It Was Beauty

Ann has to admit that being on the outside of the top of the Empire State Building is a little nerve-wracking.

But she also has to admit that the view is one she'll remember for the rest of her life.

Kong looks out at the sunrise and, with his free hand, taps his chest a few times. It takes Ann a moment to understand.

When she does, her face lights up.

Softly -- "Beautiful. Yes, yes it is!"



It takes her another moment to notice the buzz of propellers.

The chorus girls at the De Luxe are called forty-five minutes before the curtain goes up, at eight.

Ann's late.

"What took ya so long?" asks Jean as Ann rushes in, shedding her coat.

"I got distracted," Ann mutters as she sits down, already reaching for her hairpins.

Jean starts to say something dry, but Tabitha catches her eye and shakes her head. Tabitha was there in September when Ann was hired, and she recognizes the look in Ann's eyes. It's the same look she had when a few of the blondes came in chattering about auditions for that Driscoll play; it's the same look she had after a few men came to speak quietly to Ann and offered her some kind of contract, and she told them off.

Tabitha's never asked about what happened to Ann before the De Luxe hired her. She just hopes the girl'll get through the show. If one girl messes up, the whole line looks bad.

Ann, meanwhile, brushes on lip color and tries not to think about the Cry Havoc! poster she walked past to get here, nor the crowds filling up Times Square for Denham's show. She can't focus, though -- not on the show, not on her makeup or her costumes.

She makes it through three numbers all right, with a carefully forced smile on her face. A soloist takes the stage, giving the girls time to hurry backstage and change into the spangled dresses for Henry's big number.

No one here can love or understand me, Ann barely hears as she strides for the dressing rooms, Make my bed and light the light, I'll arrive late tonight . . .

Ann's gut twists. It's twenty after eight. Jack will be watching his stage comedy -- It's for you, memory whispers -- and she'll be the furthest thing from his mind, no doubt; and Carl will be well into his spiel, displaying Kong despite her best efforts . . .

Someone grabs her arm and hisses for her to get into place, and she goes, and moves stiffly through the first steps of the choreagraphy.

But when they stand and spin, she finds that she can't move for fear she'll faint.

The spotlight moves over her face and sparkles off the tears in her eyes.

Blackbird, blackbird, blackbird, bye bye.

. . . She can't do this.

She stands at the edge of the sidewalk, looking from the card to the marquee, and can't step forward. Even though it would mean work, and money, and food . . .

She can't do it. She has her pride, and her morals, and -- and she just can't. Shoving the card back into her pocket, she turns and heads down the street.

This is New York. One more woman walking down the streets, head down, goes unnoticed. So does the man following her, curious.


Although not as unnoticed as she would've liked. She's a yard away from the stand, the weight of the apple in her pocket, when the proprietor yells after her.

"Hey!"

A hand grabs her arm and spins her around, and she stares, wide-eyed, at the angry vendor. "You need to pay for this."

"Excuse me, miss?"

They both turn and look at the man holding up a nickel. "I think you dropped this."

Ann stares at him. He stares back. The vendor snatches the nickel and returns to his stall.

Ann wonders, now what?

---

Not much later, the man -- Carl Denham, he introduces himself as -- has her sat down in front of a plate of food, which she's wolfing down. The food from the mysterious benefactor at Milliways seems like months ago.

"So tell me, Ann -- can I call you Ann?" she hears him ask. She nods, barely looking up.

"Are you a size four?"

Her fork freezes in mid-air as all sorts of thoughts start running through her head -- who is this man, what does he want, does he want that, should she be accepting this food--

She looks up at him, plainly shocked, and he frowns. "What? Oh, you think -- no! No no no."

He's a movie producer, he explains hurriedly, and he wants her for his next leading lady. When she wonders why her, he gives her an incredulous look. "Ann! Look at you! You're the saddest girl I've ever met! You'll make them weep."

The offer is tempting -- very tempting, in fact. A chance at stardom, at true acting . . . But she can't shake the feeling that this is yet more charity. Something smells off about the whole thing.

"That's where you're wrong, Mr. Denham," she murmurs. "I make people laugh; it's what I do."

She hopes it sounds as final as she intends it. And if it doesn't, well, the standing and collecting her coat ought to be a hint.

"No, wait, Ann -- please--" He follows her, desperate. "Do you want to see a script? Jack Driscoll is writing one--"

The name stops her. "Jack Driscoll?" The Jack Driscoll?

"Sure. You know him?"

"Yes -- I mean, no, I know his work--"

Both she and Carl know that the deal is set then and there. The rest is just gravy.

For all that the days are long, full of the hurry-up-and-wait of a movie set, Ann is happier than she can remember being in a long time. Every day, she's acting, and every day, she feels like something big is coming her way, and every day, he's--

Well.

It's too dark to film by now, so Ann is making her way back down to her cabin, smiling a little to herself.