"Oh, Gabs, come on," Jimmy said. "You don't really think that."

"Don't I? Why would I say it, then? And why would I be performing tonight like a trained monkey with some overrated bandleader I've never even rehea.r.s.ed with if I didn't have to jump whenever he said so?"

"Still," Jimmy said uneasily, "he's just doing his job. You make him out to be some kind of slave driver."

"Oh no," Gabby said sweetly. "That's not my intention at all. Mr. Karp is the slave owner. My mother is the slave driver."

Viola's head jerked up. "Gabrielle. Please."

"That's not my name," Gabby snapped back. "And what would you call someone who profits off the unpaid labor of another human being? I may not have been quite as good a student as Margo here-not that I ever had the chance-but it sure sounds an awful lot like slavery to me."

Viola's face, already rouged a bright red, turned purple. The table held its collective breath, braced for the shock of a mother's terrible wrath.

It was another mother who saved them.

"Sha, everybody, sha," Harry's mother interrupted, waving her hands in the air with unperturbed annoyance, as though Gabby and Viola were nothing but a couple of buzzing flies at an outdoor picnic. "Shut your mouths already and let an old lady hear what's going on, for once in her life. Spencer Tracy on the stage, can you believe it? That Sadie Gorenstein in her lifetime would see such a thing, who would have thought it was possible!"

Cracking his first smile of the night, Harry patted her hand. "Gordon, Ma, it's Gordon. You have to excuse my mother," he said, looking around the table. "She's not accustomed to drinking champagne."

Bette Davis was announced the winner of the Best Actress award, to no one's surprise. Watching the great star, dressed in black silk trimmed with an odd little stole of white feathers, march unsmilingly and determinedly across the stage to pick up the second statuette of her unsmiling, determined career, Margo felt herself relax at last. So it was true. Davis's Oscar was a fait accompli.

It made Margo realize what a long shot her hopes had been for this year, how many rungs she still had to climb. She hadn't lost anything or disappointed anyone; she was simply at the start of a very long road, a road most people would never even be able to find on a map. Somehow, this made her feel better-not just better, in fact, but great. For the first time since the nominations had been announced, she felt free, and she found herself on her feet, whistling and cheering with the others as Bette Davis finished thanking Jack Warner and took her final bows.

Spencer Tracy guided her toward the wings and stepped back to the microphone, tripping slightly over the cord as he did so. Maybe he and Gabby will be sharing a bathroom stall later.

"And now," the star announced, slurring his words slightly, "the Best Actor category."

Under the table, Dane's broad, slightly clammy hand found Margo's.

"To present the award," Spencer Tracy continued, mopping the sweat off his forehead with the palm of his hand, "we have a very special surprise ... ah ... presenter. Someone we all love very much, and who we haven't seen for a very long time. Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce, or rather reacquaint you with, a wonderful actress and very dear friend ... Miss Diana Chesterfield!"

Miss Diana Chesterfield.

It was like seeing a ghost.

Time seemed to stop. You could practically hear the sound of your own churning organs in the previously boisterous room as the great star floated toward the microphone, her expression serene. Her face was pale, but there was no trace of the mad, ruined girl Margo had seen ranting in a wheelchair at the sanatorium all those months ago. With her hair like spun gold, nodding regally in a white satin gown trimmed with snowy ermine, she looked like a storybook princess, like someone out of another time.

Then, suddenly, the crowd was on its feet. Gabby's jaw hung down somewhere around her ankles. Mr. Karp was weeping openly, accepting a monogrammed handkerchief from Louis B. Mayer, who, not to be outdone on the sentimentality front, was crying as well. From the corner of her eye, Margo saw Larry Julius's smug smile, a clear sign of pride at having pulled off such a coup.

Diana's curving rosebud lips mouthed her thanks, but Margo couldn't hear her. She couldn't hear her read the names of the nominees. She didn't hear the tearing of the envelope, or Diana's delighted squeal as she read Dane's name out loud.

All she saw was Dane Forrest leap to his feet without so much as a backward glance. She saw him rush the stage, gathering the golden statuette-both golden statuettes, she thought cruelly-into his arms. She saw him sweeping Diana into a lengthy, tearful embrace.

And she saw the gleeful photographers with their flashing bulbs, popping away at the glorious reunion of the dashing Dane Forrest and the gorgeous Diana Chesterfield, America's sweethearts, back in each other's arms at last.

Just like something out of the movies.

EIGHT.

Typical. It was just so typical.

Just when all of Hollywood was finally going to devote their undivided attention to Gabby for a change.

She'd been so ready to perform. The dress the studio had "loaned" her was a sickly baby pink, as always, but was significantly lower cut than usual, which might actually convince the a.s.sembled moguls that the juvenile property known as Gabby Preston had cleavage that might be advantageously displayed on a more regular basis.

She'd come up with a way to deal with Eddie Sharp-whom she had still not met, let alone rehea.r.s.ed with. She, Jimmy, and Walter Gould, the musical director of their production unit, had put together a list of songs she'd do and the keys in which she'd do them, and if Eddie gave her any trouble when she presented them to him, she'd say, "My way or the highway," just like James Cagney did in that old flick she'd watched in the Main Street cinema on the studio lot.

She'd never been in better voice; her low notes were rich, her high notes were soaring, and everything in between was pitch-perfect and full.

Best of all, the green pills for once were working the way they were supposed to. Mixed with the champagne, the little green darlings were giving her the feeling that she was invincible, that she could-and would-do anything she set her mind to.

And then Diana Chesterfield had to come back from the dead and steal the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n show.

G.o.d, look at her. It's like she's holding a press conference at her own table. The regal, ermine-caped star was barely visible through the scrum of press and well-wishers alike, not to mention the phalanx of slavering photographers gleefully shooting away, blinding anyone who had the bad luck to be seated nearby. How the h.e.l.l did they get here so fast? Even from several feet away, Gabby could see that the heat from the flashbulbs was melting one of the giant marzipan Academy Awards covered in edible gold dust that served as centerpieces on every table at the ball.

"Poor Oscar," Gabby murmured to Jimmy. "His face is caving in. He looks like that painting you showed me in that book, the one you said was a portrait of Tully Toynbee."

At the mention of Tully, Jimmy groaned. He had always been fond of the dictatorial director whom Gabby had hated on sight. But when an errant exploding flash pot had badly burned the leg of a chorus girl on the set of their most recent picture and Tully had fired her on the spot when she'd asked to be taken to the doctor, even a trouper like Jimmy had to agree enough was enough. "You mean The Scream?"

"That's the one. Where do they keep it, Sweden?"

"Norway." Jimmy sighed, shaking his head. "Boy, you couldn't pay me a million dollars to be Margo Sterling right now."

"You already have a million dollars."

"You know what I mean. Just get a load of the mug on her. Poor kid looks like she just lost her best friend."

Squinting through the flashing light, Gabby spotted Margo, a shadowy blue figure sitting decidedly out of the camera's range, watching quietly as two men knelt reverently before Diana with a box of portable recording equipment.

"What do you think they're asking her?" Jimmy wondered.

"Probably where the h.e.l.l she's been for the past G.o.dd.a.m.n year."

"Language, d.u.c.h.ess, language."

"I thought Margo was d.u.c.h.ess."

"You're right. I don't know what I was thinking. But look, I think both Your Highnesses are being usurped."

Bathed in the glow of the flashbulbs, Diana was saying something into the mike. Gabby couldn't hear what it was, but from the look on Margo's face, it was clear that the lovely Miss Sterling wasn't buying any of it.

There was one person who was, though, or at least appeared to be: newly minted Academy Award winner Dane Forrest, who was gazing at the coolly beautiful face of his long-lost paramour with undisguised rapture.

"Poor Margie," Gabby said. "I guess the clock had to strike midnight sometime."

"Oh, honey," Jimmy murmured, "I think it did that some time ago."

Suddenly, Gabby felt a sharp pang of sympathy for her friend. What must it feel like to see it all go up in a puff of smoke like that? Now that Diana Chesterfield was back-with a vengeance, it appeared-what was going to happen to Margo Sterling, the plucky, lucky girl who had swept in to replace her? Well, she could forget about whatever big cla.s.sy property the studio had her set to star in this year; as far as Leo Karp was concerned, any qualities Margo Sterling might bring to a role would be wiped clean away by the box-office potential of Diana Chesterfield's glorious comeback. Margo would be demoted to what she looked like now: a glorified stand-in.

And as for her love life, well ... if the look on Dane's face was any indication, Gabby would say the odds were a probable twelve to seven that Margo Sterling would be going home alone tonight.

Jimmy seemed to read her mind. "How long do you think they've got until Larry Julius decides a Dane and Diana reunion is just what the gossip columns ordered?"

"He wouldn't do that." Gabby sounded more convinced than she felt. "Not after everything that's happened."

"But we have no idea what happened, do we?" Jimmy mused. "The heck of it is, the kid's really nuts about him. First love and all that."

"And what about him?" Gabby asked. "Doesn't he love her? He's certainly made a big show of it."

"Sure he does, but not nearly as much as he loves being Dane Forrest. Believe me." A faraway look came into Jimmy's eyes. "I know the type."

Suddenly, Margo glanced toward them, as though she knew they were watching. Her miserable gaze met Gabby's for a long moment before she abruptly jerked it away. She's embarra.s.sed, Gabby thought. "I should go talk to her."

"Oh no, you don't," Jimmy warned. "The last thing she needs right now is gloating."

"Give me a little credit," Gabby protested. "Who's gloating? I just don't think she should be sitting there all by herself, that's all."

She was starting toward Margo when she suddenly felt a hand on her elbow. She turned to find a man in the red uniform dinner jacket of the Biltmore Hotel. "Miss Preston," he said, "I'm so sorry, but I've been asked to fetch you. It seems you're needed immediately backstage."

"By who?" Gabby asked.

"By Mr. Sharp," the man said. "I can see you're busy, but I'm afraid I really must insist. He said it's most urgent."

"Don't worry," Jimmy said, grinning. "You go ahead. I'll find a handkerchief for Margo."

Yeah, Gabby thought crossly, I just bet you will.

Gesturing her through a side door, the man in the red jacket led her down a long corridor and a flight of stairs into the orchestra greenroom beneath the stage. A large, windowless room with a dirty linoleum floor, it bore a tableau virtually identical to the one in the rehearsal room at Olympus, sans the Viola-repelling gorilla at the front door. Musicians in matching midnight-blue tuxedos stood around smoking, noodling on their instruments, swearing cheerfully as they searched for matches and mouth reeds in untidy stacks of monogrammed instrument cases.

Across the room, she noticed Dexter Harrington jotting some notations down at a music stand. He nodded a quick greeting, and she smiled back, trying to hide her surprise at seeing him there. Integrated big bands might fly at some of the more sophisticated venues in the Northeast, but she'd never thought of the Governor's Ball as a bulwark of racial progressivism. Even if most of the people in the room had voted for Roosevelt.

A voice yelled over the din. "Preston! Over here!"

Following the voice, Gabby got her first look at the great bandleader Eddie Sharp.

It's the right name for him, she thought. The long, thin nose, the dark brilliantined hair sc.r.a.ped cleanly back, the square shoulders of his fitted jacket-everything about him seemed angular and exact, with two visible exceptions: the undone bow tie draped carelessly around his neck, and his full, sensual mouth.

A trumpet player's mouth, which turned down at the corners in a slight pout that seemed a little bit arrogant, a little bit mean ... and undeniably s.e.xy.

Get a grip, Gabby ordered herself. So he's not terrible-looking. Big deal. You've got to keep it together. Show him who's boss. "Mr. Sharp," she purred. "I hope that's not how you play."

It was a good opening line, one she'd thought of beforehand, and the twinkle in Eddie's eyes told her he knew it. "Only if you sing flat," he said.

He was holding in his hand a rubber ball with a kind of funnel-like spout sticking out the top. This he suddenly thrust up his nostril and squeezed, inhaling deeply.

"Amphetamine spray. You want some?"

"No, thank you."

"You sure? It opens the lungs and sinuses. Very good for singers."

"I'll pa.s.s."

"Suit yourself." Still squeezing the rubber ball, Eddie raked his shrewd black eyes over her, lingering, Gabby was pleased to note, on her decolletage. "Say, you look older than in your pictures."

"Funny," Gabby said smartly. "I don't remember ever seeing a picture of you at all."

Eddie laughed. "All right, kid. I got your number. Now, whaddya say we run through this sucker a time or two before they throw us to the lions?"

"Oh. So now you want to rehea.r.s.e."

"I had somewhere else I needed to be that afternoon," Eddie retorted. "Someplace important. I don't need to be there to run through a simple song with a girl singer."

"Well, this girl singer doesn't run through so much as 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' without the bandleader."

Eddie gave his nose spray a thoughtful squeeze. "You know Ella Fitzgerald?"

Gabby smiled witheringly. "Rings a bell."

"Well, I just played a week with her up at the Savoy in Harlem." He smiled wistfully. "She was practicing all the time. Never joked around, never sat around with a flask drinking with the boys. You needed her, you had to go find her in a corner somewhere where she was running through scat, trying out changes, making up harmonies. Finally, I said to her, 'Ella,' I said, 'you're great. Better than great. You're a genius and you're going to be a big star. What do you need to practice so much for?' She said to me, 'Eddie, it doesn't matter if I'm better than everybody else. I have to be better than me.' "

He looked at Gabby expectantly, as though he'd just said something deeply profound. Well, she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means if you want to be great, you never give up a chance to rehea.r.s.e. Even if it is only with the arranger. Who happens to be the best in the business, by the way."

"What arranger?"

"Dexter." Eddie nodded toward the scarred rehearsal piano, where the man in question was softly thumping out a vamp.

"He's the arranger?" Gabby gasped, looking at the tall figure hunched over the keyboard, a pencil clamped in his mouth. His eyes were half shut, and for the tiniest moment, Gabby noticed how his long eyelashes cast little shadows on the curve of his cheek. "I thought he was a side man."

Eddie shrugged. "He's both."

Gabby leaned forward, whispering. "And you think ... you think the Biltmore is honestly going to let him play?"

Eddie gave her a challenging look. "Only if they want the rest of us to. Now, are we going to stand here all night or are we going to run through 'Ballin' the Jack'?"

Here we go. "Oh, we can run through it if you want," she said airily. "But we're not going to perform it."

"Really." Eddie's tone was carefully amused, but his face was not. "Don't tell me, you don't deign to learn music sent over by arrangers."

"Please," Gabby sneered. "I didn't have to learn it. I knew it, just like everyone else and their mother." And I do mean mother, she thought. That song had to be at least twenty years old. Viola knew it, for G.o.d's sake. "But I looked at your arrangement, and I'm telling you, it's not going to work."