there.”
“No?” Blaustein said, smiling. “I was just looking at you when we were standing outside, thinking how easily you could be cast as a noble, caring doctor.”
Beauregard laughed and Blaustein smiled at him, and then the overture to In Charm’s Way started.
After fifteen minutes of
In Charm’s
Way, Beauregard understood that it was what Morris Blaustein had once described to him as a “percentage play.” That is, it was a totally commercial enterprise with just the right percentage of sex (not really sex at all, but mere titillation), just the correct percentage of mystery (Who had stolen Lauren’s priceless Degas?), and just the right percentage of laughs, which were mixed with the correct, civilized amounts of empathy. In short, the whole thing was a formula, tried and true, without a striking or original note in it. He propped his head up on the seat, composed his face in the receptive expression he felt necessary, and caught the first act. Lauren entered and he applauded loudly. God, she was beautiful, but he worried about her. She pushed herself too hard. In many ways they were alike. Both of them caught up by their careers to the point of maximum stress overload. That wasn’t good—it made for a constant, gnawing need to work, which in its own way was worse than a gnawing need to make money or achieve power. It hemmed you in, narrowed you. That was what he had really wanted to say to Cross … that you had to have time for people, had to go easy on yourself … then Lauren’s voice, as though it were far away, and in a second, in spite of his best efforts, he fell sound asleep.
“I’m so glad to see you, Beau,” Lauren said, smiling at him and pouring him a glass of champagne. “So very glad.”
He stood at the open French windows of Sardi’s upstairs room and looked down on the glittering lights of Manhattan. He took Lauren’s hand and pressed it tightly. Her hair was jet-black, her eyes beautifully hazel, and her complexion tanned and smooth as a child’s, though he knew she was thirty-five. Her body was firm, her breasts perfectly full and rounded, her waistline so tiny he knew he could pull her to him like a child. Yet, her legs were hard, long, a woman’s legs, and he thought, My God, my God, I’m here with one of the most desirable women in America and yet … Yet, there was something missing, some intimacy that he shared with Heather, that he felt he might never share with anyone else, and it made him feel tense, coiled inside.
“You were terrific in the play,” he said, before she could ask him how he liked it.
“Really, Beau,” she said, smiling at him and kissing him gently on the cheek. “Please don’t you be as sycophantic as the others. We both know it’s utter garbage.”
Beauregard smiled. She was utterly charming and without a trace of self-deception.
“Do you think it will be a hit?” he asked, trying to sound optimistic.
“Of course, darling,” she said. “Of course it will. It has the right blend. Low comedy, bad dialogue, and ersatz romance. It can’t miss.”
“What’s this I hear about romance?” said a voice behind Beauregard.
He turned and stood face to face with the most beautiful redhead he had ever seen. At least ten years younger than Lauren and wearing a dress cut down to her navel, she seemed to pulsate with sex. Beauregard actually felt startled looking at her.
“Oh, God,” Lauren said. “Just when I was beginning to kid myself into thinking I was young again.”
“Oh, you are young,” the woman said. “Younger than springtime …”
She smiled and started to sing the song from
South
Pacific.
“This,” said Lauren, “is Lynne Carter. She is newly arrived in New York from the Coast. And if the reaction of the men in this room sets any precedent, I would say that she will have Mayor Koch sitting at her feet within twenty-four hours.”
“Just give me some work,” Lynne said, taking Beau’s hand. “Robert
“No?” Blaustein said, smiling. “I was just looking at you when we were standing outside, thinking how easily you could be cast as a noble, caring doctor.”
Beauregard laughed and Blaustein smiled at him, and then the overture to In Charm’s Way started.
After fifteen minutes of
In Charm’s
Way, Beauregard understood that it was what Morris Blaustein had once described to him as a “percentage play.” That is, it was a totally commercial enterprise with just the right percentage of sex (not really sex at all, but mere titillation), just the correct percentage of mystery (Who had stolen Lauren’s priceless Degas?), and just the right percentage of laughs, which were mixed with the correct, civilized amounts of empathy. In short, the whole thing was a formula, tried and true, without a striking or original note in it. He propped his head up on the seat, composed his face in the receptive expression he felt necessary, and caught the first act. Lauren entered and he applauded loudly. God, she was beautiful, but he worried about her. She pushed herself too hard. In many ways they were alike. Both of them caught up by their careers to the point of maximum stress overload. That wasn’t good—it made for a constant, gnawing need to work, which in its own way was worse than a gnawing need to make money or achieve power. It hemmed you in, narrowed you. That was what he had really wanted to say to Cross … that you had to have time for people, had to go easy on yourself … then Lauren’s voice, as though it were far away, and in a second, in spite of his best efforts, he fell sound asleep.
“I’m so glad to see you, Beau,” Lauren said, smiling at him and pouring him a glass of champagne. “So very glad.”
He stood at the open French windows of Sardi’s upstairs room and looked down on the glittering lights of Manhattan. He took Lauren’s hand and pressed it tightly. Her hair was jet-black, her eyes beautifully hazel, and her complexion tanned and smooth as a child’s, though he knew she was thirty-five. Her body was firm, her breasts perfectly full and rounded, her waistline so tiny he knew he could pull her to him like a child. Yet, her legs were hard, long, a woman’s legs, and he thought, My God, my God, I’m here with one of the most desirable women in America and yet … Yet, there was something missing, some intimacy that he shared with Heather, that he felt he might never share with anyone else, and it made him feel tense, coiled inside.
“You were terrific in the play,” he said, before she could ask him how he liked it.
“Really, Beau,” she said, smiling at him and kissing him gently on the cheek. “Please don’t you be as sycophantic as the others. We both know it’s utter garbage.”
Beauregard smiled. She was utterly charming and without a trace of self-deception.
“Do you think it will be a hit?” he asked, trying to sound optimistic.
“Of course, darling,” she said. “Of course it will. It has the right blend. Low comedy, bad dialogue, and ersatz romance. It can’t miss.”
“What’s this I hear about romance?” said a voice behind Beauregard.
He turned and stood face to face with the most beautiful redhead he had ever seen. At least ten years younger than Lauren and wearing a dress cut down to her navel, she seemed to pulsate with sex. Beauregard actually felt startled looking at her.
“Oh, God,” Lauren said. “Just when I was beginning to kid myself into thinking I was young again.”
“Oh, you are young,” the woman said. “Younger than springtime …”
She smiled and started to sing the song from
South
Pacific.
“This,” said Lauren, “is Lynne Carter. She is newly arrived in New York from the Coast. And if the reaction of the men in this room sets any precedent, I would say that she will have Mayor Koch sitting at her feet within twenty-four hours.”
“Just give me some work,” Lynne said, taking Beau’s hand. “Robert
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