IT WAS WEDNESDAY, the matinee curtain had come down, and Lu was in her dressing room, wrapping her old cotton makeup robe around herself. Her dresser, Lynne, had taken her costumes to the wardrobe room in the theater basement, where they would be ironed and spruced up for the evening show. Lu's supper—which she always ate as soon as she finished the matinee so she'd have a chance to digest before going back onstage—had been delivered from the ‘21’ Club. She knew without looking what it would be: roasted chicken, steamed green beans, and a baked potato. She'd pull the skin off the chicken and she'd eat the potato without butter or salt. In addition to eating early, Lu ate lightly when she had a show to do. Dessert was out, since dairy and sweets were bad for the voice, although she did drink hot water with honey and lemon during the breaks in her performance. Lynne would keep the concoction warm on the hot plate that was always installed in Lu's dressing rooms for that purpose. Lu sat down with her dinner plate and began peeling the skin off her chicken.

Her dressing room—the star dressing room—was on the first floor of the theater, a short hike from the stage. Outside her door was the iron staircase leading to the second floor, where the rest of the principal actors had their dressing rooms. The third floor was where the chorus kids dressed in two communal rooms, one for the boys and one for the girls. Lu listened as the singers and dancers, most of them no older than she was, clattered down the stairs, laughing and calling out to friends who had dropped by to pick them up for a quick lunch at Sardi's, where the beloved Vincent Sardi would give them a percentage off their meal if they flashed their Equity cards. Lu listened wistfully to the commotion outside her door. She never went out of the theater between shows, although it sounded like everyone was having so much fun. She went back to skinning the chicken breast.

If her audience could see her now—their bouncy, free-spirited Lu. If they could see the carefully scheduled life she led when she was working: the nap before the performance, and the early dinner hour that killed her social life with anyone over the age of five. She skipped most social events except for those that had to be attended for the sake of the press, she missed luncheons with friends—in spite of her limited time she did have quite a few—and tried not to schedule professional appointments like interviews after two in the afternoon. Her entire day was geared to the moment when the assistant stage manager would stand outside her dressing room door in the theater and call out, “Half hour to curtain, Miss Lawson.”