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repelled by and attracted to him. She thought he was typical of “the wealthy play crowd, who lived on inheritance,” and part of her “wanted to get away from these people whose lives seemed to be made up of betting, of intrigues, of matching wits.” Best to take that with a little pinch of salt. She also insisted that she kept asking herself, “What do these men want from me?” Was it “her charm, her natural sweetness?” Was it her newfound “success and acclaim?” Or was it something else altogether? Well, quite.
    Before the week was over, Jay had inveigled himself into Mae’s life. He declared, after sneaking into her taxi and accompanying her home, that he was in love and intended to marry her. She balked at that. Jay, wrote Mae’s biographer Jane Ardmore, “had a high-flown way of talking that shocked her with its excessive ardor. It made her feel like a schoolgirl.” She mustered the courage to turn him down, though, telling him, “I want to be free.” Until de Saulles returned, that is. He invited her to a party at his apartment. His studio, she remembered, “was so ornate and extravagant and luxurious,” and it seemed to her that “every celebrity on Broadway sat around the table.” They ate “pheasant and wild rice from silver platters, and drank champagne from crystal glasses.” A little too much champagne. De Saulles began to paw at her, pleading for a dance. “I want to hold you in my arms,” he said. And then he leaned in for a kiss.
    That was when Jay arrived, which was impeccable timing on his part, or perhaps that of Mae’s imagination.
    â€œJay!” I cried, my hand going guilty to my wet, kiss-smeared cheek.
    â€œHello party crasher!” said de Saulles.
    â€œSo you’ve won, you skunk!” Jay shot back. “You said you’d get her to your apartment, all right, and you have. But before I pay you, I’ve got something else for you.”
    At which point, of course, he clobbered him. He knocked him onto the dining table, spilling rice and champagne and silver and crystal all across the floor. Then, as Mae remembered it, Jay seized her by the elbows, lifted her from the floor, and . . . well, again, it’s best to let her take over:
    â€œWhy did you come here?” he asked me.
    â€œJay! You’re mad!”
    â€œWhy did you come?” he asked. “I don’t want you here.”
    â€œYou’re hurting me. Let me down I tell you!”
    â€œAnswer me first!”
    â€œI’ve told you before. I don’t belong to you or anyone. I want to be free.”
    â€œI told you that you couldn’t be free.”
    â€œThen I did something that broke the tension. I laughed.”
    So did everyone else. Apart from Jay. He blanched, started to shake, and then wrapped his fingers around her throat. Mae, always the heroine of her memoirs, said she told him, “Go on. You’ll justify all my doubts and answer every question I had about you.” Mae thought that it was her words that made Jay let go. It may also have had something to do with the two waiters who grabbed him by the arms.
    She left with de Saulles. She admitted that she didn’t have much choice about it, since he threw her over his shoulder and carried her out to his car. They drove out into the city, far from the San Souci, where Mae was meant to be appearing on stage that evening. De Saulles had an “evil smile on his face,” Mae said, “as if he were enjoying my upset night.” He cautioned her against seeing Jay again, though you’d think that after what had just happened, she would hardly have needed the warning. But then when she returned to her flat that night, she found that her bedroom was filled with red roses. Her maid brought her a note, from Jay, begging her forgiveness, pledging his love. But as Mae told de Saulles, “I don’t want to be