Margo drank. The brandy burned a fiery path down her throat, spreading warmth through her chest.

"Better?" Dane was watching her closely. "Need another one?"

She shook her head. "I'm afraid I'll be sick."

"Fine."

Running a hand through his mussed hair, Dane briskly paced the length of the room before coming back to stand in front of Margo on the chaise.

"Now listen carefully, sweetheart, because I'm not going to say this twice. This is one year. The Nine Days' Queen was your first picture. You'll have plenty of chances. The studio picked up the option on your contract, you've got two pictures in the can ..."

"Girlfriend parts." Margo sniffed. "Silly schoolgirls, simpering debutantes. And nothing on the horizon. They're talking about that Madame Bovary remake that Kurtzman wants to do, but ..." She shook her head furiously. "I swear, Dane, it's like I'm going backward. One minute I'm playing the lead role in one of the biggest dramas of the year, the next I'm standing around in some s...o...b..ll of an evening dress, batting my eyes at Jimmy Molloy while I tell him how swell it is he wants to put on a show in Grampa's barn. Not that there aren't plenty of good parts around, but they're sure not giving them to me. David Selznick wouldn't even see me for Scarlett O'Hara. My G.o.d, he must have tested every hatcheck girl and taxi dancer in town, and he wouldn't so much as let me read!"

"And why should he have?" Dane asked. "Because you hit the jackpot the first time you played the slots? That makes you lucky, Margo. It doesn't make you good."

"You don't think I'm good?" Margo felt her eyes start to swim again.

"Of course I think you're good. We wouldn't be here if you weren't good. You don't think I let the lousy actresses stay for breakfast, do you?"

Dane grinned. Margo didn't crack a smile.

"But we both know you've still got a lot to learn," he continued, "and because you're lucky, you're going to get a chance to. A chance a million girls would kill for, and not metaphorically either." His tone softened. "I'm sorry, baby. I know how much you wanted this, but you're going to have another chance. This just wasn't your year."

Margo wiped her nose. "Do you think the studio is terribly disappointed?"

Dane gave a short grunt. "I don't think, I know. That's why everything you do from now on is so important. No matter how you feel, Margo, you've got to go around for the next four weeks with your head held high. You're going to go out every night, laughing and dancing as if you were the happiest girl in the world. When the reporters ask you, you'll tell them how thrilled you are for all the nominees, and how you can only dream of one day even being considered to join their august company. You're going to float into that ceremony at the Biltmore on my arm looking so gorgeous that no one is going to give a second glance to Shearer or Davis or whatever dried-up bag of bones they give the G.o.dd.a.m.n statue to. And you're going to do whatever Rex Mandalay or Larry Julius or Leo Karp tells you to. You've got to keep them all on your side." Gently, he took the empty gla.s.s from her hand. "The clock had to strike for Cinderella sometime, Margie. You've been in Hollywood long enough to know that all the real acting happens offscreen."

Margo's mind felt fuzzy. On her empty morning stomach, the brandy had gone straight to her head. She nodded carefully, as though she were trying not to dislodge anything that ought not to move. "I understand."

"Good." Dane walked behind the scarred mahogany desk. "Look. There's something else, something I wanted to ..."

He trailed off, looking down at the piles of papers. The blind over the single window was closed, but even in the dim light Margo thought she saw a blush creeping up over his neck.

"I don't know if this is the best time," Dane continued, "but what the h.e.l.l. Maybe it'll cheer you up." He slid open a drawer and retrieved a small object. Smiling shyly, he held it out to Margo.

It was a square velvet jewelry box.

The kind that only meant one thing.

Margo's mouth flew open. Could it be? Had he been planning this all along?

"Oh, Dane ..."

"Open it," he urged. "Go on."

With trembling hands, Margo caressed the little box, wanting to make the moment last as long as possible, imagining the tears that would spring to her eyes, the delighted gasp she would make as she caught her first glimpse of the diamond that would sparkle on her finger for the rest of her life-or a good chunk of it, anyway. She lifted the lid.

It sparkled, all right. But it wasn't a ring.

It was a brooch, no more than an inch square, of pave diamonds in the shape of the Imperial State Crown of England. A minute gold cross set with pearls emerged from the top. A cabochon sapphire gleamed from the center, where the Black Prince's Ruby would be, and when Margo looked closely, she could just see the faint shimmer of the star winking in the center.

"Oh," she said numbly. "What a lovely thing."

Dane beamed, clearly mistaking her confusion for genuine awe. "I've been hanging on to it for ages. I ordered it especially from Cartier; apparently they do all the ice for that Mrs. Simpson, the one who married the king of England. I thought maybe it could replace that little one with the pearls that you always used to wear, the one that got lost?"

The pin that got lost.

The little gold-and-pearl circle pin had been her favorite, a family heirloom given to her by her parents for her sixteenth birthday. She'd worn it as sort of a good-luck charm whenever she needed to feel particularly brave-which in Hollywood was a lot-until it went missing on the lawn of the Pasadena Country Club that horrible night at her former friend Doris Winthrop's coming-out party when Phipps McKendrick, her former beau, had tried to force himself on her.

Luckily, she'd been rescued in the nick of time when her driver, Arthur, heard her scream, but there had been a terrible scene. The crowd had rallied around Phipps-who after all was the son of one of Pasadena's most prominent families, while Margo had shamed her family by running off to become an actress, which as far as they were concerned was no better than being a wh.o.r.e-and Margo found herself cast out of the world into which she had been born once and for all.

It was sweet of Dane to recognize how much the pin had meant to her, but what he didn't know was that it wasn't lost at all. It had been anonymously returned to Margo, tucked into a blank envelope along with a brief, cryptic note, unsigned and in an unfamiliar hand. Margo had never found out who sent it. Even the thought of making inquiries dredged up memories of things she'd just as soon forget. As for the pin, she'd never worn it again, could barely even look at it. It was too potent a reminder of her old life, of a world in which she was no longer welcome. Any good luck it had held for her was gone. Still in its mysterious envelope, it now lay-along with her old school tie and unused yellow autograph book-out of sight in the back of her closet in the studio bungalow, buried in a shoe box like a little cardboard coffin.

"I wanted to give it to you at the premiere," Dane said, "but it wasn't ready yet, so I figured I'd wait until a special occasion. Now's as good a time as any, I guess. Do you really like it?"

It's a funny thing about letdowns. They're always so much worse than never expecting anything at all. "It's lovely," Margo repeated. "Really lovely."

"Good." Dane beamed. "Now let's have a real drink. I just got nominated for an Oscar!"

THREE.

Dear Harry,

I've written so many letters to you by now, you'd almost think I'd have run out of things to say.

But I haven't. In fact, with every letter I write, I "Ugh," Amanda Farraday said, crumpling the vellum notepaper and tossing it to the floor in disgust. Chewing her bottom lip, she twirled a lock of copper hair around her finger and reached for a new sheet.

Dear Harry, Congratulations on being nominated for the screenwriting Oscar. I can't tell you how proud it makes me to write those words. I only wish you would let me be there to No. Amanda started again.

Harry, You once told me that the sole responsibility of a writer is to be clear.

Well, you've done a good job, I guess. You've certainly made it clear over these last few months that you don't want to see me.

Now let me be clear: I don't care. I don't care if you don't want to talk to me, if you never want to set eyes on me again. There's only one thing I care about. That I love you, and I always will. And I know, deep down, that you Not right either. With a sigh, Amanda folded the unfinished note and slid it into the bulging packet with all the others.

How many letters were there now? At least a hundred, maybe closer to two hundred. She'd been writing them to Harry Gordon for months, at least one a day since he'd left. Amanda had explained everything in the uneven scribbles on those sheets of paper, things she'd never told another living soul. What had made her run away from her stepfather's farm in Oklahoma when she was fourteen years old, and why she could never go back. How she'd finally hitchhiked her way to Hollywood with no more than fifty dollars sewn into the hem of her dress, and just what she'd had to do for them. How she'd lived when she got here. About just what a person could do, if they were scared enough and hungry enough. How long days spent hustling for a sc.r.a.p to eat and long nights spent searching for a bed could make a certain kind of girl think that working for someone like Olive Moore was like stumbling on a little piece of heaven.

She'd written her whole life into those letters; they could fill an entire book. If Harry only read them, he'd understand everything.

But Amanda had never sent them, not after the first one came back unopened and practically broke her heart all over again.

Yet she kept writing them, and after a while, she started being less afraid that Harry wouldn't read them and more afraid that he would. There were some things she wasn't ready for anyone to know yet. Maybe she never would be. A girl like Amanda needed her secrets to survive.

Survival. How had she gotten back here again? From the moment, almost a year ago, that Amanda had proudly scrawled her signature on the dotted line of the standard Olympus Studio new player's contract, she had thought that that part of her life was over. That the scrambling and desperation and shame were things of the past; that for the first time in her nineteen years, she would be free.

Because she would be safe. Freedom and safety-weren't they really the same thing?

But that, she saw now, was about as much a pipe dream as becoming a star. Oh sure, she still had the contract. The checks still arrived every other week at the Olympus post office, smelling of ink and ready for immediate deposit at the Olympus bank.

But for how much longer? The twelve-month option on her contract was almost up, and soon she would have to face the very real possibility that it would not be renewed. After all, girls like Amanda didn't get by in Hollywood on their talent-at least, not in the traditional sense. She should have been painting the town red every night at La Maze and Vendome and the Cocoanut Grove, always on the arm of a different man who was famous or powerful or preferably both, getting her picture in the gossip columns and full-color photo spreads in Photoplay and Modern Screen and Picture Palace, until the public expected-rather, demanded-to see her on movie screens as well.

But falling in love with Harry had put the kibosh on that. He wanted her all to himself, and she'd been only too happy to comply. And I got screwed, Amanda thought bitterly. In all senses of the word.

Broken heart aside, even if by some miracle the studio decided to pick up the option on her contract, it wouldn't solve any of her problems. As much as Amanda hated to admit it, her old boss Olive Moore had been right: seventy-five dollars a week was less than nothing when you had hair and nail appointments and needed a new evening gown every time you so much as went out to dinner. Paris fashions didn't come cheap. An anointed studio princess like Margo Sterling could borrow whatever she needed from an ever-obliging wardrobe department. As for the rest of the hungry young starlets occupying considerably less lofty places in the Hollywood firmament ... well, that was what buying on credit was invented for.

And boy, have I become an expert on that. The pale blue envelopes from the Olympus payroll department were almost crowded out of her P.O. box by notices from Saks and Bullock's and I. Magnin, informing her that her bills were mounting, her accounts past due, asking in increasingly threatening language when they might expect to get paid.

At least, she a.s.sumed that was what they said. Lately she'd taken to stuffing them, still sealed, into an overflowing hatbox at the bottom of her wardrobe. Or rather, Gabby's wardrobe. That was one good thing about not having her own place. You couldn't have creditors banging down your door if you didn't have one.

And now there was this: an envelope she couldn't leave unopened. It had been stuffed under the bedroom door early that morning while she feigned sleep. Even if she hadn't noticed the way her hostesses suddenly seemed to drop their conversation to a whisper when they caught sight of her, or how Viola fixed her with a Stare of Death every time she opened the icebox for so much as a drop of milk, Amanda was pretty sure she knew what was inside this envelope too. You didn't live the life she'd led without knowing an eviction notice.

Sighing, she slipped her finger under the flap and drew out the note.

Deer Amanda, it read, in Gabby's childlike, uneasy scrawl that no amount of intermittent government-mandated instruction at the Olympus schoolhouse had been able to correct. I am so vairy sorry to say this, but I gess you knew it was coming some day. Viola says you have been here long enuf and that it is tim for you to find another place to say. I am really sorry and I hope this is okay. I also hope we can stil be frends, if you want. I hope so. Love, Gabby.

Typically, Gabby had signed her name with a flourish, not so much a signature as an autograph, identical to the one the studio press department stamped on the publicity shots they sent to fans. Amanda almost laughed out loud. Poor Gabby, she thought. Her name was probably the only thing she could write without major deliberation.

Sighing, Amanda started taking her things out of the wardrobe and laying them on the bed. So many beautiful clothes, she thought, and so much beautiful money. Every piece really ought to be left on a hanger and stuffed with tissue paper to preserve its shape before it was packed, but Amanda couldn't be bothered. That's how depressed I am. I can't even care about my clothes.

There was a soft rap on the door.

"Come in."

Gabby pushed the door open shyly. In a plaid jumper, twisting a chestnut curl around her stubby finger, she looked about eight years old. Her huge brown eyes followed Amanda's movements around the room. "I guess you got my note."

"Obviously."

"I hope you could read it. I'm not a very good speller."

"Don't worry. I got the gist."

"Viola was going to write it, you know, but I made her let me. I thought she wouldn't ... well, I thought she might say something that wasn't so nice."

"I appreciate that."

Gabby sat down on the bed. "You don't have to go right now, you know. You can wait a few days."

Amanda frowned at the feathered hat in her hand, trying to remember which hatbox it belonged in. "I don't know. I think it's better this way."

"But where will you go?"

"A hotel, I guess. Or a friend's house. Don't worry."

"Maybe the studio will put you up. Maybe you could stay in Margo's bungalow. She's at Dane Forrest's house all the time now anyway."

Amanda laughed. "I don't think anyone had better let the studio know about that."

"I'm awfully sorry, Amanda, really." Gabby looked stricken. "It's Viola who wants you out, not me. Believe it or not, I like having you here. Like I said, I hope we'll still be friends."

"I know." If anyone had told Amanda a year ago she'd be hearing these words from that snotty little Gabby Preston, she'd have laughed in her face. But looking at the girl now, gazing up at her with those puppy-dog eyes, Amanda knew she really meant it. That was one of the good things about Gabby; she was too high on the intoxicating c.o.c.ktail of pills and her own self-importance to say anything she didn't mean. She might be a self-obsessed, spoiled little brat, but at least she was an honest one. "I know," Amanda repeated.

Gabby gave her a smile of heartbreaking sweetness. "Good. I'm glad." She reached into the pocket of her skirt. "Here. I thought you might want to see this."

Amanda took the folded sheet of paper from Gabby. It was a page torn from a movie magazine-Picture Palace, from the typeface-bearing the boldfaced headline: Tinseltown's Most Eligible Bachelors!

She sighed. "Really, Gabby?"

"Just read it." Gabby was already nosing around the wardrobe. Apparently, she felt Amanda's rea.s.surance of their continued friendship had given her license to rummage through her things. "I didn't have time. I just saw the picture and ripped it out for you."

Smoothing out the creases, Amanda scanned the page. It had been ages since she had picked up a movie magazine. She knew they were designed to distract people from their troubles, but somehow the giddy superficiality, the endless gossip, the breathless Q&A's with hopeful young stars whose answers were so identical and relentlessly positive-"What do I love most about making movies? Everything!"-because they'd been scripted by a bunch of junior studio flacks in between bourbons at the Brown Derby, made Amanda feel so much worse. How could life go on when her world had been shattered? How could anyone be happy when her heart was so irreparably broken?

But this story was different. Because of one little thing: Bachelor #3: Harry Gordon Amanda let out a gasp.

Recently nominated for his first Academy Award for The Nine Days' Queen, the flick that made him one of the hottest writers in town, our Black-Eyed Brooklyn Boy ought to be on top of the world, or at least on top of any number of starlets, if you catch our drift.

Amanda caught it, all right. She winced at the thought.

"This is pretty," Gabby said, holding out an old black c.o.c.ktail dress with a sweetheart neckline and diamond b.u.t.tons at the back. "Is this Mainbocher? I always wanted a Mainbocher dress, but Viola says they're too expensive."

"Keep it."

"Really?" Gabby squealed Anything to get you to be quiet. "Sure. I can't take everything with me."

"It won't fit me now. But it will. I'm going to see how it looks with my red hat."

"There's a black one that goes with it. And gloves. You can have those too."