Radio stars (Oct 1934-Sept 1935)

mm OF R (cROOHER'S WIFE" ISUPPOSK I'm one of the most envied women in the world. On the face of it, I've got everything. A husband whose fame is a household byword, along with his youth and charm and talent. Money that flows in on us in an inexhaustible golden tide. All the furs and frocks and jewels that monev can buy — Hal is generosity itself, with his fabulous earnings, I'm only twenty-five. Even if there are times when I feel older, my mirror tells me I'm still lovely to look at. (And sometimes ilal tells me so, too. . . .) And — I'm Hal Robey's wife! The wife of one of the most popular and adored stars on the networks. Of the boy who, with his marvelous tenor voice, his good looks and charm — the charm that wings over the air-waves straight to the heart of every woman who tunes in on him — is every woman's lover ! Lucky me, you say ? I wonder. . . . I gave an interview to a young woman from one of the bigger radio magazines last week. She wanted the intimate, inside story of our marriage. She got a good story. But when I read it, I wondered what had happened to the girl who fell in love with a lad with tousled fair hair and an unforgettable voice — and who married the sweetheart of a million women ! Perhaps if I write the real truth, I'll lay her ghost. It won't hurt Hal. No one who reads this will guess who he really is. His build-up and publicity have made our meeting, our marriage, our life together, a romantic legend. A legend so far from the truth that the truth can't imperil it. . . . I was just twenty when I saw Hal for the first time. He wasn't the famous Hal Robey then. He was just a lovable good-looking kid of twentyone or -two, scared stiff under his cockiness, gambling everything on a ten a. m. audition in studio C ! It's funny to remember that I was, in a small way. part of the glamorous world to which he aspired. I'd been a hostess in Broadcast City for eight months, you see. Not that I kidded myself. My casual, daily contact with executives and stars and would-be stars was as thrilling as ever, but after all, I was just a pretty, competent girl at a desk outside the executive offices. I knew the glittering radio world behind those portals was, to Molly Shannon, as remote, as inaccessible as Mars. W hat happened in the sound-proof studios didn't concern me — until the morning Ilal showed up. with his seven-piece singing orchestra! Of course, I'd got so that, at first glance, I couli tell a newcomer trying to break into radio. \\ hether they're destined for fame and fortune, or heartbreaking obscurity, they all have the same look Proud and excited and panicky. ' Mikc'-fri</ht has a way of getting to you long before you find yourself in front of the microphone! This boy already was bracing himself for his big moment. I gave him my best smile as he leaned over the desk. And even l>efore he spoke or smiled back at me — with the smile that now is known all over the world — something passed between us like an electric current. "I'm Hal Robey." he said. There was something about his voice, husky and endearing— well, I needn't describe it. You've heard it. "I've brought my singing orchestra here for a ten o'clock audition. Mr. Carlin fixed the date." "Mr. Carlin? Just a moment please. . . ." I had to tell a grenardierish-looking woman, with a group of schoolgirls in tow, when the next tour of Broadcast City would start, and when I got through with her he still was hanging over my desk. "I didn't know they made anything as blue as your eyes !" he said. "And under that black bang, too. . ." He flashed his lovely smile at me again. "Am 1 too fresh ? Sorry ! W here do I go from here ?" I could feel the color creeping right up to my temples. Funny, wasn't it. when I was used to being jollied by half the big shots in radio? (They're terribly nice, radio people. Maybe it's because you don't — or can't — get over in radio unless you've got that warm, friendly something that reaches right out and makes a personal contact with everyone ! ) "Right up to the top, I hope !" I heard myself sav in a funnv little voice. "Mr. Carlin — you're to go to Studio C." He drew a deep breath, and straightened his tie. It was sort of shabby, like his blue serge suit that had seen plenty of pressings. And I knew that I wanted him to make good in his audition as I'd i