Free Till We Meet Again by Judith Krantz

management—who knows how far it will go? Rape, that’s what they’ll be sure to call it. Even you thought so a minute ago. They’d never believe she was willing. Oh Christ! Jules, for the love of heaven, help me!”
    The stage manager sat down heavily and looked at his haggard friend. “You and your virgins. What did you expect?”
    “I was crazy, Jules, what more can I say? I bundled her home just as fast as I could, once I understood what trouble I was in. Jules, this will end badly if I don’t get out of here.”
    “Do you have a story I can tell, at least?” Jules said after a minute’s reflection.
    “I’ve been up all night fixing one up. Say that my mother died suddenly, that I got a telegram here at the theater, that you read it with your own eyes, and I had to go home immediately for the funeral. The management can’t object to that. A mother’s funeral—that’s sacred. Tell them I’ll be back at work the day you get back to Paris. Tell Eve only about the death of my mother. She doesn’t know where I live in Paris. When she asks you how to find me, say you haven’t any idea, that in this business people are always moving from place to place. Tell her I only had time to leave a message that I would never forget her … yes, that’s what you must say to her, that I will remember her for the rest of my life. And believe me, I will!”
    “What if she shows up at the theater in Paris?”
    “No, that couldn’t happen. She told me how closely guarded she always is during the day. She has no freedom—she has a chaperone—a chaperone, mind you!—wherever she goes. I knew she was lying about being a shopgirl, but I had no idea …”
    “You have to do the matinée at least, Alain. There isn’t a train until night—I’ll tell the management that the telegram came during the matinée and I gave it to you right after the performance.”
    “Whatever you say, Jules. You’re a real pal. What would I do without you?”
    “Fall on your knees and pray for a miracle.”
    All that day Eve sat at the piano in her mother’s boudoir. Wave after wave of severely erotic sensations attacked her and filled her with an almost unbearable sensitivity. She was consumed by thoughts of the undreamed-of ecstasy Alain had given her. She still didn’t fully understand it, but it was the only thing that mattered in life. Alain, Alain, Alain … until she saw him again she wanted to tear things to pieces with her teeth, to run and run until she fell down, unable to move, to bite her lips until they bled … it was so long to wait until nightfall! She avoided Louise, knowing that the extraordinary thing that happened to her must surely show on her face. She played the piano for hours on end, picking out one after another of the popular songs she had learned in the streets, but not singing a note because she knew that ifshe did, she would break into tears of nerves. She didn’t play any of Alain’s songs, because her longing for him was so acute that she was terrified that anything that would aggravate it might drive her over the brink into a fit of animal howling.
    Night finally fell on the endless summer evening, and Louise, strangely restless, took refuge in a good gossip with the cook, going upstairs to her room later than usual. It was almost ten-thirty before Eve could close the little door of the Rue Buffon behind her, and flee to the Alcazar.
    She didn’t even bother to knock on Alain’s dressing room door, but opened it in the same wild, heedless rush in which she had run from home. The tiny room was empty, his clothes nowhere in sight. It was the wrong room, she thought, and turned back into the narrow corridor. On either side she saw the familiar dressing rooms that she had passed night after night, filled with the same performers she had grown to recognize.
    “Jules!” Eve shouted, as the stage manager approached her. “Where is Alain? Why isn’t he in his room?”
    “He’s gone. His mother died