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

Stanley Sharpe, the business manager who always tried to talk Ziegfeld out of further extravagance. "Last call! Curtain! Opening chorus!" "Watch that light, Bill." "Ever get a show out of this mess, I'll be surprised," Jenny said. But they'd get a show. The tempo was right, the place crammed with talent. All of us in one pot boiling to a good stew, Mae thought. The orchestra burst into its overture; she hugged Jenny and went out into the wings in her dress of silk chiffon. She could feel the gossamer lining against her flesh. "Who \nows whether the dress is lined or not?" Veronica had demanded. And Mr. Ziegfeld said: "My girls know. Miss Murray will know. They can feel the elegance, it makes them more elegant." She stood beside Ed Wynn, watching the curtain swing. He chuckled nervously close to her ear. "Good girl," he said, fidgeting his small hands. "Good girl." And her heart was bursting because she was in the Follies and Jay would see her at last as the actress she was. She danced as if in a trance. From the moment they wrapped her in the Persian rug and carried her onstage, she was the princess; in the final moment when she ran up the great stairs and hurled herself over the wall, it was as if to death. Strong arms lifted her from the mattresses which broke her fall, wrapped her in a robe, and led her to her dressing room. "Good Lord," Jenny said. "You lost part of your costume, child." She stared in the mirror, herself again. She hadn't known or missed the lost chiffon, but had the audience! Her dressing room was banked with flowers. Jack deSaulles must have bought out a florist. The blooms spilled over into the hall. She looked through the cards during intermission. Strangely, no word from Jay. From the wings, she studied the boxes. He usually sat in the first box on the right. Jack de 4o