Beauregard?” she asked.
“Yes,” Beauregard said, “but how …”
“The papers,” Lynne said. “I have nothing to do between cattle calls but read the papers. Let’s see, this week you were in Liz Smith, Page Six, and Suzy’s column. That’s not bad. You must have hired Morris to do your P.R.”
“That’s terrible of you to say,” Lauren smiled. “Beau doesn’t like publicity, and if you remind him of it, he’ll surely race back to his germs and microscopes …”
“No, no,” Lynne said, grabbing Beau by the arm, “he’s the first male I’ve met all night who doesn’t have a beard, a shaved head, and tight pants. You mustn’t leave.”
“Well, if it’s that serious,” Beau said, “I might be induced to spend a few more minutes with you two poor ladies.”
“Oh, do … please do …” said Lynne, mocking panic.
Lauren and Beau both laughed, and Beau watched as Lauren tilted back her beautiful neck. Like Ava Gardner’s, Beau thought, getting a bit high from the champagne. Then, with no warning, Lauren Shaw began to fall. Her glass dropped from her hand, and she collapsed toward Lynne and Beau. Lynne dropped her own glass and grabbed her arm, while Beau quickly got his arms around her waist.
A crowd started to form, but Beau moved them back. Lauren had come to almost instantly and leaned between Lynne and Beau.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s all right … Just this opening-night tension.”
“How do you feel?” Beau said, motioning Lynne toward a chair near the buffet.
“Dizzy … a little dry in the mouth. I’m all right. Just nerves. And my head is aching like hell.”
“Here, sit down,” said Lynne.
She and Beau slowly lowered Lauren to a gold brocaded chair.
“I feel fine,” Lauren said. “It’s just a guilt attack. The artiste feels the pangs of remorse for playing in crap.”
Beauregard looked at her eyes.
“Follow my finger,” he said.
“Really, Beau,” Lauren said. “This is not Dr. Kildare time. You’ll make the backers nervous.”
“To hell with the backers. Just look at my finger.”
She did as he said. He watched her pupils carefully, and they tracked him easily.
“I see a huge ugly octopus,” Lauren said. “I see giant cans of Liquid Plumber …”
“Cut the comedy,” Beauregard said. “How long have you been having these headaches.” He took her pulse, which was up to 140.
“A couple of weeks,” she said. “It’s nothing new … I have had them for years.”
“Morris told me that you felt that these pains were different from ordinary tension headaches.”
“Oh, Morris … he’s the ultimate Jewish mother. No … it’s exactly the same. I feel fine … though it is a bit close in here. Why don’t you get my coat and take me away from all this?”
She blinked melodramatically and waved her arm pathetically as if she were a true damsel in distress.
Both Beau and Lynne laughed and shook their heads.
“You are impossible,” Lynne said.
“Yes,” Lauren said, getting up and smiling brilliantly, “I am, dear … but that is the privilege of stardom.”
So saying, she took the coat Beauregard offered her, flipped it over her shoulder, tossed back her head, took Beau’s arm, and headed for the door.
“Oh, Miss Shaw,” Lynne said, in the voice of a stage-struck little girl, “how you do carry on.”
As the limousine sped past the lights of Broadway, Lauren Shaw moved across the back seat and put her head on Beau’s shoulder.
“You okay?” he said.
“I am now,” she said, looking up at him.
“Fine,” he said, with a slight edge to his voice.
“My, that was a professional sounding ‘fine,’ “ she commented.
“Well … it wasn’t meant to be.”
She reached up and playfully boxed his ear.
“Poor, poor Beau,” she said. “I don’t know why I throw myself at you. You know I staged that whole thing just to get you away from Lynne Carter. I saw you staring at her fantastic body. I heard the
“Yes,” Beauregard said, “but how …”
“The papers,” Lynne said. “I have nothing to do between cattle calls but read the papers. Let’s see, this week you were in Liz Smith, Page Six, and Suzy’s column. That’s not bad. You must have hired Morris to do your P.R.”
“That’s terrible of you to say,” Lauren smiled. “Beau doesn’t like publicity, and if you remind him of it, he’ll surely race back to his germs and microscopes …”
“No, no,” Lynne said, grabbing Beau by the arm, “he’s the first male I’ve met all night who doesn’t have a beard, a shaved head, and tight pants. You mustn’t leave.”
“Well, if it’s that serious,” Beau said, “I might be induced to spend a few more minutes with you two poor ladies.”
“Oh, do … please do …” said Lynne, mocking panic.
Lauren and Beau both laughed, and Beau watched as Lauren tilted back her beautiful neck. Like Ava Gardner’s, Beau thought, getting a bit high from the champagne. Then, with no warning, Lauren Shaw began to fall. Her glass dropped from her hand, and she collapsed toward Lynne and Beau. Lynne dropped her own glass and grabbed her arm, while Beau quickly got his arms around her waist.
A crowd started to form, but Beau moved them back. Lauren had come to almost instantly and leaned between Lynne and Beau.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s all right … Just this opening-night tension.”
“How do you feel?” Beau said, motioning Lynne toward a chair near the buffet.
“Dizzy … a little dry in the mouth. I’m all right. Just nerves. And my head is aching like hell.”
“Here, sit down,” said Lynne.
She and Beau slowly lowered Lauren to a gold brocaded chair.
“I feel fine,” Lauren said. “It’s just a guilt attack. The artiste feels the pangs of remorse for playing in crap.”
Beauregard looked at her eyes.
“Follow my finger,” he said.
“Really, Beau,” Lauren said. “This is not Dr. Kildare time. You’ll make the backers nervous.”
“To hell with the backers. Just look at my finger.”
She did as he said. He watched her pupils carefully, and they tracked him easily.
“I see a huge ugly octopus,” Lauren said. “I see giant cans of Liquid Plumber …”
“Cut the comedy,” Beauregard said. “How long have you been having these headaches.” He took her pulse, which was up to 140.
“A couple of weeks,” she said. “It’s nothing new … I have had them for years.”
“Morris told me that you felt that these pains were different from ordinary tension headaches.”
“Oh, Morris … he’s the ultimate Jewish mother. No … it’s exactly the same. I feel fine … though it is a bit close in here. Why don’t you get my coat and take me away from all this?”
She blinked melodramatically and waved her arm pathetically as if she were a true damsel in distress.
Both Beau and Lynne laughed and shook their heads.
“You are impossible,” Lynne said.
“Yes,” Lauren said, getting up and smiling brilliantly, “I am, dear … but that is the privilege of stardom.”
So saying, she took the coat Beauregard offered her, flipped it over her shoulder, tossed back her head, took Beau’s arm, and headed for the door.
“Oh, Miss Shaw,” Lynne said, in the voice of a stage-struck little girl, “how you do carry on.”
As the limousine sped past the lights of Broadway, Lauren Shaw moved across the back seat and put her head on Beau’s shoulder.
“You okay?” he said.
“I am now,” she said, looking up at him.
“Fine,” he said, with a slight edge to his voice.
“My, that was a professional sounding ‘fine,’ “ she commented.
“Well … it wasn’t meant to be.”
She reached up and playfully boxed his ear.
“Poor, poor Beau,” she said. “I don’t know why I throw myself at you. You know I staged that whole thing just to get you away from Lynne Carter. I saw you staring at her fantastic body. I heard the
Similar Books
