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44
THE TRUE DRAMA OF A RADIO SINGER
he went, whatever he did. He wasn't handsonne, his features were too rugged for that, but he had the sort of face you'd never forget, once you'd seen it, full of character and purpose. When I met him he was thirtyone, which seemed ancient to my seventeen, and he had a dusting of white against the black of his hair.
For five years after that first meeting in the shabby office of the agent, we were partners. Really partners. We trusted each other completely. Martie found jobs for me — and it was wonderful how, with his wide acquaintance along Broadway, he opened doors that I had knocked on in vain. He selected a singing coach for me and paid the bills out of his own pocket. He went with me to the hairdresser's and supervised the creation of a coiffeur that would frame my face most becomingly; and to stores where he led me away from the flashy dresses my immature fancy selected to others which were always subtly, flatteringly right. For every one of the dozens of details that go into making a career as a singer he had an answer.
And he made a success of me. I went on and on, from a third-rate night club to a second-rate one, from a guest appearance on the radio to a good sponsor and then a better one, from a part in a musical comedy to a one-picture Hollywood contract which Martie did not approve of, because he said I wasn't ready, and which turned out to be just as disastrous as he'd predicted. That set us back for a while, but not for long. Another musical-coxnedy part, a new radio contract at a higher figure, and we were on top of the wave again.
Oh, I knew what Broadway said about us, but I didn't care because it wasn't true, and because all the gossip was the result of simple jealousy. There never was a hint of love between us. Martie never even kissed me, and while I felt a deeper affection for him than for anyone in the world except Johnny and Norine, my brother and sister, it was as a person, not a man. I knew what I wanted from love — someone nearer my own age, handsome and gallant, who would dominate and adore me, give me everything and de
mand that I give him everything in return.
Someone like Bob Trayne.
I met him after the broadcast one night, in a group of people the sponsor had brought. He was tall as Martie, but there the resemblance ended. Blond hair above an incredibly clear bronzed face, white, even teeth when he smiled, broad shoulders that told you he'd been a star athlete in college, a manner toward women that was assured, yet full of deference . . . these were what I saw that first evening. And I fell in love with them.
/n' fhe silence that followed, my love for him withered and died.