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“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.”
The experience with the arrogant young actor rankled Catherine, and she was determined to put it out of her mind. For some reason, she found it difficult to forget him.
When Catherine returned to Washington, William Fraser said, “I missed you. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about you. Do you love me?”
“Very much, Bill.”
“I love you too. Why don’t we go out tonight and celebrate?”
Catherine knew that that was the night he was going to propose.
They went to the exclusive Jefferson Club. In the middle of dinner, Larry Douglas walked in, still wearing his Army Air Corps uniform with all the medals. Catherine watched unbelievingly as he walked over to their table and greeted not her but Fraser.
Bill Fraser rose. “Cathy, this is Captain Lawrence Douglas. Larry, this is Miss Alexander—Catherine. Larry’s been flying with the RAF. He was the leader of the American squadron over there. They talked him into heading up a fighter base in Virginia to get some of our boys ready for combat.”
Like the rerun of an old movie, Catherine remembered how she had ordered him to take off his bars and his medals, and how he had cheerfully obliged. She had been smug, overbearing—and she had called him a coward! She wanted to crawl under the table.
The next day, Larry Douglas telephoned Catherine at her office. She refused to take his calls. When she finished work he was outside, waiting for her. He had taken off his medals and ribbons and was wearing the bars of a second lieutenant.
He smiled and walked up to her. “Is this better?”
Catherine stared at him. “Isn’t—isn’t wearing the wrong insignia against regulations?”
“I don’t know. I thought you were in charge of all that.”
She looked into his eyes and knew that she was lost. There was a magnetic force about him that was irresistible.
“What do you want from me?”
“Everything. I want you.”
They had gone to his apartment and made love. And it was an exquisite joy that Catherine had never dreamed possible, a fantastic coming together that rocked the room and the universe—until there was an explosion that became a delirious ecstasy, an unbelievable shattering journey, an arriving and a departing, an ending and a beginning. And she had lain there, spent and numb, holding him tightly, never wanting to let him go, never wanting this feeling to stop.
They were married five hours later in Maryland.
Now, seated in the plane, on her way to London to begin a new life, Catherine thought: We were so happy. Where did it all go wrong? The romantic movies and the love songs tricked us all into believing in happy endings and knights in shining armor and love that never, never died. We really believed that James Stewart and Donna Reed had A Wonderful Life, and we knew that Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert would be together forever after It Happened One Night, and we shed tears when Frederick March returned to Myrna Loy for The Best Years of Our Lives, and we were sure that Joan Fontaine found happiness in the arms of Laurence Olivier in Rebecca. And they were lies. All lies. And the songs. I’ll Be Loving You, Always. How do men figure always? With an egg timer? How Deep Is the Ocean? What did Irving Berlin have in mind? One foot? Two feet? And … Forever and a Day. I’m leaving. I want a divorce. Some Enchanted Evening. We’re going to climb Mount Tzoumerka. … You and the Night and the Music. The hotel manager told me about some caves near here. … (I Love You) For Sentimental Reasons. No one will ever … now, while she’s asleep. Be My Love. And we listened to the songs and we watched the movies and really thought that was what life was going to be like. I believed in my husband so much. Can I ever believe in anyone again? What did I do to make him want to murder me?
“Miss Alexander …”
Catherine looked up, startled, unfocused.
The pilot was standing over her. “We’ve landed. Welcome to London.”
There was a limousine waiting for Catherine at the airport. The chauffeur said, “I’ll arrange for your luggage, Miss Alexander. My name is Alfred. Would you like to go directly to your flat?”
My flat. “Yes, that will be fine.”
Catherine sank back in her seat. Unbelievable. Constantin Demiris had arranged a private plane for her, and a place to live. He was either the most generous man in the world, or … She simply could not think of any alternative. No. He’s the most generous man in the world. I’ll have to find a suitable way to show my appreciation.
The flat, on Elizabeth Street off Eaton Square, was utterly luxurious. It consisted of a large entrance hall, a beautifully furnished drawing room with a crystal chandelier, a paneled library, a kitchen stocked with food, three attractively furnished bedrooms, and servants’ quarters.
Catherine was greeted at the door by a woman in her forties wearing a black dress. “Good afternoon, Miss Alexander. I am Anna. I am your housekeeper.”
Of course. My housekeeper. Catherine was beginning to take it all in stride. “How do you do?”
The chauffeur brought Catherine’s suitcases in and placed them in her bedroom. “The limousine is at your disposal,” he told her. “Just tell Anna when you’re ready to go to the office, and I will pick you up.”
The limousine is at my disposal. Naturally.“Thank you.”
Anna said, “I’ll unpack your bags. If there’s anything else you need, just let me know.”
“I can’t think of a thing,” Catherine said honestly.
Catherine wandered around the flat until Anna had finished unpacking. She went into the bedroom and looked at the beautiful new dresses that Demiris had bought her, and thought: All this is like a wonderful dream. There was a feeling of total unreality about it. Forty-eight hours ago, she had been watering rose bushes at the convent. Now she was living the life of a duchess. She wondered what the job would be like. I’ll work hard. I don’t want to let him down. He’s been so wonderful. She felt suddenly tired. She lay down on the soft, comfortable bed. I’ll just rest a minute, she thought. She closed her eyes.
She was drowning, and screaming for help. And Larry was swimming toward her, and when he reached her he pushed her under water. And she was in a dark cave, and bats were coming at her, tearing at her hair, beating their clammy wings against her face. Catherine awakened with a shuddering start and sat up in bed, trembling.
She took deep breaths to steady herself. That’s enough, she thought. It’s over. That was yesterday. This is today. No one’s going to hurt you. No one. Not anymore.
Outside Catherine’s bedroom, Anna, the housekeeper, had been listening to the screams. She waited a moment, and when there was silence she walked down the hall and picked up the telephone to report to Constantin Demiris.
The Hellenic Trade Corporation was located at 217 Bond Street, off Piccadilly, in an old government building that had been converted years earlier to an office building. The exterior of the building was a masterpiece of architecture, elegant and graceful.
When Catherine arrived, the office staff was waiting for her. There were half a dozen people near the door to greet her.
“Welcome, Miss Alexander. I’m Evelyn Kaye. This is Carl … Tucker … Matthew … Jennie …”
The names and faces became a blur.
“How do you do?”
“Your office is ready for you. I’ll show you the way.”
“Thank you.”
The reception room was tastefully furnished, with a large Chesterfield sofa, flanked by two Chippendale chairs and a tapestry. They walked down a long carpeted corridor and passed a conference room with heavy pine paneling and leather chairs along a highly polished table.
Catherine was ushered into an attractive office with worn, comfortable furniture and a leather couch.
“It’s all yours.”
“It’s lovely,” she murmured.
There were fresh flowers on the desk.
“From Mr. Demiris.”
He’s so thoughtful.
Evelyn Kaye, the woman who had shown her into the office, was a stocky middle-aged woman with a pleasant face and a comfortable manner. “It will take you a few days to get used to the place, but the operation is really quite simple. We’re one of the nerve centers of the Demiris empire. We coordinate the reports from the overseas divisions, and send them on to headquarters in Athens. I’m the office manager. You’ll be my assistant.”
“Oh.” So I’m the assistant to the office manager. Catherine had no idea what was expected of her. She had been thrown into a fantasy world. Private planes, limousines, a beautiful flat with servants …
“Wim Vandeen is our resident mathematical genius. He computes all the statements and puts them into a master financial analysis chart. His mind works faster than most calculating machines. Come along to his office and meet him.”
They walked down the corridor to an office at the end of the hall. Evelyn opened the door without knocking.
“Wim, this is my new assistant.”
Catherine stepped into the office and stood there, riveted. Wim Vandeen appeared to be in his early thirties, a thin man with a slack-jawed mouth and a dull, vacant expression. He was staring out the window.
“Wim. Wim! This is Catherine Alexander.”
He turned around. “Catherine the First’s real name was Marta Skowronka she was a servant girl born in 1684 who was captured by the Russians she married Peter I and was empress of Russia from 1725 to 1727; Catherine the Great was the daughter of a German prince she was born in 1729 and she married Peter, who became Emperor Peter III in 1762, and she succeeded to his throne that same year after she had him murdered. Under her reign there were three divisions of Poland and two wars against Turkey …” The information poured out like a fountain, in a monotone.
Catherine was listening, stunned. “That’s … that’s very interesting,” she managed.
Wim Vandeen looked away.
Evelyn said, “Wim is shy when he meets people.”
Shy? Catherine thought. The man is weird. And he’s a genius? What kind of job is this going to be?
In Athens, in his offices on Aghiou Geronda Street, Constantin Demiris was listening to a telephone report from Alfred in London.
“I drove Miss Alexander directly from the airport to the flat, Mr. Demiris. I asked her if she wished me to take her anywhere else, as you suggested, and she said no.”
“She’s had no outside contacts at all?”
“No, sir. Not unless she made some telephone calls from the flat, sir.”
Constantin Demiris was not worried about that. Anna, the housekeeper, would report to him. He replaced the receiver, satisfied. She presented no immediate danger to him and he would see that she was watched. She was alone in the world. She had no one to turn to except her benefactor, Constantin Demiris. I must make arrangements to go to London soon, Demiris thought happily. Very soon.
Catherine Alexander found her new job interesting. Daily reports came in from Constantin Demiris’s far-flung empire. There were bills of lading from a steel mill in Indiana, audits from an automobile factory in Italy, invoices from a newspaper chain in Australia, a gold mine, an insurance company. Catherine collated the re-ports and saw to it that the information went directly to Wim Vandeen. Wim glanced at the reports once, put them through the incredible computer that was his brain, and almost instantly calculated the percentages of profit or loss to the company.
