The journalist was extremely attractive. Neat oval face, satin chestnut bangs down to her eyebrows, big sparkling eyes with long eyelashes, and—on top of that—a mole above her sharply outlined upper lip. Time and again she would thoughtfully bring a ballpoint pen close to her little mouth, rounding it into an “o,” and of course she knew that at that moment she looked unbearably sexy.
But in truth, Marsha admitted honestly, she was—this journalist—really beautiful.
And Francis, of course, couldn’t fail to notice. The journalist slyly raised her eyebrows, nibbling the pen, and Francis carelessly smoothed his mustache with his index finger. A week ago there had been nothing to smooth there, but now it was prickling more than pleasantly. Remembering that, Marsha decided to smile and stop paying attention to the girl across from her. Besides, she should focus.
Even though the Three Musketeers still stayed silent—despite the fact that the conference announcement had emphasized their names. But at the long table sat not only the director and the chief stage director of the theater, both accompanied by young press secretaries, a thin elderly assistant, and a stage heartthrob, Arthur Claridge—plainly, as it turned out in his case, a pale freckled blond who was rather worn out by life, barely visible behind the tangle of wires, microphones, and tape recorders lying in front of him.