“Don’t be stupid. I’m Roxanne Granville, named for the romantic heroine of a great play. My father has been knighted by the queen. Why would I want to change names?”

“All the girls want to be married.”

“And live like Irene and Gordon in that big, sterile house crawling with servants, and a lot of brats underfoot? No thanks.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that.”

“How would you know? Besides, can you think of a single man of our acquaintance who would make a good husband? Even one?”

Jonathan thought on this for a while. Then shook his head.

“Exactly.”

“You could be one of those louche women who lie by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel and float on their money and their connections.”

“Julia would be ashamed of me if I did.”

“Well, what do you want, Quacker?”

“I want to be glamorous like Julia was. She always said glamour is nothing more than knowing how to talk fast, laugh fluidly, gesture economically, and leave behind a shimmering wake.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“I’m not sure. But she could do it. She made it look easy.”

“Maybe you’ll grow into it, Quacker.”

“Maybe, but what’ll I do in the meantime? I need a job. Something.”

“You could have any job you want at Empire, any job a woman can do. Editor, set decorator, costumes, makeup.”

“You have to train for years for those! I’m too restless to be a student of anything. Besides, whatever I did at Empire, everyone would say, ‘Oh, poor Roxanne, only her grandfather would give her a job.’ And even if they didn’t say it, they’d think it. I have to prove my own self worthy of . . .” I didn’t know what. I swilled from the beer bottle in a manner that would have scandalized my grandmother.

“Well, why don’t you try your hand at writing? You had to learn something from those old boys and their story conferences, Simon and Max and Nelson and Jerrold.”

“‘Story is all!’” I said, quoting Nelson. “‘It doesn’t mean your picture will be boffo at the box office, but without a good story, you might as well bend over and kiss your movie goodbye.’”

“All right. Get yourself a typewriter and have at it.”

“I don’t want to write. I don’t have the discipline for it.”

Jonathan sipped his beer thoughtfully, unusual for him. “Why not be an agent? Join one of those big agencies. Go out to lunch and let the waiters fawn over you and your handsome clients.”

“I would never be your agent. I pity your agent.”

“But you admit that I’m handsome.”

“Sure, Quacker. Still, it’s an idea. You don’t hear of too many women agents.”

“You don’t hear of women directors either, but then there’s Ida Lupino, and I know how much you admire her.”