The self-enchanted : Mae Murray : image of an era (1959)

"Now you're a kidnapped baby," he said, holding her against him. "I thought you and Jay were such friends," Mae said. "No men are friends where women are concerned." "I'm not interested in men, Jack. I'm interested in dancing." He laughed. "You'll be living on Park Avenue before the year is out. Jay and I have a bet." She hit him as hard as she could. "That's part of your charm," he laughed, "that incredible faith in virginity." It was no use answering. She peered out into the night, trying to recognize what was spelled in the electric bulbs. Yonkers. "Jack, let me telephone the club, please. This is my job. You promised me — if I came to the party, you'd get me back for my last show." He finally did stop before an all-night drug store. It was terribly late and the phone rang and rang before Maurice answered at the Sans Souci. "There was someone waiting to see you," he said. "Mr. Ziegfeld was here. Mr. Florenz Ziegfeld." She marched out to the car without a word and silently they drove home. She never wanted to see him or Jay again as long as she lived. She wanted her own life back. At three a.m., they pulled up in front of her house. A tall figure stepped from the doorway. Jay's face was white in the glare of headlights. She stared at him numbly while Jack gunned the car to full speed and swept on. "I'll take you to a hotel," he said. "I'll arrange everything." When he pulled up at a place in the West Fifties, she jumped out and ran to a policeman who stood leaning, half-asleep, against a lamp post. "I must have a taxi, at once, please." Obliquely, she saw Jack retreating from the law. The policeman blew his whistle, bored. She might have been the twenty-fifth girl who'd run to him out of the night without a wrap in a wine-stained evening 21