When Carrie opened the envelope she found inside not only a card wishing her good luck, but also a cheque for five hundred dollars. She stood staring at it. The gesture was so generous, so kind, but she couldn’t possibly accept it.

  Next morning, along with a carefully worded letter expressing her sincere gratitude, she replaced the cheque in the envelope and slipped it under the door of Rosemary’s room.

  *

  Rosemary had been wrong when she said Carrie would forget. Even now, after all these years, the memories were as clear as ever. They had merely been stored away, like the photographs in the album that lay before her.

  The melancholy mood still upon her, she closed the album and moved idly to the window. There, glancing out, she saw the cat.

  It was the third time this week she had seen it in the garden. She watched the small, thin creature as it crept into the shade of a hedge and lay down. She stood there for a moment longer then went from the room and down to the kitchen. There she got a few small pieces of chicken, scraps left over from yesterday’s dinner, and poured some water into a dish. Going outside a minute later she saw the cat was still there. Moving cautiously so as not to frighten him, she placed the dishes on the ground.

  ‘Here, kitty. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty…’

  She backed away a few feet, watching as the cat got up on his thin legs. The poor little thing certainly looked hungry. And nervous. Black with white paws, he had a white patch over one eye which gave him an odd expression of surprise. For a moment she thought he might turn and run, but he had found the food. Seconds later he had eaten the chicken and was lapping up the water.

  She watched as he wiped a paw fastidiously over his mouth and looked up at her. ‘Was that good?’ she said. ‘There’ll be more tomorrow if you want. I’ll get you something nice from the store.’

  The cat remained a moment longer looking up at her, then, turning, moved off into the shrubbery.

  In the shade of the elm leaves Carrie sank down, stretching full-length on the dry lawn. The grass pricked through her slip, and she scratched languidly at the itch. A fly hummed drowsily around her head, and she flapped at it a couple of times then closed her eyes, her head cushioned on her arm. There was something on her mind, and like a child who feels compelled to pick at a scabbed knee, she couldn’t leave it alone.

  ‘Michael…’ Her lips moved in a soundless murmur.

  Once again her thoughts went back to their last meeting, when he had gone with her to the bus station, to see her off on her return to Manhattan. From the bus window she had gazed back at him as he stood watching the bus pull out, until he was no longer in sight.

  And that was the last she had seen of him.

  A few weeks later she had read how dramatically and completely Save a Place for Me had flopped, closing out of town, the hoped-for Broadway opening gone for ever. And she was glad. Glad. For Rosemary’s sake there were real feelings of regret, but mainly her feelings were of satisfaction. She was glad that it had happened to Ian Brewster. It served him right.

  Apart from Brewster getting his comeuppance, though, the show’s failure had promised another positive outcome; it meant that Michael would be free to come to her sooner than she had anticipated. She couldn’t wait for their meeting.

  But that meeting had never taken place.

  He had called her several times over the last weeks of the show’s brief life, but to her great surprise and dismay, after the show’s closing she heard nothing more from him.

  And then it was that she learned that her mother was sick. Her sister Janice telephoned with the news. ‘Carrie,’ she said, ‘Mom’s in a bad way, and she’s asking for you.’

  ‘She’s sick?’ Carrie said. ‘Why didn’t somebody tell me?’

  ‘I’m telling you now.’ There was no warmth in Janice’s voice.

  ‘Is it – is it serious?’

  ‘She’s had a stroke. And things don’t look good. I think you should come home as soon as you can.’

  Yes, Carrie had said, she would be there just as soon as she could get away. But she didn’t go. She stayed where she was, waiting for the mail, listening for the sound of the telephone or the doorbell; some word, some sign from Michael. She had no choice, she felt, for she knew that the very moment she set off for Texas, he would be there, looking for her. And so she had gone on waiting. One day more; just one day more. And those single days had become many, and in the end it was too late. When she at last got back to the family home it was to find her mother lying in her coffin.

  Returning to New York after the funeral, Carrie had hoped, desperately, that she would find some word from Michael waiting for her. There was nothing.

  Along with her distress at Michael’s silence, there was also the matter of earning a living to take care of. Her mother had left her money in her will, but it would be some time before that could be touched. She had to find work. For the time being she was not particular what it was, but she had to find a job of some kind.

  It was while she was on her way to one of the larger department stores one afternoon, in the hope of finding something, that she and Rosemary met again.

  *

  They came together on the corner of Broadway and 54th Street.

  ‘Rosemary?’ Carrie came to a stop, her face lighting up as Rosemary suddenly came into view.

  In the same moment Rosemary halted in her tracks, eyes wide in surprise. ‘Carrie! Hello!’ Stepping forward, she put her arms around Carrie and briefly held her close.

  ‘Oh, Rosemary,’ Carrie said as they drew apart, ‘it’s so good to see you.’

  ‘And you,’ Rosemary replied. ‘And what a surprise.’

  Carrie was all smiles. ‘I’ve thought of you often – so often,’ she said. Which was true; of all her memories from the fiasco of Save a Place for Me, her only fond memories were of Rosemary.

  Looking tanned and well, Rosemary said that she had just returned from a trip to Cape Cod – ‘God, I had to get away, take a break somewhere,’ – and had come into the city that day on business.

  ‘Are you in a hurry?’ Carrie asked. ‘Could we – could we go someplace and have a cup of coffee or something? It’s just so lovely to see you again.’

  ‘Sure, why not,’ Rosemary said. ‘I’m running ragged here, and I could do with a rest for a half hour.’

  A short walk down 54th Street and they came to a small coffee shop. Going inside, they were shown to a table where they sat and ordered coffees. Over their cups they talked of this and that, and then, in a lull in the conversation, Rosemary reached across the table and pressed Carrie’s hand.

  ‘I was so sorry at the way things turned out for you,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’ Carrie nodded, memories of the show flooding back afresh. ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘How have you been managing since you got back?’

  ‘It could be better.’ A pause. ‘My mother died.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay, thanks. I stayed for a while there, in Texas, after the funeral. I haven’t been back that long. Now I’m looking for a job. I need to earn some money.’

  ‘You auditioning for anything?’

  ‘No. Oh, no – I think I’m finished with all that.’

  ‘What? With the theatre, you mean – your acting?’

  ‘Yes.’ Carrie nodded. ‘Like you said to me, you have to be tough in the business, and I guess – well, I think maybe I’m just not cut out for it.’

  Rosemary sighed. ‘Well, it can be a bitch, there’s no two ways about that.’

  Carrie nodded. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘how about you? How’s your little boy – David? He away at school?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’ Rosemary’s smile was warm, full of tenderness. ‘And he’s wonderful. And coming home in a week. My God, it’s going to be frantic. I’ve got so much to do, and now I only have Elda, my helper, to lend a hand. But I can’t wait to have him back.’

  A moment or two went by, then Carrie said, ‘I read about the show closing, of course. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Rosemary shook her head. ‘Darling, it didn’t work out for anybody – the writers, the company, the producers – nobody – and least of all the critics. They hated it. But it taught me something – stay away from the theatre.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You bet. The only time you’ll ever get me in a theatre again is in the audience, with a seat in the stalls. From now on I’ll stick to cabaret. I should never have got into it in the first place. I didn’t really want to, but when the offer came up my agent persuaded me.’ She shrugged. ‘So there you are – the mistakes we make. And let me tell you, Carrie, you were well out of it. I know you won’t see it like that, but it wasn’t a good show. I know we all had great hopes for it, but it wasn’t. And look at some of those songs. That one of yours. Those lyrics – You want to give your peppermint some pep – Jesus Christ. I ask you. It’s no wonder the critics let us have it. Not a good word for anybody.’

  A moment’s hesitation, then Carrie said: ‘How was Michael in it? Did he do okay?’

  Rosemary looked up over her coffee cup. ‘Michael?’

  ‘Michael – he played Christopher.’

  ‘Oh, yes – Michael.’ Rosemary shrugged. ‘Search me, darling. I don’t know. I think it was every man for himself.’ She was silent for a moment in the hum and chatter of the place, then she said, ‘He – Michael – was he a bit – special for you? I mean, I know you used to hang out together, but –’

  ‘I loved him,’ Carrie said.

  Rosemary gave a slow nod. ‘Oh, I didn’t know it was that serious.’

  ‘No,’ Carrie said with a sigh, ‘I don’t think Michael knew it either. I never heard another word from him afterwards, not after the show closed. Not a word.’

  Rosemary reached out and briefly pressed Carrie’s hand. ‘My dear, you’ve had a hard time lately. But things’ll get better, you wait and see. And as for your Michael – well, maybe you’re better off without him. Like they say, there are plenty more fish in the sea. A pretty girl like you – you shouldn’t have any trouble. There’ll be somebody else – you wait.’ She paused for a moment, then, her tone brightening, she said, ‘Listen, I’ll tell you something that’ll cheer you up a bit.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Belle – remember her?’

  ‘Belle?’

  ‘Belle whatever her name was – who took over your part.’

  ‘Oh, her – yes.’

  Rosemary nodded. ‘The critics – they shredded her.’

  A little touch of pleasure brushed Carrie’s heart. ‘They did?’

  ‘They sure did.’

  Carrie took this in. ‘And Ian?’ she said. ‘Ian Brewster?’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t come out of it well either. But I doubt you’ll lose any sleep over that. I can’t forget the way he was with you. It was unforgiveable. And for no reason at all.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Carrie said. ‘There was a reason. I know why he was like that.’

  ‘Oh?’ Rosemary leant forward a little. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I don’t like to think about it,’ Carrie said, ‘but, well, he – he made a pass at me.’

  Rosemary’s eyes widened. ‘He did what?’

  Carrie nodded. ‘It was nothing too terrible – just a little kiss. But I overreacted, I guess – and it upset him. He changed towards me from that moment.’

  Rosemary gave a nod. ‘So that’s how it was. The bastard. That explains it. Oh, darling, I wish I could have done something.’

  ‘Oh, you already did so much. The way you took my side that day.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Rosemary waved a hand, dismissing it. ‘Forget it. I got pissed off. It was nothing.’

  ‘No,’ Carrie said quickly, ‘it was not nothing. You stuck up for me, in front of everybody, and I’ll never forget that. And you got it in the neck too, from Brewster, for trying to help me out.’

  ‘That man,’ Rosemary said, ‘– that son-of-a-bitch took no prisoners, that’s for sure. He’s somebody I won’t miss, I tell you.’ She lifted a hand, palm out. ‘Anyway, let’s forget him. It’s all in the past.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I shall have to go soon. I’ve got so much to do – and now that Debbie, my assistant, has gone, it’s leaving me with so –’ She came to an abrupt halt. She remained silent for a moment, frowning slightly, considering, then she said,

  ‘You said just now you’re looking for work.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I am. And I need to find something soon.’

  Rosemary nodded. ‘Can you type?’

  ‘Pretty well. And I have a clean driver’s licence. Nonsmoker, social drinker only.’

  ‘Good with children?’

  ‘I know I would be, oh yes.’

  ‘And with grouchy, demanding women?’

  Carrie’s smile was wide. ‘I can learn.’

  Rosemary smiled. ‘Okay. Let’s talk.’ She turned to the waitress who was just coming by. ‘May we have two more coffees, please?’

  Ten minutes later Rosemary’s offer of a job had been made, and Carrie had moved in with her later that week.

  *

  ‘Carrie, what in God’s name are you doing out here in your underwear?’

  Rosemary’s voice cut across the warm afternoon as she stood jangling her car keys from pink-tipped fingers. ‘Who are you trying to turn on? There’s nobody can see you, sweetie. You’re wasting your time.’

  Carrie got to her feet, picking at the bits of grass that clung to her damp legs and arms. ‘There was this cat…’ she said.

  Rosemary, not listening, said, ‘Well – I think I got myself a manager.’

  Carrie frowned. ‘I thought you already had one. Arthur Hampshire. Isn’t that who you went to see?’

  Rosemary shook her head. ‘Oh, darling, he’s past it. He’s ready for the bone yard now. He’s giving up the business, he told me.’

  ‘So – what’s happening?’

  ‘He got this other guy on the phone. Rosti his name is. Douglas Rosti. A really good guy, so Arthur tells me.’ She hitched up the waistband of her slacks. ‘I had a few words with him and he sounds pretty keen. I’m meeting him tomorrow for lunch.’

  Carrie stooped and picked up the empty dish. Rosemary saw it and frowned. ‘What’s that doing there?’

  ‘I started to tell you,’ Carrie said, ‘there was this cat.’

  ‘A cat? What are you talking about? What cat?’

  ‘I gave him some water and a few scraps. Poor thing’s so thin. I don’t think he belongs to anybody.’ A wistful note crept into her voice. ‘I wish we could have a pet, Rosie. It would be so nice.’

  ‘A pet?’ Rosemary said. ‘What in God’s name do we want with a pet? Darling, if everything works out we shall be moving around a good deal. You won’t be in any position to look after any dumb pet. Christ, that’s all we need – some flea-bitten, mangy moggy around the place.’

  ……FIVE

  Rosemary sat facing Douglas Rosti across a table in a small French restaurant on West 63rd Street. They had finished their lunch, and coffee had just been served. She studied him as he sat before her. He was about forty years old, she reckoned. He had sandy hair, short-cropped, which also showed bristly on the backs of his small hands. He was of less than medium height, with a slight frame, his head small and narrow, with rather pinched features. But his lack of looks was unimportant, she reminded herself; if he was good at his job, that was all that mattered.

  ‘I’ve been in touch with Amberlight Records in the UK,’ he was saying. ‘And it was a very encouraging chat.’

  ‘Go on,’ Rosemary said.

  ‘Though your sales of this particular album are never gonna be big, you understand.’

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ Rosemary said. ‘I know we’re not talking hit parade here.’ She smiled. ‘I’d reckon half the people who buy it will be on crutches by now.’

  Douglas laughed. ‘Well, maybe it’s not that bad, but they’re certainly not the younger crowd – not generally, anyway.’

  ‘Who exactly is buying it?’ she said. ‘I mean, I know who used to buy my records – the young people of the time. But it’s a different scene today. You see them on TV – all those wailing singers with their interminable songs without hooks or shape. And then there’s that grotesque thing they call twerking – what the hell is that all about?’

  Douglas nodded, laughing again. ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think they’ll be expecting that from you. But seriously – not everybody wants the latest thing. Granted, the kids want what’s new – that’s what they’re all about, but they don’t represent the total record-buying public. People don’t really change their musical tastes, you know that as well as I do. They tend to cling to the music they grew up with. Apart from which, there are some artists who never go out of fashion. So even today you’re still going to have people buying Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman and singers like Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald.’ He smiled. ‘And why not Rosemary Paul too, now that they’ve got the chance?’

  He moved his gaze to the small notepad at his side and touched at the page with a fingertip. ‘These figures from Amberlight … Although the sales are small so far, they’re nevertheless very encouraging. Evan Blanchard, the guy I talked to there, he says the digital downloads are going up all the time. And some of the tracks are getting good air time too – on the BBC and other radio stations.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ Rosemary said.

  ‘It is indeed. And it’s bringing a lot of your old fans out of the woodwork. As well as a few of the younger ones who are discovering you. And let me tell you something else. I made another call to London. An old buddy who’s got his fat fingers in all the pies. He was telling me how at the height of your career you were one of the hottest properties around. Of course that was before you quit the UK and came over here.’

  ‘I got married,’ she said with a shrug. ‘My life changed.’

  ‘I know.’ Douglas nodded. ‘Anyway, he said that no one over there seems quite sure what happened to you since that time. There have been rumours, naturally – mixed up with the more factual reports, I guess.’ He paused. ‘People knew about your husband’s death, of course, and then what – what happened with your little boy.’ He ended the sentence with a brief, sad shake of his head.