The New Movie Magazine (Jan-Sep 1935)

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"Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?" she was saying softly as I closed the door of the sound stage behind me. Truly that girl is a great actress, I thought, and I still think so. I did not see her when she got back from New York. I did not see her in California, so you can imagine my excitement when told that Miss Hepburn not only remembered me but would like to see me again — When? Well, Miss Hepburn was on her farm near Hartford, but she would be back in New York the first of the week, and then — "As soon as we can get in touch with her, we will get in touch with you." The minute I heard the old familiar "get in touch with" I became suspicious. I tried to conjure up a vision of anyone getting in touch with Katie, if by chance she was feeling in an ''untouchable" frame of mind. "Perhaps," I suggested shyly, "if you would give me Miss Hepburn's phone number, I might get in touch with her myself." There was a momentous pause. If I had asked for Hitler's latch-key it couldn't have been more out of order. I relieved the tension quickly. "When you get in touch with Miss Hepburn, you find out if it's 0. K.," I said, "and call me." Inside of an hour I was given the number which I'm sure I could sell to the perspiring press for enough to buy Katie a new car. (The poor girl drives around Hollywood in a small truck.) I was told just when Miss Hepburn would be at home, and was I proud? There I was with inside information that would make the New York Intelligence Squad admit it was just a Boy Scout Company. When the great "getting in touch" moment finally dragged around, I contacted a busy signal that continued for what seemed like an hour and was in reality just ten minutes, just ten minutes too long. Miss Hepburn had been in and gone out again. Compared to Katie's maid, the Sphinx was a society news columnist. At least that's what I thought the first time I called. Now she thinks I'm Mrs. Tel-and-Tel herself, and we have a great deal in common. Namely Miss Hepburn. For two days, at thirty cents a call from Tarrytown to New York, I burned wires, money and stubborn energy. Then came the dawn! And with it Katie's unmistakable voice saying, "I'm so sorry." If I sign off right now I've made history. I've not only heard the Wild Fawn of Filmdom say "I'm sorry," but I've listened enthralled while she explained what she had been doing between leaps in and out of her New York domicile. Seeing shows. Shopping. The family was down from Hartford and "you know what it is," said Katie. I didn't know, but I'll be a yes-woman any time she uses that "You're so understanding" inflection on me. "Now look," she continued, "We will get together the first of the week. I'm leaving for Hartford now." "Couldn't you come by Tarrytown," I put in mildly. "I'd love to," she said, "but you see I've got the whole bunch with me. 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Address Nacor Medicine Co., 965 State Life Bldg., Indianapolis, Indiana. could be anything but an only child, and it seems that the Hepburns of Hartford run into quite a goodly sized total. "Shall I call you or will you call me?" "I'll call you," I answered. I knew a moment afterward I had been a sap. It was too late. Kate was en route to Hartford again. On Monday it started all over again. I called her and missed her. She called me and missed me. Meanwhile, the fact that she was as much "in the air" as I was busy trying to get on it, was cluttering up both of our lives and more. I had no family in Hartford. Mine was right with me at Ye Old Manor House in Tarrytown, which has been waggling along since 1863 (the house, not my family). The telephone was getting on the nerves of my entourage, who Jike Miss Hepburn very much, but think people should telephone me. Nevertheless and despite their groans, I phoned Miss H. again three days later. She had just gone to Hartford. As a youthful star I played Hartford often, but I don't seem to remember its fatal fascination. "What about the Hepburn article?" said Mr. New Movie jauntily a few days later. "What about the Japanese naval pact?" I countered. "Your guess is better than mine. What is my dead line?" I added. Deadline having nothing to do with when I was to die from sheer fatigue in pursuit of Katie, but meaning when must the article be in. "Ten days at the latest." He is not usually so stern. I imagine he has been on one of these Hepburn treasure hunts before. "You'll have it," I said, "and this time, to quote my radio pet, Ed Wynn, 'the show's goin' to be different.' This one is going to be telephonic, if not psychopathic." I reached for my current twin soul, the telephone, and got my pal, Katie's maid. Miss Hepburn had been in town Wednesday and had tried to get me on the phone. As it happened on Wednesday I was embarking on a completely new career. I was becoming the first official woman radio announcer on the staff of the National Broadcasting Company. Of course, if I had known that Katie was going to dash in from Hartford and phone me, I should have informed the NBC that 1 couldn't possibly give up my real life's work, but that's the way she is. She has no sense of forewarning. Almost in tears I explained to the Sphinx's sister that I had to "get in touch" with the heartbreaker of Hartford within the next week. She was all sympathy. Miss Hepburn would be telephoning her from Hartford and she would explain everything. Disconsolately and half "Hartfordly," I turned my attention to Radio City. I've got a day off from announcing and I've been rattling away for several hundred words. The "deadline" is imbedded between my eyebrows. The phone rings. Talk about drama. It's the one and only Katie back from Hartford and asking me to come to lunch tomorrow. No party, just a nice chummy lunch. You can't believe it. Such things don't happen. Tomorrow my assignments as an announceress include one broadcast at twelve-thirty and one at one-fifteen. When do I lunch? That is not important, but the terrible thing is that I cannot lunch with Katie. Well, I said the show was going to be different. I'll say it is. Usually I exit laughingly, but tomorrow I will probably be sobbing into the microphone at one-fifteen as I announce: "This program comes to you through the 'cruelty' of the National Broadcasting Company." 74 The Neiv Movie Magazine, April, 1935