I Could Go on Singing by John D. MacDonald

her waist with a tape measure and asked her exactly what she thought she was doing. She had come to the foot of the bed, looking puzzled and amused. “Brownie, when I am miserable, I get
fat
. And when I’m happy I get
fat
. But how in heck does a girl stay halfway between?” He had suggested that if she was getting too smug, he could beat her once in a while. She could put it in her appointment book and remind him.)
    But as he neared sleep, his mind veered to Lois Marney, and he was surprised to find he had so many particularly vivid memories of her. Without realizing he was doing it, he had apparently filed away every tilt of her smooth blonde head, every flicker of expression, every pleasant stretch and curve of the gray wool fabric of her severe suit. “Old goat,” he murmured, and went contentedly to sleep.

four
    Jason Brown’s room phone rang at five minutes after nine, and he found it and mumbled into it before he had the slightest idea of where he was, and only a fragmentary notion of who he was.
    “You sound like a faulty drain, pal,” George Kogan said. “Rise and glow, Jase. She rooted me out, and now she wants you.”
    “Jenny?”
    “Jenny Bowman herself.”
    “Not the Jenny I remember. Not at this hour.”
    “Today would seem to be one of those days. She is full of hectic enthusiasm, and she will not talk to anybody except her old buddy Brownie. The show is on the road, so crank yourself up and come over.”
    Ida opened the door of the suite. She tapped herself on the temple and gestured over her shoulder with her thumb. “In there.”
    Jenny was propped up in a big bed wearing a quilted yellow robe, a breakfast table across her lap. “Good morning! It’s a lovely day. Shut the door, Brownie darling.” He shut the door. She held her arms out. He went over to kiss her. There was a toast crumb on her lip. He picked up her napkin and brushed it away and kissed her.
    “Always fastidious,” she said. “God, it’s good to see you! Pull that chair close, sweetie. I ordered up a spare cup for you, and there’s oceans of coffee.”
    The instant she handed him the cup her mood changed. Her mouth trembled. “Brownie, I have to talk to you. There’s nobody else.”
    “Just George and Ida.”
    “Their minds are made up. No matter what I said, they’d still be convinced I’m being an idiot. I guess there is room for doubt. I don’t know. Brownie, I trust you. I want you to tell me honestly if I’m being a fool.”
    “Or do you want me to confirm something you’ve already decided?”
    “Maybe you know too much about me, too. But you will listen? You will tell me what you
really
think?”
    “You know I will.”
    “I’m so lucky they put you on this script thing. I suppose because we’re friends, they did that. Terrible coffee, isn’t it? Brownie, I’ve got to tell you all about last night. From the beginning.”
    Her mind, conditioned by all the memorizing of parts and lyrics over the years, rebuilt the conversations for him. And her actress talent duplicated the way they were said.
    Tom had driven her to the Wimpole Street address, a small stone building with a look of dignity. There were lights on the second floor. She had told Tom not to wait. He had seemed a little upset. She told him she would take a taxi.
    “The lights came on and a Miss Plimpton answered the bell. A nurse-secretary sort of person. Quite pretty. Young and sort of pale and quite bosomy and veddy veddy correct. She said that Mr. Donne was expecting me. That was something I didn’t know. When you’re a surgeon, you’re Mister instead of Doctor. She led me back through a foyer and a reception hall and up a curvy staircase. I got part way up and I saw David up there, standing by the railing in the shadows. It’s almost fourteen years, Brownie. A long time. It has to be awkward, I suppose. And I guess it was more awkward because I was forcing myself upon him. He was a handsome young man, Brownie. And now he is a very