Memories of Midnight. Сидни Шелдон

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      “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.

      “Excuse me. Would you mind joining the rest of us?”

      He turned and asked, lazily, “Are you talking to me?”

      “Yes. We’d like to go to work.”

      He was extraordinarily handsome, tall and wiry, with blue-black hair and stormy dark eyes. His uniform fitted perfectly. On his shoulders were the bars of a captain, and across his breast he had pinned on a splash of brightly colored ribbons. Catherine stared at them. “Those medals … ?”

      “Are they impressive enough, boss?” His voice was deep and filled with insolent amusement.

      “Take them off.”

      “Why? I thought I’d give this film a little color.”

      “There’s one little thing you forgot. America’s not at war yet. You would have had to have won those at a carnival.”

      “You’re right,” he admitted sheepishly. “I didn’t think of that. I’ll take some of them off.”

      “Take them all off,” Catherine snapped.

      After the morning’s shooting, while Catherine was having lunch at the commissary, he walked up to her table. “I wanted to ask you how I did this morning? Was I convincing?”

      His manner infuriated her. “You enjoy wearing that uniform and strutting around the girls, but have you thought about enlisting?”

      He looked shocked. “And get shot at? That’s for suckers.”

      Catherine was ready to explode. “I think you’re contemptible.”

      “Why?”

      “If you don’t know why, I could never explain it to you.”

      “Why don’t you try? At dinner tonight. Your place. Do you cook?”

      “Don’t bother coming back to the set,” Catherine snapped. “I’ll tell Mr. O’Brien to send you your check for this morning’s work. What’s your name?”

      “Douglas. Larry Douglas.”

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