Choose the One You'll Marry (3 page)

Then Mr. Naylor put down the telephone and observed with some satisfaction, “That’s all right, Miss
Tadcaster
. I’ll get hold of Miss Robbins, and see that she takes over. Mr. Everton says he’s sending down a car for you now if you can be ready in ten minutes.”

“You mean—” Ruth was a good deal taken aback at this change in Mr. Naylor’s manner, persuasive though she knew the young producer could be “—you mean—I can go?”

“Yes, of course. As Mr. Everton says, it will be a very pleasant bit of publicity for the hotel. I hadn’t thought of that. You’d better get ready quickly. I think they are rather short of time for their rehearsal.” Then, turning to Michael Harling, he added with a smile, “A very special occasion. But worth it, I think.”

To this Mr. Harling merely said, “I suppose we have a television screen somewhere in the hotel?” And then they went off, leaving Ruth to throw on her hat and coat, telephone hastily to her mother to explain as much as she could of what had happened during the day and then to compose herself as well as she could for her debut on television.

At the last moment she also remembered to telephone Aunt Henrietta’s room to suggest that Mr. Tadcaster should pick her up from the Excelsior soon after six.

“That will give you time to exchange greetings with mother before you settle down to see me on—on television. If you want to, I mean,” Ruth added more modestly, as she recalled that her total length of appearance might well be two minutes.

“My dear child, of
course
I want to see you. It’s all so exciting!” Somehow Aunt Henrietta’s warm, interested voice made Ruth feel as though she were about to play the leading role in an important production. “You really are a most unusual family.”

There was no time to explain just then that they were really a very ordinary, if likable family, for—looking through the glass entrance door—Ruth could see that one of those handsome cars from the studio had just driven up outside.

So she cried, “Goodbye,” and hung up the receiver.

Then, followed by the admiring good wishes of those of the staff who happened to be handy, she ran through the foyer, out of the hotel and jumped into the waiting car.

The next few hours were really some of the most exciting in Ruth’s life so far. She was whisked away to the other end of the town and deposited at the entrance of a rather shabby group of buildings. Here she presented herself at a reception desk, where the indifferent air of a languid blonde secretly excited her professional contempt.

At the mention of Angus Everton’s name, however, the blonde’s manner changed.

“You’d like a dressing room, I expect,” she said, and handed Ruth a key. “Straight down there on the right. Number six. And Mr. Everton is in Studio 2.”

“Thank you.” Ruth took her key and, trying to look as though this were all in a day’s work for her, she set off in search of her dressing room.

When found, the room disclosed an extraordinarily bare-looking interior, with pegs on the back of the door, and a mirror running all along one wall, with a shelf beneath it. Ruth took off her hat and coat and hung them on a peg, inspected herself in the mirror, combed her hair, dusted powder on her nose and finally—feeling that she ought somehow to have managed to make more use of the only private dressing room she was ever likely to have—ventured forth in search of Studio 2.

A passing man in shirt sleeves directed her along a short passage to a door that bore the intimidating notice, Studio 2. QUIET PLEASE. Do Not Enter If Red Light Is Showing.

Only a reassuring green light appeared to be showing, so Ruth pushed open the heavy swing door—and immediately found herself in a completely strange world. Lights poured down from odd angles. Cameras that looked as big as field guns were being propelled rapidly to and fro. Props and odd bits of scenery were jumbled together haphazardly, while all over the floor snaked a tangle of cables and cords.

Near at hand a couple in Regency costume was acting out some scene against a background of artificial flowers, while a man paced around in front of them, shouting directions. But before she could notice anything else, to her enormous relief, Angus Everton detached himself from a group in the far corner of the big studio and came toward her with outstretched hands.

“Darling!” He took both her hands and only just stopped short of kissing her, Ruth thought. “You are an angel to come to our aid like this. Come over and meet the others.” She was then wafted over to the group—most of whom she found she had already met that morning—and then, drawing her down on a property sofa beside him, Angus Everton began to explain her part in the program, with a clarity and conciseness oddly at variance with his usually casual manner.

It was not a difficult assignment for an intelligent girl used to dealing with people. Twice during the program she had to take part in a discussion on some book whose author was being interviewed. As it happened, she had read both the books concerned and enjoyed them, but she could not help asking curiously,
“
What would you have done if
I
hadn’t read either of them?”

“Given you a quick resume and a few pointers,” Angus Everton assured her. “But it is, of course, more satisfactory to have your real views.”

Ruth laughed.

“Was that funny?” He glanced at her, his handsome, tired face reflecting some amusement for a moment.

“I think so. But you might not,” Ruth told him. “Our worlds are somewhat different,
I
guess.”

“Meaning that mine’s the sham and yours is the real?” he suggested shrewdly.

“Oh, no.
I
didn’t mean quite that!”

But he laughed and patted her hand in so friendly a way that she had an odd impulse to turn her hand and hold his. She rejected this idea, however, and continued to listen attentively to his instructions.

It all sounded quite easy, the way he put it. But when he finally stood up and said, “Right! We’ll have a run
-
through,” Ruth felt her heart begin to beat heavily.

At the same time, her interest was irresistibly caught by the sight of the great cameras being wheeled into position, the skillful arrangement of a few props to create the illusion of a library, and the way in which people who seemed to have been idling around until now suddenly sprang into ordered significance, like men going to action stations before a battle.

Almost before she realized what was happening, Ruth found herself one of the group on the improvised “set,” and in some odd way, the discussion that had been started seemed hardly different from any conversation in which she might have engaged at a party.

Remembering Angus Everton’s reiterated, “Be natural—and just enjoy yourself,” she forced her attention away from the cameras and the microphones, and concentrated on what was being said, so that when she came in with an expression of her views, she sounded eager and interested. Something she said even started a laughing argument between two of the other speakers and, amateur though she was, she felt sure that the scene was going well.

Even so, she was unprepared for Angus Everton’s “Good child!” and light kiss, when the rehearsal was over. And because it all made her feel as though she had had two glasses of champagne, she was glad that he then sent her away to be made up for the actual performance.

This was, in itself, an experience. And when Ruth finally emerged from the hands of the skillful operator in the lavender nylon smock, she hardly knew herself.

“It doesn’t look like me at al
l
!” she protested.

“It will when you’re on the screen,” the other girl assured her with a laugh. “What program are you on?”

“ ‘Arts and Artists.’ ”

“Oh—with Angus Everton. You’ll have fun. He’s much the nicest of the producers.”

“Is he really?” Ruth lingered, only too willing to hear his praises sung.

“Yes, certainly. We see them all in here, you know, in good moods and bad. Between you and me, we were quite glad when Charmian Deal threw him over. We didn’t think she was good enough for him by half.”

“Didn’t you?” said Ruth, longing to stay and hear more “Who is Char—”

But just then someone knocked on the door and called, “Miss Tadcaster—ready, please!” And she had to go off to the studio once more, without getting to the bottom of this interesting matter of Charmian Deal and Angus Everton.

Curiously enough, the actual performance proved less nerve-racking than the rehearsal. Possibly because she had a certain familiarity with the scene by now. And possibly because she felt a sudden determination not to add to Angus Everton’s worries by any failure on her part. Charmian Deal might have let him down—but not Ruth Tadcaster! And in her thought for him, she forgot about herself.

At the end, someone whom she took to be the head cameraman said, “Good girl! You’re a natural.”

“A—a natural?” stammered Ruth, who had always taken that to mean someone mentally deficient.

“Yes. You’re completely at ease in front of the camera. It takes some people months to achieve that, and some of them never get it at all. You came out well on the screen, too. Ever done anything like this before?”

“No.” Ruth was immensely flattered.

“Well, I shouldn’t wonder if Angus uses you again sometime.”

Then Angus himself came up and said, “You were fine, Ruth.” It seemed incredible that she had been Miss Tadcaster only that morning. “I’m driving back. Can I drop you anywhere?”

“Oh, yes, please! At home.”

Aunt Henrietta and the family and the evening’s affairs floated back into her consciousness again.

“All right. Get one of the girls to take off your makeup quickly, and I’ll meet you at the main entrance in ten minutes.”

Hoping to have another word with her friend of the makeup department, Ruth hurried back there. But unfortunately it was another girl who restored her to her normal appearance once more, and there was no question of any further conversation.

Hurriedly collecting her things from her dressing room, Ruth then made her way to the main entrance. But here she had to wait a few minutes for Angus. It was interesting, however, watching the various people come and go, and she was completely absorbed in the entry of a tall, slender girl with glorious red hair, when Angus finally made an appearance.

Angus and the girl with the red hair greeted each other and entered into a few moments’ conversation—but coolly, Ruth thought. Then Angus caught sight of Ruth and exclaimed, “I’m sorry, my dear! Have I kept you waiting?” He held out his hand to her, and when Ruth came over to him, he put his arm around her and, turning to the red-haired girl, said, “Meet the sensation of the evening. Ruth has just saved our program for us.”

“You don’t say.” The girl spoke in a cool voice and looked at Ruth without favor.

“That’s a complete exaggeration, of course.” Ruth smiled. “I just filled a small but awkward gap in a reasonably efficient way.”

“You proved yourself a good friend at an awkward moment, and that’s even better than proving yourself good on the screen,” Angus Everton told her with a smile. “And now I’m going to take you home, my sweet. Come along.” Used though she was becoming to the casual endearments of his world, Ruth thought this excessive. But it was no good pretending that she did not find it extraordinarily pleasant, too. If it meant very little, it was still exquisitely acceptable. And if it meant just a little more than she thought—well, it was more acceptable still.

In the car she turned to him quite frankly and asked, “Who was the girl with the lovely red hair?”

“Don’t you know?” He looked genuinely surprised. “That was Charmian Deal.”

“O—oh,” said Ruth, and immediately wondered if she should reassess the importance of being called “my sweet” in view of this information.

“What does that mean, exactly?” He gave her a curious glance.

“I was wondering,” Ruth said, before she could stop herself “if that was why you—made such a fuss of me.”

“Good Lord!” He flushed, but whether with annoyance or embarrassment she was not sure. “You must think me a bit of a cad, if you can say that.”

“Oh, no,” said Ruth. “If you’ve taken a bad knock from someone, I suppose it’s natural to try to look as though you have other fish to fry and don’t really care about what happened.”

“You extraordinary child!” He gave a short, incredulous little laugh. But he took his hand from the wheel for a moment and put it over hers. “I wish you worked in my world. I could do with your good-humored sanity just now—is this the turning we take?”

“Yes
,”
Ruth said shyly. But, try as she would, she could think of nothing to add to that. She thought he was not going to refer to the subject again, either. But just as they drew up outside the house, he spoke abruptly.

“I did want to give Charmian the impression that I was doing very well without her,” he said, looking straight ahead. “But that wasn’t the only reason I made a fuss of you. I think you’re a darling, too.”

“Why—thank you.” Ruth laughed, half touched, half amused. “I’m glad I was of use this evening—in more ways than one. Goodbye—and thank you for a very exciting experience.”

“Thank
you,"
he said, and smiled at her as she got out of the car. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

And although, of course, this was only a conventional way of taking leave of her, Ruth thrilled happily to his final words, as she ran up the path and let herself into the house.

As she stepped into the hall, the atmosphere of normality enfolded her once more. This was home. This was the everyday, reassuring, slightly humdrum atmosphere she had always known. And even if Aunt Henrietta had presumably invaded it this evening, nothing essential would be changed.