Memories of Midnight. Сидни Шелдон
Demiris was on the telephone to London. “She’s on her way.”
The plane was scheduled to leave from Hellenikon Airport at 9:00 a.m. It was a Hawker Siddeley, and, to Catherine’s surprise, she was the only passenger. The pilot, a pleasant-faced middle-aged Greek named Pantelis, saw to it that Catherine was comfortably seated and buckled in.
“We’ll be taking off in just a few minutes,” he informed her.
“Thank you.”
Catherine watched him walk into the cockpit to join the co-pilot, and her heart suddenly began to beat faster. This is the plane that Larry flew. Had Noelle Page sat in the seat I am now sitting in? Catherine suddenly felt as though she were going to faint; the walls began to close in on her. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath. That’s all over, she thought. Demiris is right. That’s the past and nothing can change it.
She heard the roar of the engines, and opened her eyes. The plane was lifting off, heading northwest toward London. How many times had Larry made this flight? Larry. She was shaken by the mixture of emotions that his name brought. And the memories. The wonderful, terrible memories …
It was the summer of 1940, the year before America got into the war. She had been fresh out of Northwestern University, and had gone from Chicago to Washington, D.C., for her first job.
Her roommate had said: “Hey, I heard about a job opening that might interest you. One of the girls at the party said she’s quitting to go back to Texas. She works for Bill Fraser. He’s in charge of public relations for the State Department. I just heard about it last night, so if you get over there now, you should beat all the other girls to it.”
Catherine had raced over, only to find Fraser’s reception office already packed with dozens of applicants for the job. I haven’t a chance, Catherine thought. The door to the inner office opened and William Fraser emerged. He was a tall, attractive man, with curly blond hair graying at the temples, bright blue eyes, and a strong, rather forbidding jawline.
He said to the receptionist, “I need a copy of Life. The issue that came out three or four weeks ago. It has a picture of Stalin on the cover.”
“I’ll order it, Mr. Fraser,” the receptionist said.
“Sally, I have Senator Borah on the line. I want to read him a paragraph from that issue. You have two minutes to find a copy for me.” He went into his office and closed the door.
The applicants looked at one another and shrugged.
Catherine stood there, thinking hard. She turned and pushed her way out of the office. She heard one of the women say, “Good. That’s one down.”
Three minutes later, Catherine returned to the office with the old copy of Life with a picture of Stalin on the cover. She handed it to the receptionist. Five minutes later Catherine found herself seated in William Fraser’s office.
“Sally tells me that you came up with the Life magazine.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I assume you didn’t just happen to have a three-week-old issue in your purse.”
“No, sir.”
“How did you find it so quickly?”
“I went down to the barber shop. Barber shops and dentists’ offices always have old issues lying around.”
“Are you that bright about everything?”
“No, sir.”
“We’ll find out,” William Fraser said. She was hired.
Catherine enjoyed the excitement of working for Fraser. He was a bachelor, wealthy and social, and he seemed to know everyone in Washington. Time magazine had called him “The most eligible bachelor of the year.”
Six months after Catherine started to work for William Fraser, they fell in love.
In his bedroom, Catherine said, “I have to tell you something. I’m a virgin.”
Fraser shook his head in wonder. “That’s incredible. How did I wind up with the only virgin in the city of Washington?”
One day William Fraser said to Catherine, “They’ve asked our office to supervise an Army Air Corps recruiting film they’re shooting at MGM studios in Hollywood. I’d like you to handle the picture while I’m in London.”
“Me? Bill, I can’t even load a Brownie. What do I know about making a training film?”
Fraser grinned. “About as much as anyone else. You don’t have to worry. They have a director. His name is Allan Benjamin. The army plans to use actors in the film.”
“Why?”
“I guess they feel that soldiers won’t be convincing enough to play soldiers.”
“That sounds like the army.”
And Catherine had flown to Hollywood to supervise the training film.
The soundstage was filled with extras, most of them in ill-fitting army uniforms.
“Excuse me,” Catherine said to a man passing by. “Is Mr. Allan Benjamin here?”
“The little corporal?” He pointed. “Over there.”
Catherine turned and saw a slight, frail-looking man in uniform with corporal’s stripes. He was screaming at a man wearing a general’s stars.
“Fuck what the casting director said. I’m up to my ass in generals. I need non-coms.” He raised his hands in despair. “Everybody wants to be a chief, nobody wants to be an Indian.”
“Excuse me,” Catherine said. “I’m Catherine Alexander.”
“Thank God!” the little man said. “You take over. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I had a thirty-five-hundred-dollar-a-year job in Dearborn editing a furniture trade magazine, and I was drafted into the Signal Corps and sent to write training films. What do I know about producing or directing? This is all yours.” He turned and hurried toward the exit, leaving Catherine standing there.
A lean, gray-haired man in a sweater moved toward her, an amused smile on his face. “Need any help?”
“I need a miracle,” Catherine said. “I’m in charge of this, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.”
He grinned at her. “Welcome to Hollywood. I’m Tom O’Brien, the assistant director.”
“Do you think you could direct this?”
She saw the corner of his lips twist. “I could try. I’ve done six pictures with Willie Wyler. The situation isn’t as bad as it looks. All it needs is a little organization. The script’s written, and the set’s ready.”
Catherine looked around the soundstage. “Some of these uniforms look terrible. Let’s see if we can’t do better.”
O’Brien nodded approvingly. “Right.”
Catherine and O’Brien walked over to the group of extras. The din of conversation on the enormous stage was deafening.
“Let’s hold it down, boys,” O’Brien yelled. “This is Miss Alexander. She’s going to be in charge here.”
Catherine said, “Let’s line up, so we can take a good look at you, please.”
O’Brien formed the men into a ragged line. Catherine heard laughter and voices nearby and turned in annoyance. One of the men in uniform stood in a corner, paying no attention, talking to some girls who were hanging on his every word and giggling. The man’s manner irritated Catherine.