The Chelsea Girls(21)
“Sounds like she’s doing quite well,” Hazel answered vaguely. “From what I can tell, Hollywood agrees with her.”
“Word at the Chelsea is that you’re a playwright. What have you written?”
“Nothing yet. I’m trying to write a play. About my experiences in a USO touring company, during the war.”
“A girl writing a war play, I like what I’m hearing. Send it to me, please.”
“Send it to you?” Hazel must have heard wrong.
“Yes. Call downstairs and have them deliver it up to me tonight. I’ll have it back to you tomorrow morning by nine.”
A terrible idea, for many reasons. It was Hazel’s only copy. She hadn’t finished revising the last scene. It wasn’t ready. Yet Lavinia’s offer, her eyebrows raised in bemusement, was quite generous.
But what if she hated it? Would Hazel be able to withstand the blow of harsh criticism? Then again, no matter what Lavinia thought, by refusing her, Hazel might never get another opportunity.
God, she was making herself crazy. Meanwhile, Lavinia was staring at her, waiting for an answer.
“I’ll do that. Thank you, Lavinia.”
Hazel dashed back to her room to continue working, finalizing the draft before wrapping some twine around the finished pages, tying it off, and ringing down to the porter to pick it up.
The next day, she reluctantly began packing up her few items of clothing, watching as the clock ticked closer and closer to nine. Maybe Lavinia had tossed the script aside after the first page and completely forgotten about it. Of course, Hazel could call up to her room and inquire, but she didn’t want to come off as pushy.
What a mistake, to let the pages out of her sight.
She sat at the bare desk, the typewriter packed up in its case on the floor beside her, and stared out the window. No matter what the outcome, she’d make good on her promise to finish it. For Paul’s sake. For her own sake.
Promptly at 9:00 A.M., there was a knock on her door. A porter handed the script back, with a note tucked inside the twine.
This must be mounted. Am talking to a producer forthwith. Remain in place.
Hazel sat down on the sofa and looked about, the bright colors of the pillows and rug swirling dizzily around her.
Looked like she’d be staying on at the Chelsea Hotel.
CHAPTER SIX
Hazel
May 1950
Who are you? Did you really write this?”
Lester Canby tossed Hazel’s play on his desk and eyed her from above his spectacles, perched midway on a bulbous nose. His face was long and thin, with hollow cheekbones, topped by an enormous bald head. His enlarged cranium and bulging eyes reminded her of an octopus she’d seen in an aquarium as a child.
Hazel had turned up at the producer’s office in Times Square not knowing what to expect. Four days went by after Miss Smarts’s directive to remain in place, and Mr. Bard had inquired, ever so politely, about the rent. He’d called her into his office at the front of the building, formerly the ladies’ reception room, where angelic plaster cherubs looked down with unabashed delight at the chunky adding machine and endless reams of paper that covered his desk. Hazel promised she’d pay up on Monday, once she’d had a chance to cash her check from the radio show, and he’d beamed like she’d told him he’d won the lottery. She’d hate to disappoint him.
Luckily, the invitation to meet with Mr. Canby arrived soon after. Hazel had been in his office before, as a struggling young actress making the rounds in her finest outfit and brightest lipstick, inquiring whether there were any roles she might audition for. Mr. Canby had seen her a few times but never cast her in a part, dismissing her with a loud bark. She hoped he didn’t remember.
She wasn’t sure how to respond to his question about the play’s authorship. Her name, after all, was on the title page. “I did write it. The play was inspired by my experiences as a USO tour performer.”
“I love the part where the guy turns out to be a girl. I didn’t expect that twist.”
She couldn’t help but beam.
“It’s a fresh take on war, and I also love that we don’t know what country the hotel is in, or even what side some of the characters are on, at least at first. Terrific.” He leaned back, teetering on the back legs of his chair. A habit, from the looks of the indentations on the wall behind him, that lined up perfectly with the two round finials rising over either shoulder. “This isn’t my usual cup of tea. My audiences love spectacles. Revues, that sort of thing. I had a troop of whirling dervishes from Turkey booked at the Biltmore this summer, but I just found out they’re not coming. So I need a replacement. Fast.”
She’d figured she’d been called in as a courtesy to Lavinia Smarts. But no. He needed a replacement. Mr. Canby was actually considering her play for a slot in a Broadway theater.
“You mean, me?”
“Maybe.” He slammed his chair back down. There were probably a couple of divots in the wooden floor as well.
She had to set him straight on one point. “This is a drama, not a spectacle.”
“Fine with me. Look at Death of a Salesman. Nothing spectacular about it, yet it won the Tony. I read that play and said to Miller, ‘What kind of title is that? You’re giving away the ending, what the hell are you thinking?’ So I passed.” His irritation at having done so was obvious. “What a mistake. After that, I decided that I should go against my instincts. If I think something’s a bore, I should book it. What’s your play called again?” He squinted at the title page.