smell was acrid in the air. He said somberly, “I don’t think we’re going to be able to salvage anything from here.”
“It doesn’t look that way,” Dave agreed. He turned to the hotel manager. “Can you take Miss Collins, Mr. Melbourne, and the rest of the movie crew in the hotel van? Our own drivers and cars aren’t on the premises, and I don’t want to keep Miss Collins standing about here in the cold.”
The manager assured him that he could do that and, as he went to get the van, Tracy looked once again at the burning building. It was frightening to think that fire could take such a hold in so short a time.
“I don’t have my car keys,” a man said agitatedly. “They’re back in the room.”
“I’m sure you can go with someone else,” Jon said, and another man responded, “He can come with us.” Tracy smiled at Jon. Most of the actors she knew wouldn’t have evinced the slightest interest in a small, bald, pajama-clad man who had forgotten his car keys.
There was a flash of light, one that was all too familiar to Tracy, and over Jon’s shoulder she saw the photographer. Suddenly she was swept by fury.
“You little shit!” she yelled. “If you take one more picture of me, I’m going to have you arrested!”
“Temper, temper, Miss Collins,” replied Jason Counes, the photographer who had been stalking Tracy for six months. “Freedom of the press, you know.” Tracy was so angry t hat she started for the man, in tending to smash his camera. Jon grabbed her after she had taken three steps.
“Calm down, Tracy,” he said in a soothing voice. “Look, the van is here, and we’re going.”
Tracy was shaking. The abrupt awakening and fear from the fire had stripped away the wall she usually erected between herself and her hatred of the smarmy photographer who would not leave her alone.
Jon kept his arm around her and began to lead her in the direction of the van. After throwing one last glare in the direction of Jason Counes, she went.
B y the time the refugees got to Warminster it was after three in the morning. The promised shelter consisted of cots and blankets in the basement of a school. Two women were brewing coffee in the kitchen. A silver-haired woman in a fur coat over her nightgown began to cry.
“Oh please,” Gail said unsympathetically. “You might have been burned to death, lady. A night in a shelter should look good to you.”
The woman replied angrily, “I’ll have you know that I am not accustomed to sleeping in a basement, young woman.” She sniffed. “It smells like mildew in here.” The shrill woman agreed.
“Frank,” said someone else, “do something!”
“What the hell do you want me to do?” her husband replied. “It’s three in the morning, for God’s sake.”
Tracy’s emotions were still turbulent from her encounter with her nemesis, and she said acidly, “Guess what, people? I am not accustomed to sleeping in shelters either. But this is what we’ve got, and we might as well stop whining and make the best of it until the morning.”
The silver-haired woman’s equally silver-haired husband unexpectedly said, “Miss Collins is right, Eunice. Buck up, will you?”
“I am not going to lie down on one of those disgusting cots,” Eunice announced. “God knows who may have slept there before. For all I know, the mattresses have bugs.”
This was a sentiment with which Tracy heartily agreed. “Then we’ll all sit around the table for the rest of the night and drink coffee,” she proclaimed.
It was a plan of action that appealed to most of the other guests, and the majority of them wrapped themselves in the cot blankets and sat around the large Formica table drinking the coffee and tea brewed by the shelter volunteers and trying to figure out what to do in the morning.
Everyone agreed that clothing was the most important thing, and Tracy proposed that they have a local department store send over underwear, sneakers, slacks,
“It doesn’t look that way,” Dave agreed. He turned to the hotel manager. “Can you take Miss Collins, Mr. Melbourne, and the rest of the movie crew in the hotel van? Our own drivers and cars aren’t on the premises, and I don’t want to keep Miss Collins standing about here in the cold.”
The manager assured him that he could do that and, as he went to get the van, Tracy looked once again at the burning building. It was frightening to think that fire could take such a hold in so short a time.
“I don’t have my car keys,” a man said agitatedly. “They’re back in the room.”
“I’m sure you can go with someone else,” Jon said, and another man responded, “He can come with us.” Tracy smiled at Jon. Most of the actors she knew wouldn’t have evinced the slightest interest in a small, bald, pajama-clad man who had forgotten his car keys.
There was a flash of light, one that was all too familiar to Tracy, and over Jon’s shoulder she saw the photographer. Suddenly she was swept by fury.
“You little shit!” she yelled. “If you take one more picture of me, I’m going to have you arrested!”
“Temper, temper, Miss Collins,” replied Jason Counes, the photographer who had been stalking Tracy for six months. “Freedom of the press, you know.” Tracy was so angry t hat she started for the man, in tending to smash his camera. Jon grabbed her after she had taken three steps.
“Calm down, Tracy,” he said in a soothing voice. “Look, the van is here, and we’re going.”
Tracy was shaking. The abrupt awakening and fear from the fire had stripped away the wall she usually erected between herself and her hatred of the smarmy photographer who would not leave her alone.
Jon kept his arm around her and began to lead her in the direction of the van. After throwing one last glare in the direction of Jason Counes, she went.
B y the time the refugees got to Warminster it was after three in the morning. The promised shelter consisted of cots and blankets in the basement of a school. Two women were brewing coffee in the kitchen. A silver-haired woman in a fur coat over her nightgown began to cry.
“Oh please,” Gail said unsympathetically. “You might have been burned to death, lady. A night in a shelter should look good to you.”
The woman replied angrily, “I’ll have you know that I am not accustomed to sleeping in a basement, young woman.” She sniffed. “It smells like mildew in here.” The shrill woman agreed.
“Frank,” said someone else, “do something!”
“What the hell do you want me to do?” her husband replied. “It’s three in the morning, for God’s sake.”
Tracy’s emotions were still turbulent from her encounter with her nemesis, and she said acidly, “Guess what, people? I am not accustomed to sleeping in shelters either. But this is what we’ve got, and we might as well stop whining and make the best of it until the morning.”
The silver-haired woman’s equally silver-haired husband unexpectedly said, “Miss Collins is right, Eunice. Buck up, will you?”
“I am not going to lie down on one of those disgusting cots,” Eunice announced. “God knows who may have slept there before. For all I know, the mattresses have bugs.”
This was a sentiment with which Tracy heartily agreed. “Then we’ll all sit around the table for the rest of the night and drink coffee,” she proclaimed.
It was a plan of action that appealed to most of the other guests, and the majority of them wrapped themselves in the cot blankets and sat around the large Formica table drinking the coffee and tea brewed by the shelter volunteers and trying to figure out what to do in the morning.
Everyone agreed that clothing was the most important thing, and Tracy proposed that they have a local department store send over underwear, sneakers, slacks,
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