"I don't like it."
"I don't like it, either. But Maurice says it will make a mint."
"I don't care," he said. "I just don't like the idea of you being in it." He crossed to the telephone. "Get me Mr. Bonner at the Sherry-Netherland."
"Maurice, this is Jonas," he said curtly, a moment later. "Cancel Stareyes. I don't want Denton in it."
She heard Bonner's excited protest all the way across the room.
"I don't care," Jonas said. "Get someone else to play it… Who?… Hayworth, Sheridan. Anyone you want. And from now on, Denton isn't to be scheduled for any picture until I approve the script." He put down the telephone and turned to her.
He was smiling. "You hear that?"
She smiled back at him. "Yes, boss."
The photograph had been an instant success. Everywhere you went, it stared out at you – from walls, from display counters, from calendars and from posters.
And she, too, had gone on to fame. She was a star and when she returned to the Coast, she found that Jonas had approved a new contract for her.
But a year had gone by, including the bombs at Pearl Harbor, and still she had made no other picture. Not that it mattered.
The Sinner was in its second year at the big Norman Theater in New York and was still playing limited-first-run engagements wherever it opened.
It was proving to be the biggest-grossing picture the company had ever made.
Her routine became rigid and unvarying.
Between publicity appearances at each premiere, as the picture opened across the country, she remained on the Coast.
Each morning, she'd go to the studio. There her day would be filled – dramatic lessons in the morning; luncheon, generally with some interviewer; voice, singing and dancing lessons in the afternoon.
Her evenings were generally spent alone, unless Jonas happened to be in town. Then she was with him every night.
Occasionally, she'd have dinner with David and Rosa Woolf.
She liked Rosa and their happy little baby, who just now was learning how to walk and bore the impressive name of Henry Bernard, after David's father and uncle.
But most of the time she spent alone in her small house with the Mexican woman. The word was out.
She was Jonas' girl. And Jonas' girl she remained.
It was only when she was with him that she did not feel the loneliness and lack of purpose that was looming larger and larger inside.
She began to grow restless. It was time for her to go to work.
She read scripts avidly and several times, when she thought she'd found one she might like to do, she got in touch with Jonas.
As always, he'd promise to read it and then call her several days later to say he didn't think it was right for her. There was always a reason.
Once, in exasperation, she'd asked him why he kept her on the payroll if he had nothing for her to do.
For a moment, he'd been silent. When he spoke, his voice was cold and final.
"You're not an actress," he said. "You're a star.
And stars can only shine when everything else is right."
A few days later, Al Petrocelli, the publicity man, came to her dressing room at the studio.
"Bob Hope's doing a show for the boys at Camp Pendleton. He wants you on it."
She turned on the couch on which she was sitting and put down the script she'd been reading.
"I can do it?" she asked, looking at him.
They both knew what she meant.
"Bonner talked to Cord. They both agreed the exposure would be good for you.
Di Santis will be in charge of whipping up an act for you."
"Good," she said, getting to her feet. "It will be great having something to do again."
And now, after six weeks of extensive rehearsal of a small introductory speech and one song, which had been carefully polished, phrased and orchestrated to show her low, husky voice to its greatest advantage, she stood in the wings of the makeshift stage, waiting to go on.
She shivered in the cool night air despite the mink coat wrapped around her.
She peeked out from behind the wings at the audience.
A roar of laughter rolled toward her from the rows upon rows of soldiers, stretching into the night as far as the eye could see.
Hope had just delivered one of his famous off-color, serviceman-only kind of jokes that could never have got on the air during his coast-to-coast broadcasts.
She pulled her head back, still shivering.
"Nervous, eh?" Al asked. "Never worked before an audience before?
Don't worry, it'll soon pass."
A sudden memory of Aida and the routine she'd made her perform before a small but select group of wealthy men in New Orleans flashed through her mind.
"Oh, I've worked in front of an audience before." Then when she saw the look of surprise on his face, "When I was in college," she added dryly.
She turned back to watch Bob Hope.
Somehow, the memory made her feel better.
Al turned to the soldier standing next to him.