Nice. Nice clothes. Yeah, Stefs, look here, not there at the daddy who never writes.
As she turned from the closet, she stubbed her toe against the base of a bureau. Oh, Jesus, that smarts! As she lifted her foot and massaged her toe, she noticed that the bureau was out of position by about three feet. No wonder I bumped it. Willie must have vacuumed.
As she turned from the closet, she stubbed her toe against the base of a bureau. Oh, Jesus, that smarts! As she lifted her foot and massaged her toe, she noticed that the bureau was out of position by about three feet. No wonder I bumped it. Willie must have vacuumed.
She went down to the study with the script from her agent.
Unlike the massive double living-room with its large bay windows and views, the study had a feeling of whispered density; of secrets between rich uncles. Raised brick fireplace; oak panelling, crisscrossed beams of a wood that implied it had once been a drawbridge. The room’s few hints of a time that was present were the added bar, a few bright pillows, and a leopard- skin rug that belonged to Shirley and was spread on the pinewood floor by the fire where she now stretched out with her head and shoulders propped on the front of a downy sofa.
She took another at letter from her agent. Faith, Hope and Charity: three distinct segments, each with a different director. Hers would be Hope. She liked the idea. And she liked the title. Possibly dull, she thought; but refined. They’ll probably change it to something like ‘Rock Around the Virtues’.
The doorbell chimed. J. Lee Thompson. A lonely man, he dropped by often. Shirley smiled ruefully, shaking her head, as she heard him rasp an obscenity at Karl, whom he seemed to detest and continually baited.
“Yes, hullo, where’s a drink!” he demanded crossly, entering the room and moving to the bar with eyes averted, hands in the pockets of his wrinkled raincoat.
Unlike the massive double living-room with its large bay windows and views, the study had a feeling of whispered density; of secrets between rich uncles. Raised brick fireplace; oak panelling, crisscrossed beams of a wood that implied it had once been a drawbridge. The room’s few hints of a time that was present were the added bar, a few bright pillows, and a leopard- skin rug that belonged to Shirley and was spread on the pinewood floor by the fire where she now stretched out with her head and shoulders propped on the front of a downy sofa.
She took another at letter from her agent. Faith, Hope and Charity: three distinct segments, each with a different director. Hers would be Hope. She liked the idea. And she liked the title. Possibly dull, she thought; but refined. They’ll probably change it to something like ‘Rock Around the Virtues’.
The doorbell chimed. J. Lee Thompson. A lonely man, he dropped by often. Shirley smiled ruefully, shaking her head, as she heard him rasp an obscenity at Karl, whom he seemed to detest and continually baited.
“Yes, hullo, where’s a drink!” he demanded crossly, entering the room and moving to the bar with eyes averted, hands in the pockets of his wrinkled raincoat.
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