She had not, certainly, expected to lunch at Sardi’s and not only at Sardi’s, but with Alice Draycroft. She had, on the telephone, said, “Well, I don’t know whether—” and Alice had said, “Darling! It’s been years and years. Seeing you yesterday made me realize.” It was not entirely clear what, with such impact, Alice Draycroft had realized. Certainly not that, since school—umpteen years ago, Pam thought, putting the telephone back in its cradle—she and Pam had met only now and then, as an actress, usually with a part, may meet the wife of a publisher. Even in school they had not been close. Alice had been ahead of Pam in school; Alice had been a star in productions of the Dramatic Club and once, once only, Pam had played a maid with a duster. (And a few lines of background comment on the people she dusted for.) It was not an adequate basis for a lifelong friendship. Not that Alice, met now and then, wasn’t fun. I’m a pushover, Pam thought, and changed from the gray-blue dress to another—blue-gray—more suitable for Sardi’s.
