At the second intermission an usher came to my seat with a hastily scrawled note: Timmy — Won’t you please come to my dressing room after the curtain? — Barbara.
I had to wait backstage until her dresser gave me the go-ahead. The stage crew was busy tearing apart the Act III set of Amanda’s Paris apartment. Watching them, I was reminded that despite all of the fame and fortune, the theater is still just a bunch of grown-up kids putting on a skit in front of a painted backdrop.
Darrow and Beck had neighboring dressing rooms close to the stage. Leigh and John were up a steep, narrow flight of stairs. That’s an old law of the theater — the lower your name in the credits, the higher your climb.
I found Barbara seated before the mirror at her dressing table, looking like a waif in an oversized terry-cloth robe. Her makeup was off, her hair wrapped up in a towel. She didn’t seem at all tired by the performance. In fact, she was positively glowing. The bottle of Dom Perignon she was working on probably wasn’t hurting.
“Ah, here you are, Timmy,” she exclaimed brightly. “Close the door and sit down, dear. Have a drink with me, won’t you?”
I sat on the sofa, accepting a glass of the champagne.
“Timmy, I wanted to apologize for the awful way I behaved toward you in the lobby this morning. It was uncalled for, and way out of line. Sometimes love is a terrible thing, you know. It can make you do things you would ordinarily never do.” She hesitated, her huge eyes searching mine. “Are you in a hurry?”
“Why, no, Miss Darrow.”
“Wonderful. We can sit and talk some more. Let me get into a different outfit, okay? I’ll only be a second.”
She darted into her bathroom, shutting the door behind her. I sat there sipping my champagne and listening to the backstage hubbub out in the hall. I glanced around at the dressing room, which was plain and unadorned, aside from the dozen fresh long-stemmed roses on her dressing table. Telegrams from well-wishers were stuck in her mirror.
After a few moments, she came out of the bathroom and said, “How do you like this outfit?”
I turned and discovered that she was standing there completely nude.
Even at age forty-six, Barbara Darrow was a magnificent sight to behold. Her figure was as trim and taut as a teenager’s, breasts firm, thighs smooth and slender. No flab, no sag. Nothing but toned and buffed perfection. She was Barbara Darrow. And she was presenting herself to me.
I suppose I made some form of noise in response, but it wasn’t any known language. Quite honestly, I could barely breathe.
Now she was crossing the dressing room toward me, her eyes glittering as she plopped down sideways in my lap. Her arm went around my neck, her bare toes wrapped around my forearm, gripping it tightly. I was aware of many things at that moment. I was aware that Barbara had not a stitch of clothing on. I was aware that she was a beautiful star whom I’d had fantasies about ever since I, well, started having fantasies. And I was aware — acutely aware — that she was born the same exact year as Eleanor Clifton Ferris, also known as my mother.
“My God, you’re so clean.” She took my hand and kissed the palm tenderly before she pressed it against her cheek. “Are you a virgin?”
I swallowed. “Am I what?”
“It’s a simple question, dear. Either you are or you aren’t.”
“I... aren’t.”
“Let me guess, okay?” she said playfully. “First, there were some terribly earnest high-school fumblings with the girl next-door in a hayloft.”
“Parked car. My dad’s a judge, not a farmer.”
“Followed by one true college sweetheart. But you broke her heart when you came to New York, didn’t you? Because you didn’t love her enough to bring her with you.”
“You’re right, I didn’t,” I admitted quietly, realizing that it had been awhile since Martha Englehardt had written. I wondered if she’d finally started dating someone else. “How do you know all of this about me?”
“I told you this morning — I can feel your aura.” Now she guided my hand to her breast. I watched her do this, both participant and observer. Mostly, I could not believe this was happening. “Just like you can feel mine.”
“Miss Darrow...”
“It’s Barbara,” she whispered breathlessly.
“I really think you should get up.”
She drew back, widening her eyes at me. “Don’t you like me? You would if you got to know me better. Wouldn’t you like to?”
“I would, yes. God, yes. Only...”
“I’m too old.” Her lower lip began to quiver. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Not a chance. It’s just that, well, what about Mr. Beck?”
“What about Tony?” she demanded. “He does what he wants, who he wants. Why shouldn’t I?”
“That’s between the two of you. I only know that this feels wrong. Please get up.”
Barbara’s eyes welled up with tears. “You’re being so sweet. And you’re making me feel so shabby and miserable and... and...” She buried her face in my shoulder, sobbing.
I put my arms around her and held her.
That’s when her dressing room door burst open and Anthony Beck barged in on us. I hadn’t locked it behind me. Hadn’t thought I’d need to.
“What the devil is going on here?” he demanded, his eyes bulging furiously.
Panicking, I immediately tried to get up off of that sofa. Barbara, for her part, fought just as hard to stay put there. Here’s what happened: As I staggered to my feet I sent her tumbling onto the floor with a most unstarlike thud. Humiliated, she fled naked into her bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
“Young man, you owe me an explanation!” Anthony Beck thundered at me indignantly. “I demand an explanation!”
“Nothing happened, Mr. Beck. On my honor.”
“Your honor? I’ve just found you making love to my wife.”
“I didn’t do anything, honest. I was just sitting here and she... she...”
“She what?”
I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that she’d thrown herself at me. Couldn’t think of what to say. So I did the only thing I could do — I got the hell out of there, slamming the dressing-room door shut behind me. I didn’t go far. Couldn’t. I was too shaken. I just stood there in the hall for a moment, gasping.
That’s when I heard Anthony Beck roar: “You drive me insane with desire! You know that, don’t you?”
And heard Barbara Darrow waiclass="underline" “I don’t know anything, except that I’m losing you. She’s taking you from me!”
“Not in a million years. But what about you and that — that boy?”
“He’s in love with me. I was trying to let him down gently. I was being kind.”
“You’re always kind. And, my God, you’re beautiful.”
“I’m not. I’m not.”
“You know you are.”
After that, I could hear only murmurs and laughter, soft moans of pleasure.
Reeling, I ran from the theater.
Leigh Grayson was waiting for me on the stoop of my brownstone.
She’d been there awhile. There was a pile of cigarette butts next to her feet. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she was sniffling. I invited her up. Or, more exactly, down. Leigh was very tactful. Didn’t say one word about the fuel-oil smell. Possibly, she was too upset to notice.
“Barbara’s going to get me fired from the show,” she blurted out. “She told me tonight before the curtain.”