reach look plain, Marcia Maling giving the camera the famous three-cornered smile, staring at vacancy with those amazing eyes. . . .
The lounge door swung open and whooshed shut with a breathless little noise. Marcia Maling came in, sat down opposite me, and rang for a drink.
I blinked at her. There was no mistake. That smooth honey-gold hair, the wide lovely eyes, the patrician little nose and the by-no-means patrician mouth—this was certainly the star of that string of romantic successes that had filled one of London's biggest theatres from the first years of the war, and was still packing it today.
The drink came. Marcia Mating took it, tasted it, met my eyes across it and smiled, perfunctorily. Then the smile slid into a stare.
"Forgive me"—it was the familiar husky voice—"but haven't we met? I know you, surely?"
I smiled. "It's very brave of you to say so, Miss Maling. I imagine you usually have to dodge people who claim they've met you. But no, we've, never met."
"I've seen you before, I'm sure."
I flicked the pages of the magazine with a fingernail.
"Probably. I model clothes."
Recognition dawned. "So you do! Then that's where! You model for Montefior, don't you?"
"More often than not—though I do a bit of free-lancing too. My name's Drury. Gianetta Drury. I know yours, of course. And of course I saw your show, and the one before, and the one before that—"
"Back to the dawn of time, my dear. I know. But how nice of you. You must have been in pigtails when we did Wild Belles."
I laughed. "I cut them off early. I had a living to earn."
"And how." Marcia drank gin, considering me. "But I remember where I saw you now. It wasn't in a photograph; it was at Leducq's winter show last year. I bought that divine cocktail frock—"
"The topaz velvet. I remember it. It was a heavenly dress."
She made a face over her glass. "I suppose so. But a mistake for all that. You know as well as I do that it wasn't built for a blonde."
"You weren't a blonde when you bought it," I said, fairly, before I thought. "Sorrj," I added hastily, "I—"
But she laughed, a lovely joyous gurgle of sound. "Neither was I. I'd forgotten. I'd gone auburn for Mitzi.
It didn't suit me, and Mitzi was a flop anyway." She stretched her exquisite legs in front of her and gave me the famous three-cornered smile. "I'm so glad you've come. I've only been here three days and I'm homesick already for town. This is the first time since I left that I've even been able to think about civilized things like clothes, and I do so adore them, don't you?"
"Of course. But as they're my job—"
"1 know," she said. "But nobody here talks about anything but fishing or climbing, and 1 think they're too utterly dreary."
"Then what on earth are you doing here?" The question was involuntary, and too abrupt for politeness, but she answered without resentment.
"My dear. Resting."
"Oh, I see." 1 tried to sound noncommittal, but Marcia Maling lifted an eyebrow at me and laughed again.
"No," she said, "I mean it; really resting—not just out of a job. The show came off a week ago. Adrian said I positively must vegetate, and I had just read a divine book on Skye, so here I am."
"And doesn't Skye come up to the book?"
"In a way. The hills are quite terribly pretty and all that, and I saw some deer yesterday with the cutest baby, but the trouble is you can't really get around. Do you like walking—rough walking?"
"I do, rather."
"Well, I don't. And Fergus just simply refuses to take the car over some of these roads."
"Fergus? You're here with your husband, then?" I tried vainly to remember who was Marcia Maling's current man.
"My dear! I'm not married at all, just now. Isn't it heaven, for a change?" She gave a delicious little chuckle over her pink gin, and I found myself smiling back. Her charm was a tangible thing, something radiant and richly alive, investing her silliest clichés and her outdated extravagances of speech with a heart-warming
The lounge door swung open and whooshed shut with a breathless little noise. Marcia Maling came in, sat down opposite me, and rang for a drink.
I blinked at her. There was no mistake. That smooth honey-gold hair, the wide lovely eyes, the patrician little nose and the by-no-means patrician mouth—this was certainly the star of that string of romantic successes that had filled one of London's biggest theatres from the first years of the war, and was still packing it today.
The drink came. Marcia Mating took it, tasted it, met my eyes across it and smiled, perfunctorily. Then the smile slid into a stare.
"Forgive me"—it was the familiar husky voice—"but haven't we met? I know you, surely?"
I smiled. "It's very brave of you to say so, Miss Maling. I imagine you usually have to dodge people who claim they've met you. But no, we've, never met."
"I've seen you before, I'm sure."
I flicked the pages of the magazine with a fingernail.
"Probably. I model clothes."
Recognition dawned. "So you do! Then that's where! You model for Montefior, don't you?"
"More often than not—though I do a bit of free-lancing too. My name's Drury. Gianetta Drury. I know yours, of course. And of course I saw your show, and the one before, and the one before that—"
"Back to the dawn of time, my dear. I know. But how nice of you. You must have been in pigtails when we did Wild Belles."
I laughed. "I cut them off early. I had a living to earn."
"And how." Marcia drank gin, considering me. "But I remember where I saw you now. It wasn't in a photograph; it was at Leducq's winter show last year. I bought that divine cocktail frock—"
"The topaz velvet. I remember it. It was a heavenly dress."
She made a face over her glass. "I suppose so. But a mistake for all that. You know as well as I do that it wasn't built for a blonde."
"You weren't a blonde when you bought it," I said, fairly, before I thought. "Sorrj," I added hastily, "I—"
But she laughed, a lovely joyous gurgle of sound. "Neither was I. I'd forgotten. I'd gone auburn for Mitzi.
It didn't suit me, and Mitzi was a flop anyway." She stretched her exquisite legs in front of her and gave me the famous three-cornered smile. "I'm so glad you've come. I've only been here three days and I'm homesick already for town. This is the first time since I left that I've even been able to think about civilized things like clothes, and I do so adore them, don't you?"
"Of course. But as they're my job—"
"1 know," she said. "But nobody here talks about anything but fishing or climbing, and 1 think they're too utterly dreary."
"Then what on earth are you doing here?" The question was involuntary, and too abrupt for politeness, but she answered without resentment.
"My dear. Resting."
"Oh, I see." 1 tried to sound noncommittal, but Marcia Maling lifted an eyebrow at me and laughed again.
"No," she said, "I mean it; really resting—not just out of a job. The show came off a week ago. Adrian said I positively must vegetate, and I had just read a divine book on Skye, so here I am."
"And doesn't Skye come up to the book?"
"In a way. The hills are quite terribly pretty and all that, and I saw some deer yesterday with the cutest baby, but the trouble is you can't really get around. Do you like walking—rough walking?"
"I do, rather."
"Well, I don't. And Fergus just simply refuses to take the car over some of these roads."
"Fergus? You're here with your husband, then?" I tried vainly to remember who was Marcia Maling's current man.
"My dear! I'm not married at all, just now. Isn't it heaven, for a change?" She gave a delicious little chuckle over her pink gin, and I found myself smiling back. Her charm was a tangible thing, something radiant and richly alive, investing her silliest clichés and her outdated extravagances of speech with a heart-warming
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