Radio and television mirror (Nov 1939-Apr 1940)

Record Details:

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ing address." She was carrying it off well, but Helen was sure she was badly frightened. "Did you ever type a letter to her in which I said I had no production plans?" Sinclair pursued. "Oh, no, Mr. Sinclair. No, I can't understand how that could have happened — unless it was another letter, and it got mixed up — " There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Sinclair broke it. "Well, Mrs. Trent, the important thing is that we did finally make connections. I'll find out later exactly what happened. In the meantime, will you take the script home and read it and let me know your decision?" HELEN rose, accepting the hint the interview was over. As she left, she stole a glance at the secretary. She was still standing there, very neat, very poised, but with despair in her face. It was all very mysterious — just the sort of mystery that would have delighted Dennis Fallon. . . . Oh, Dennis, Dennis! — Sometimes it still came, that cutting pang of grief that she had first known when they told her Dennis was dead. How was it possible to live with a memory for so long? For days, weeks, she would follow the way of her life, knowing that Dennis was dead, had been dead for two years — and then, out of nowhere, came realization that she missed him, would always miss him and could never forget him. Perhaps the dangers they had * faced together had made her love •him more than it was right to love V|ny man. Or perhaps it was because she met him for the first time at the darkest point of her own life. She looked back upon the Helen Trent of those days as she would h:v looked upon a stranger. She had thought that life was ending for her, when in reality it was just beginning. Thirty-five years old, bewildered, frightened, she had faced the world and found it ugly. ... It was Martin Trent who had wanted the divorce, not she. She would have been satisfied — not happy, but satisfied — to live forever as his drudge, his cook, his shadow. Martin was always irritable and frequently cruel, but he was her husband. It had seemed unthinkable that he should cast her aside for someone younger and more beautiful, and after the divorce she had felt unwanted, lonely with that bitter loneliness that comes only to a woman who believes she has lost her youth, her beauty, her selfrespect. It was Agatha Anthony she had to thank for bringing her back to life, helping her and encouraging her while she found a job and rebuilt herself spiritually and physically. That was a debt she could never repay. Even caring for Agatha now, when she was old and crippled, was little enough return for the help Agatha had given her. Then Dennis had entered her life — entered it as he did all things, suddenly and dramatically. There must be magic in the Irish; at any rate, there had been magic in Dennis. Even that first afternoon, when he had jumped into her cab and commanded the driver to race through traffic to an office-building which was the last place in the world Helen wanted to visit — even then, she had trusted him. And later, she still trusted him enough to consent when he urged her to quit her humdrum job in Mary Steward's dress shop and work with him as a secret-service operative. How he had loved those mad, perilous days! The scent of danger was sweeter than any perfume to him — and because he loved it, so had she. Their pursuits had led them across land and sea, into ocean liners and luxury hotels and railway trains and miserable squalid hovels, but always Dennis had had a smile for every hardship, every hazard. Once he had been missing for days, lost at sea. They told her he had been drowned in a capsized lifeboat, but she had not believed it. And at last he had returned, safe. . . . But the swiftly-paced life he led had taken its toll of Dennis. Death came not as he would have wished it, in the midst of adventure, but stealthily, slowly. They had called it heart disease. They might better have said his heart had had too much of living. He had died only a month before he and Helen were to have been married. Well . . . and here she was, two years later, about to sign a contract with Hollywood's most famous young producer to design clothes at two thousand dollars a week. Under such circumstances, surely, it was unproductive to think about the past. Helen picked up the script Drew Sinclair had given her. It would be good to work again. She had hardly turned the first page when her maid opened the door. "Mrs. Drew Sinclair is here to see you, Mrs. Trent," she announced. Helen stifled her amazement. She had known, of course, that Drew Sinclair was married, but she had never met his wife. "Ask her to come in, Louise," she said. Mrs. Sinclair entered, a moment later — or, more exactly, she made an entrance. At sight of her, Helen wondered where she had seen her before. She was tall, voluptuous, dressed in a glittering cloth-of-gold evening gown that revealed every curve of her body. Her hair was determinedly blonde, and her face was pretty and gracious until you saw the eyes. And continuously, "pided Helen of someone she Sown years ago. Please forgive me, Mrs. Trent," 5e said in a high-pitched, birdlike voice, "for running in unannounced like this. I'd have telephoned— but I was afraid if I asked you to do a very special favor for me over the telephone you might say 'No.' " And she laughed selfconsciously. Helen murmured something polite. She knew now where she had seen Mrs. Sinclair before. In the movies, of course. Before her marriage she had been Sandra Michael, a star of the silent films but, because BADIO AND TELEVISION Mumo" tffic Taylor as Drew Sinclair Photo by Seymour C^J^±%T«^Si'frtni ■ And then it happened. One of his impatiently moving hands touched hers. He looked up, straight into her eves. And he seemed to see her, really see her, for the first time. of her voice, unsuccessful after sound came in. "When Drew and I saw 'Heaven on Wheels,' " she was continuing, "I simply raved about the gowns. I said to Drew — do you know my husband, Mrs. Trent?" "Why, I've — met him," Helen said cautiously. WELL, anyway, I told him, 'I simply must have that wonderful woman design a dress for me. Why, she's terrific!' And now that's what I've come to beg you to do, Mrs. Trent! I usually have my clothes done by Reginald Peabody — he's Mr. Sinclair's head costumier— but — well — " She spread Aran., 1940 her hands in a helpless gesture, indicating that Mr. Peabody would just have to get along as best he could, now that an authentic genius had appeared. "I'd be very happy to do some sketches for you to see, of course," Helen said. . "I want you to do a very special kind of dress for me— an evening gown for a reception I'm giving for Prince and Princess Carnov And then, for a few minutes, Mrs. Sinclair explained her idea of a stunning evening dress-something in yellow and purple, because they were the Carnov colors, and— Helen repressed a shudder at Mrs Sinclair's mention of the color scheme. "Yes . . . yes," she nodded. "Now, you're sure you won't be too busy?" queried Mrs. Sinclair at last. "I mean, with all your other work — I wouldn't care to burden you." "No, as a matter of fact I'm not busy at all just now," Helen said. Mrs. Sinclair expressed surprise and horror. "You mean a wonderful designer like you isn't busy every minute? Why, I should think the studios would be simply throwing work at you!" "Hardly," Helen smiled. "Although I may sign with one in the next day or so." "Of course, if all the producers were like (Continued on page 68) 15