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Thi s really happened in a Hollywood studio to a girl who stood in the
it with heart —
READ
AS she stood outside the director's office — just one of a couple of hundred other folk sent on approval from Central Casting — Molly realized that she was hungry, that she hadn't eaten for the past two days. Realized a bitter pang that traveled from her tummy to her and back again to her tummy! She almost laughed at the idea. Why, only a matter of a month ago — well, two months ago — she had been buying butterscotch pecan sundaes, back in New York. And telling herself that she must eat less — or she'd grow plump.
The thought of being plump, now — Molly looked down at the thinness of her hands, clasped loosely in front of her — had a sense of hysteria about it. The thought of a butterscotch pecan sundae brought hot tears to her eyes.
She had given up her well-paid secretarial job so blithely, had Molly. Because the whole movie racket had seemed so easy — to read about. Because so many people had told her that she had a figure like Joan Crawford and eyes like Gloria Swanson. She had invested the savings of five whole years in railroad tickets and pretty frocks.
She had — with a wave of one slender hand (it had been slender then, not thin!) — dismissed the three-fold offer of a slim platinum and diamond band, a three-room apartment on lower Fifth Avenue, and security. To say nothing of love.
"But I don't want marriage," she had said to Preston Crowell, the young man who had made the offer, "I wanta career!"
Rl.
And then, suddenly, she was crying, and the star was saying, "My God, she really acts as if she is starving!"
"Don't you care about me?" Preston Crowell had asked. He was a modern young man with sleek hair and a walking stick and a smart roadster (very nearly paid for, too) — but despite all that, his voice was just a shade unsteady.
"Don't you like me — a little bit?" he had implored.
Molly had been near to softening when she heard the quaver in that usually steady, sophisticated young voice. For she did like Preston — she more than liked him.
She had known many a joyous hour in the roadster — speeding through Westchester, parked in the twilight of Riverside Drive. She had thrilled to the tiled kitchenette of the little apartment. She had also thrilled to certain not exactly stolen kisses. But for all her momentary softness, she did not relent.