice, but hot important. The show, that was the thing. The show and her own place in it. No sacrifice had been too great. No sacrifice would ever be too great. Anyone who didn't have that attitude didn't belong in the business. And Portia Stratford belonged, dammit.

But she still felt guilty.

A marriage was breaking up. An innocent young wife had fallen into the clutches of a rapacious lesbian. And a goodly share of the blame was hers. No wonder she felt guilty.

Only there wasn't a damn thing she could do to remedy the pain. Not in herself and not in Brock and not in Shirley. Although she wasn't sure if Shirley did feel any pain, since there was no way of knowing. Brock's wife had moved in with Robin and was remaining incommunicado as far as the rest of the world was concerned. So with Robin in love with her, the kid's existence might very well be more plushy than painful.

Nevertheless, regardless of who was happy and who was sad, the situation would have to go on unchanged. Robin Kessler "the bitch! "was the only real victor. Even if the play was a hit, Robin would be a winner. Personal relationships aside, everybody's hard work would still mean a fat profit to its fat backer. Of course, once the show was in the clear, the personal problem might iron itself out. But the waiting period wasn't easy.

Because of that goddam guilt....

Out front, Raoul Tharp was standing and waving for attention as if he were carrying a butterfly net. Although the delicacy of his motion more closely resembled the butterfly itself. Even when issuing his proclamations and verbal manifestoes the director was a paragon of daintiness. "That's all for today, thank you. Same time tomorrow. And please ... be on time, won't you? "

Portia breathed a supersize sigh of relief. She went off into the wings and then out into the house where Brock was waiting for her. He looked even glummer than usual. "Cheer up, lover, " she said. "Whatever it is, it can't be that bad. Or can it? "

"Huh? Oh. No, I'm okay. Just preoccupied, I guess. And a little bit tired. "

"Too tired? "

"What? "

"Too tired for little me. Brock? "

"Well ... I was planning to get some work done tonight. Some of the third act lines are bothering me. "

"Still? Is it self-criticism? Or is our faggoty director getting in your hair the way he does in mine. "

"No, it's my own idea, not Raoul's. And stop putting the guy down, will you? He's damn good. "

"Okay, don't be so touchy. Tell you what, I'll stop putting Raoul down if you'll stop putting me down. "

"Huh? " Brock grinned. "Hmm, have I been doing that? "

"You have. "

"Oh. Sorry. "

"You just did, for that matter. I was just saying to myself, now doesn't Brock look woebegone and wouldn't it be nice if his favorite actress fixed him one of those vodka bombshells and gave him a real home-cooked-"

"Yeah, I get the message. Okay, lady, you've got a customer. The hell with work. "

"Don't say that. You can work later. "

"Later? Later after what? "

"Oh...." She fluttered her eyelashes. "Just later. "

"Portia, baby, you would have gone over great in silent movies. When you vamp 'em, they stay vamped. Let's go. "

They started up the aisle toward the street. The persiflage was having its effect and Brock was apparently beginning to come out of his doldrums. Even in the back of the taxi, they kept up the banter. And Portia realized that she too was doing her best to shake off a lethargic mood. All that deep thinking about Brock and Shirley and Robin had left her somewhat depressed. But the gloom was evaporating.

At one point Brock slid his hand up her thigh. "Did you say later? " he murmured.

She pushed him away. "Stop leering, young man. And also stop putting on a show for the cabbie. "

"He can't see a thing. "

"No? You're sure? "

"I'm positive. "

"Well, in that case, lover, you might as well put your hand back where it was. What are you waiting for? "

Brakes squealed. The driver growled an ungentle-manly oath. A traffic light had chosen the wrong moment to assert itself and another taxi came almost close enough to lock fenders. Brock snickered. "No dice. Our hackie can see us. He sure can't see what's in front of him, I'll say that. So his eyes must be in the back of his head. "

"Never mind. It'll keep. "

"Huh? " His snicker became a full-fl-edged laugh. "Hey, this is great dialogue we're doing, right? "

"The greatest. Although I've got a feeling I've heard it all before. Noel Coward, maybe? "

"Well, it ain't East Lynne. "

All the way to the apartment, they kept up the chatter. The sour mood had vanished. The troubles they had been nursing were cast aside. Temporarily, at least.

And after downing one stiff drink, Portia knew that she had done the right thing in insisting that Brock join her. Apart, they would have retained their private irritations and let them swell to balloon-like proportions. Together they managed to hide their peeves and find momentary peace of mind.

But it was all so obvious....

Brock stood up. "I feel grimy. Let me go wash the theatre dust off, huh? "

"Of course. Want to use the shower? "

"Mmm, lovely thought. "

"Go. I'll start cooking. "

But in the midst of preparing the salad, the noise of the shower penetrated her consciousness. Brock Henderson was such a nice guy. And good-looking, too. Even now she could visualize the water droplets spattering down over his naked body. Anyway, if she stayed out here in the kitchen alone much longer, she'd probably begin thinking about Robin again. Then the foul mood would return. And it wasn't much fun.

Maybe Brock felt the same way about it....

Quickly, she shoved the salad bowl into the refrigerator and slammed the door on it. In the bedroom she shucked off her clothes and dug a shower cap out of the bureau. There was one in the bathroom but she wanted her entry to come as a surprise.

It was a surprise, all right.

"Portia, what the hell! "

"Move over. You've got company. "

"Hey, you know something? We should have "

"

"What? Wait, Brock, I can't hear you. " She raised one side of the cap, uncovering her ear. "What did you say? "

"We should have invited the cab driver. The one with eyes in the back of his head. "

It was Brock's last word. Determinedly, Portia tugged the rubber cap back into place and went to work on him. She pushed his body out of range of the cascading water and started soaping his skin. Every inch of it. All that she could reach, at least.

He didn't object. Not in the slightest. He even revolved slowly to give her a broader area to get to. And now there was very little of him that she couldn't reach. She spread the soap in a thick layer, putting her heart into her work. Maybe those Japanese had the right idea after all, with that communal bathing of theirs. It was fun. In a certain sense, good clean fun.

Somewhere along the line he tried to regain the soap from her. In order to reciprocate, no doubt. But she wasn't willing. Nor was Brock overly insistent.

And at last she nudged his well-lathered frame back under the spout. The water struck him, rinsing the soap away. With both hands she aided in the process, running her palms up and down his body until the final traces of froth were gone. But even then she didn't stop sliding her hands over him.

Such a nice guy. Now wasn't there something she could do to really show her appreciation? Some little thing to let him know how she felt?

Of course there was.

It was something he liked a lot. More than anything else, probably. And although it wasn't much of a kick for her, she had the feeling that she too would be made happy because of it. Especially in these rather bizarre circumstances.

Portia settled into a deep crouch and a moment later, Brock's body shuddered.

Steam clouded the place. Water bounced off her shower cap, shutting off all noise but the rat-tat-tat of the droplets that spewed down upon her. She felt full, somehow. Replete. She was being good to this guy. And she realized suddenly why it was that such a thing should make her so happy. Perhaps, in assuaging him, she was assuaging her own guilt.

CHAPTER TEN

ROBIN'S eyes flickered open as sleep left her. Daylight seeped through the drawn draperies, tinting the bedroom with its soft illumination. She shook her head, gently at first and then more vigorously "testing. No, no hangover. No headache. No need for one of those fizzy morning-after restoratives. Alongside her, with the slow and steady breathing of a sound sleeper, Shirley lay face down with her head buried in the pillow. The sheet, wrinkled and twisted, concealed very little of her smooth-skinned nude body.

Truly a lovely sight....

But one that Robin had grown accustomed to. It no longer brought on the breathless excitement it had in the beginning. Days of similar awakenings with this selfsame body bad managed to dull the keen edge of her sensual appetite. Still, it was beautiful. and as always, tempting. Even if time had lessened the enchantment somewhat, that soft pink-and-gold loveliness was still enticing. So why not take advantage of its presence?

Why not indeed?

Robin licked her lips, suddenly caught up in the fervor of her anticipation. Leaning upon her elbows, she bent and brushed the long blonde hair with her cheek. The tendrils were like sweet-scented silk against her face. She nuzzled into it, parting the locks and kissing the nape of Shirley's neck.

The girl slept on. Slowly, unhurriedly, Robin let her lips trail down the motionless spine, punctuating the protracted caress with tiny darting movements of the tip of her tongue. Ardor was stirring within her. But she held herself in check and continued her dalliance at a leisurely pace. Ardor prolonged was ardor increased. In this kind of lovemaking, speed could bypass moments that should have been precious.

Haste makes waste?

Hmm, interesting observation. Now there, certainly, was a new use for an old copybook maxim. She wondered if the doctors who wrote manuals on sex techniques had ever thought of it in that light. Probably not. What did doctors know about this sort of thing, anyway?

Shirley's body wriggled slightly.

Still quelling her rising urgency, Robin maintained the measured pace of her caress. Alluring little dimples, symmetrically located in the proper places, caught and held her fixed attention for a long time. Yes, bypassing such artistic moments because of undue haste would have been deplorably wasteful. Too bad Shirley wasn't awake to take note of the prodigious treatment that was being lavished upon her.

Although it was doubtful whether the girl would have really appreciated it. Oh, Shirley enjoyed being made love to, all right. But she was too inexperienced to recognize good technique from bad. And too ridiculously innocent to make any honest attempt to further her education.

It wasn't fair, dammit. The kid should have tried, at least. Even the slightest effort would have helped. But she just wasn't interested in such an esoteric project. Even after so many nights of amorous activity, Shirley just didn't seem to care. As long as she reached her peak of fulfillment, nothing else mattered to her. How she reached it wasn't important.

And except for that one final spasm, the youngster seldom showed any more animation than a dead stick. Well, not a stick, perhaps, not with those rounded breasts and marvelously contoured legs. No one could be called a stick with a figure like that. Unless there was a new style in sticks these days.

But dead, yes. Practically lifeless most of the time. As if she was too much of an angel to participate in the energetic passions of ordinary earthbound mortals. And certainly too much of an angel to try her hand at returning some of the caresses and kisses she so willingly received.

And that was what hurt most.

Still, the sweet young thing was beautiful. And available. It was hard to be very critical at a time like this. Especially since that pink-and-gold body was stirring into wakefulness. Those lovely limbs were twitching and gliding apart slowly. Their invitation was irresistibly provocative.

Robin's lips slid back and forth from dimple to fetching dimple, leaving a sheen of dampness on the sleek-surfaced curves. And at last, with impatience burgeoning in her bloodstream, she was ready to forsake procrastination in favor of more pertinent pursuits. Her angel was showing signs of life.

Not much life, of course. But enough. Shirley was rolling over on her back in a gently twisting spiral. And those restless thighs were gradually revealing secret treasures that veritably demanded pillaging. Precious rubies. Gleaming gold. No storehouse of the ancients had ever held such wealth.

Greedily, Robin went after her prize.

Utilizing all the skill at her command, she scaled the heights and plumbed the depths in a covetous all-out endeavor to ransack the now-unshielded stronghold. Her effort was well-nigh Homeric. Certainly no Jason had ever struggled so valiantly to gain his Golden Fleece. Nor had any Argonaut been more cunning.

"Robin ... mmm...." Ah yes, the little darling was awake. Fully awake. And yet she was merely lying there torpidly with only a cooing murmur now and then to indicate that she was even alive. It just wasn't fair. In the very act of making love to this charming creature, Robin resented her lack of cooperation. But she couldn't stop. Nor did she want to.

Still, she had herself to consider. Her own needs. If her partner couldn't fulfill them, she would have to resort to other methods. Substitute methods "less satisfactory, of course, but nonetheless pacifying despite the fact that they were only makeshift. Appeasement was quickly becoming a stark necessity. And if Shirley wouldn't help, self-appeasement would have to do.

Thus, with her lips still gluttonously engaged, Robin attended to her own wants. It was only a substitute but it soothed. Relieved. Alleviated the built-up pressure and restored calmness to her jumping nerves.

Shirley squealed once. Twice. Her body went into an abrupt convulsion and then she became tranquil. It was over.

"Robin ... "

"Hmm? "

"That was nice. Almost like a dream. "

"Uh-huh...." For a long time they lay there. Robin got her breath back. The girl's fingers stroked her hair fondly. A gentle pink-cloud lassitude enfolded them in its embrace. "Shirley? "

"Yes, dear. "

Robin lifted her head. "Don't you ever feel like kissing me? "

"But of course, darling. You know I do. Just come up here and I'll show you. "

"No, that's not what I mean. "

"Oh? Then what? "

"Angel, you know. The way I kiss you. "

"Oh. "

Silence. Long silence.

"Well? "

"I just wouldn't know how. "

"I'll teach you. "

The girl's body trembled. "Oh, darling, I couldn't. Please don't ask me to. "

"All right. Forget it. "

"Oh. Now you're angry. "

"No. "

"But you are, Robin. I can tell by your tone of voice. I've hurt your feelings, haven't I? "

"I suppose so. A little, anyway. I'll tell you one thing though. I'll never ask you again. If it ever happens it's going to be your idea, not mine. " Robin scrambled out of bed. "Now forget it. Time to get up. "

"Uh-huh. I'm up. What'll we do today? "

"Do? Oh, I don't know. I'm a little tired of movies and things like that. As a matter-of-fact, I really ought to make some phone calls. Business, you know. "

"Business? "

"Well, you know how it is, angel. I've been so wrapped up with you that I've neglected everything else. The least I could do is call my stockbroker. "

"Oh, that. Of course. "

"But if I do, well, there's always a possibility that he'll want to see me. He's probably got a load of papers for me to sign. He might insist on a conference. Perhaps even tonight. "

"Tonight? " Here? "

"Oh, no. If there's one thing I can't stand, Shirley, it's entertaining businessmen at home. They always try to get chummy and I've learned to avoid it. If we get together, it'll be in his office downtown. In the evening, I guess. He'll have his secretary stay late to take notes. "

"Uh-huh. "

"You don't mind, angel? You won't be too lonesome if I go out and leave you alone for a while? "

"It's all right. But it is rather sudden, isn't it? " Shirley frowned. "Robin, are you sure you're not making this all up? "

"Making it up? What do you mean? "

"Well, I just had the feeling you were getting even with me, somehow. Because I wouldn't ... well, you know ... "

"Oh. Of course not, darling. Anyway, I said we weren't going to talk about it, right? It'll either happen or it won't. But I do have to get together with my broker soon. Now let's get dressed and have a little breakfast, huh? "

They left it like that. But Robin knew she had planted a seed in the girl's mind. Now, perhaps, it would take root and grow. And then there would be no more necessity for that substitute kind of love-making. At least she hoped so.

But it was odd the way Shirley had caught on to her bit of subterfuge. Because it was a spur-of-the-moment story "the thing about seeing her broker. Although it wasn't for the reason that the girl had surmised. Not precisely, anyway. But something like it. Oh yes, definitely something quite like it.

The poor child would have been shocked at the truth.

In the middle of the afternoon, out of Shirley's earshot, Robin phoned Portia Stratford. It took some doing, getting through to her at the theatre. Called out of rehearsal, Portia had little time to waste. No, she couldn't talk now "she had to get back for the next scene. But if Robin had something important on her mind, well, perhaps tonight would be as good a time as any.

Humming happily, Robin hung up. Tonight, then. Yes, innocent little Shirley would have been shocked. But she would never know, of course. Nor would she even be curious, now that the story about the stockbroker had been accepted.

Or had it?

"Robin, do you really have to go out tonight? "

"Yes, darling, I told you that. But I won't be very late, I promise. Anyway, I'll try not to be. Read a book or something while I'm gone. "

"All right. But I still think you're angry with me. "

"No, angel, I'm not angry. I've forgotten all about it. And maybe it would do you good to get to bed early for a change. " Robin giggled. "To sleep, I mean. "

Shirley pouted. "You know I won't. So come home as early as you can. I'll be waiting up for you. "

Robin was delighted. Oh yes, the seed was taking root. But aside from that, it was nice to know that Shirley would be missing her. Missing their nightly ritual. Dead stick or not, the little angel could no longer do without it. She actually needed that one big shuddering spasm. Needed it so much that she was willing to wait up half the night for it. How nice. It made Robin feel like a cheating husband slipping out for a quickie.

And she retained that feeling all the way over to Portia's apartment. She almost wished she could have let Shirley know where she was really going. The kid would have gone green-eyed with pure jealousy. Just like a wife. Wouldn't it be a kick to have a bitter quarrel over something like that? Just for the experience, of course. And the pleasure of making up afterward. Yes, there were some things to be said in favor of marriage.

Portia, though, was neither jealous nor wifely. Merely cool and distant. Until, after a polite drink and a bit of small talk, Robin explained her purpose in being there. Explained it in terms that were clear and concise and even clinical.

The actress blew up. "What! Robin, you can't mean it. You just couldn't have that much gall. Nobody could. You came here for sex? Is that what you're trying to tell me? "

"I'm not trying, dear, I already have told you. And I thought I made myself quite clear. "

"Robin, no. Go home. I've suffered enough because of you. So please leave, won't you? I'm going to bed. "

"Of course you are. With me. Honey, don't tell me about your suffering. What have you got to suffer about? The show is going on and you're the star. Isn't that what you wanted? "

"It is. I'll admit it. But I'm ashamed of what I had to do for it. Ashamed of what I've done to Brock Henderson. "

"Are you, Portia? Really? " Robin shrugged. "Oh well, perhaps you are, at the moment. But if you had to do it all over again, you'd go right ahead and do it. Because show business is more important to you than anything else. Tell the truth now, isn't that so? "

"I ... oh, Robin, you're ... you're evil. "

"Of course. We're two of a kind, sweetie. Except that for me, sex is the important thing. It used to be money, but I don't have to worry about that any more. I've got plenty. Enough so that if the show folded I wouldn't mind taking the loss. Most of it would come off my taxes anyway. "

"Folded? You mean if it's not a hit? "

"I mean if it doesn't even get to open. "

"But you couldn't possibly stop it, Robin. It's out of your hands now. You're only a silent partner. "

"Uh-huh. Silent. Exactly. So what would happen if I stopped being so silent? Wouldn't it disrupt the works a bit if I told Brock the truth about you and me and his pretty little wife? "

Portia went taut with rage. "You wouldn't! "

"Oh, wouldn't I? Care to make a small wager on it? "

Lips twitching, Portia stood up and paced the floor. Her lean body was like a stretched bowstring.

Sniffing victory, Robin pressed her point. "It's possible, I suppose, that the show would go on just the same. But it wouldn't be very pleasant for you and the boy "especially if he were to find out what Shirley is really doing over at my place. She's no ordinary house guest, you know. "

"He'd kill you. "

"I doubt it. But I don't think he'll ever find out, do you? Because you're really not very wicked at all, darling. If you were, you wouldn't care about him, would you? As long as it didn't hurt the show any, what difference would it make? "

"Please, Robin. You mustn't tell him. Ever. "

"Honey, I don't plan to. I wouldn't harm your precious boy friend for the world. I just wanted to make sure you understood me, that's all. And I think you do. " Smiling, Robin rose and started to strip her clothing off. " You do understand, don't you? "

"You bitch! "

Half-naked, Robin stopped and stared. Portia's eyes. Glaring. And yet there was something more in them. Something weird. Why, she actually looked excited! And not just in anger. Robin's cheeks flamed. Oooh, this was nice. Portia was coming toward her. Bearing down upon her like some big brute of a man about to rape her. It made her feel like a weak little girl. She was blushing, she just knew she was blushing.

And then she was on the floor and those strong hands were tearing the rest of her clothes off and that tough, sinewy body was jamming itself against her and there were garments flying all over the place, hers and Portia's and they were both naked now and this wasn't the way she had figured on it but it was wonderful, oh, so wonderful and those muscles were so strong that she couldn't fight them, she just couldn't fight at all and that hard body was rearing and plunging and driving down to crush the breath out of her and she was being raped, yes, raped and wasn't it the most wonderful thrill.

"Bitch! "

Ah yes, she was a bitch and was glad Portia was treating her like one. Later, of course, she would calm Portia down and then there'd be another kind of treatment, the kind she'd been missing lately. But right now this was marvelous. And wouldn't it be fun to crawl into bed with little angel-faced Shirley afterward and know that this body of hers had been used and abused so thoroughly. Wouldn't it be a kick?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SHIRLEY sighed and tossed the book aside. Who could read at a time like this? She felt so restless. Irritable. Would Robin never get home?

Still, it had been nice to be alone for an evening. For a while, anyway. It had given her a chance to think. To try to figure things out for herself. Only it wasn't so nice now. Because all that thinking had gotten her upset. It hadn't solved anything at all And she didn't want to be alone any more. If Robin didn't get home soon to keep her company, she would only start brooding all over again.

Company? Was that what she wanted of Robin? Or was it something else?

Well, there it was again. The brooding. The worrying. And she might as well go on with it until Robin came. Even though nothing seemed to make sense. Hah! Some of the crazy things she'd been thinking about didn't even make nonsense.

Brock, for instance.

Why couldn't she forget him? Why couldn't she just put him out of her mind and keep him out? Was there some strange hold he still had over her? It certainly couldn't be love, could it? Well? Could it?

No. She could never love a man who had cheated on her. Anyway, what difference did it make whether she loved him or not? Brock wasn't in love with her, that was for sure. Otherwise he wouldn't have been with that Portia Stratford person in the first place. Maybe Brock loved only his work, anyway. The theatre. And that was why he had been drawn to that actress.

But all that was ended. She and Brock could never get together again after so much had happened. Besides, as soon as the divorce came through, well, that would be that.

Divorce?

Funny. After that awful day she hadn't done much about the divorce. She hadn't done anything, really. And lately she hadn't even talked about it. Now wasn't that a sign of something?

Maybe. After all, you couldn't get a divorce without a lawyer. And if you didn't go out and try to find a lawyer, maybe you didn't want a divorce at all. Maybe you were just waiting and hoping that everything would be patched up again.

Maybe. Oh sure. Big deal. Maybe the earth would stop spinning around on its axis, too. Maybe the Sahara Desert would become a vacation paradise. Maybe.

Robin, please come home.

But what if Brock did want to patch things up again? How would he go about it? They never saw each other. They never even spoke to each other on the phone. What could he do "write her a letter? Did he even know where she was? Well, yes, he probably knew that, all right. But the kind of thing that had to be said "well, you just couldn't say it in a letter. It would sound false no matter how you did it. A letter was just no good. It wouldn't work. It had to be said out loud. It had to be a speech. It had to be-Hmm, a speech?

Well now. Wasn't Brock going to make a speech? Hadn't he talked about it time and time again? Why, it was almost an obsession with him. His curtain speech. Of course. Long before the play was finished he had practically made it up and memorized it. The speech of a writer on the opening night of his first play. Thank you, so-and-so. And thank you, so-and-so.

And thank you, Shirley?

Yes. Oh yes, yes, yes. It would be all he would have to say. She would understand. There wouldn't have to be any apologies or any embarrassment. It would be so easy. And so right.

Oh yes, she could just picture him standing up there in front of all those people. Thanking the cast. Thanking the director. Thanking the producer and the set designer and the scene shifters and the electricians and the prop men. Everybody. Thanking the receptive audience.

And then, "Last but not least I want to give thanks to the one person who matters more than anyone to me. My wife. So forgive me, dear ladies and gentlemen, if I take the time now to do what I want most to do. Thank you, Shirley. "

Wouldn't it be wonderful?

Oh, he probably wouldn't use those same words, of course. They sounded pretty corny, actually. Brock was too good a writer to use those hackneyed phrases. But he would think of something. He would come up with the right way to say it.

If he wanted to....

But what if he didn't want to? What if he was really in love with that Portia Stratford person? Or someone else. Or maybe even just himself. Lots of theatrical people were like that. In love with themselves.

Silly. Brock wasn't the kind of man who could ever be in love with himself. He really wasn't one of those people who lived only for applause. People like Portia Stratford. Brock Henderson was a sincere, honest human being. And nothing could alter that fact. Even his cheating.

Sure, he had made a mistake. But didn't everyone make mistakes now and then? Of course they did.

Me too?

Yes. Many mistakes. Some small and a few big. But no mistake was too big to be forgiven provided there was love. Ah yes, that was the answer. Love. Was it? Because she could forgive Brock's mistake, was that love? Did she still love him? Even after that terrible moment in Portia's apartment, did she still love Brock?

She would know. Soon. On opening night. Quite soon. She would sit there and see the play and listen to his curtain speech and then she would know. Unless he didn't make the speech she was hoping for. Unless he didn't love her enough to make that speech.

What then?

Damn! Robin, where are you?

Well, it would be easy to go on living here just the way she was. Very easy. It was nice to be in a beautiful apartment with a lovely sunlit terrace. Nice to toss soiled underwear on the floor and know it would be picked up and laundered by a maid. Nice to have lovely clothes. Nice to have money.

Oh, it was Robin's money, of course. But Robin was so generous with it. Money meant nothing to her. And she expected so little in return. So very little. But that was yesterday. Now, somehow, Robin had changed. She wanted more. Quite a bit more. She wanted something that wasn't going to be so easy to give. Ugh! Robin wanted too much.

But maybe she didn't. Maybe it had just been a whim. Certainly she had made no complaints before this. Everything between them had been so smooth. So perfect. So much fun. So why all of a sudden should there be something new in the picture? Still, Robin was a lesbian "a real lesbian "so who could tell? Maybe that was what she had been leading up to all along.

No. That didn't sound reasonable. Robin wouldn't do a thing like that. Robin was too sweet. She was "

"Robin?

Uh-huh. At last. Robin was home. And about time too! Where could she have been until this hour? Not at some stockbroker's office, certainly.

"Hi, angel. Still up, I see. "

"Uh-huh. "

"Waiting for me? "

"Of course. I was worried about you. I had no idea you'd be out so late. "

"Sorry. I got held up. Business, business, business. I thought it would never end, honey. But you could have gone to sleep. You didn't have to wait up. "

"I wanted to. "

"I'm glad, angel. All the time I was sitting in that stuffy broker's office I kept thinking about you. Sometimes I didn't even listen to what he was saying. "

"Because of me, Robin? "

"Who else? Darling, no one else could make me forget what I was doing when there was so much money involved. Hundreds of thousands of dollars. And I kept thinking of my little angel. "

"Oh, you're so sweet. "

"Just wait. You'll see how sweet I am. I'm hungry for you, dearest. Practically starving. "

"Oooh ... "

"You know, I don't even think I'll bother to take a bath tonight. That's how impatient I am. Do you mind? "

"Mind? Of course not. Come to bed. "

"In a minute, angel. Just let me get out of these-"

"Hurry. Please hurry. "

"Mmm, I like to hear you talk like that. You've been thinking of me, too, haven't you? "

"All night long. Come on. "

"In a jiffy. Damn! Tore it. "

"Forget it. There's more where it came from. Please, Robin, hurry up, will you? "

"My, aren't you extravagant. More where it came from. Angel, you sound just like me. "

"Well, shouldn't I? "

"I guess so. You're developing a taste for high living. I guess I've spoiled you, huh? "

"I love it. I love being spoiled. Keep on spoiling me, Robin, darling. I just love it. "

"Okay. "

"But hurry! "

"Uh-huh. Coming. "

"But what are you-"

"Wait, angel. The light. There. Now. Want me to spoil you some more? "

"Hmm? "

"Like this? Am I spoiling you? "

"Oh yes. Spoil me, spoil me. I love it. "

"Ah ... "

"Robin! "

"Angel. Sweet little angel. Mmm, you smell so nice. "

"You bought me the perfume. I'm just a pampered brat now. So you'd better not stop spoiling me. "

"Don't worry, I won't. "

"Ooh ... "

"All night. "

"You couldn't. You'll get tired. "

"Not if you keep talking to me, angel. "

"Oh. I'll try. "

"But I won't be able to answer you back, darling. Not right out loud, anyway. "

"That's all right. I'll understand you. "

"Talk to me. Just ... mmm...." But it was hard to keep talking. What was there to talk about? Except the one thing that she couldn't talk about. Not to anybody. Certainly not to Robin. "Spoil me, spoil me...." Yes, it was nice to feel like a pampered child. But it was only play-acting, of course. Not real. She'd give it up in a minute if she could only have a little apartment with an elevator. And a baby. Yes, a precious baby of her own. A real one.

Oh, Brock, Brock ... please. Stand up there on opening night and tell me you love me. Say it any way you want to. I'll know what you mean....

CHAPTER TWELVE

WITH a morose expression on his face, Brock Henderson strolled back and forth on the sidewalk under the theatre marquee. Hands in pockets, he looked as if he were nothing more than a young swain waiting for his tardy girl friend to show up. Even the relaxed slouch of his shoulders added to the impression.

But the impression was false.

No man's nerves could have been more tightly wound. Napoleon waiting for news of his foundering troops could not have been more tense. Political candidates sweating over final election returns were scarcely less jittery than Brock Henderson.

Opening night....

Inside the theatre, Witch at the Wedding was well into its second act. It would be breaking for intermission soon. And he was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his strolling gait from developing into a sprint. Already he had walked to-and-fro over that same stretch of concrete "well, how many times? A hundred? A thousand? His footsteps had practically worn a groove in it.

Okay, perhaps he would find out something during the break. Or at least something more specific than in the last one. First-night theatre-goers were so damn reticent. They were afraid to venture an opinion until they heard someone else's. Or until they read what the critics had to say in the morning papers.

At the first intermission he had stood there, hoping hungrily for a clue. But the crowd had poured out and lit cigarettes and said almost nothing. Talk, yes " business, movies, isn't that a lovely dress? and have you seen that new cornedy down the street yet? But about the play "his play "nothing. Oh sure, might be a hit but let's wait and see. Yack, yack, yack. Say, did you hear the one about the starlet who married the piccolo player? Yack, yack, yack. Well, it's only the first act. Hard to tell about this poetry stuff. Let's see how it comes out, huh?

And then the warning buzzer had rasped and the noncommittal mob had trooped back in, leaving only a slew of dead cigarettes behind. Cigarette butts "and one anxious playwright who was too agitated to go in and watch the progress "or failure "of his own long-awaited brainchild.

He had caught a glimpse of Shirley. With that Robin Kessler woman, the rich one who was backing the production. Only a glimpse in the crowd. Perhaps she had seen him too. But she hadn't made any sign of recognition.

And he couldn't blame her. Not after what she had seen in Portia's bedroom. No, it was up to him to make the first move. The sin was his and he had to apologize for it. Although it was the kind of sin that demanded atonement rather than mere apology. Maybe he ought to put on sackcloth and ashes.

Sure, he had tried to get in touch with her on that god-awful night. But his attempts had led to nil. A blank. That snotty maid over at Mrs. Kessler's house had certainly put him in his place with her "nobody home " brush-off. Three times. Nobody home " or else Shirley just wasn't answering the phone.

But there it was! The second act was over and he could hear them all the way out here. Applause. Hearty applause. A good sign? Well, he'd know soon enough. Maybe they were only clapping for some astronaut standing up to take a bow. Those guys got more cheers than no-hit baseball pitchers these days.

The audience was surging out onto the sidewalk again. A happy audience this time. Or at least they looked happy. Cheerful. Smiling. Grinning. As if they had been emotionally wrung-out and were glad to catch their collective breath again.

Because of the show?

"Brock, boy, it's going great. " Charlie Walsh was pounding him on the back. "The second act hooked 'em. Looks like we've got a great big smash-hit on our hands. The biggest. "

"Aw, it's too early to tell. There's another act to come yet. Besides, what do these people know, anyway? Only what they read in the papers, that's all. "

"The hell you say. They know. And don't worry about the papers. The critics will love us, I tell you. "

"Charlie, you sound mighty positive. "

"After so many years in the racket, why shouldn't I be? I can smell a hit a mile away. And this one smells just great. Like a busy box-office, that's how it smells. "

"I hope so. "

"Take my word for it, Brocky-boy. Just take old Uncle Charlie's word for it, huh? Hey, why don't you come in and watch the third act for yourself? "

"Are you kidding? I'm too young to die. "

"Nervous, eh? "

"How'd you guess? " Brock chuckled weakly. "I'll be shaking until I see the reviews. "

"No need, I guarantee it. We've got a hit. Wait till we get to Sardi's. The joint will be jumping. "

"Sardi's? Oh ... "

"Natch. Time-honored custom. That's where we gather to wait for the axe. Only it won't be an axe, kiddo, not this time. Old Charlie Walsh just brought in a hit. It's a score, I'm telling you. Hey, how do you think I'll look wearing a laurel wreath? " He patted his bald dome. "Like Julius Caesar maybe? "

"Yeah. Exactly. Julius Caesar in a Brooks Brothers toga. " The warning buzzer sounded again. "Go ahead in, Charlie. Leave me to my ulcers and solitude. "

"No ulcers. But you'd better have a speech ready. At the final curtain, I mean. You're sure as hell going to need one. "

"Don't worry, I'll think of something. If I have to. Immortal words. Let's see ... uh ... fourscore and seven years ago-" Charlie laughed. "Fine, fine. Good speech. Went over great the last time. See you later, huh? " Still chuckling, the old guy trailed the tail end of the crowd back into the theatre.

Alone again. Brock shrugged. Alone, but he didn't mind it now. The show was a hit. Charlie was an old-timer when it came to judging that sort of thing. A smash hit. Exhilarated, Brock started walking. But the nervous back-and-forth pacing was ended. Good thing, too. The groove in the sidewalk was getting too deep. A stroll out to the comer, that was the ticket. Out to the Broadway comer.

But he hadn't seen Shirley. Charlie had kept him so busy that he hadn't even been able to look around for her. Oh well, he was bound to see her soon. Of course. At Sardi's. Without a doubt, Robin Kessler would be there "she was the big backer. And Shirley was with her, wasn't she?

He sniffed happily. Broadway. My Broadway. The lights and the hustle and bustle. All his. Tonight, Brock Henderson had conquered the world. Julius Caesar? Hah! A mere nobody. How many hit plays did that old fozzle ever write? Hell, even his best lines belonged to somebody else. Friends, Romans, countrymen....

Yeah. Great curtain speech. Curtains for Caesar. It sure as hell wouldn't do for tonight, though. And he'd better get busy and figure out what to say. Okay, so he had done it all before. The speech. He had it memorized. Only it came out different every time he thought about the damn thing. Then, though, it had been nothing but a dream. And now it was going to be for real.

A big wheel, that was what he was now. A successful playwright. Maybe he'd even get a Pulitzer. A big wheel on Broadway. Brock Henderson. Well, he'd better start acting like one. He couldn't use just any old cut-and-dried speech.

Hmm, now there was a thought. A big wheel. Wasn't that the way Shirley would think of him now? Damn right. And wouldn't she be listening to his speech with all her heart and soul? Damn right. And wouldn't she come a-running if he just so much as asked her to? Damn right.

Well now....

A snap. A lead-pipe cinch. Oh, maybe it would sound a little bit cornball to the audience "a young playwright thanking his dear wifie for all her help and consideration. Then again, they might just eat it up. Shirley sure would.

How could it miss? Right up there on the stage in front of God and the whole world "how could it miss? She would understand. And what girl in her right mind wouldn't want her husband back now that he was a big wheel?

Yeah. A big wheel on Broadway.

"Brock! Brock Henderson! How the hell are you? "

"Huh? "

"Long time no see, fella. "

"Yeah. " The face was vaguely familiar, but he just couldn't quite place it.

"Don't you remember me? Jerry. Jerry Linkwich. We went to high school together, remember? "

"Jerry. Sure, sure, how are you? Glad to see you. " Handshake "pumping up and down. "Yeah, long time ... "

"I'll say. What have you been doing lately? "

Brock gulped. "Oh, nothing much. Jerry, forgive me, will you? I've got to run. Late for an appointment. "

"Oh. Another time then. Let's get together, huh? Nice running into you like this. "

And with his hands back in his pockets and his expression morose again, Brock turned back toward the theatre. Big wheel, hah! What a laugh. Famous playwright. Pulitzer. Oh sure. What have you been doing lately? Nothing, pal. Not a damn thing. Only walking up and down Broadway and getting a swelled head. One great big balloon of a swelled head. And just about as empty.

Well, the balloon was busted now. Jerry Linkwich had just stuck a pin in it. Nothing like an old buddy from way back to puncture a balloon and deflate a fat ego.

Well, young Hemingway, what now?

It was pretty obvious, wasn't it? Back to the theatre, no longer a big wheel. And as for that speech, well, maybe he'd be able to mumble a few quick words. The same old words that every other writer mumbled. He sure didn't feel like impressing anybody tonight. Certainly not Shirley.

Good thing he had run into Jerry. Wouldn't he have looked foolish making a jackass out of himself in public and expecting her to come chasing after him? Big wheel. Yeah. Well, this particular not-so-big wheel had better get down on his knees and beg his. wife to forgive him. And it wouldn't be on any stage, either. He'd take her off into a comer at Sardi's and do it. Do it right. He was just a straying husband dying to return to the fold. And he wouldn't blame her if she spit right in his eye.

Brock quickened his pace and at last pushed his way through the main door. The final scene was on. Portia's big one. And she was great, just great. There wasn't a whisper in the audience. Not even a cough or a sneeze. Terrific.

There! Curtain. And listen to them, just listen! What were they trying to do, tear the roof off? Curtain calls. One ... two ... five ... seven ... oh hell, this could go on all night. The whole cast. Then Portia alone. And now she was calling out Raoul Tharp. Kissing him. Like they were the best of buddies. The whole cast again with Portia in the middle. So graceful. A great actress.

And the flowers! Holy smoke, Charlie must have bought out a whole damn greenhouse! But it was starting. From all over. "Author! "

"Author! " Way up in the top balcony too. "Author! "

"Author! "

Me? They want me?

It was enough to make a guy cry. Yeah, cry. Because the tears were streaming down his face. And he was walking down the aisle and praying that he'd have the strength to get up there in front of these wonderful people and mumble those few humble words of thanks without getting stage fright.

Yeah "humble. No high-flown phrases. No personal plea to his wife. Just a few quick words and then off. Off to Sardi's and the reviews and best of all, to Shirley.

To Shirley. The right way. Humble....

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE thing about the theatre that Robin hated most was getting a taxi afterward. It never failed to irritate her. Someone should have invented a better way to do it. All the theatres were in the same small area " only a few blocks in the middle Forties just west of Broadway. All the final curtains came down within minutes of each other, close enough so that the various producers and directors probably had to synchronize their watches to do it. The whole business seemed like a gigantic plot against the theatre-goer. Because you just couldn't find an empty cab.

Oh, there were taxis, all right. Plenty of them. But for every cruising hack, there were fifty eager customers. So all you could do was stand there and wait. And fume. And tonight she had a lot to fume about. Bad enough trying to catch a cab under ordinary circumstances "but this was just too damn much. She had a weeping child on her hands.

Shirley. In tears. Not hysteria-type tears brought on by shock. Not like that other time. But tears just the same. Great big drops rolling down her cheeks. And the kid couldn't even open her mouth and say why. Although that wasn't exactly true. Shirley could open her mouth, sure enough, but only to gasp for breath. And to say the same words over and over again.

"Take me home, Robin. Please take me home. "

A broken record, practically. But there wasn't much sense in trying to figure it out now. Not with the mob still milling around and fighting over taxi cabs as if each one was a winning horse in the Irish Sweepstakes.

But at last, after the crowd thinned out a little, Robin went to work. "Wait here, " she said. "Keep your eye on me and come when I call you. I'm going to steal a hack from under somebody's nose. And for heaven's sake, stop sniveling. "

She snapped her purse open, dug into it and came up with a five-dollar bill. In this kind of war, it was an effective weapon. Three other parties had already hailed the approaching driver, but he got a flash of the five as she waved it persuasively. Brakes screeched and the cab stopped. And finally, with Shirley still crying, they were on the way.

Robin was truly annoyed. The play had gone over great and they should have been headed for a celebration. After all, it was her show, wasn't it? Wasn't she the big backer? After seeing Portia's terrific performance she felt all keyed-up. She wanted to go out and guzzle champagne. Magnums of it. Enough to put a serious crimp in all future ship-launchings for a year.

But they were going home....

No, not to Sardi's. Not to join the happy throng and gloat over a good job well done. Home, dammit.

"Shirley, stop crying and listen to me for a minute. Or at least try, will you? "

"Uh-huh...." It sounded more like blubblub.

"Honey, I don't know what made you cry and run out like that during those curtain calls and speeches. Brock, I suppose. Maybe seeing him bothered you. But forget it, will you? Whatever it was, why be so upset? Now stop crying. "

"Uh-huh. " But it still sounded a bit bubbly.

"They'll all be at Sardi's. And that's where we should be going, too. It's my show, don't you understand? I ought to be there just as much as Portia or Charlie Walsh or Brock or-" The tears burst out with new vigor. And the accompanying words were unchanged. "Take me home. Please...." Robin gave up. Never in her life had she had a more unpleasant cab-ride. And it was costing her five bucks, too. Was there no justice? Would she have to settle for tears instead of champagne? It sure looked like it. All the way home and right up into the bedroom, the blubbering continued. Not until the girl locked herself in the bathroom was there any respite. Then, after some ten minutes, the door opened and Shirley was like a new person. Her face was scrubbed and shiny. And there were no more tears, "Feel better now, angel? "

"Yes, thank you. Much better. "

"Then shall we go out again? "

"Out? "

"To Sardi's. We really ought to be there, you know. Everybody will be there. Everybody that's anybody, at least. "

"Oh. I'd rather not. "

"No? Well, would it upset you if I went? "

"Robin, please...." The lower lip quivered petulantly. Shirley was close to tears again. "Please don't leave me all alone tonight. I couldn't stand it. "

"Oh, all right. I won't go. But now that you're calm enough, I do wish you'd tell me what started you off like that. "

"I ... I'd rather not. I'm not even sure myself. But I'm glad it happened. I guess I needed it. "

"Hmm? You needed to cry? "

"Something like that, yes. It helped. Because I've reached my decision now. I know what I want to do. "

"Decision? Angel, what decision? "

"I'm going to get a divorce. "

"Oh ... "

"Will you help me? Robin? Will you? "

"Honey, what brings this on so suddenly? The talk about getting a divorce, I mean. "

"It's not just talk. I want a divorce. "

"Okay, okay. Don't snap at me. But why now, The last time we discussed it was the night we went to Portia's. You've never even mentioned it since then. And neither have I, of course. I left it strictly up to you. "

"I know that. "

"You were crying that night too. You cried tonight. Are you sure you won't feel like forgetting all about it by tomorrow? The way you did before? "

"I didn't forget, Robin. I just wasn't positive, that's all. And now I am. So will you help me? "

"Aren't you pushing just a little bit too hard? You know I'm willing to help in any way I can. But we've got to be sure it's the right thing for you. "

"I'm sure. "

"Well, I'm not. Not now, anyway. Tomorrow maybe, after we've slept on it. When your head is clear. "

"It's clear now. "

"Tomorrow. " Robin's tone was deliberately blunt. "I said I'd help. But I'm not making any promises. Not until we can talk it over a bit more rationally. Understand? "

"Oh, all right. "

"And don't look so dejected, sweetheart, or you'll put me in a bad mood, too. Until you started crying back there I thought we'd be drinking champagne tonight. "

"Oh. I'm sorry. I wish we could have. After all, I've never drunk champagne. "

"You haven't? Say, that's right. You and I have never really had a champagne party. But there's still time. Why don't we zip right over to Sardi's right now and-"

"No. Please. I don't want to go out. "

Robin's face brightened. "Okay, we'll stay home. But we're still going to have our party. There's bound to be some champagne around somewhere. "

"Really? Oooh, I'd like that. "

"It won't be cold. But it doesn't take long to chill if you put it in an ice bucket. Tell you what, you go take your bath while I go forage around in the kitchen, huh? "

"All right. You won't be long, will you? "

"Not very. When you're finished, though, you might run a tub for me. That way we can speed up the operation. "

"Oh. You want me to ... uh ... "

"Angel, what's the matter? " Robin frowned. "Oh come now, don't be so selfish. It won't hurt you to fix the bath for me. And don't fret, I'm still spoiling you. After all, getting out the ice and the champagne is a lot of work. "

"Of course. You're right. You go ahead and I'll take care of everything in here. " Shirley giggled mischievously. "Maybe I'm just getting too spoiled. "

Robin started for the kitchen with the girl's words still Hiring in her ear. Too spoiled? Hmm, now wasn't that a cute thing to say. And that funny little giggle. Did it have some special meaning? Perhaps the special meaning?

Possibly. But it seemed like too soon for that. Too soon for the carefully planted seed to blossom. Still, who could tell? The kid had really come unstrung back there at the theatre. Maybe it all added up in some strange way. Anyway, giggles were certainly better than tears.

And the champagne would be nice, too. Not the same, of course. The theatre crowd was probably jamming into Sardi's by now. Congratulating Charlie Walsh on his new hit. And falling all over themselves just to get close to Portia. Oh yes, that was the place to be. Right in the middle of all that swirling excitement. Right next to Portia Stratford. After all, whose money was it? And who did Portia have to deal with to get the show produced? Certainly if anyone belonged in the center of that happy crowd, it was none other than Robin Kessler. And now that the play was a hit, well, maybe Portia would let bygones be bygones. They could be friends again. Good friends.

Sardi's on opening night. Uh-huh. Out with the crowd. That was the place to be. But a private champagne party was better than no party at all. Now if she could just locate those damn bottles.

As it turned out, the champagne was no problem. But the ice was. Those ice trays. Always sticking. She had half a mind to wake the maid up and put her to work. But it would have taken as much time in the long run, anyway. Her housemaid was a good worker but she wasn't exactly a speed demon. Especially when she was sleepy.

No matter. It was done. Champagne. Ice bucket. Glasses. Hmm, yes "a corkscrew. All on a tray and ready. Party time.

Shirley was naked. Bath-warmed and rosy. "Champagne, Robin? You found some? "

"The best. Vintage year, or so I've been told. Sugar-pie, you look absolutely luscious. "

"Your tub is ready. "

"Thanks. I want you to know I worked my fingers to the bone for you. Getting out the ice was a mess. "

"Let me see. Oh, Robin, your hands are all red. " Impetuously, Shirley raised each hand to her lips and kissed it. "There. Does that make them feel better? "

"Much. Now while I'm bathing, twirl the bottle, will you? Like this, see? It'll get cold quickly. "

Robin bathed while Shirley twirled. And in a few minutes the place became a furry nest of excitement. Even without the wine, the perfumed intimacy of the room had a heady intoxication all its own. But the wine was there, of course and cold enough now. Robin took on the task of opening it.

She twisted the wire and peeled away the metal foil. Then, under Shirley's watchful gaze, she worked the corkscrew in deep and started to tug. It popped. Fizzed. And gurgled merrily as she tilted the bottle over the two glasses.

"Such a procedure, " Shirley said.

"A ritual. But it's worth it. Take a sip. And don't you dare say the bubbles tickle your nose. "

"I won't. " Shirley took a swallow. "But they do. The bubbles actually do tickle. " She giggled suddenly. "Oh, but I wasn't supposed to say it, was I? "

"It's done. " Robin dimmed the lights. "There now. Let's settle down and get mildly potted. "

It didn't take very long. Champagne always affected her that way, Robin knew. It tasted so good and went down so easily that its potency was hardly noticeable. But it was there, all right. And it soon made itself known.

"Sneaky drink, angel. Creeps up and hits you over the head before you even know it. "

"Uh-huh. Lovely. Just what I need. "

"No more tears? "

"Nope. Only champagne. " Shirley rocked with silent glee. "Ooh, wouldn't it be nice if you could cry champagne? "

Robin smiled. A haze was forming over her eyes. A pink haze. The girl's rosy flesh looked even rosier. Pink and gold and pretty. Even her own body seemed different, somehow. And it felt different too. Lighter. Less fleshy. But just as curvy as ever. She felt almost beautiful.

She was getting drunk, of course. But it was a pleasant kind of drunk "no swaying or staggering or slurring her words. Just a happy up-in-the-clouds sensation. And Shirley was doing nicely, too. She still looked like an angel. But not quite so innocent now. The big blue eyes were just a bit glazed. Her halo seemed a little rakish. This was her first crack at champagne and she was already talking and acting as if she had invented it.

"Mmm, champagne. From now on it's all I want. For breakfast, lunch and dinner. "

"No in-between snacks, honey? "

Shirley went into a giggling fit. "Uh-huh. But not champagne. Just cookies and milk. "

Such a child. Delightful. But those big blue eyes " why were they staring like that? Robin couldn't figure it out. The girl's eyes kept looking at her. At her breasts. Up and down her body. It was almost embarrassing. She wasn't used to being stared at. After all, she wasn't very pretty. But those eyes, quite glassy now, just never let up. "Shirley, darling, what is it? "

"Hmm? "

"You're staring. "

"Am I? Oh. I guess I am. "

"But why? "

"I don't know. "

"Put your drink down. Here, take mine too. "

"Uh-huh. " Shirley complied.

"Now come and cuddle with me. "

"Cuddle? "

"Like this. See? Give me a kiss. "

Their lips met. Fused. And suddenly the champagne was forgotten. Robin shuddered ecstatically as the tip of the girl's tongue slipped into her mouth. The kiss ended. In silence they looked at each other, almost shyly. The only sound was the panting of their breath.

"Robin? "

"Hmm? "

"I feel funny. "

"Funny? How? "

"I don't know. Remember what we talked about? What you wanted me to do? "

"Yes, of course. "

"I think I'd like to try. "

"Angel! "

"But I don't know how. "

"I'll teach you. I said I would. Come. "

"But I don't even know how to begin. I just don't-"

"Hush. There. See? Like that. Oh yes...." Shirley made little whimpering noises. Muted sounds. They could hardly be heard. And after a while no more noise at all came from her lips. Not a sound. Sighing, Robin twined her fingers in the golden hair. She spoke up every now and then. Softly. Offering suggestions. Gently. Telling those lips what to do. Murmuring a word or two every time there was any indication of hesitancy.

They were delightful, those lips. Warm and wet and quite wonderful. Inexperienced, of course, but what they lacked in skill they made up for in willingness. And they could be taught. Oh yes. They could be taught so much. Even now they were doing beautifully. All they seemed to need was a bit of prompting every once in a while. And how sweetly they responded. Why, they were "Robin? "

"No. Don't stop. "

"Please. Just for a minute. Please? "

"Tired, angel? "

"No, it's not that. But "well, about my divorce. I'm so worried. I keep thinking about it. Will you help me? "

"Uh ... of course. "

"Thank, you. "

Now the lips were back again. And so ardent. Almost as if they were demonstrating their gratitude.

Gratitude? Robin tensed momentarily. This one too? Just like all the others? Gratitude offered in hope of greater favors? Oh well, what did it matter? That was the way of the world. Everybody expected something for nothing, but nobody got it.

Meanwhile, this was nice. Just a little bit disappointing, perhaps. Maybe it would get better later on. Not tonight, of course "somehow, the moment had lost its tang. But in the future. It would get better. And if it didn't, well, it was a great big world with lots of interesting girls. No, not girls "women. Women like Portia Stratford. Experienced. Famous. Talented. Yes, it would be a good idea to cultivate Portia again. But it might not be so easy this time. Portia was somebody "more so than ever after tonight. All of New York would be at her feet.

Still, it would be worth it. When you were close to a somebody, you could almost feel like a somebody yourself.

Shirley was sweet, though. Such an angel. Maybe they ought to stop and take a little rest. Have some more champagne. Although it was probably flat by now. The sparkle always disappeared so quickly. And who could drink flat champagne?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE sound. The ringing sound. It just wouldn't go away. What an awful thing to do "interrupting such a marvelous dream. Wouldn't it stop and let the dream go on?

No....

Portia snapped awake. The telephone. That nasty noise had cut right into her dream. Just a few seconds ago she was a great star in a hit show, sitting on top of the world and now it was over. Just because of that damn phone. She was only a But it wasn't a dream. No. It hasn't been a dream at all. It was real. It had happened. Portia Stratford was sitting on top of the world. Witch at the Wedding was a socko smash. So who minded answering the phone? Such a lovely telephone.

"Hello? "

"Portia? Did I wake you? "

"It's Portia. And you did wake me. "

"Oh. I'm sorry. This is Robin. "

"Oh ... "

"Portia, may I come over and see you? "

"When? "

"Any time you say. "

"Um, let's see now. I'm going to be busy all afternoon. Pictures. Publicity shots. And then I've got a dinner date with some Hollywood character who's after me to make a movie. No, Robin, not today, I'm afraid. Is it important? "

"I guess not. Not really. "

"Still, there is one time that I'll be free. "

"Portia, when? Anytime is fine with me. "

"Tonight after the show? Would you like to come to the theatre and pick me up? "

"Of course. I'd love to. "

"All right. In my dressing room. Oh, yes, one other thing. Bring Shirley Henderson along, will you? "

"Shirley? What for? "

"Robin, just bring her, that's all. "

"I'd rather not. Couldn't I just come and see you alone? "

"Perhaps. Some other time. If you don't want to bring her, just forget the whole thing. And let me go back to sleep, will you? Ring me some other-"

"Portia, wait. "

"Yes? "

"I'll bring her. Tonight. We'll come to your dressing room right after the last act. Okay? "

"Okay. "

"Sleep tight. "

With a smile on her lips, Portia drifted back toward the sweet oblivion of slumber. But she was in no hurry to get there. Oh no. Because reality was just as sweet. Even sweeter, maybe.

Especially now. Robin had sounded so meek and humble. The proverbial shoe was on the other foot. And it certainly fit quite snugly. Somehow at this particular point in their relationship, it was even hard to think of poor Robin as evil. Oh, she was, of course. No doubt about it. But she had sounded so different. Maybe she was turning over a new leaf. Although in Robin's case it couldn't be a mere leaf, it would have to be a whole new book.

Still smiling, Portia fell asleep.

But not for long. It turned out to be a very busy day for Broadway's new star. Or rather Broadway's old star renewed. The photographers worked her over. Newspaper writers called for interviews. The phone kept ringing. And it was all wonderful. So very wonderful. Portia Stratford had built a better mousetrap and the world was beating a path to her door.

Dinner was nice, too. Strange that after all these years, Hollywood should at last come chasing after her. Not that she cared, really. The movies just weren't her dish of tea. Nevertheless, it was quite pleasant to be wined and dined and wooed with talk of fabulous contracts with six-figure sums as bait.

Tempting, to say the least.

But Witch was going to have a long run and she was going to be in it all the way. She cherished it now. And she owed a lot to the guy who had written it for her. Would she ever be able to repay Brock Henderson?

Well, she would certainly try. Tonight. Although she didn't know whether it would work out or not. Pride was such a stupid thing, really. It made people blind to their own welfare. But Brock was a pretty smart boy. Given a little help, he would know how to handle the situation.

The dinner, of course, had to be rushed. That was one trouble about plays that involved overdone costumes "you had to get to the theatre early. But she didn't mind. It was a tiny fly in a great big bowl of ointment. Lovely ointment.

The loveliest, in fact. At the theatre the line in front of the box office was positively breathtaking. Already they were sold out for months in advance. Ticket scalpers were going wild over the show. They would all be buying next year's Cadillacs soon, at the rate the public was hopping on the critics' bandwagon. Oh, the lovely critics. Weren't they wonderful?

The performance went well. But that was expected. It was a great play and she was a great actress. For a while she lost herself in it as she always did. But then, as the final curtain dropped, she came out of her theatrical trauma and returned to life again. Tonight was going to be something special.

Louella, her dressing-room duenna, was waiting in the wings for her after the last curtain call. "Miss Portia, some people to see you. Should I let them in? "

"No, just have them wait. I'll take care of it. "

"Yes'm. You want to change now? "

"No, not yet. I'll call you when I'm ready. I've got something to do first. "

Oh yes, she had something to do. Only it might take a bit of maneuvering to get it organized. Still, that was the nice thing about being a star "everybody in the place was anxious to be accommodating in every way possible. And that included Robin, too.

"Portia, how are you? Oh, you remember Shirley, don't you? Can we go in with you while you're changing? "

"I'm not ready to change yet. Yes, of course I remember Shirley. Although I'm doing my best to forget the last time we really saw each other. "

Shirley was stony-faced. It was obvious that the girl had been dragged here against her will. And Portia saw no way of making the situation any easier for her. The thing had to be done with a bang, that was all. It would either work or it wouldn't and there was no use wasting any time about it.

"Robin, will you wait, please? Just sit down somewhere. Look. There's a chair over there. And stay out of the way of the stagehands, will you? " Portia swung around to Shirley. "And you, young lady, are stuck. We're going to have a private talk, whether you like it or not. In here, please? "

Robin looked peeved. But she trotted off dutifully and took the chair offered. Shirley hesitated and then, with a nudge from Portia, went into the dressing room.

"This won't take long, " Portia said. "Would you like to sit down? "

"Thanks, no. I'll stand. "

"All right. First, let me say this. I'm sorry. Deeply and genuinely sorry for what happened. This is about as abject an apology as I can make. "

"Uh-huh. But it wasn't all your fault. It was-"

"No, dear. It wasn't Brock's fault. "

"What? But how can you say that? I saw him. I saw the two of you together. "

"I know. But what you don't know is how we got there. Shirley, it just wasn't any fault of Brock's. I did it. I got him drunk and I seduced him. Please believe me, won't you? "

"You did it? He was drunk? "

"Exactly. Now why I did it is another story. And it's one that I just don't care to go into. I'm afraid you'll just have to take my word for that too. "

"I just don't understand. "

"Well, here's something you will understand. Brock loves you. On the night that "well, on that awful night, he was absolutely frantic trying to reach you. He called Robin's apartment over and over again. "

"Oh? "

"And ever since then he's been eating his heart out for you. He needs you, Shirley. Now, with success in his lap, he needs you so much it's killing him. But there's only one way to prove it to you "and you're going to have to help. Will you? "

"I ... I guess so. "

"Then come on. " Portia opened the door. "Look. Over there on the other side. See him? "

"Uh-huh. "

"I asked him to wait there. Now will you do something for me? Please? Just go over there and talk to him. Tell him exactly what I told you. And see what happens. Will you? "

"Well, I ... "

"Go. Now, before it's too late. Hurry! "

Her tactics worked. Slowly, Shirley moved toward Brock. Portia watched them. They talked. First Shirley. Then Brock. And then "thank heaven "they were in each other's arms. Kissing.

"You ready to change now, Miss Portia? " It was Louella again, standing at her elbow impatiently.

"Uh, not quite. Soon though. " Portia caught Robin's eye and beckoned. Robin rose and came toward her. In the dressing room, Portia closed the door. "Did you see Brock and Shirley? " she said coolly.

"Yes, I saw them. What happened? "

"Nothing much, Robin. They're in love, that's all. And I figured it was time they got together again. Any objections? "

"Frankly, no. "

"No? Really? "

"Portia, I mean it. I was beginning to get a little bored with her, anyway. "

"I see. Well then, I guess that leaves just you and me. What did you want to see me about? "

"It wasn't anything important. I just wanted to chat, that's all. "

"Chat? "

Robin blushed. "Oh, you know ... "

"Yes, dear, I do know. Now listen to me. What I'm going to tell you might hurt a bit. It might make you angry. But don't interrupt me, understand? It has to be said. "

Robin nodded.

"I know what you want from me, Robin. I know better than you do. You think it's sex, but it's more than that. You need me. You need to be around me all the time. Because I'm a star. I'm famous. I'm a celebrity. And I'm the first such person that you've ever really been intimate with. More than that, to some extent you had a hand in making me a star again. It was a wicked hand, but it worked. So I owe you a little something for that. My friendship, perhaps, if you want it. Do you? "

"Of course. I want-"

"Be still. I'll tell you what you want, Robin. You want what you can't have. Once you get it, you don't want it any more. That's the way it was with Shirley. But it isn't the way it's going to be with me. No, Robin, you can't have me. Oh, I may give you a little sample now and then just to remind you of what you're missing. But you can't have me. I'll never really belong to you. Now, under those conditions, do you still want my friendship? "

Robin hung her head, blushing. "Yes. I do, Portia. Under any conditions you say. I want your friendship. "

"Good. Then you'll have to earn it. "

"Earn it? "

"Yes. And you may as well start right now. " Portia strode to the door and opened it. "Louella? "

"Yes'm? "

"I won't need you tonight. You can go home. "

"But you ain't changed yet, Miss Portia. Don't you-"

"It's all right. I'll manage. Just run along. "

"Yes'm. Thank you. Good night, Miss Portia. "

Portia closed the door. "Did you hear that, Robin? Did you hear what I told Louella? "

"Yes. I heard it. "

"Now I've got no one to help me get out of this costume. And I can't do it by myself. " Portia dropped into a chair. She extended one leg. "Shoes and stockings first. Well, what the hell are you waiting for? "

Robin sank to her knees.

THE END
The Whispered Love ....(75k)    by Dallas Mayo





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