The effect was everything she'd hoped for. The single exposed creamy shoulder set off her waist even more and made the graceful line of her neck seem to go on forever. She looked like some kind of seductively regal Greek G.o.ddess, invitingly sensual, half in and half out of her gown.

Amanda gave a little groan of pleasure. As earlier that day, with the little sliver between sleeve and glove, she felt a delicious tingle on her bare skin, as though it was already antic.i.p.ating Harry's touch. "It's perfect."

The salesgirl agreed but insisted on fetching Hattie Carnegie herself from her atelier upstairs to give the final sign-off.

The famed milliner-turned-couturier was a tiny woman dressed in black, her hair parted majestically in the center like a wall painting of a Roman matron. An enamel cuff with a bejeweled Maltese cross adorned each wrist. She examined every inch of Amanda, poking at the bodice here, adjusting the line of the remaining sleeve there. In the crook of her arm, she cradled a fluffy black toy poodle with a gaze that seemed every bit as critical as that of his mistress.

Finally, Hattie Carnegie spoke. "You are a fashion designer?"

"N-no," Amanda stammered. "I just ... like clothes, that's all."

"Well," said the couturier with a smart snap of the head. "If you decide you want to be, you know where to find me."

And she disappeared back up the stairs without another word.

After a day of such glamorous preparations, Amanda couldn't help but be a little disappointed by the ambience at 21. The exterior had been so promising, all wrought-iron balconies and colorful lawn jockeys standing in a row, like a sort of Manhattan version of an antebellum Charleston town house. But the inside bar area to which the maitre d' guided her looked like any other saloon where a nightclub act or an insomniac writer might grab a burger and a beer in the wee hours after a night's work, all scarred wood paneling and red-checkered tablecloths, like a cheap Italian restaurant, with an enormous fire roaring in a glazed brick fireplace off to the side. An a.s.sortment of odd items hung precariously from the ceiling, which was low enough to make you feel that at any moment you might get knocked in the head with a wooden ice skate or a dented old horn.

There wasn't a single man in a dinner jacket, and most of the women were no better dressed than an executive secretary on the Olympus lot. If any of them were famous, they were only New York famous-journalists, press agents, Broadway lyricists. n.o.body Amanda recognized. In Hollywood, most everyone you saw out on a given night might be a n.o.body, but they were gorgeous n.o.bodies, n.o.bodies who looked like somebodies. At 21, the somebodies looked like n.o.bodies. She didn't see a single face that had a prayer of one day gracing the cover of Photoplay or Picture Palace; in fact, Amanda noticed quite a few that, as Gabby Preston liked to say, "only a mother could love." For a girl accustomed to the glittering crowds and meticulously art-directed interiors of the Trocadero or the Cocoanut Grove, it was a little bit of a letdown.

Except for Harry Gordon.

There he was, in oft-repaired Harris Tweed. An already-emptied rocks gla.s.s stood on the tablecloth in front of him. That's odd, Amanda thought. In Hollywood, Harry almost never drank. Alcohol gave him a rash.

He half rose in his chair to greet her as she approached. "Amanda. That's ... that's quite a dress you almost have on."

"Funny you say that," she cooed, presenting her cheek to be kissed. "Because frankly, looking around, I feel a little bit overdressed."

"Yeah, now that you mention it." Harry shrugged, looking around the room. "The real glamour-p.u.s.s.es hang out at the Stork Club, I guess. But you look beautiful. You always look beautiful."

"Oh, Harry, thank you." Her eyes shone.

"What do you want to drink? I'm having Scotch. I can have them bring a bottle. Unless you'd prefer a martini or something like that?"

"Oh, I'll just have a ginger ale," Amanda said.

"A ginger ale?" Harry blinked. "Don't you want anything in it?"

"No, just plain is fine."

"Are you sure I can't tempt you with something stronger?"

"Maybe I'll have something later." A celebratory sip of champagne, maybe. But would that hurt the baby?

Harry motioned to the waiter and ordered with an a.s.surance he had never displayed in Hollywood. It's like he feels at home here, thought Amanda, with a mixture of pride and envy. Like this is where he belongs.

The drinks came quickly. Harry took a big gulp of his right away. Amanda sipped her ginger ale through a tiny straw, hoping it would help settle the b.u.t.terflies in her stomach.

"I'm sorry if I was rude this morning," Harry said. "I think I was in shock."

Amanda smiled. "I figured you'd be surprised to see me."

"Surprised? You almost gave me a heart attack, just appearing like that in the aisle. I almost thought you were a ghost. Broadway theaters are all haunted, you know." Harry took another gulp. "To be perfectly honest, I wouldn't have been thrilled to see anyone. Rehearsals aren't supposed to be open to whoever wanders in off the street."

"There were all those people there in the back."

"Stella's students. That's different. You could have been anyone. I mean, you're not, but you know ... a critic, a reporter, anyone with some kind of agenda. ..." Harry shook his head. "It's different out here. The New Yorker, Vanity Fair ... the reporters here are real writers. They don't just type up whatever press release or glowing notice Larry Julius and his heavies hand them, under pain of death. They know what they're doing. And they can be vicious." He took another drink of Scotch.

Amanda gently laid her hand on his sleeve. "Harry, it's all going to be fine. You told me yourself the screenplay was the best thing you'd ever written. Why should the play be any different?"

"You don't understand. Whether the play is any good or not is beside the point. They have it in for me no matter what. Think about it: local boy makes it big in Hollywood, comes back to Broadway, flops. I'd be the laughingstock of business. How could they resist?"

"Stella Adler went to Hollywood," Amanda countered, "and she seems well respected."

"Stella Adler went to Hollywood and made one picture that n.o.body saw," Harry corrected. "Now that she's back, she can spin it like she was too good for the Philistines out there, and everybody nods and murmurs in agreement. Like b.u.t.ter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Like she was too good to succeed. They can forgive anything but success." He drank off the rest of his Scotch and gazed at her with eyes that were just beginning to haze. "You know, I'm actually glad to see you."

"Well. Thanks a lot."

"No, you know. I mean, it's nice to see you. It's always nice to see you. But ..." Harry looked down at his empty gla.s.s. "There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about. Something I need to tell you."

"Oh, darling," Amanda breathed, looking up through her lowered lashes. "There's something I need to tell you too. ..."

"Harry Gordon, you sonofab.i.t.c.h!"

The man who bl.u.s.tered over to their table wore a dark gray three-piece suit. His fedora was tipped back on his head to reveal a face that would have been handsome if it weren't quite so shrewd. "You penniless playwrights are all the same," he crowed. "One day you're picking b.u.t.ts out of the ashtray, always hard up for a ten-spot. Then you jaunt over to the coast, come back with some dough in your pocket, and boom! You're sitting pretty with the prettiest girl in town. Honestly, I oughta come to you for tips."

"h.e.l.lo, Walter," Harry said glumly. "I thought they banned you."

"Old news, my friend. And as they say in my business, no news may be good news, but old news is no news. Now, are you going to introduce me to this ravishing creature or am I going to have to be a heel and do it myself?"

"Amanda Farraday, this is Walter Winch.e.l.l. Walter Winch.e.l.l, Amanda Farraday."

"You're Walter Winch.e.l.l?" Amanda couldn't help but let out a squeal. "Oh my goodness! I'm such a big fan of yours. I listen to you on the radio practically every day."

"Those words out of a mouth like that," Walter Winch.e.l.l replied, grinning. "That's what a man works a lifetime to hear. But of course, I know all about you, Miss Farraday, from the picture magazines, or whatever you call those rags out on the Left Coast. Don't tell me I'm getting the firsthand scoop on the tender reconciliation?"

"All right, Walter, that's enough," Harry snapped. "Scram, will ya?"

"As a matter of fact, I don't mind if I do. I've got more congenial company waiting for me in the private dining room in the Vault tonight. Not quite in Miss Farraday's league"-his eyes lingered meaningfully over the neckline of Amanda's dress-"but she'll have to do. See you two lovebirds around."

"What was that all about?" Amanda asked when Winch.e.l.l was out of earshot. "If you're worried about the press, Walter Winch.e.l.l is the most powerful flack in the country. Maybe the world. It can't pay to be so rude to him."

"Ah, he's used to it," Harry said, waving her concerns away. "Besides, I didn't like the way he was looking at you."

Flushed with pleasure, Amanda smiled. He cares how men look at me. He still cares. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Harry sighed. "I'm not sure how to tell you."

"Just spit it out. It's easier that way."

"All right. All right. Here goes." Harry took another long drink of Scotch, gathering his courage. "Amanda ... the whole thing about Olympus dropping your contract ... it's all my fault. It's because of me. They were only doing what I asked them to."

Amanda felt like she'd just been shot through the heart. "You ... you told them to fire me?"

"No! At least, not in so many words." Harry couldn't meet her eye. "It was ... after that night we ... spent together, after the Oscars ... I just, I knew I couldn't control myself around you. I'd been trying so hard to avoid you. I thought if I didn't see you, I would get over you. That I would get you out of my system. But when I saw you at the Brown Derby that afternoon, and then at the Governor's Ball, I knew I never would. You're eating me from the inside out, Amanda. It's like a cancer; the only treatment is to just cut it out."

Amanda flinched, but Harry, looking at a spot somewhere over her shoulder, seemed not to notice. "So I called them that morning after we ... well ... and I begged them to help me. To fix it so I wouldn't have to see you anymore, wouldn't b.u.mp into you around the lot, or hear your name mentioned in meetings. And then, just to make sure I didn't see you around town, I came to New York. But I didn't know how they were going to do it. I thought ..." He fiddled nervously with his gla.s.s. "I guess I don't know what I thought. I'm sorry. I know it must be difficult."

Difficult? Amanda didn't know if she wanted to scream, laugh, or cry. "Why stop at having them drop my contract?" she asked coldly. "Why not just have me killed?"

"Amanda, please ..."

"Don't you 'Amanda, please' me!" She tried to keep her voice down. G.o.d knows I'm conspicuous enough as it is. "What I don't understand, Harry, is why you have to get over me. You know how I feel about you. You know how hard this has been for me. If it's been like that for you, then I don't understand what the problem is. I need you, Harry. We need each other. Why isn't that enough?" She was almost gasping now, choking with the effort of trying to hold back her tears. "Why can't we be together?"

"Because of what you used to do," Harry said quietly. "Because of what you used to be."

"You mean ..."

"You know exactly what I mean. What you did at Olive Moore's."

Of course. Amanda looked down at her hands. They seemed to dissolve before her eyes. Of course.

"I'm sorry," Harry continued. "I wish it could be different. I really do. But ever since Gabby told me that night at the party at Leo Karp's-"

If Amanda had already suffered one gunshot to the heart, this next shot went straight through her stomach. "Gabby?"

"Yes, Gabby Preston," Harry continued calmly, as if the world hadn't just caved in on itself. "I didn't believe her at first. I figured she was just angry about losing the part in the An American Girl picture and was making things up to hurt you. But then that sleazeball Hunter Payne confirmed it and, well ..." Harry shook his head. "It was like the floor fell out from under me."

Tell me about it, Amanda thought.

"I loved you, Amanda," Harry continued. "I really did. I suppose in a way, I always will. But I can't deal with this. Believe me, I've tried. I've asked myself, what could make it better? What could wipe the past away? And it's no good. No good at all. I know myself. I know what I'm like. I'm a modern guy. I don't expect some unspoiled virgin. But this?" He shook his head. "I'd never be able to walk into a room with you without looking at every man there and wondering was it him? Or him? Or him? Which one of you once ordered up my wife like a plate of eggs from room service in a hotel? Or was it all of you? I'd start to hate you, Amanda. And you'd start to hate me. And then it would be the end of the road for us. Better not to go any farther."

Wife, Amanda thought. He said wife. But the word bore little hope now. She felt like a marooned islander watching the ship that was supposed to save her disappearing over the horizon. "So you don't mind me doing it. Only that I got paid."

"Amanda." Harry looked at her reproachfully. "That seems a little unfair. Put yourself in my shoes."

Unfair? Amanda wanted to scream. Why don't you put yourself in my shoes? Did Harry have any idea-any G.o.dd.a.m.n idea-of what a girl could go through in this world? What could lead her to do what Amanda had done? The hunger, the fear, the cold nights sleeping on the street lying still like a possum, hoping that any predator that came along would think you were already dead? How relieved you were to be warm and fed and clothed and relatively safe, and to find out all you had to do to stay that way was the same thing men made you do anyway?

She was about to tell him that, and more, when the crowd parted and for the first time, she saw exactly what it was that kept making Harry's eye wander.

Sitting at the bar in a tight c.o.c.ktail dress. With a cigarette in a long gold holder and blond hair set in curls so tight they looked like a devil's horns. It was Frances, that actress from the play. The actress who was playing the role Harry had written for Amanda. The actress playing me.

And suddenly, Amanda understood. She understood everything.

Pain coursed through her body, pain like nothing she had ever known. She felt as if she were splitting in two. She staggered to her feet.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked.

She didn't answer. Instead, she reached into her evening bag and pulled out the packet of letters. All the letters she had written him and never sent, tied with a pink ribbon torn from the dress he'd bought her. The letters of her life, of his life, or their life together. She held them up, taking a long last look.

Then she threw them into the fire.

"Amanda! What are you doing? Wait!"

"No!" she cried, pushing him away. "No. Leave me alone."

She pushed through the crowd, pushed past the maitre d'. On the sidewalk, she doubled over in agony, letting out a small shriek. It was as if she were being ripped open from the inside, as if whatever was inside her were trying to gnaw its way out. It didn't matter now. She just had to get somewhere she could be safe, somewhere it would all be over.

So she ran. Blinded by pain, tripping over her hem, her heels; heedless of the taxicabs slowing at the curb at the sight of the half-crumpled girl in the evening gown clawing at her stomach and running as though every demon in h.e.l.l were after her. When at last she reached her hotel room, she hurled herself into the bathroom and ripped down her underwear, bracing herself for the torrent of blood she was sure was surging out of her.

Nothing. Not a drop.

She collapsed to the floor like a rag doll, but the moment of relief soon gave way to vast, bottomless panic. So she still had the baby. What the h.e.l.l was she supposed to do with it? What kind of life could she give it? Harry was gone. Forever. That had been made horribly clear. He didn't love her anymore, would never accept her for who she was-even worse, he was the architect of her destruction. To fix it so I wouldn't have to see you anymore. Amanda clapped her hand over her mouth to m.u.f.fle her sob.

And Gabby. That betrayal hurt as badly as if not worse than Harry's. Amanda had thought Gabby Preston was her friend, someone she could rely on if things went bad. Gabby had welcomed her into her home, held her, patted her back while she cried, listened patiently to every raw detail of her heartbreak.

And Gabby knew all along. She knew all the time it was all her fault, and she never told me.

It was too much to bear.

Olive would take her in, sure. Amanda might even squeeze some more money out of her. But blackmail wouldn't work forever. Frankly, she'd been lucky to get away with what she had, before Olive realized Amanda couldn't very well compromise Diana without ruining herself. Besides, pretty soon, Diana's career would recover so much as to make her untouchable. And then Olive's hospitality would come with a price. Olive might pay her debts, but she'd see that Amanda paid her back, with considerable interest. "You can work it off," Olive would say, and Amanda would have no choice but to start back at the bottom of the ladder, seeing the men none of the other girls would. Men with cold voices and frightening desires who thought a fifty-dollar powder room tip didn't have nearly as favorable an effect on a girl as an unyielding pair of fists.

And when enough months had pa.s.sed that Amanda's condition became apparent, the doctor would be summoned. Some bloodstained sheets, a few shed tears, and Amanda's "complication," as Olive liked to call it, would be decidedly less complex. She could be back to work in five days; h.e.l.l, Lucy had been back on the job in three. And the entire cost of the operation, including pain medication and ruined linen, could easily be added to Amanda's tab.

I could say no, Amanda thought. I could tell her I won't go through with it.

And she'd be back out on the street before she even finished talking. Back to the fear, the hunger, and loneliness. The terrible loneliness that penetrated her more deeply than any cold night's wind could. The knowledge that n.o.body wanted her, n.o.body loved her, n.o.body cared if she was alive or dead.

"I'm alone," Amanda said to no one. "I'm all alone."

The marble tiles of the bathroom floor were cold against her bare shoulder. Shivering, she heaved herself up off the floor and crossed to the big picture window overlooking the street. When G.o.d closes a door, somewhere he opens a window. That was something she'd heard Margo say, although she dimly remembered hearing it before in some whitewashed clapboard prairie church a million lifetimes ago. Could this be the window he meant? Norma Mae Gustafson. Born in a hayloft in Arrowhead Falls, died on the pavement of Park Avenue beneath the open window of the penthouse suite in the Waldorf Astoria. In its own way, it was quite an ascent.

And quite a fall.

As mechanically as though she'd been hypnotized, Amanda undid the latch and pushed open the window. Could she really do it? The night breeze felt cool and inviting against her flushed face. The streetlamps made the pavement shimmer, like moonlight on a mountain lake. It would be just like diving into a clear pool, Amanda thought. One little jump and it would all disappear. The stacks of unpaid bills, the creditors and the threats. The nightmares of the heavy thud of drunken footfalls on the ladder to her hayloft. The dreams of being in Harry's arms, and the fresh, searing pain when she woke up to find he wasn't there.

Amanda looked around the sumptuous room, at the canopied bed she would never sleep in, at the glossy boxes of dresses she would never wear. She placed her hands on her stomach. "I'm sorry," she whispered to the child she would never meet, who would never be born. "It's better this way."

Slowly, she slid her leg over the windowsill.

And then there was a knock at the door.

Her first impulse was to laugh at the absurdity of it. To have a visitor at a time like this! But the knocking grew louder and more persistent, and for reasons Amanda would never quite be able to explain to herself, she found it impossible to ignore. Maybe G.o.d doesn't open a window. Maybe when he closes a door, he just needs you to open it again.

"Red!" Eddie Sharp's tuxedo was just disheveled enough to hint that he'd seen some real mischief that night and was looking to find some more. "They told me downstairs you were in. Thought I'd pop up and see if you were in the mood for a quick nightcap. ..." The grin faded from his face as he got a glimpse of hers. "Holy h.e.l.l, honey, what's the matter? You look like you've just lost your best pal."

"Eddie." Amanda looked up at him through lashes thick with tears. His eyes were dark and trusting. Like Harry's used to be. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Anything, Red. Anything."