  The door was opened, not by Mrs. Berriman, but by a small, dark-haired girl with huge, black eyes and a gamin grin, who greeted her with a decided French accent. “Allo, allo!” she said brightly. “Come een! Are you Amee or Peggee?” “I—I’m Peggy,” Peggy said, somewhat taken aback. “Good!” the French girl cried. “You don’t look like an Amee! I’m Gaby, wheech ees short for Gabrielle. I leeve ’ere. Maman Berriman she ees out shopping, mais les autres girls sont ici. Pardon. I meex too much French een with my talk. Parlez-vous FranÇais?” “Un peu,” Peggy said. “A very little peu, I’m afraid. But I understood you. You said the other girls are here, right?” “Parfait!” Gaby grinned. “Maybee I can teach you how to speak, if you would like that?” “I would,” Peggy agreed enthusiastically, but added quickly, “not starting right now, though!” “Okay,” Gaby shrugged. “Come on! I first introduce you.” Four girls waited in the large, comfortable living room, all looking expectantly at the door. As Peggy entered, a pert-faced redhead bounced out of her chair to say hello. “I’m Dot,” she announced. “Are you Peggy or Amy?” “Peggee, of course!” Gaby cut in, before Peggy could answer. “Does she look like an Amee to you?” “No, I guess she doesn’t,” Dot said reflectively. “Well, welcome!” “Thank you,” Peggy said. “Now will somebody tell me who Amy is?” “Let me introduce you first,” Dot answered, taking Peggy by the arm. “This is Irene, our household beauty queen,” she said. Irene, a tall, startlingly beautiful brunette, languidly waved a gesture of welcome with long, perfectly manicured fingers. Smiling, she said, “Don’t mind her jealous tones, Peggy. They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and that means that she must love me, or she’d think I was ugly.” A pretty, round-faced girl with almost white blond hair done in a long single braid came over to Peggy. “They sound very catty,” she said with a gentle smile, “but we think they wouldn’t know what to do without each other. Now, no fighting tonight,” she said to Dot and Irene. “We want to give Peggy a chance to get used to us first.” Then, turning back to Peggy, she said, “My name is Greta. Your room is right next door to mine. And this is Maggie.” Maggie, all freckles, brown bangs, and bright China-blue eyes, was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Without uncrossing her legs, she rose effortlessly, offered a wiry handshake and a warm grin, and sank back to her former position in one fluid movement. “She’s not showing off,” Dot said, noticing Peggy’s startled look. “She does that sort of thing all the time without even thinking about it. She’s a dancer, and she makes the rest of us seem like a herd of elephants by comparison.” “Not elephants,” Maggie said. “Not since I’ve been teaching you all how to move and walk. Maybe buffalo, but not elephants!” “Do you know ’ow to move and walk?” Gaby asked. “I always thought so, but now I’m beginning to have my doubts,” Peggy replied. “Walk to the door and then back,” Maggie said. Peggy did so, trying to be as graceful as she could, without seeming in any way affected. She had never really considered her walking ability before, and now that she was doing so, under the close scrutiny of the five girls, she suddenly felt that she had never walked before. Coming back to Maggie, she waited hopefully for her judgment. “Elephant?” she asked. “Nope,” Maggie said, as if trying to find just the right kind of beast. “Buffalo?” “A little better than buffalo, I think. Maybe a well-bred cart horse. But don’t feel bad about it. You haven’t had lessons yet. Now, we can start by—” “We can start by sitting down and getting to know each other first,” Greta interrupted. “Come on, Peggy. You must be really confused by all this.” “A little,” Peggy admitted. “It seems that everyone wants to teach me something. I was hardly in the house when Gaby was offering French lessons! What do you teach?” “I try to teach good manners to my crazy friends here,” Greta said with a laugh, “but I don’t seem to be very good at it!” When Peggy was established in a comfortable chair, with the other girls around her, the first thing she asked was, “Now, who is Amy?” “Amy Shelby Preston is all we know about her,” Dot said, “just as Peggy Lane is all we know about you. That, and the fact that you were both due to get here tonight.” “Good!” Peggy said. “Then I won’t be the only new girl in the place! That ought to make it a little easier on me, and on all of you.” “Oh, you’re not a new girl any more!” Irene laughed. “You’re only new around here for the first five minutes, and you’ve been here nearly ten by now! If Amy Shelby Preston takes another half hour to get here, you’ll be an old-timer by then!” “Oui, that ees so!” Gaby put in. “Everybodee here ees so open—they tell you everytheeng about themselves so trÈs vite—that means veree fast—that you know them so like old friends in no time, yes?” Peggy thought that this was a fine idea, and she said so. Then, in accordance with what she now knew to be the household custom, she told the five girls as much about herself as she felt would be interesting to them: where she was from, why she was in New York—a five-minute autobiography. “... so, you see,” she finished, “I wanted to study acting and I felt that this was the only place to go, so here I am.” “It’s pretty much the same with us,” Dot said. “None of us is from New York either, and we all came to be in the theater or some part of it. I’m a comedienne and eccentric dancer, and I sing a little, too. I’m not going to any school but I still work with a voice coach and a drama coaching group. I’m from California originally. I was in a few movies, but not in any good roles. I’m not a movie type. I came here when I got a chance to do a television series that originated live from New York, and when the series ended, I stuck around. I’m in a Broadway musical now, lost in the chorus. It’s not much, but it pays the rent.” “She’s too modest,” Greta said. “She’s not just in the chorus. She has a dance specialty and a few lines, and she’s understudying the lead comedienne. And she’s good at it, too.” Dot blushed and said roughly, “For goodness’ sake, don’t be nice to me! It makes me feel I have to be nice to you, and that’s not my character!” Greta answered promptly, “All right, then, let’s talk about me! Anyone who doesn’t want stage center isn’t going to get it!” She stood up, walked to the center of the room and made a small pirouette, her thick braid whirling around her. “I am Greta Larsen and I come from Boston,” she recited in a little-girl voice. “I know I have a face like a Swedish dumpling, and everybody thinks I should have come from there or at least from Wisconsin like you. If you come from Boston, you’re supposed to be Irish. I’m an ingÉnue and I’ve been in four off-Broadway plays and one Broadway play, and all of them were flops. Right now I’m working as a script editor for a TV producer, and trying to make him realize that I’m an actress. So far he hardly realizes I’m a script editor. He thinks I’m a hey-you.” With a comic bow like a mechanical doll, she sat down to a round of laughter and applause. “Who’s next?” Peggy said, still laughing. “I haven’t had such fun in ages!” Gaby, who stood up next, threw the girls into gales of laughter by announcing first that she was French. Then she went on to tell Peggy that her full name was Gabrielle Odette Francine DuChamps Goulet, but that she only used the name Gaby Odette. Her mother was dead and her father worked for the UN in New York, but spent most of his time traveling about the world, only returning for a few weeks at a time. Gaby had studied acting in France, and had even attracted some critical attention and good personal reviews in her one acting part in Paris, but when her father came to America, she decided to come with him and make a new start here. Since her arrival about a year ago, she had been devoting all of her energy to studying English, and hoped that in another six months or so she would be good enough to start looking for parts. “I guess I’m next,” Irene said, stretching her long, well-shaped legs and leaning back in her chair. “I’m Irene Marshall, and I’m—” But just then the doorbell rang, interrupting her. “That must be Amy,” she said. “Now I don’t have to tell my history twice.” She strode to the door to let the new arrival in, and in a few seconds ushered her into the living room. “This is Amy Preston,” she announced, “and this,” she continued, waving a hand at the five girls in the living room, “is a room full of girls. Come on in and meet them.” Peggy thought that Amy Preston was just about the prettiest girl she had ever seen, and as she watched her gracefully shaking hands and saying hello, she felt sure that they would be friends. Amy’s honey-blond hair framed a small oval face, large brown eyes and a smiling, self-possessed expression. When she spoke, it was with a soft, pleasant Southern accent and a low voice. Irene introduced Amy to Peggy last of all, and Peggy said, “I’m really glad to have you here. I’m new too. I just came in about a half hour ago, and I was so relieved to know that I wasn’t going to be the only new girl.” “It makes me feel heaps better too,” Amy said. “In fact, as much as I’ve been looking forward to New York, I’ve been half dreading this first meeting. I may not look it, but I’m really quite shy.” “And I was just thinking how well you handled yourself during all these introductions!” Peggy said. “Oh, you have to do that if you’re shy,” Amy said. “That way, people never know about it. It’s the same thing as going on the stage, I guess. They say that the best actresses and actors are always just nearly paralyzed with stage fright. In fact, I think that’s what adds the extra excitement to their presence. At least I hope so!” “Did you come to New York to act, too?” Peggy asked. “I hope to, if I’m lucky,” Amy replied. “But first off, I came to study.” “So did I,” Peggy said. “Where are you studying?” “The New York Academy,” Amy answered, with a faintly perceptible touch of pride. “Why, so am I!” Peggy cried with delight. The two of them quickly fell into an animated discussion of the Academy and of Mr. Macaulay. They were just comparing notes on their interviews with him when Dot gently but firmly interrupted. “You girls will have a lot of time for all that, but now it’s time to do all the introductions. Amy, you tell us about you, and then we’ll go on about us. Gaby and Greta and Peggy and I have told about us already, so we won’t repeat it now. We’ll catch you tomorrow. So there’s only you and Irene and Maggie to go.” Then she explained about the household method of introduction, which Amy agreed was a fine idea. Amy’s speech was short and direct. “I’m Amy Preston, and I come from Pine Hollow, North Carolina, which nobody ever heard of except the people who live there. I went to college for a year and acted in four plays, and then I persuaded my parents to let me come to New York to act. There’s nothing else to tell about me, except that I think I’m the luckiest girl I ever knew to find a place like this to live in and a place like the Academy to study at. I know I’m going to like you all, and I hope you’re going to like me, too.” Blushing slightly, she sat down, and Peggy noticed that her hands were trembling a little. She hadn’t been fooling about the shyness and stage fright then, Peggy thought, but she was certainly able to keep it from showing, unless you looked very closely. Peggy was sure that Amy would prove to be a good actress. The rest of the introductory speeches went swiftly. Irene, it turned out, was from Cleveland. Her real name was Irma Matysko, but she thought, and everybody agreed, that Irene Marshall sounded a lot better for a would-be actress. She had acted in several television dramas in minor parts, and was supporting herself mostly as a fashion model. Maggie, the dancer, spoke next. “I’m Maggie Delahanty,” she began, “and I was actually born in Ireland, only my parents brought me here when I was two, so I don’t remember anything about it. I was raised in Philadelphia, where my father is a bus driver, and I’ve been dancing since I was three. I’ve worked in musicals on Broadway and on the road, and I’ve worked in night clubs, which I hate. Right now I’m studying singing with a fine coach, so that I can get some good work, because there’s nothing much for a dancer who can’t sing. I just got back last week from a summer tour with a music circus, in which I danced my way through ten states in as many weeks. Right now, I don’t know what I’m going to do, except sit down as much as I can.” With another one of her uncanny, fluid movements, she sat down. The general introductions done, Peggy and Amy went back to their conversation about Mr. Macaulay and the Academy. Amy’s experience in her interview had been much the same as Peggy’s. She too had prepared material to read and, like Peggy, had thought at first that she was rejected when Mr. Macaulay wouldn’t let her read it. Now she could hardly wait to get started. Irene, who had heard all about Mr. Macaulay and his brusque approach before she had tried to get into the Academy a year ago, said that she knew she hadn’t made the grade the minute he had started being kind to her. “Why did he reject you?” Peggy asked. “He said that a girl as pretty as me didn’t need acting lessons,” Irene said with a laugh. “He said that even if I learned to be a good actress, I would never have a chance to prove it, because I would be given the kind of parts that just need looks. I told him that I wanted to be a good actress as well as a pretty one and he told me that it would be a tragic mistake, because there aren’t any parts written for people like that!” She laughed again, then in a more sober tone, added, “I think he was just being kind to me and trying to make me feel good. And you know what? He succeeded!” As the conversation turned to plays and roles and types of actresses, the other girls joined in. They had just gotten to a spirited and somewhat noisy discussion of the ability of a well-known actress, when May Berriman came in. “Well, Amy and Peggy!” she said. “I see you’ve met everybody and you’re right at home! Good! Now let me make you feel even more at home by acting like a mother. Do you girls know that it’s very late? And do you know that I’ve been busy making hot chocolate for you? And that it’s waiting in the kitchen right now, getting cool? Well, now you know, so get moving!” The seven girls and May Berriman trooped downstairs to the big, homey kitchen that Peggy had noticed on her first visit. Full of friendly people and the smell of hot chocolate and homemade cookies, the kitchen seemed to Peggy the nicest place she had ever been. Seated in antique painted chairs around the long sawbuck table with May Berriman at its head, they passed around cookies and chocolate and continued the discussion of the prominent actress, carefully taking her apart, gesture by gesture, until it seemed a wonder that she had ever gotten so much as a walk-on role. “It’s all very easy to criticize your elders and betters,” May Berriman finally said, “but it’s quite another thing to stand up on the stage with them and act on their level! That’s not to say that I disapprove of discussions like this. I think they’re good, because they do develop your critical abilities, but I think they can be carried too far.” With a glance at the clock, she added, “And I think this one has gone far enough into the night. Now all of you, get up to bed. Peggy and Amy haven’t even unpacked yet!” |
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