I took some small malicious pride to see confusion momentarily cross her face. Perhaps that’s what Julia meant about glamour: Talk fast, laugh fluidly, gesture economically, and leave behind a shimmering wake. Wake or not, I freed myself from that asp in a hat and wandered the stellar gathering, champagne glass in hand. I exchanged false effusions of noisy affection and false promises to have lunch soon with all sorts of people, and when they waxed on about how wonderful Banner Headline was, I agreed without ever observing that the story was a pale imitation—actually a shameless derivative—of the Cary Grant/Rosalind Russell classic, His Girl Friday.

Denise had made three pictures a year for Empire since 1948, and many of them had done well. Particularly in the bright comedic roles, even I had to admit, she had flair. But was she the equal of Rosalind Russell or Carole Lombard? No. Banner Headline (written by Vic Hale, and directed by Phil Tobin) was, in my opinion, only workmanlike, though Leon had filmed it in Technicolor so luscious every frame brought to mind ripe fruit. And of course he had spared no expense on publicity. Witness this party.

I saw Irene sitting on one of the Louis XVI divans in her white gown with emeralds to complement it, her smooth blonde hair in a perfect pageboy. She had collected an admiring coterie, but when she saw me, she rose and excused herself. Arms linked, we floated through the throng, Empire’s daughters, envied and admired. A colored waiter paused in front of us with an assortment of canapés, dollops of pâté, and pale pink prawns. I passed on the canapés, but took a third glass of champagne. Irene beamed to see a slick, handsome blue-eyed man approaching us.

“Elliott Dunne, do you know my sister, Roxanne Granville? Elliott came to Empire when you were away in Paris, Roxanne. Elliott’s just had a promotion, haven’t you?”

“Vice president for production.” He grinned.

“I might as well tell you both,” Irene confided, “I am making it my mission to see that you two have an affair. I’ve decided, so don’t quarrel with me.”

“No quarrel here,” said Elliott, smiling.

Unlike most of Gordon’s cadre of imports, Elliott was not crew-cut; he had a luxurious mop of sandy hair and an ingratiating smile. Irene’s idea of a petite affaire was suddenly appealing. At least I’d be spared “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”

“You’re the agent, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, pleased. “What is Empire looking for these days?”

“Well, another big hit to follow up on Banner Headline,” Elliott replied loyally, going on to glorify the film as though it had the critical clout of East of Eden, the poignancy of Marty, the five-million-dollar box office of Magnificent Obsession.

“And you think Vic Hale can give it to you?” I asked with dramatic disbelief.