The misery, the exquisite tragedy. The Susan Hayward of it all. I can just picture you...

George Downes: The misery, the exquisite tragedy. The Susan Hayward of it all. I can just picture you there, sitting alone at your table in your lavender gown. Julianne Potter: Did I tell you my gown was lavender? George Downes: Hair swept up. Haven't touched your cake. Probably drumming your fingernails on the white linen tablecloth, the way you do when you're really feeling down. Perhaps looking at those nails thinking: 'God, I should have stopped in all my evil plotting to have that manicure, but it's too late now. Julianne Potter: George, I didn't tell you my dress was lavender. George Downes: Suddenly, a familiar song. And, you're off your chair in one, exquisite movement... wondering, searching, sniffing the wind like a dapple deer. Has God heard your little prayer? Will Cinderella dance again? And then, suddenly, the crowds part and there he is: sleek, stylish... radiant with charisma. Bizarrely, he's on the telephone. But then, so are you. And then he comes towards you... the moves of a jungle cat. Although you quite correctly sense that he is... gay... like most devastatingly handsome single men of his age are, you think... what the hell. Life goes on. Maybe there won't be marriage... maybe there won't be sex... but, by God, there'll be dancing.