Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (65 page)

Pearl was silent for a moment. Then she shook a cautionary
finger and lowered her voice confidentially. 'Just take one
piece of advice. If you forget everything else I've told you,
fine, but always keep this one thing in mind.'

'What's that?' Tamara questioned.

Pearl stuck a cigarette in her mouth and lit it with a match.
She inhaled deeply. 'The most basic rule in this business, kid,' she replied through the blue smoke curling up around her, 'is
one too many little starlets tend to forget once they've made
it big.' She paused dramatically. 'Whoever you battle with . . .
or make friends with . . . never,
ever,
under any circum
stances, make enemies with the cameraman. He can either be your best friend or your worst enemy. He captures what you
do on film, and he can make you look very, very good
...
or
very, very bad. Learn whatever you can from him—all the rules and tricks of the trade. Especially your best and worst
angles. Work
with
him as if he were part of you. Learn every
thing he knows, ask questions, study the view through lenses
if he lets you so you can see what the camera sees. Then, if
you do make it in this cut-throat business, believe you me that
will do you more good than anything else you can imagine.'

Tamara nodded soberly. 'I was always under the impression
that it was the director who was most important.'

'He is,' Pearl replied shortly. She inhaled deeply and blew
out a column of smoke. 'He usually gets what he wants, even if it means thirty different takes of one scene.' Pearl smiled
faintly. 'Of course, that's
if
the rest of the crew obliges and
gives it to him. Often, it's up to them—not him—how many
takes a scene requires until he gets the precise effect he wants.'

'In other words, the lighting director can sabotage the lights,
the cameraman can make a star look bad, the makeup
artist—'

'You're learning fast, kid,' Pearl said with a note of respect
in her raspy voice. 'Now turn around and let me get this thing
off you.' Deftly Pearl untied the smudged protective white
robe Tamara had worn while being made up,and whipped it
off her with an expert flick of her wrist. Then Pearl stood back,
frowning thoughtfully through a veil of cigarette smoke as she
studied Tamara critically one last time. Quickly she stabbed
her cigarette out and stepped closer. With an extremely steady
hand she pencilled in the slightest adjustment to the liner around Tamara's eyes. She held the young woman's gaze
steadily. 'Well, kid, now you're out of my hands and into
theirs.'

Even as she spoke, the waiting wardrobe mistress and the
dresser descended upon Tamara with the lightning speed of
hungry wolves.

The wardrobe mistress was clearly in charge. She was tall
and skinny, with hyperthyroid eyes, and she studied Tamara
with cold, capable judiciousness for some time. The dresser on the other hand, was the antithesis of her superior: tiny,
plump, and snappish, she fussed with her hands constantly,
never quite able to stand still. Despite their opposing looks and personalities, the two women worked together with
unusual, almost telepathic efficiency, and were mysteriously
capable of communicating without speaking more than one or
two key words.

Tamara did not enjoy enduring the exhausting process of
their choosing a costume for her, but she suffered through it
with a quiet docility unlike her, not uttering a word of com
plaint. She only wished the two women, each of whom
referred to the other by surname—the dresser, she soon
discovered was 'McBain', while the wardrobe mistress was 'Sanders'—would make up their minds about her costume
once and for all and be done with the tedious process.

McBain and Sanders were seasoned, uncompromising pro
fessionals, not about to be rushed, and the staggering choice
of outfits available made speedy selection an impossibility. So
Tamara gritted her teeth, knowing that what they were doing
was not only their job but also a favour to her. There was nothing short of life itself which was as important as sailing
through the screen test with absolute perfection. She wanted
this role so badly, needed it so tremendously, that it was an
almost palpable hunger.

Besides, their costume selections so far had inspired her
confidence. They were the attire which made up the wardrobe
of a dazzling film idol, clothes that suited her newly created
face and the happy-go-lucky sophistication of the flapper's life
of unabashed luxury. There were exciting beaded bodices,
beautifully scalloped necklines, rustling silks, shiny satins,
smooth velvets; every manner of sparkle, glitter, and glamour
to further enhance her exquisite visage. Her jewellery was to
be selected from boxloads of dazzling paste earrings and pins,
necklaces and bracelets, rings and brooches—all flawless re
creations of the best money could possibly buy. And the headbands and boas! Ostrich and peacock, egret and marabou . . .

Oh, the staggering beauty of it all!

Tamara's ambition to become an actress had been fuelled,
in the beginning, by the sharply focused, unwavering memories of her mother, by Senda's unrivalled talent for storytelling
and acting out various roles in different voices as she did so, effortlessly altering her features as if they were a mask that
could be instantly adapted to any part without the aid of
makeup or costumes. After Tamara and Inge had arrived in
New York, the other woman had tried her utmost to steer Tamara away from such a feckless career as acting. To no
avail, of course. Tamara soon discovered that the ambition to act burned deep within her. It flared within the very marrow
of her bones. She was not about to be prodded in a different
direction, and disregarded Inge's gentle persuasions and con
cerned admonitions to the contrary. It was the only thing in which she had ever opposed Inge, and with staunch, stolid
belief and a mysterious, almost psychic surety, at that. In all
other things she obeyed Inge to the letter. Well, almost. Inge
had, after all, become a surrogate mother to her, but without
having tried to sweep Senda aside and step into her footsteps. On the contrary, Inge wisely and frequently regaled Tamara
with memories and anecdotes, embellishing them with each retelling, of course. Senda had conquered the Russian stage, and Tamara was more determined than ever to do the same
in New York.

Yet the theatre in New York, on which she had pinned so
much fervent young hope, had proved a fickle and pointless
exercise in futility. The stage blood within her, however, was not subdued by constant rejection. It only continued to boil
with more effervescence than before. After a while, even Inge
began to prod Tamara in that direction, doing everything within her power to help make the fantasy a reality. In fact, Inge had happily agreed with Tamara's decision that they
leave New York for the greener, and hopefully more fruitful,
pastures of Hollywood.

Tamara was so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that she
became accustomed to the hands of the wardrobe mistress and
the dresser touching her body. Only now, after a few minutes of no more fingers groping or tugging at her, did she snap out
of her reverie and realize the women must have finished.

The wardrobe mistress stepped back and rubbed her chin
thoughtfully. 'That's it,' she said with finality. 'Just the right
effect. McBain?'

The plump dresser's head bobbed up and down. 'That's it,
Sanders,' she agreed.

Tamara slid her eyes sideways to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She drew in her breath sharply.

'Well?' the wardrobe mistress asked. 'What do
you
think?'

'Now that you ask, I
...
I look positively fabulous, don't
I?' Tamara boldly ventured.

'Precisely.' The wardrobe mistress regarded her with satis
faction. A feisty little number, she thought. Then she grinned
for the first time and gave a thumbs-up signal. 'Good luck,'
she said sincerely.

'Break a leg,' the dresser added.

Before Tamara could thank them, the two women departed, leaving her alone with Pearl. As soon as the door shut, Tamara
slumped in all her sequined and bejewelled glory, her shoul
ders drooping heavily as the reality of it all suddenly sank in.
She staggered toward a chair, squeezed her green eyes shut, and gripped its back until her knuckles shone white.

'What is it, kid?' Pearl asked anxiously as she stepped
quickly forward.

'It's just that
...
I mean . . . I'm really
ready!'
Tamara's
eyes flew open as she stared at the stranger in the mirror. 'But
now that I've waited for this moment so long, and studied so hard, I
...
I can't remember one line.' She bit down on her
lip and turned slowly to stare at Pearl in horror. 'Not a
single
line!' Her voice took on the sibilance of a terrified whisper.

'You'll remember every word once we hustle you over to
the soundstage.' Pearl laughed her throaty rasp.

'Could this be stage fright?'

'Now, now.' Pearl pulled Tamara close, making her lose her grip on the chair back. Tamara looked into the older woman's
face.

Pearl smiled and gripped Tamara's hands. 'You'll be fine,'
she said in a soothing voice.

'Yes! I've got to be!'

'Have a seat and give yourself a minute to calm down.'
Pearl guided Tamara to the sofa. It felt unyielding, not at all
comfortable. 'Now, breathe deeply.'

Tamara took a series of deep, steadying breaths.

'Just relax, kiddo. Pearl will take care of you,' she said in a
peculiarly soft voice. She stood behind the sofa, hesitated, and
then her fingers massaged Tamara's shoulders through the
exquisitely beaded gleam of silver and white silk and chiffon.
'Just close your eyes and clear your head. Everything else will
come to you.'